#muse kicks

Angel kept tight rein on his temper as he shuffled the deck. It wouldn't do to let anyone see his intent, not before it was too late. Pass. Cut. He flicked the cards across the table with expert precision, eyeing each of his competitors in turn. Not a good enough hand. Fold. He passed the deck to the man next to him.

Shuffle. Cut. Deal.

A small wager. Loss.

Shuffle. Cut. Deal.

Fold.

Shuffle. Cut. Deal.

A large wager. Win.

Shuffle. Cut. Deal.

A larger wager. Win.

Shuffle. Cut. Deal.

Fold.

In the guttering light of the backwater saloon, Angel raked in his winnings with a smug grin. Amateurs. Especially the one in the bowler hat. That imbecile had played right into his hand on multiple levels until the man had left the table with little more than the clothes on his back. Good. Served him right. Now that Angel had what he wanted, though, there was no point in sticking around.

"Gentleman." He stood, offering them a nod, and pocketed the cash. The hastily scribbled receipt of ownership, however, he kept between his fingers.

The stables were dark when he entered, but it didn't take much to find the stable boy curled up in the corner of the lone empty stall. He nudged the boy with his boot until he woke.

"Get my horse," he demanded, "and that red gelding with the white blaze."

The boy scrambled to obey, leading the paint mare to its owner before gathering up the tack.

"The gelding, boy," Angel barked.

"That one's not yours, sir," the boy replied. "It belongs to that short fella with the black vest and bowler hat."

"It's mine now." He waved the paper at him. "Now get the damn horse." The suspicious look the boy threw his way made him glad he'd gotten three witness signatures; he'd be damned before he got hung for being a horse thief.

He tied the mare's lead rope to one of the rings as he was brought his prize. With a shrewd eye, he looked the animal over, hands gliding over withers and flanks as he moved about. The chestnut beast was narrower than he generally preferred, but he'd known it would be. The cursory inspection would have to do; the animal didn't appear too lame for light travel.

He threw his saddle pad over the mare's back and began to tack up, keeping the gelding's rope in hand all the while. In a few minutes, he was astride the black and white horse and heading out with the other in tow. It took a couple of hours, but the small camp came into view as he rounded the last outcropping.

"Jesus Christ, Angel," the man at the fire cussed as the gambler rode in. "Another one?"

He didn't deign to reply. Dismounting, he tied the mare to the picket line and led the gelding closer to the fire where he could see it better. Its eyes began to roll and it pulled back on the rope, head lifting as it sank onto its haunches. A few snorts of distress accentuated its opinion. He made gentle shushing noises as he darted to the side, one hand up to draw the animal's attention to him while he turned them away from the flames. It quieted, but stayed at the end of the rope, ears flicking back.

"Easy, boy," Angel cooed. He took a small step forward, maintaining pressure on the rope. Changing hands, he snuck a little closer still. The animal's head turned so it could eye him, but it didn't pull away. "That's it. Good boy. That mean son-of-a-bitch ain't got you no more."

By the fire, his compatriot groaned and rolled his own eyes in exasperation. "What was it this time?"

Angel's eyes darted his way, a brief glare. "Bastard had a nasty set a spurs and no compunction about using 'em."

His disgust was evident. "You can't save them all."

"I saved this one," he replied defiantly. "If you don't like it, you can hit the damn road."

The man just shook his head and went back to stoking the fire. It wasn't snowing, but it was still cold in March. Angel had made it to the horse's shoulder by then and he stroked the beast with long, firm draws of his hand. Slowly, he made his way around.

It was in sound condition and lifted its feet without much fuss, so at least the farriers had been reasonably kind to it. He doubted the man in the bowler hat could have been bothered to check the hooves as Angel now did, working over the fleshy parts and dips and toe with careful precision. The shoes were nailed well, newly done from the looks of it.

Old blood was caked along its sides, scabbing over the places where the spurs had pierced without remorse. It flinched from his touch, so he left those places for now. The animal was already breathing hard enough; no need to torment it further. By the time he had passed behind the horse and worked his way back to its chest, he had reevaluated his opinions.

It may not have been as stocky or tall as what he usually rode, but it carried itself with a natural collection that could sometimes be hard to get even from reasonably well trained animals. It was better bred than he'd thought, but not for the kind of work that would be required of it out here. This was a horse better suited to that dainty stuff the English did.

A week passed. His companion left for better money. He kept moving. Another town, another poker table. Eventually, the wounds healed and all the gelding had to show for it were a few stray hairs of white. Angel itched to try the animal under saddle and, after a few more days, gave in to the urge.

He didn't really need a pack animal since he traveled lightly, so he hadn't asked for much in the way of work so far. Which meant it wasn't much of a surprise when, upon approaching the horse with his saddle, it danced away from him. It shied and dragged its feet, throwing up dust around the tree where he'd tied it. He stopped, waited for it to calm down, and tried again. With the same result. It took a half hour of such shenanigans before it finally stayed in place enough for him to lay hand on it.

"That's it," he praised. "Spirited thing, ain't ya?" He ran a hand over its withers and watched its ears. "I don't think this will be too bad. You'll see. You and me might get along just fine."

The snort it gave seemed a fairly straightforward response: I doubt it.

Piece by piece, he got the animal tacked up. Blanket. Saddle. Girth. Breast collar. By the time he was ready to try the bridle, risking his hands near the animal's mouth, the beast appeared to have gained some interest in the proceedings and tolerated his work. He reached over the saddle, waving his hand on the animal's other side. It glanced that way, but didn't seem bothered. He grabbed pommel and cantle, rocking the saddle, and received a similar response.

Tempted, he tested his boot in the stirrup only for the beast to suddenly dart forward a step. He laughed, having half expected it, and led it to circle around him before bringing it right back to where it had been standing. "Let's try that again," he commented and lifted his foot. This time it stayed still.

There were a couple more tests. Standing in just the one stirrup. Leaning way over the saddle and drawing the horse's attention again. More favorable responses. Slowly, he pivoted, swinging his leg over, and settled into the saddle. The gelding sighed, flicking an ear in his direction, but gave no other indication that he had bothered it.

A little pressure with his legs, a little slack in the reins, and they began to move. Oh. From walk to jog to lope, he encouraged the animal's pace. It moved...beautifully. He couldn't recall having ever owned an animal that flowed like this one. He lifted his hands slightly, giving the leg cues. If it was as well trained as he thought...yes! It lengthened its stride at once, responding to the subtle give and take of pressure with alacrity.

With a whoop of joy, he asked for more and they tore off across the landscape. The little chestnut gelding gave him everything. Quick turns. Flying lead changes. It never even balked at the unexpected sinkhole, collecting and carrying them over it as if it were all part of the plan. Heart beating wildly in his chest, he reined them in and patted the animal's neck heartily. His grin stretched from ear to ear as he scratched at the horse's mane.

~ ~ ~

Even the skeptical looks your boyfriend kept throwing your way couldn't dampen your spirits. Otto had finally, after months of your cajoling and wheedling, agreed to watch a horror movie with you. You rubbed your hands together and willed the popcorn to pop faster. At last, you carried the butter-drenched bowl back to the couch and sank into the cushions next to him.

"You're sure this one isn't as gory as the others?" Otto asked. "I've caught glimpses of some of that stuff you watch, you know."

You balanced the bowl on his knee and kissed his shoulder. "It's as much camp as horror," you assured him, taking up the remote. "And it's got a cult following."

"That doesn't reassure me."

