Blind Spot by Maggie Kavanagh Page B

jeans with a “do not fuck with me” look on his face. Then he swooped down and planted a kiss on Sam’s forehead. “I’ll be right back.”
    Not even moving to zip himself up, Sam stared up at the ceiling as his pulse started to slow and postcoital lethargy threatened to pull him under. He closed his eyes and willed the stupid solicitor away.
    “I know I’m not supposed to get in until tomorrow” came an unfamiliar voice from the living room. “But I caught an earlier flight. Figured we could use the prep time.”
    Eric. Sam’s eyes popped open, and he tucked his softening dick into his boxer briefs and did a quick check to make sure there wasn’t any come on his jeans. Dignity restored, he found himself incredibly grateful for the wall dividing the kitchen from the living room.
    “Yeah. Well you ever hear of texting or calling first?” Nathan grumbled.
    Eric laughed. “I did, my man, but you didn’t answer. What did I do, interrupt something? You do have a well-fucked look on your face.”
    Sam rounded the corner and took in the scene.
    The guy stood around six foot two, Nathan’s height, though he probably outweighed Nathan in muscle mass. He wore a sleeveless shirt to show off sculpted, tattooed arms, and his dark hair was cropped military style. The overall effect didn’t exactly scream submissive, but Sam knew better than to typecast. He was definitely not the kind of guy you wanted to get into a bar fight with—probably why Nathan selected him as a partner in the first place. On the safety front, at least, Sam felt a little more at ease.
    “Hello there,” said Eric in a deep, drawling voice, the origin of which Sam couldn’t quite place. He extended his hand, and Sam took it, offering a firm shake. “You must be Sam. Nathan’s told me so much about you. Eric Duquesne at your service. But my best friends call me Duke.”
    Sam nodded. “Good to meet you.”
    Eric whistled. He didn’t let go of Sam’s hand right away. “I should have known it’d take a pretty thing like you to bring him ’round to the right side.” He pronounced “thing” like “thang.” When Eric’s eyes latched on to his throat, Sam realized he was looking at the collar. He flushed and pulled his hand back as a mixture of pleasure and nervousness rushed through him. It was the first time anyone else had seen it.
    “Careful, Eric,” said Nathan.
    “Understood. Understood.” Eric winked and grinned devilishly. In spite of himself, Sam smiled back. This guy was trouble. He swung down the army green rucksack off his back and dropped it on the floor, and Sam noticed a worn US Marine Corps patch on the side. “What’s a guy need to do to get a drink around these parts?”
    It was only 11:00 a.m.
    Nathan crossed his arms. “We don’t keep alcohol in the house.”
    “Ahh.” Eric seemed to get the message. “Well, I guess I’ll survive. Coffee?”
    Nathan went to grab a cup while Eric sat on the couch and stretched his long legs in front of him. He raised his arms and rested his head back against his interlaced palms. A few crisscrossed scars marred the brown skin on one of his arms, and two letters— FP —were tattooed on his bicep.
    “Nice digs,” said Eric.
    Sam followed his gaze. The apartment was furnished in a tasteful, masculine style, thanks to Nathan’s more sophisticated aesthetic. But bits and pieces of Sam had crept in over the last few month—books on new media and changing journalism practices, favorite ’80s DVDs, a crappy painting of a hot naked guy that he found at a garage sale. Nathan didn’t want to hang it at first, but Sam insisted they display it as a conversation piece. After all, he’d spent ten bucks on the thing, and it was terrible art . Generally Nathan let him do whatever he wanted. He offered to give Sam money to buy some new things, but Sam refused it. He already relied on Nathan far too much.
    It sometimes bothered Sam that he didn’t have more stuff. He lost most of his