Home > Mexican Heat (Crimes & Cocktails #1)(6)

Mexican Heat (Crimes & Cocktails #1)(6)
Author: Laura Baumbach

“Here. I am here.” The other sounded breathless. “Mother of God, what a noise you make!”

The man pulled back far enough to look Gabriel in the eyes, beginning a slow, sensual stroke, thrusting deeply, making sure to brush over the sweet, swollen nub in Gabriel’s stuffed channel. Gabriel bit his lip hard, straining to control himself as the other gyrated against him with finality, then slowly withdrew until just the tip of his cock rested inside the entrance of Gabriel’s body.

He paused for an excruciating moment, then flexed his buttocks, jerking the shaft resting on the rim of Gabriel’s asshole. Gabriel sucked in a sharp breath, his back bowing.

When his tailbone hit the desk, his partner thrust into him again, repeating the whole agonizingly pleasurable stroke.

 

By the fifth thrust, Gabriel was wriggling and mewling like the newborn kitten the man teasingly called him. The build of exquisite tension had Gabriel striking out, clawing at the man taking possession of his body, and secretly delighted when his hands were roughly caught, his wrists forced over his head.

Now he was truly helpless, truly captive.

“Look at me,” the other jerked out, and Gabriel obeyed, finding himself unable to free his gaze from the man’s hypnotic stare.

He realized that his face was an open book to this stranger; that his every thought and emotion were being absorbed and analyzed. It was terrifying. He had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. He wanted to close his eyes, to look away, but he could do nothing.

Helplessly, Gabriel stared back, memorizing the proud, fierce lines of the man’s face: the square jaw, the wide almond-shaped eyes, the full, sensuous mouth—smooth olive skin made for touching, for tasting. He mapped the creases of a forehead furrowed in concentration and effort. He longed to reach up and lick a trail along the cleft in the man’s chin, to run his hands through the man’s thick, wavy hair and follow its curls to the nape of his corded, powerful neck.

Yes, despite the danger he wanted to remember this one. In fact, he suspected he would never forget him—couldn’t forget him even if he tried. And perhaps the memory of this face would make those lonely nights less empty. Those nights when it was just Gabriel and his hand.

The now familiar buzz started to form at the base of his cock and his balls pulled up tight. Somewhere near the pit of his stomach a fluttering wave of excitement rippled through him, racing downward to crash into the sensations building in his groin.

Stars exploded in his head and from an enthralled and spinning distance he watched as the man above him grimaced, full lips pulled back in a soundless cry as his hips stilled and his cock emptied into Gabriel.

 

Aroused that a stronger man’s come filled his ass, Gabriel arched and spasmed, riding the crest of his own climax. His body wrenched against the weight pinning him down, fighting the grip holding him helpless—not to gain his freedom, but to intensify the moment. For the first time ever he had truly been reduced to utter helplessness, and it was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. For all his fantasies, he’d never imagined that helpless, in the right man’s arms, was good.

With their eyes focused on each other again, the man swooped down and claimed his mouth in a sweaty, sucking caress as though it were their first kiss of the night, leaving Gabriel breathless and dizzy by the time they broke contact.

No. Too much. He was starting to think about the next time—and there couldn’t be a next time. This couldn’t happen again.

Not ever, not with this man who understood him far too well.

Despite his resolve, Gabriel felt bereft when the warm weight of cock slipped from his body, and he was released. He heard the rustle of clothing, soft furtive sounds as the other man began to dress.

Gabriel stared at the ceiling, at the hundreds of tiny dots in the squares of soundproofed tiles. Absently, he began to count them.

Let the other dress and leave first. He didn’t want to have to look at him—let alone talk to him.

He was startled when the other man bent over him and pressed soft words to his lips; it took a moment to decipher them.

“Enorme, mi gatito, muy enorme. I have never met one such as you. Demon and angel.” After the scorching heat of their encounter, the kiss was unexpectedly sweet.

Gabriel answered fiercely, leaving bruising teeth marks on the stranger’s lower lip.

The man swore and pulled Gabriel away by his hair. The dark eyes, more soft than smoldering now, studied Gabriel’s face quizzically. “Mostly demon, I think,” he declared. “All boiling passion and dark, buried need. I would have more of you again, another day. If you like.”

There it was. Exactly what he feared. Gabriel opened his mouth, but the words—no words—would come. He couldn’t agree to this—yet he couldn’t seem to make himself say no.

When he said nothing, his companion released Gabriel so abruptly he fell backward on the desk.

“Jesus,” Gabriel swore. “That’s some technique, Romeo.”

“Only because you like it that way, my friend.”

A business card appeared in the man’s hand like a magician’s parlor trick. A business card. Like, does he do this for a living?

The man held it between his thumb and forefinger, the creamy paper dwarfed by the large, square hand.

Gaze riveted to the card moving teasingly under his nose, Gabriel opened his mouth to say something sarcastic, but the words just wouldn’t come. He stared as the card slipped neatly into the breast pocket of his open shirt.

For a moment he closed his eyes. What would it hurt to just see what the card held? A name? A phone number? Or maybe just a place to meet?

The paper was warm just like the man. It burned through the thin fabric over Gabriel’s chest and branded straight through until it reached his heart. By the time he had yanked the card back out, the stranger was at the door, half-turned to watch Gabriel’s reaction.

Pointedly, Gabriel ignored the writing on the paper, scrunching the card in his hand. He pitched it at the trash can beside the desk—mildly surprised when it went in, given the way his hand was shaking.

The man’s mouth tightened for a moment, but he said nothing.

Instead he gave a tilt of his head in acceptance.

 

“As you wish, gatito.”

This thing was impossible. Even if Gabriel wanted it to be different—and he didn’t.

The man held his gaze a beat longer. Then he said, “There’s an old Spanish proverb. Eyes that do not see. Heart that does not feel.”

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