Despite his less than thrilled tone or choice of words, he wrapped his arm around your waist, snugging you against his side as you hit 'play'. On the screen, the title card shown for a moment before the camera began to jerkily pan over swamp water. You grinned and shoved a handful of salty snack food into your mouth.

"Solid as a rock," Otto mumbled, echoing the dialogue. He sighed as he looked at you. "They're all going to die, aren't they?"

"Not all of them," you drawled.

Your next handful of popcorn was redirected by his hand on your wrist. He stole the kernels with tongue and teeth, making you shiver. Oh, so that's how he was gonna play it, huh?

"You'd better pay attention," you teased. "There's going to be a test afterwards."

He hummed and took your fingers into his mouth, wrapping his tongue around each in turn until he'd devoured all traces of the popcorn. He caressed the inside of your wrist with his thumb as he pulled your hand away again, knowing exactly what he was doing to you. "I'll keep that in mind."

You tucked your feet under you, the friction of your thighs hardly addressing the issue, and leaned against him, adjusting your hands so that you could stroke his knuckles. "Movie first, dear." If the man didn't kill you with frustration before then, that was.

"Are you saying I'm not allowed to mix pleasure with-" He looked dubiously from you to the screen. "-entertainment?"

"Just this once, that's exactly what I'm saying. Humor me?"

He relented, his faux-innocence giving way to fondness. "If it's that important to you."

You both turned your attention to the movie after that. Well, he did. You split your attention between the screen and him. The 'scares' certainly didn't seem to bother him, but it was still early and the film hadn't found its stride, yet.

Then the woods came to life and his arm tightened around you as he grimaced. It was all you could do not to grin like a maniac; that was the turning point for most viewers, after all. As the zombie leapt up with the pencil, he startled, too, almost hard enough to push you off the couch. Your bark of laughter wasn't stifled quickly enough to go unnoticed and he scowled at you, although the look in his eyes was far from negative. With a smirk of his own, he moved the bowl and pulled you into his lap.

"Otto," you chided, unresisting.

"Just getting comfortable." He wrapped both arms around your waist, repositioning the popcorn to your lap, and pressed his lips to the back of your shoulder. "I'm still paying attention."

"To me or the movie?"

"Both."

The more blood onscreen, the more his attention shifted to you, however. By the time the first zombie had been dismembered, he was nuzzling the back of your neck, his view of the screen completely obscured. You were tempted to take pity on him, except that the way he was playing with the buttons of your shirt was anything but fair.

"How many pieces?" you asked.

"What?"

"How many pieces was the zombie in?"

He stopped moving for a couple seconds. You could practically feel him trying to deduce the answer through logic. "Six?" There was a pause and then a quiet groan of resignation. "Seven," he corrected.

Well, how about that? Maybe he was paying attention after all. At least, enough for it to count. "Good job."

Given the way he pressed his forehead against your shoulder, a blatant attempt to hide his eyes, you almost felt bad for making him sit through the rest of the film. But he didn't make any attempts to leave and you still wanted to see if he would make it through the whole thing for you. That didn't stop him from working at your resolve, however. At the sound of the chainsaw, he moved his hands to your thighs, kneading the muscles as his thumbs teased just shy of providing any kind of relief. You squirmed.

"Otto," you admonished again.

"You seemed tense," he replied sweetly. "I just thought I'd give you a massage."

"Uh huh."

You never thought you'd regret having a sexy, attentive boyfriend. Good thing you still didn't, although you weren't sure you'd ever be able to watch this movie again without a very awkward response. What a shame.

Finally the last scream faded, the popcorn long gone, and it was your turn to catch Otto by the wrist and redirect his hands. "You get one shot at this question," you announced. He took in a deep breath, preparing for the worst. "Where was the cabin located?"

You could almost hear how deeply furrowed his brow must be, based on the tone of his voice. "In the woods."

"Yes, but in the woods where?"

"They didn't say. Do you mean in the mountains? Wait." He pensively brushed his nose against your neck. "They said they'd just passed something. Tennessee, wasn't it?"

"Ding ding ding."

You turned, rising up on your knees and wrapping your arms around his neck. He leaned back, arms encircling your waist as he dragged you closer. The kiss was gentle and chaste, a far cry from representing the heat he'd stoked in your belly for the last hour and a half.

"Thank you for watching it with me," you murmured.

"You're welcome. Now I'd like to forget I ever saw it."

You quirked an eyebrow. "I suppose you have an idea how to go about that."

"Indeed, I do." He tangled a hand in your hair, pulling you in for a deeper kiss.

Ricardo can see the tension building in his co-lead. It's there in the set of her shoulders, but most especially in the way her hands are clenched against her thighs beneath the table. He's been watching it grow for the past hour, winding tighter like the click-click-click of a ratchet with every snide remark and scathing insult recorded into the deposition from their witness. Well, the defense's witness.

He'd been sure she would say something. He hadn't chosen to work with her for her meekness of spirit, after all, but she'd kept her tongue thus far. She was too professional to make a scene that could affect her career. Which meant he would have to address it.

"Alright, Ms. Grace. I think we'll take a break here," he announces, scribbling his last notes onto the page and closing the file. "Would you like anything? A drink or something to eat?"

Again proving herself the negation of her name, the young woman derides him for wasting yet more of her time. He takes it to mean she's fine as she is. When they leave the room, closing the door on the witness, he cups Evelyn's elbow and steers her towards his office. She doesn't resist, doesn't even act surprised.

The moment he gets the door shut behind them, she darts forward. It takes him by surprise and he nearly stumbles as her arms close around his waist. Hesitant, he lowers his hands to her shoulders.

"You're legally obligated to keep holding me," she informs him before he can say a word.

It provokes a laugh and the tension bleeds away. He looks fondly down at the top of her dark hair. "Why is that?"

"If you don't, I might just kill that horrible woman."

"That's a bold thing to say to a deputy D.A.," he observes, but holds her just a little tighter nonetheless. A beat passes, then two, and he can feel his heart rate dropping to restful, lethargic levels. "I haven't been hugged in years," he remarks quietly.

"That's a shame, because you're very nice to hug," Evelyn responds. Her arms relax, sinking around his hips. In turn, he shifts his arms lower on her back, holding her a little closer. "That's better," she sighs. "You're good at this."

He can't quell the smile that lifts the corners of his lips. "Gracias."

"De nada." She turns her head, hiding her face against his tie and mumbling something he can't make out.  

Her breath warms his skin beneath his shirts. "I didn't catch that."

"This isn't very becoming of me, is it?" she asks a little louder from the same position.

He doesn't even need to think about it. "We all have something that gets under our skin. I'm not sure why this woman has gotten under yours, but I'm actually quite proud of how you handled yourself in that room. I, on the other hand, have a reputation for my temper."

"It is a hell of a temper," she agrees and he can feel her smile against him before she starts to pull away.

"Ah." He resists just a little, letting her feel his reluctance to let go. "Maybe just another few minutes?"

"Thank you."

~

The Comte de Reynaud had always loved flowers. The colors, textures, aromas. Even when their vitality had left them, there remained a beauty that nothing else could seem to match. Oh, he knew the function of a flower, yes. Life. Reproduction. Sustenance. Yet, none of those things necessitated the gorgeous presentation he frequently observed upon bush or vine or tree. For any other living creature, such indulgent displays would surely be a sin against G-d, but it was the Almighty himself who had ordained that they should be so. What arrogance would it require not to admire G-d's work?

