out of him.
And Tommy held him so tightly as he shouted and came, Prophet knew he’d have marks. Wanted them. Because it would be proof that this actually happened.
“Fuck,” Tom muttered.
“Fuck,” Prophet breathed in agreement, his cheek pressed to Tom’s.
“If I’d known . . . would’ve shown up earlier.”
“Wouldn’t have worked earlier.”
They lay tumbled against one another, soaked by the storm and too worn out to move. Even when lightning flashed overhead, Prophet could only turn his head to see the sky and marvel how well the storm had both insinuated itself into and reflected what his life had become.
Finally, Tommy pushed at him, murmured something about the “wind picking up” and “getting inside” and somehow, they were up, off the grass, and moving.
He felt like he’d been caught by a flashbang—he could barely see, his ears rung, and walking was more like a stumble and drag between them, because they weighed each other down as they tried to help each other into the house. But neither let the other go, because they weren’t done. Just the opposite—they were so far from done, how he’d even considered it was laughable.
“Fucking pathetic,” he muttered as Tom pushed him against the nearest wall and slammed the door shut with a booted foot.
“Makes two of us,” Tom growled as he bent to unlace his boots and get them off, holding onto Prophet for support. And then he was yanking Prophet’s shirt over his head, letting it fall to the floor with a loud thwack , as Prophet reached forward to unbutton Tom’s jeans and work them down his hips.
Would’ve made more sense to each strip themselves, but neither of them had any goddamned semblance of sense. There were both soaked and filthy and more than halfway to feral.
“Do hurricanes make people high?” Prophet asked, barely able to drag his gaze away from Tom’s cock piercings. “Feel like I’m high.” He tossed Tom’s muddy shirt away. He caught sight of the thin leather bracelet still on Tom’s wrist and dragged his eyes up to Tom’s mismatched ones.
Tom had seen him note the bracelet. The man’s gaze dared him to say something about it, and when Prophet didn’t, Tom said, “It’s the heat. Makes people crazy.”
“Jesus.” He ran his hands over Tom’s naked body, feeling for the nipple bars and leaving wet, muddied tracks on his chest. Running fingertips over where the tattoos were, because he’d taken to doing that in his mind over the past months. Instead of counting sheep, he’d catalogued Tom’s tattoos.
He realized with a start that Tom was checking him over too, feeling the barely healed scar on his shoulder, lingering on the bullet-hole-sized scar Prophet had gotten on their first—and only—case together.
Tom smiled against Prophet’s mouth, no doubt reading him again with that voodoo shit. He’d been able to from the start, and that probably pissed Prophet off the most. Because he might’ve actually missed that voodoo shit. During their time apart, he’d forced himself—viciously—not to think about Tom. Barely slept in order to control his dreams, kept himself too busy and in too much danger to worry about much more than basic survival, in the hopes that everything Tommy would burn out and not fade away.
It was backfiring now, though, because every muscle and fiber of his being was intent on licking, sucking, touching, inhaling Tom like a starving man at a buffet. He couldn’t stop. He would’ve been embarrassed to be so goddamned needy, submitting to the man’s intrusive touches, if Tom hadn’t been exactly the same.
“What the hell did you do to me, T?”
Hadn’t realized he’d asked Tom outright until he heard, “Same thing you did to me.” Like Tommy had imprinted on Prophet.
Prophet could fuck his way through a million men—and some weeks during the past four months it felt like he’d tried—and he’d never come anywhere close to feeling like this. “Like a fucking
And Tommy held him so tightly as he shouted and came, Prophet knew he’d have marks. Wanted them. Because it would be proof that this actually happened.
“Fuck,” Tom muttered.
“Fuck,” Prophet breathed in agreement, his cheek pressed to Tom’s.
“If I’d known . . . would’ve shown up earlier.”
“Wouldn’t have worked earlier.”
They lay tumbled against one another, soaked by the storm and too worn out to move. Even when lightning flashed overhead, Prophet could only turn his head to see the sky and marvel how well the storm had both insinuated itself into and reflected what his life had become.
Finally, Tommy pushed at him, murmured something about the “wind picking up” and “getting inside” and somehow, they were up, off the grass, and moving.
He felt like he’d been caught by a flashbang—he could barely see, his ears rung, and walking was more like a stumble and drag between them, because they weighed each other down as they tried to help each other into the house. But neither let the other go, because they weren’t done. Just the opposite—they were so far from done, how he’d even considered it was laughable.
“Fucking pathetic,” he muttered as Tom pushed him against the nearest wall and slammed the door shut with a booted foot.
“Makes two of us,” Tom growled as he bent to unlace his boots and get them off, holding onto Prophet for support. And then he was yanking Prophet’s shirt over his head, letting it fall to the floor with a loud thwack , as Prophet reached forward to unbutton Tom’s jeans and work them down his hips.
Would’ve made more sense to each strip themselves, but neither of them had any goddamned semblance of sense. There were both soaked and filthy and more than halfway to feral.
“Do hurricanes make people high?” Prophet asked, barely able to drag his gaze away from Tom’s cock piercings. “Feel like I’m high.” He tossed Tom’s muddy shirt away. He caught sight of the thin leather bracelet still on Tom’s wrist and dragged his eyes up to Tom’s mismatched ones.
Tom had seen him note the bracelet. The man’s gaze dared him to say something about it, and when Prophet didn’t, Tom said, “It’s the heat. Makes people crazy.”
“Jesus.” He ran his hands over Tom’s naked body, feeling for the nipple bars and leaving wet, muddied tracks on his chest. Running fingertips over where the tattoos were, because he’d taken to doing that in his mind over the past months. Instead of counting sheep, he’d catalogued Tom’s tattoos.
He realized with a start that Tom was checking him over too, feeling the barely healed scar on his shoulder, lingering on the bullet-hole-sized scar Prophet had gotten on their first—and only—case together.
Tom smiled against Prophet’s mouth, no doubt reading him again with that voodoo shit. He’d been able to from the start, and that probably pissed Prophet off the most. Because he might’ve actually missed that voodoo shit. During their time apart, he’d forced himself—viciously—not to think about Tom. Barely slept in order to control his dreams, kept himself too busy and in too much danger to worry about much more than basic survival, in the hopes that everything Tommy would burn out and not fade away.
It was backfiring now, though, because every muscle and fiber of his being was intent on licking, sucking, touching, inhaling Tom like a starving man at a buffet. He couldn’t stop. He would’ve been embarrassed to be so goddamned needy, submitting to the man’s intrusive touches, if Tom hadn’t been exactly the same.
“What the hell did you do to me, T?”
Hadn’t realized he’d asked Tom outright until he heard, “Same thing you did to me.” Like Tommy had imprinted on Prophet.
Prophet could fuck his way through a million men—and some weeks during the past four months it felt like he’d tried—and he’d never come anywhere close to feeling like this. “Like a fucking
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