Last Line by Harper Fox

contemplation. Michael was staring grimly at the dash. “Well, I’m not,” he announced. “In fact I…had four of those filthy peasant vodkas before you even arrived. Then I bought you one—on top of what I imagine is a skinful of meds—jumped into a car and drove you home.”
    This recitation very nearly struck John as funny. He bit the reaction back. “Okay,” he said cautiously. “Put like that, it’s…out of character for you, yeah.”
    “Out of character? It’s fucking unforgivable.”
    “You didn’t force the drink down my throat. And I’m not condoning drunk driving, mate, but today was a bit of a one-off, wasn’t it?”
    “Don’t make excuses for me. I should call a taxi for you, send you home out of my way.”
    John inhaled softly. He put his hand back where it had been, on the powerful curve of Michael’s thigh. A little higher this time, to leave no room for doubt. This time the muscle remained firm and still under his palm. He said, “Yes. You could do that. If you want.”
    * * *
    His spine impacted hard against the wall. The blow drove breath from his lungs. He was glad, because if he had developed some kind of immortality when it came to falling off buildings, he was still human enough to bruise, and he was sore as hell. Being winded meant he couldn’t yell in pain. If he did, Michael would stop. John knew—he was completely certain—that Michael would crash to a halt at his least sound of discomfort.
    The last thing John wanted. He had got him here, the beast unleashed and in his arms at last. He gritted his teeth and hauled him tight for his next urgent thrust. He’d already torn him out of his jacket. The shirt could go next. Ripping at the buttons, John lifted his face to intercept the hot mouth exploring the side of his neck. The pleasure of that—kissing Michael, though right now it felt more like a mutual devouring—wiped out even the memory of pain. “Mikey, yeah,” he grunted when he could. “Getting so hard.”
    “Shut up.”
    John gasped. Something in him was shocked, but his cock had leaped at the growled command, and if Michael wanted to play it strong and silent, that was fine with him. Had he spoken at all since their collision over the BMW’s hand brake ten minutes before? John wasn’t sure. The time was a blur to him. They must have made it up the steps and to the top floor somehow. Cameras in the foyer and the lift must have restrained them. Yes, he vaguely recalled standing waiting by the old wrought iron doors for the cage, Michael beside him. Both of them burningly silent.
    There was no need now. The new recruits’ flats were bugged, but not, Sir James had assured them, those of trusted senior agents. John threw his arms round Michael’s neck and groaned as strong hands closed on his backside, lifting him, grinding their stiff shafts together in the prison of their clothes. Weird. He’d have pegged Mike as a talker in the sack, or a listener anyway, wanting to hear his lover’s response.
    The wall behind him changed to thin air. John fought dizzily for balance. Michael had swung him around, barely set him on his feet again before beginning to back him up, step by step, through the nearest doorway. The bedroom? Passion had fogged the familiar geography, and the place was in darkness, only picked out by alarm-pad lights, TV stand-by, the phone, a spinning constellation of weird stars. Clinging to him, John let himself be borne into unknown space. The fact was that this treatment, brusque and painful as it was, was going to make him come like helpless Armageddon very soon. “Mike, slow up. At least get my pants off.”
    “Oh, I will. Wait there.”
    The edge of something banged into John’s back. Not the bed or any of the furniture in Michael’s room… He was suddenly released, grabbing at the object’s cold edge to stay upright.
    The kitchen table. Breathing hard, John watched his partner turn and stride calmly off into the hallway. He heard the