So it was that every time he witnessed his new wife pause to caress the edge of a fresh, plump petal or her eyes fluttering closed while she inhaled the heavenly scent of whichever bouquet he had lately brought home, he found himself caught of up in a whirlwind of devotion. She was the most exquisite flower he'd ever laid eyes on. Not a rose, which was pretty but mundane. No, an orchid. Exotic, not because of any mere physical traits, alluring as those were, but for the way she would approach each day with optimism and unwavering strength of spirit. And colorful, her musical laughter painting his world more vibrant, her smile illuminating his soul with warmth.

Was it any wonder, then, that he had gone out of his way to procure a special arrangement for her?

She gasped when she saw them upon the table, eyes widening as her hand came up to her lips. As though entranced, she brushed tentative fingers against the long emerald stems, tracing ever upward from the moss covered soil to the tiny buds and blossoms. Scarcely an inch long, the delicate white flowers trembled at her touch as though they could feel the Comte's excitement from where he quietly waited out her exploration of his gift.

"Oh, Paul," she whispered.

He finally stepped forward from the hallway, his hands settling from behind at her waist while his lips chastely ghosted over her neck. "Do you like it?"

"They're stunning. Like little birds that might fly away in an instant." She brought one hand to rest atop his much larger one, unable to relinquish complete contact with the flora rising majestically from the wide, low ceramic of its pot. "What is it called?"

"Pecteilis radiata. The white egret flower."

"It's...an orchid?" she asked, hesitant in her assumption.

"Yes." Not that it was a difficult guess, but that she cared enough to learn pleased him. Though she might enjoy them, he knew flowers were his passion and not hers.

"And in the language of flowers," she prompted, eyes sparkling knowingly as she turned her head to look up at him, "what do they say?"

He flushed under her scrutiny. He should have expected the question, he supposed, even though she had never asked about such meaning before. She perpetually surprised him with these flashes of insight into his motivations and actions. "They symbolize happiness and love." Although he had to avert his eyes for a moment to gather his courage, she made him desire the vulnerability of honesty. "In bloom, they represent the ideal relationship."

"Oh." There was a certain amount of teasing in her tone and the curve of her lips, as if to say, 'Is that all?' She pressed those petal-soft lips to his. Just enough pressure to call it a kiss, light enough to speak of a love more profound than the merely physical should be able to convey. Her fingertips left the orchid to alight at his jaw. "Your timing is impeccable."

"Is it?" He arched an eyebrow, wondering at the statement.

"Mmhmm. You know I went to see the doctor today."

"Yes. Did he prescribe anything for the dizziness you've been experiencing?"

"Not exactly." She guided his head down to her shoulder so she could whisper in his ear. "You're going to be a father."

For a glorious moment, elation blinded him to all else save a hundred thoughts of the future, each flickering by faster than the last. He trembled as the flower had, splaying his hands over her stomach and inhaling her perfume as though he might suffocate without its softness. Wide eyed and startled to find himself on the verge of tears, he looked to his wife.

"We're going to have a baby?"

She kissed the tip of his nose, delight dancing in her countenance. "Yes."

~

~ ~ ~

"We find the defendant...guilty."

The jury foreman's words were permission for a rush of relief and excitement to sweep through the courtroom. Another win for justice, another criminal going to jail. Although his body language was attentive, Ricardo only listened to the judge's sentencing with half an ear. Evelyn might have been victorious in keeping the smile from her lips, but it danced in her eyes in that ever entrancing way he had trouble looking away from.

"Congratulations, counselor," the defense attorney remarked as he came over to shake their hands, first his and then hers. "But don't celebrate too much. I will win the appeal."

"We'll see," Evelyn replied. "That is, if you can find a means to appeal at all."

The attorney scoffed good naturedly. "There's always room for an appeal."

"You son of a bitch." Heads swiveled, looking for the unfamiliar voice that had spoken somewhere behind them. "You were supposed to get him off."

Ricardo had barely laid eyes on the woman, the defendant's wife, when his brain registered that her arm was already swinging upward in a manner he knew too well. The caliber didn't consciously come to mind, recognition skipping ahead to the only piece of information that mattered: he was stout enough to provide cover, not just concealment.

He turned, reaching for his co-counsel.

One blast. Two. More, too fast to consciously enumerate, as there was a scuffle.

He had her in his arms, shoulders hunching as he wrapped himself around her. The chaos changed, gunfire conspicuously absent amid the flurry of voices, but he didn't trust that the danger had passed until he heard the rasp of handcuffs. Reluctantly, he relaxed his hold.

"Are you okay?" He cradled her face in his hands, looking for any sign of pain in her dazed expression.

"I think so." She blinked, lowering her eyes to his body as she looked him over. "You're hurt!"

"What?"

He stepped back in alarm, looking now at his jacket where she was clutching it. There, through the left interior pocket, was the unmistakable hole from a small caliber round. His hands moved frantically over his side, but he felt nothing. No pain or wetness.

"No, I'm okay. It missed-" Then he saw it. A darkening of her blouse just visible in that tiny triangle beneath the buttons of her own jacket. His eyes slid to the tiny perforation of the dark material, subtle enough to almost be mistaken for a decorative button hole.

Brow furrowed, she followed his gaze. "That can't be right. Getting shot is supposed to-!!" She gasped, knees buckling as nerves finally relayed the message to her brain.

"MEDIC!"

Ricardo never let her hit the floor, scooping her up. She had never seemed so small as she did in that moment cradled in his arms. "I've got you," he murmured. "It's going to be fine. You're going to be just fine." He made his way to the back of the room, long legs eating up the distance but still too slowly. God help anyone who dared get in his way.

"MEDIC!!!"

"Why, Ric, if you wanted a hug, all you had to do was ask," she teased, her eyes shut tight as she fought to smile for him.

