I'll Be Your Last by Jane Leopold Quinn

you read a lot.”
    Mack turned to him, his gaze full of both confusion and arousal.
    Thank you, God.
    Woody knew he’d have to take control of the situation. Mack might be older and probably more experienced, but apprehension flowed off him in waves right now. He looked scared and, at the same time, distinctly ravenous.
    His mouth turned to dust and his limbs to lead, but he forced himself to step closer. “Take this off.” He pulled Mack’s T-shirt out of his pants but, in sudden nervousness, got everything—T-shirt, plaid shirt, and arms—all tangled up together. “Sorry, sorry,” he murmured I’ll Be Your Last
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    nervously while pulling it all off and tossing everything to the floor.
    He gasped, almost lost his breath at the sight of a magnificent, lovely, firm chest with pecs layered in thick, black hair. Woody sighed, eyelids dipping for a moment. His stomach clenched. His heart beat hard.
    He’d known Mack’s chest would be this masculine. “God, you must pump iron. I’ve never seen such an amazing…” Woody’s voice faded away.
    Mack actually chuckled. “You can keep admiring me while I do this.” He trapped Woody’s neck between big palms, lips drifting over his throat and into the open collar of his shirt.
    All Woody heard was Mack’s harsh breath. All he felt was hot puffs of air bathing his skin, skin still cold from the outside but heating up quickly. The kisses turned to sharp, fast nips that would leave marks for sure. Woody wanted the marks, maybe needing the proof later that this really happened.
    With quick, sure fingers, Mack slid Woody’s jacket and shirt down his arms and dropped them with a plonk onto the floor. They stood there, staring—almost glaring—into each other’s eyes, bare chests bumping and heaving for air. Mack’s blue gaze darkened with increasing arousal. Woody dropped to his knees to the place of real importance. His mouth was at belt-buckle height, but there was no belt. Just a snap and zipper, the hiss of it lowering agonizingly loud over their heavy breathing and Woody’s wolfish growls.
    Woody unclipped Mack’s gun and holster, and his, too, while he was at it, laying both on the coffee table. Then, he palmed Mack’s hips, pushing his jeans down. Commando. Oh, the pure, intoxicating rapture of that . Then a glorious erection jutted right in his face. “God, Mack.” He groaned at the beautiful, thick, pulsing cock begging for attention. He couldn’t resist flicking out his tongue and licking the rounded head with its leaking drop of seminal fluid, the musky perfume of sex filling his head.

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    Jane Leopold Quinn
    “Suck me,” Mack ordered gruffly, flexing his hips. “Suck my cock, kid.”
    Woody jerked back, almost knocking Mack over. He stood, fists clenched at his sides, and lashed out in fury, “I’m no kid, and you know it. Call me that once more, and your dick can just stay dry.”
    “I’m tired of standing. Where’s your bedroom?” He glared daggers at Mack, his breathing roughening in his struggle to keep from belting the guy. This was bad. The feral expression on Mack’s face did nothing short of amp up his arousal.
    This was going to be so good, so fucking raunchy.
    Woody would prove he was no goddamned kid. His nostrils flared in excitement, and he wasted no time in shoving a stumbling Mack toward his bedroom. They’d need to be there eventually for round two. Might as well get there now.
    He shoved Mack onto the bed, yanking his shoes, socks, and finally, jeans off, tossing them all on the floor. At Mack’s carnal and surprisingly vulnerable cobalt gaze, he froze at the sight of the beautiful naked body, the broad chest, narrow hips, flat belly, and muscular thighs stretched out on the white sheets. Roughly, he lifted and spread Mack’s knees, crawled between them, and stopped. His heart seized at the intimacy of seeing the balls and pucker on display, the asshole he’d dreamed of taking. He liked being fucked, and he liked