Terror quickened his steps yet further.

~~~~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~~~

When she opened her eyes, she got the distinct impression it wasn't the first time she'd woken up. Her head was already turned toward the chair at her bedside and the sight made her heart swell. Fondness. Irritation. Concern. The part of her that wanted to hug him also wanted to chide him for not taking care of himself.

Who had Ricardo cajoled to get a whole table setup for his use? A stack of files. Two takeout cups pushed aside. Glasses perched on his nose as he hunched over his work. It was clear not only that he'd settled in with no intention of leaving, but also that he'd been there a while already.

Eventually he glanced at her, a flick of the eyes not because he'd felt her gaze but because he routinely checked her for his own peace of mind, and all the strain of his work fell from his features in an instant. The smile that came to his lips was bright and earnest, lighting up his whole face. She hoped the heart monitor she could hear somewhere in the room didn't betray her reaction.

"Hey, workaholic," she greeted softly. "This place is for the sick and injured, not the terminal overachievers." She licked her lips. That last bit had taken some effort to get out properly. They must have her on the good painkillers.

"They let me in on an exception. You were injured and I was sick with worry." He removed his glasses and came to stand beside her, his hand warm and comforting over hers. "How are you feeling?"

She shifted just a little, wincing through her self assessment. The way concern dragged down the corners of his lips made her want to reach for him, but her limbs were just a little too heavy. "I'm uncomfortable," she admitted, "but not in pain. I guess that will come in time."

"I'm so sorry." His voice broke a little. "I should have been quicker."

The shine of his eyes, with their dark circles and crow's feet thrown in sharp relief. The quiver of his lips as he fought for composure. The tremble of his hand against hers. She broke more than just a little, finding the strength to raise her arms for him. He bowed into her embrace, body rigid and hands infinitely gentle in deference to her condition. Her hand on the back of his head guided his face into the curve of her neck where she could feel unshed tears smear against her skin.

"No, Ric. You were amazing. You're my hero." She tried to hold him tighter, but the drugs made it difficult to tell if she'd actually succeeded or merely thought she had. "Don't blame yourself. I'm just glad you're okay. You could've been seriously hurt, protecting me like that."

"I hear such things are great for a public image," he muttered. The idea of him using such sacrifice for political gain was so ridiculous she couldn't help a snort of amusement. If the wane smile she could feel was any indication, that had been his goal.

After several minutes, too few in her opinion although she acknowledge the awkward position probably hadn't done his back any favors, he began to pull away. He teased, "I should stop before your boyfriend comes in. It wouldn't do for him to get the wrong idea." He looked away, briskly wiping his eyes.

"That would be pretty difficult, since I don't have a boyfriend."

His eyebrows rose. "Didn't you just go to dinner with him on Monday?"

"I did. To break up with him."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

"That's okay. He didn't do anything wrong. He just..." She studied the concern on his face. Her coworker. Her friend. "He just wasn't the person I want to be with."

"Oh." The hope in his eyes hadn't been obvious, but it's sudden absence was.

That was all the motivation she needed in that moment. "I don't know how close I came to dying. I never imagined dying in a courtroom, although I'm sure there are some people at the office who'd think it poetic since I'm just as much a workaholic as you, but it puts some things in perspective, you know? I-"

"I love you." Quiet. Unhurried. He spoke the words as a simple statement. It took the air from her lungs. The adoring, sorrowful acceptance in his gaze stopped her whole world. "I do. I love you. So whatever it is you want to do, you have my utmost support. You don't have to explain why you want to leave. Whatever you want to do next, I'm behind you one hundred percent."

"I was going to say..." The happiest of tears spilled down her cheeks as she reached for his hand, hysterical giggles bubbling up in her chest like carbonation. Her heart felt too big for her chest, crowding out the ache of her wound as it was jostled by her elation. "You misunderstand. I could never leave. What I was going to say-" Joy stole her words for another moment. "I love you, Ric. That's what I was going to say. I love you, too."

"You do?"

The shock of it buckled his knees and he sat heavily on the side of the bed lest he fall in the floor. She nodded, smiling. Tentatively, he framed the side of her face with his hand and leaned forward, his gaze firmly upon her lips. She met him part way. The kiss was warm and soft, a private slow dance they could indulge in for an eternity and of which they'd never tire.

"It's about damn time."

Ricardo snatched back like a schoolboy caught doing something he shouldn't, but she didn't let him get too far, arresting his flight with a hand on the back of his neck. They looked at Joe standing in the doorway. He seemed exceptionally smug, holding a vase of her favorite flowers.

Her eyes narrowed. "There was a bet, wasn't there?"

"Of course there was. Which of you spoke up first?" He closed a few files and set the flowers upon the newly cleared space.

"He did." She kissed Ricardo again, just a peck this time, but it was enough to steal the insecurities from his eyes. His shoulders relaxed, too.

"Damn. I thought for sure it'd be you." Joe held out his hand, clasping Ricardo's and then refusing to let go. "I hope I don't have to explain what the office will do to you if you hurt her, do I?"

"I'd let them."

"Good." He let Ricardo go and pointed at her sternly. "And you know that goes both ways?"

"Oh, good. I wasn't looking forward to lecturing everyone about sexism at work."

Angel had barely levered himself up from the bed, extending himself to reach for his boots, when the door banged open. Even before the whore screamed, before the double barreled shotgun had begun to swing toward him, he threw himself at the window. It shattered against his shoulder and he tumbled ass over teakettle onto the porch roof. He plummeted to the ground, landing with a terrible thud that drove all the air out of his lungs.

"Son of a bitch! Get him!"

Diaphragm still paralyzed, he struggled to his feet and staggered towards the hitching post. All at once his lungs expanded, greedily sucking in as much air as they could hold, and he fumbled to free the reins. There was ruckus inside the brothel now, heavy tread coming down the stairs at a rapid clip, and men yelling, women screaming and shouting.

He was already turning his horse, one foot barely in the stirrup, ready to gallop as soon as he got his ass in the saddle, when the first shot rang out. Fuck. That had come from across the street. Abandoning half the plan, he locked his hands around pommel and cantle and crouched low in the stirrup, throwing his other knee into the animal's side instead of over it. Muscles flexed and bunch, not unlike the way his own were coiled in that moment, and the beast took off.

Trick riders might make that sort of thing look easy, but Angel was no trick rider. He was just a man desperate to escape a potentially fatal situation. Jostled and snatched around, he clung to the saddle for dear life and did his best to guide the horse by reins alone. The gunshots faded a little as that end of town fell away behind him, enough for him to risk throwing himself over the saddle. It knocked the air out of him like a punch in the gut, but he got his other leg over as the beast threatened to bounce him off.

Ahead he could see approaching silhouettes. He slowed his mount for a stride or two, evaluating, then a shot whizzed by his ear. More enemies. "Shit!"

His horse sat practically on its ass as he demanded a sudden halt and they pivoted, launching off in a new direction. Blasting through the alley between buildings, praying no pretentious city types had dared to put up any fences, they raced to get out of town. He had just enough time to register that something was moving through the air in his direction, enough time to choke up on the reins but not enough time to convey any new information to his mount, when the oak board caught him in the face.

Blinded by the explosion of pain, he was driven backward out of the saddle, rolling over his horse's flank and smashing face down into the dirt just as he lost consciousness.

Waking up wasn't particularly pleasant, either. He couldn't breathe, couldn't smell anything but the rancid metallic scent of old blood. Which he could also taste, unfortunately, and it was just as foul. His whole face throbbed with the beat of his heart, but especially his nose. Definitely broken. Squinting, groaning, he took in his situation.

Hands bound behind his back. Rope around his neck. Seated on a chair. In the middle of nowhere and nothing. Damn.

"You awake, yet, you cheating son-of-a-bitch?"

He glared back at the ugly cuss who'd spoken and the posse at his back. "Yeah, I'm awake."

His words came out as thick as the glob of coagulated blood and saliva he spit in their direction. Even talking made his nose hurt worse, and he hadn't thought that'd be possible. He didn't need to ask why they'd strung him up. It hadn't been all that long ago that he'd taken their money.

"I told you you'd regret crossing me," the smug bastard reminded him.

"I didn't cheat you." He jerked his chin in their direction. "I didn't cheat any of you. You suck at cards, that's all. Shouldn't bet what you can't stand to lose. Everybody knows that."

"That right? Well, I guess you made your last bet, stranger."

The brute raised his gun, aiming somewhere under Angel's feet, and pulled the trigger. He heard glass shatter and the chair swayed dangerously. Eyes widening, he dared turn his head to look as best as he could. There were boards under his chair, layers of them with gaps between. If the broken glass was any indication, those gaps held materials that would destabilize beneath him with each shot they took. Another bullet came his direction, taking out another bottle from between the boards, and Angel shut his eyes to pray to a god he hadn't believed in for more than a decade.

More shots rang out then, a cacophony of them, and then other noises. Shouting. Yelling. Audible chaos. He opened his eyes again as a last shot faded into the hills. Standing on the other side of a field of corpses was a familiar face with a revolver in each hand and a third tucked into the front of her dress.

Never in his life had Angel been happier to see a prostitute, even if his grin brought fresh blood gushing over his mustache. Behind her, he could see his horse with his boots and hat resting across the saddle.

"I think I'm falling in love with you," he hollered to her.

~

Paul shifted again in the chair, hunching forward over the documents on the low table. He should've been looking at them from the relative comfort of his hotel room, but his neighbors were inconsiderate. Not that his current lack of a sex life was their problem; he just wished they weren't quite so vocal. It reminded him of too many things, particularly how Eleanor's appreciation of his desire had soured, twisting into loud recriminations against his sincerity. All told, they'd lasted barely two years.

Which was how, for the second time in his life, he found himself leaving behind a home, to a woman he thought had loved him, while he started over. The negotiations now in front of him had come at the perfect time; he could delay finding a new place to live so long as work was paying for his lodging.

"Paul?!"

His head snapped up in surprise. Across the lobby's sitting area, an African American woman was regarding him with wide eyes and a disbelieving grin. Her long hair was pulled back, as dark as ever he remembered, and her figure was still that compact hourglass he'd spent too many sleepless nights imagining between his hands. Lord, it didn't look like she'd aged a day.

"Naomi?!" He echoed her tone of pleasant surprise as he stood. "It's been...how have you been?"

"I've been good." Now assured she hadn't misrecognized the man, she approached. "I thought- well, nevermind. What are you doing here?"

"Work." He shrugged, gesturing as he set the paper in his hands among its brethren. "There's always someone unhappy when it comes to unions."

"I heard you were some big shot negotiator. Weren't you pre-law, though? What happened?"

"I was, but life doesn't always go according to plan. It was a great foundation for this, though. What about you? What are you doing here?"

"I live here. Well, not here-here. You know what I mean. I run a catering business these days." Her smile of pride was infectious before it mellowed to wryness. "The hotel's kitchen is under renovation and I was hoping we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement, but I don't think the meeting went very well."

His brow furrowed. "Why is that?"

"For one thing, they don't want to pay enough."

Naomi found herself taking the seat opposite Paul as the man lowered himself back to his own. The conversation continued while she took the opportunity to look him over. She almost hadn't recognized him, too enamored by "handsome man with a beard" at first to look much closer, but she'd know those doe eyes anywhere.

He was larger than he'd been in college. The size gave him an air of dependability he'd been lacking back then, a pleasant improvement over the seemingly frantic beanpole of a young man she'd once known. She listened to him lay out a number of conversation points she could take with her into a second meeting, all based on the details she'd shared a few minutes before, and found herself trying to recall why she hadn't given him the time of day all those years ago. Surely there had been clues he would turn into the clever, attractive man she saw now.

The topic found a natural culmination and she graced him with a smile. Not difficult to do, considering. "Have you had lunch, yet?"

"Uh." Paul glanced toward the closed restaurant. "No. As you pointed out, they're closed and this morning's meeting ran long."

"That's okay. I think I know a good place." She stood and so did he. "That is, if you've got time?"

While neither of them had much in the way of free time, it somehow became easier to meet up when they reasoned that they both needed to eat anyway. It was all too easy for her to give him a culinary tour of the city while they reminisced together about life. Over Jamaican Jerk Chicken, they laughed about Adam's attempted tyranny in the college's art department. They tempered the sting of failed relationships with the warmth of the best Salvadoran empanadas. It was alongside the Ethiopian Beef Kitfo, however, where she waxed bitterly poetic about the food critic whose review had gotten her fired from one of the best restaurants in the country and nearly ended her career.

Later, she couldn't be sure if it was the honey wine or his honeyed compliments, praising her resourcefulness and subsequent success, that had led her thoughts to wild places. Places with barely sufficient lighting where warmth could blossom into heat. It was just as likely the culprit was the text messages her friends had started sending after the first meal, taking keen note of her dining companion and the way she apparently "lit up"- her friends' words, not hers- during their conversations.

When did you get you an Old Man?

Girl, if he ain't taken he's about to be. Jump on that before I do.

Wish he'd devour me like that naan. Hot damn.

So she took a leap of faith and made reservations at one of the nicest places in the city, the sort of upscale dining that only the rich ate at regularly and the romantically inclined desperately hoped would impress their dates. She could acknowledge, at least to herself, that she was firmly in the latter category. It was a shame that even she couldn't wrangle a reservation any earlier than his last night in town.

For Paul, it all led to sitting in the hotel bar, the one part of the restaurant not closed for the remodel, cursing himself for being a fool. The temptation to cancel his flight was eating away at him. He already had his phone in hand, the confirmation pulled up and staring accusingly at him. Just a few little clicks was all it would take. But what kind of idiot would move to be near a woman after a mere week? Him, of course. He had almost moved to New York for Eleanor; at least Colorado had prettier views.

He blinked at the amber liquid in his glass, expression clouding with regret and shame. Had he not learned his lesson? How many times was he going to get his heart broken before he figured out that he was the problem? Ex-wife and ex-girlfriend, they'd both thrown the same arguments at him: that he was meek when they needed strength and demanding when they needed compassion. He had tried to change, to navigate their moods as best he could, but it hadn't been enough. The first relationship had lasted over a decade before failing, then limped along for roughly the same. The next: two years, measured generously. If the degradation of tolerance for his flaws was linear, how long would this relationship last? Three months, maybe?

He sighed and lifted his eyes to the entryway. How long he waited, he wasn't sure, mindlessly lifting the glass to his lips and periodically gesturing for a refill. When she finally did appear, it took his breath.

Wrapped around her in folds of golden warmth like the petals of a sunflower, the dress swayed as she walked, dancing about her ankles and parting to reveal glimpses of calf or thigh as she made her way toward him. Her radiant smile inspired his heart to twice, no, ten times its usual effort. Lightheaded, he could only watch her approach with awe.

Old memories encroached, overlaying the moment like a projection image through time. Twice before he had watched a woman walk his way in such a manner and twice before he had made a gesture for which he was physically rebuked. A third time and he would know, wouldn't he? That there was no future for him in Colorado?

He threw back the last of his whiskey- for luck, he told himself, though he really meant courage- and closed the distance between them with long, quick strides. With his hands around her arms, he pulled her close and captured her lips with his own. Every ounce of hope and passion he could muster, he poured into the touch. Even when she kissed back as fervently, her fingers curling into his pants pockets, he kept his eyes tightly shut, waiting for the inevitably violent response.

She pulled away first, faintly laughing as she tried to catch her breath. "Wow. You sure know how to greet a woman." The realization that he still hadn't opened his eyes, his expression pinched and expectant, dampened her amusement. "What's wrong?"

"Just...waiting."

"For what?"

"The slap."

Was he joking with her? He must be, surely. "Open your eyes." She lifted one hand to his face, cradling his cheek with her palm, and he finally did. "Paul, any woman who slaps you after a kiss like that needs her head examined." She playfully chided, "However, I might reconsider if you don't kiss me again."

He complied at once, enfolding her properly in his arms as her fingers interlaced behind his neck. If he'd thought he'd lost track of time before, it utterly abandoned him then. All that mattered was her warmth, her touch. The puffs of air they shared between them in an effort to prolong the kiss were themselves caresses of desire.

"Oh, my sweet, giddy aunt," she panted. Again, Naomi had been the first to pull away. She grinned up at him, a little dazed. "You, sir, are rapidly earning yourself an invitation to my place tonight."

His own smile was more than a little uncertain. "I'm not going too fast, am I?"

She laughed, full-throated now that her lungs were working again. "How old are we? I think we're a little past the stage where we have to follow some teenager's checklist of how relationships are supposed to progress."

At last, elation suffused him, burying the dread of a stinging cheek. He couldn't resist one more kiss. It was gentler than the previous ones, less urgent since it was guided by affection rather than desperation, and he retreated from it first.

"Shall we go on to dinner?" he inquired softly.

"Well, that depends." She ran her hands down the lapels of his jacket, lowering her chin so that she might look up at him through her lashes. "What kind of hunger would you like to sate first?"

The hummingbird-fast beat of his heart must have reflected in his eyes because her gaze darkened with mischief and she caught his hands in both of hers, tugging him toward the front doors. He went willingly. It was a hundred college fantasies all over again as he followed her into a cab. He had matured in the years since then, but still, he dared to slide his fingers along the inside of her teasingly bared knee. Far from upset, she boldly drew his hand higher and covered his touch with a fold of her dress to obscure their indiscretion from the driver.

So when they came to an unexpected halt halfway up her front walk, Paul was confused. He had made her tremble almost violently on the way over, her thighs crushing his hand as she buried her face behind his shoulder to muffle the sounds of her excitement. Now she pulled him back to her, all but climbing into his arms in the fading light of a long summer's day as they kissed.

"What's wrong?" he murmured, bowing under the pressure of her hand to litter a string of kisses across her throat.

"Nothing." She hummed, head tilting back as her eyes closed. "I just wanted to show off for the neighbors. Let them see the handsome, charming man I've brought home."

It was a glorious thing to feel pride and embarrassment swell together in his chest, his smile broadening uncontrollably as he lifted her up. Not missing a beat, she laughed and wrapped her legs around him, running her fingers through his hair as they grinned at each other. She felt light as a feather in his grip.

"To hell with the neighbors," she decided. He agreed.

He had to set her down for a moment in order for them to get through the door, but the moment they crossed the threshold he swept her up again. Stumbling only a little, they made their way through the house and he laid her upon the bed. He thought to hold his weight off of her as he crawled forward, but she had other ideas, drawing him down so that their bodies were as close as clothing allowed. When that was no longer enough, the feel of him grinding against her as tormenting as it was pleasurable, she gave a forceful push against his shoulders, directing him onto his knees.

Their clothes fell to the floor haphazardly, interrupted by the constant exploration of newly revealed skin. His hands and mouth worshipped her curves with the most gentle of attention. She kissed and nibbled and stroked with eagerness. By the time they had become fully bared to each other, they were both breathless and impatient.

"Wait. Wait!" He gave a pained groan, pressing his head back amongst the pillows as he held her off of him. "I don't have a condom."

"Fuck. Just-" She nearly tumbled from the bed, saved at the last minute by his hands at her waist, as she fumbled through the nightstand drawer. Finding what she wanted, she carelessly emptied a box of foil packets across the bed. "There. Take your pick."

Laughter rumbled through him. "I think maybe you're overestimating me if you're expecting to need that many."

"Let's start with one and see where we end up." She grabbed a packet at random and tore it open with her teeth, grinning in response to the helpless moan her action conjured from him.

She was still soaked from his efforts in the taxi and the stretch as she sank down onto him was perhaps the most sinful thing she'd ever imagined. His length filled her deliciously, just shy of painful and faintly grazing her cervix as her hips came to rest against his. For a moment, it was almost too much, almost enough to send her over the edge, but Paul didn't dare move, fighting to hold back his own reaction to her engulfing heat. He shivered beneath her hands, braced against him as they were since her knees barely reached the mattress to either side of his hips, and he focused on her face. The way her eyes were half-lidded, her lips silently parted, her breasts heaving as she strove for deep, calming breaths: he was enraptured by the signs of her pleasure.

Moving together, his hips rolling up to meet her, her thighs quivering as she rhythmically flexed around him, they let the pleasure build with a certain languor. He caressed the side of her face, the elegant lines of her body, seeking to commit the moment to memory. She smiled down at him, relishing the way his chest dented beneath her fingers, his fingers sending a thousand jolts of pleasure through her clit as she rubbed against him, clenched around him.

Floating in the afterglow, she drifted to sleep curled up at his side. The morning sun sneaking in through the curtains, warm and gentle, woke her the same way. She stretched, feeling indulgent beneath the soft linens, and pressed a kiss against her lover's shoulder. He stirred and blinked awake, a smile curving his lips.

"Morning," he rumbled quietly.

"Good morning." She curled her fingers through his chest hair. "When's your flight?"

That brought a sigh from him. "It takes off at three."

She picked up one of the unopened condoms that still littered the bed and dangled it in front of him. "Do you have to be on it?"

~ ~ (1) ~ ~

Movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he turned his head, but it was already gone. He let curiosity draw him from the front door, where he'd only just come home, to the living room, but his quarry wasn't there. A pair of sheer stockings were draped artfully over the back of his favorite chair.

Interest piqued, he moved past them toward the kitchen, but his prey had already moved on from there as well, leaving behind a familiar red tie half-knotted on the counter. He picked it up, letting it slink through his fingers, and scrutinized the mirrored compact that had been hiding underneath. The smirk came slowly to his lips, but only because he was taking his time to savor the intrigue.

Unhurried, he doubled back toward the bedroom. He straightened his attire as he went, tugging and smoothing until he'd shaken off the day's accumulated imperfections. He paused briefly just before the door, a second to school his expression, and then he stepped into the room.

Evelyn met his eyes through the vanity mirror and he very deliberately looked her over from toes to crown. Bare legs. Short, pleated skirt just shy of hiding the bottom curve of her ass cheeks. A too tight shirt hugging in all the right ways, too thin to hide her lack of bra. Leather suspenders tracking up her spine to a buckle, then parting over her shoulders. She stood with her feet apart, hips canted just so, a power stance that said she knew exactly how she looked and what it was meant to do to him.

He met her eyes again in the mirror, one eyebrow rising delicately, and stalked toward her. He splayed one hand over the front of her hip, fingertips gathering the skirt up another inch against her thigh, and bent his head to kiss the arch of her neck. With his other hand, he hooked his fingers around one of the leather straps and caressed it, dragging a knuckle up and down her abdomen in a way he knew to be tantalizing. He lingered in the contact for a moment.

"I believe these are mine," he murmured, letting his breath ghost over her collarbone as he gave the suspenders a firm little yank.

She shivered at his sultry tone. In the mirror, she could see he was looking down the front of her shirt where her breasts strained the flimsy material over them. "I think they look better on me," she countered. "Don't you agree?"

"Hhhmmm." He pulled her close, letting her feel just how much he agreed. "I'm willing to be convinced."

Of a sudden he snatched her around, broad hands on her hips lifting her high into the air. She squealed in surprise and delight, wrapping her arms around his neck. With a carefully controlled kick, he turned the vanity's bench and sat, lowering her to his lap. Dutifully, she parted her legs around him.

Turning her head toward the mirror with a finger against her chin, he lowered his head to her chest, mouth working open button after button. She bit her lip, holding back a moan at the image they presented together. A study of contrasts, him and her. Light and dark. Large and small. Gentle and aggressive.

She fisted her hand in his hair, which he'd grown out at her request, and leaned back. One of his hands moved between her shoulders, interlacing with the suspenders, and he pulled her further. She gave herself to his direction without hesitation, trusting that he wouldn't drop her. With the last button undone, he retraced his path upon her skin, relishing the way she moaned and giggled under his lips.

Slowly, he pressed her closer again until he could slide his tongue into her mouth, mapping the contours of her palate. He pushed the shirt away in increments, letting the glide and drag of his fingers give evidence to his worship, until it fell to the floor. She moaned, shivering under his gaze.

"My tie. My suspenders." He smirked. "You seem to like my things."

She leaned in, their noses just brushing against each other, as she whispered against his lips, "You have very nice things." Her hand slipped down to the heat between his legs. "Don't you want to share them with me?"

A dark chuckle rumbled through his chest and he slid her back, pressing against her thigh and pulling against the suspenders until she was just perched on his knees. Then he spread his legs, forcing hers apart in the same motion. Sitting effectively in the open air, which now licked at her moist, heated core with maddening coolness, Evelyn whimpered and grabbed at his thighs.

"Go on," he encouraged. "I thought you wanted to share."

While the way she bit her lip may have been coy, the gleam in her eyes was anything but. She parted his belt with near violent motions, abruptly gentling as she lowered his zipper and folded the fabric over the metal teeth. It wouldn't do to damage the velvety flesh she released from the constricting material. There was more of him than she could cover even with both hands and it never failed to make her squirm appreciatively. If she'd known when she first arrived at the DA's office what his slacks concealed so well...

He caught both her hands in one of his and pulled them away from his erection. Her pout almost broke his restraint, but he managed to turn the fond smile into a naughty grin. "Are you ready for me?" He guided their hands to her pussy, pushing her fingers against her own moisture. "You're going to take all of me, so you better be certain, sweetheart."

Groaning, she pressed two fingers into herself. He raked her skirt up against her stomach so he could watch, already dark eyes narrowing with his focus. Knowing he was watching her, knowing what he intended to do, it didn't take her long to fit three, then four fingers in herself. She was dripping for him, her juices pooling in her palm and smearing over her wrist, and she rolled her hips restlessly.

"Almost there?" he breathed, letting his thumb tease lower just above her clit.

"Ric," she growled in warning. He raised his eyes to hers and pressed the thick digit in alongside her own. She clenched around him, head falling back. "Fuck."

"That's the idea." He lazily pumped in and out of her a few times. "Do you need some help, hmm? Do you want me to open you up properly?"

"Fuck, yes."

She closed her hand over his, urging more from him, and he obliged, turning his hand over to replace her fingers with two of his own. After a moment of her rutting, he added a third finger and splayed them against her walls, feeling her sex trying valiantly to get more of him. He tipped forward, taking a nipple between his lips, and worked his tongue over the hardening bud. She bucked, whimpering, and ran her fingers through his hair. By the time he switched to the other nipple, she was panting and moaning without regard for whether she'd be able to speak later.

"Look at the mess you've made," he remarked, looking at the floor between their feet. "I do believe you're going to warp the hardwood."

"That's the idea," she shot back, looking down, but not to the floor.

"In that case..."

He pulled his fingers from her and, in one of those displays of power she'd become addicted to, he curved his hands around her ass and lifted. Suspended in his grip as if she weighed little to nothing, feeling his cock tease her folds as he took his time lining them up, she indulged herself with the feel of his biceps flexing under her hands. Then he was lowering her, cleaving her open in a way that made her eyes roll back in her head and the air rush from her lungs in a long, helpless groan.

"Good girl," he purred for her. "Take it all. Just like that."

"Yeeessss," she hissed, though she dared not yet move. "You always feel so good. Always fill me up just right."

"And I'm going to keep you full. Just. Like. This." He grabbed the suspenders, front and back, and snatched down, using the wide leather to crush her body onto his own.

She cried out, eyes widening as her mouth fell open, and clenched around him. After all the teasing, it had almost been enough to send her over the edge. Shuddering, she tangled her hands in his lapels and tried to lift, but he didn't allow it.

"You wanted me, sweetheart." The purr in his voice this time was almost menacing. "Now you've got me." Never letting up, he rocked her body, grinding her clit against him. "And I've got you."

Whimpering something unintelligible, she buried her face in his chest and let him have his way with her. The helplessness of her situation, albeit an illusion she knew she could break with a word, made her core throb. The friction. The stretch. The almost-too-much pressure of him massaging her cervix. She was racing toward her climax, toes curling as she dug her heels into his calves.

"Look," he demanded, voice rough.

She opened her eyes, turning her face toward the mirror. He was the perfect image of control. Still suited. Arms around her, hands crushing the heavy leather with ease. Jaw clenched as he held himself back for her pleasure. His eyes were locked on her, offering her that stunning profile she'd admired for so long. Surrounded by him, subjected to his attentions, she couldn't have asked for any better response to her seduction.

The first orgasm took her composure, stripping it away like so much smoke, but he didn't stop. The second left her a mewling mess, clinging desperately to him as he kept going. She begged and cursed, a string of filthy encouragements spilling off her tongue as she pleaded with him to just cum already. By the third she was a rag doll, sobbing with relief as she felt his cock pulse inside of her.

"One last thing, darling," he huffed, catching his breath.

Once more he lifted a finger to her chin, directing her gaze back to the mirror. He lifted her off his slowly softening cock, the flood of their essences cascading down her thighs and spilling over him. She whimpered to see it.

Then he readjusted them, closing her legs as he lowered her back to his lap. He cradled her against his chest, nudging her knees together near his hip and wrapping his arms around her. He stroked his hand through her hair as they recovered together.

Eventually, her heart stopped trying to beat its way out of her chest and she snuggled more deliberately into his hold. "You're evil," she chided playfully.

"It wouldn't do to let you think you can steal my things without consequence," he replied dryly, but he couldn't keep the smile off his face.

~ ~ (2) ~ ~

TJ determinedly refused to look at his partner as he came out of the changing room. In fact, he did his best not to look at anyone at all, gaze mostly on the floor as he continued his losing fight against indignity. The club owner shook his head, dismayed.

"This isn't going to work," the man remarked. "No one's going to buy that he's the dominant type."

"He'll be fine," Ricardo assured the man. "Besides, the suspect we're looking for specifically targets inexperienced Doms."

"Look at him," was the insistence. "He isn't looking anyone in the eye!"

"Would you give us a minute?" Ricardo looked at the man expectantly, raising an eyebrow when he didn't get the immediate response he desired. Grumbling, the man left the two alone. The detective turned to his partner.

"Don't say it," TJ preempted.

"Say what?" Ricardo stepped closer, working the buckles on the leather suspenders. He shortened each side by one position, then put a hand on his partner's shoulder to turn him around so the back could be adjusted as well. There, he lengthened the strap down the spine and tightened the buckles of the shoulder piece. The straps under the arms, too, got their own adjustments. When he was done, he smoothed the vest beneath it. "Unroll your sleeves."

"Unroll?" TJ questioned as he did so.

"They're too neat." Ricardo shook out each sleeve, in turn messily folding them a couple of times and bunching the material just above the swell of the forearms. Then he loosened TJ's tie just enough so that when he undid the top two buttons of the man's shirt, the collar splayed open. "There."

TJ finally met his partner's eyes, a smile hovering over his lips. "Is this better?"

Ricardo's shoulders twitched in a shrug, though he allowed a hint of a smile. "I guess we'll ask the suspect when we catch him."

The sting proved long, tedious, and infinitely embarrassing for TJ, who got to hear all of his colleagues' commentary through the ear piece without being able to reply, but ultimately it was fruitful. The dawn wasn't far off by the time everything had been resolved and, exhausted, TJ was looking forward to the lieutenant's gift of having the next day off. In fact, his only thought as he shed his jacket on the way to the bedroom was sleep. His shoes were kicked off somewhere along the way, to be dealt with later.

So when strong hands caught him by the suspenders, hauling him toward the office instead, he couldn't help his yelp of surprise.

"You didn't really think I'd let it go unpunished, did you?" Ricardo asked evenly as he drove the man before him. A quick motion snatched the chair out of the way and he pushed TJ down upon the desk, hand planted firmly in the middle of his lower back. "Did it occur to you to ask before taking my things?"

Wide awake now, TJ opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it. Tentatively, he gripped the edge of the desk near his head and looked back over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Sir?"

Ricardo glared at him. "I don't think you are."

With his free hand, he unbuckled the man's belt and snatched it from the loops. It slithered free with a hiss of leather and denim that made the hair on TJ's arms stand on end. The jeans were addressed next. They opened under those dexterous fingers and Ricardo pushed them down to the younger man's knees.

"Be silent." Ricardo flicked his wrist, the doubled weight of the belt leaving a pretty ribbon of pink across TJ's right ass cheek. He repeated the motion on the other side, eyeing the way the twin stripes came together. The detective bucked each time, but held his tongue. "That's good. Now tell me, what possessed you to steal from me?"

"I-" TJ licked his lips, trying not to grin. Even facing away, he just knew that Ricardo would be able to tell if he smiled. "The job was to look like a Dom. I only meant to borrow them."

"Is that right?" Ricardo pushed the shirt up so he could drag his blunt nails down TJ's back, leaving temporary streaks of red and white in his wake. "And did wearing my things feel good? Did you feel like a Dom?"

Hesitant at first, TJ shook his head. Then he shook it again, more emphatically. "No, Sir."

"No, it didn't feel good or no, you didn't feel like a Dom?"

"I didn't feel like a Dom." TJ lowered his voice as he added, "But it did feel really good to wear your leather."

"Good, because you're going to wear it just a little longer." With the pants out of the way, Ricardo fed the belt back through the loops of the suspenders and cinched it tight around the man's hips. TJ wriggled, daring to seek the feel of his lover's body. "Impatient, are you?"

"I want you to fuck me," he replied immediately.

Ricardo left a handprint on the man's ass cheek by way of reprimand. "Maybe I'll give you what you want, but you're going to have to be very good for me."

"Yes, Sir," TJ moaned. He took a deep breath and willed himself to stillness. "I'll be very, very good."

"I hope so." Ricardo fetched a bottle from one of the desk drawers and poured a substantial amount into the hollow of TJ's lower back. The shock of it nearly drew a sound from TJ's throat, but he swallowed it at the last second. "Be a good boy and warm that for me. And don't waste it. You might not get any more." He stepped away.

TJ almost stood up, just to see what Ricardo would do if he did spill it all in the floor. The thought of a serious punishment made him shiver, causing a few drops to leak down his sides and onto the wood beneath him. Remembering the papers he'd seen just before he'd been bent over, the ones now trapped under his chest, TJ strained not to move again.

Ricardo took his time hanging up his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, standing off to one side as he admired the man stretched over his desk. Knuckles white against the edge of the wood. Eyes closed, but face pointed toward the wall. Shoulders back and chest forward. Legs straight. Hips canted to further emphasis that pretty little divot of the lower back. It seemed TJ had been paying attention every time Ricardo took charge.

Ricardo unfastened his belt and pants, letting them hang open as he pulled his cock out. He could tell TJ knew what he'd done without looking, attuned as he was to those particular sounds, by the way the man's thighs and ass trembled. Another drop made its bid for freedom, glistening as it raced toward the desk.

He pushed TJ forward until the man's cock was caged against the desk and then nudged his feet together as close as physically possible. "Don't move," he instructed.

Running two fingers through the slick mess, he dribbled it over his cock, and then smeared his fingers down the back of TJ's thighs. Another swipe and he did it again, this time forcing his fingers between the two powerful sets of muscles. TJ gasped, a sound without vocalization, and barely refrained from spreading himself. Ricardo did it again and again, working his whole hand between the man's legs.

Then he gave himself a few lazy strokes and pressed into the well lubricated thighs. TJ choked on a distressed noise, frustrated to have what he wanted so close but so far. Not that it didn't feel unconscionably good to have that cock 'fucking' him, rubbing underneath his balls, but Ricardo's hands were on the desk and his thrusts were slow, imparting no motion to TJ's neglected erection. Ricardo had told him to be good, so he intended to be on his very best behavior. Flexing wasn't technically considered moving, right? He bit his lip lest Ricardo's sudden groan be his undoing.

"That's it. Clench for me." Figuring the risk would be worth the reward, TJ slid one foot behind the other until he could cross his legs, trying to provide the greatest friction possible. Ricardo groaned again. "Good boy. Just like that. Now stay nice and tight for me."

TJ did, but with each passing second his humiliation grew. Being used like that? He could be anyone at all. Male. Female. Other. Someone from Ricardo's past. Someone that had been seen once, somewhere, in passing. Just a convenient flesh-light at the right angle. The tips of his ears began to burn, his blush already warm over his neck and face.

"I'm tempted to finish like this," Ricardo told him. "Maybe I should even leave you here." He slapped his open hand against one of TJ's thighs, gripping it but not quite hard enough to bruise. "It would be nice to have you waiting for me when I finish my coffee."

TJ whimpered. "Please don't."

"Don't?"

"If you fuck me..." TJ looked over his shoulder again, hoping to win some kind of favor from the man. "I'll be ready to take that new plug. You can keep it in me while we sleep and, if you take me to bed with you, you can even fuck me before I wake up."

"That plan certainly has its merits," Ricardo acknowledged, once more dragging his fingers through the lube he had been careful to leave otherwise undisturbed, "but I don't recall asking for your opinion."

The press of that first digit into his body felt like victory, until he realized his dilemma. Legs crossed. Thighs taut. It made it difficult to relax around the intrusion, but if he did relax than he'd fail to provide the sensation Ricardo demanded of him and then the man might stop. He bit his tongue and continued to struggle to find a solution, writhing in frustration as a second, thick finger pressed in next to the first.

All that tension below his waist was tearing his restraint to shreds and Ricardo wasn't being merciful. Gentle, yes, but no less ruthless for that. He was working TJ's body open inexorably and with expert patience. Occasionally stroking his prostate from within, other times letting his thumb apply pressure against that external spot. Sometimes both at the same time. TJ might be a shuddering disaster losing his mind at the edge of an orgasm he was desperate to keep at bay, but he wasn't going to give up what he wanted that easily.

Ricardo swiped the remaining lube from TJ's back, directing the puddle down the crease of the man's ass and letting it run where it would. "Hands behind your back." TJ fumbled to obey, knocking a half dozen items from the desk into the floor. Ricardo smirked and wrapped the man's fingers around the strap of the suspenders. "Hold this and don't let go."

Ricardo pulled back, hands pressing down on his lover's hips as he nudged a knee with his own to buckle it, and thrust into TJ's well warmed, eager hole. Groaning, pushing back against him, TJ let his head fall against the desk. If it hadn't been for Ricardo's body pressed against him, holding him up, TJ was sure he'd have slid directly to the floor. His legs felt like jello, the exertion suddenly taking its toll.

"Are you getting tired already, my little thief?" Ricardo taunted, grabbing the shoulder piece of the suspenders and pulling on them.

TJ whimpered again. "You feel so good."

"And I'm going to feel even better by the time I'm done with you."

Using the suspenders for leverage, he began to fuck the man in earnest. TJ didn't last long, groaning as the slap of his cock against his own belly was enough to push him over the edge. Ricardo chased his own climax, not far behind, only to suddenly pull out, painting his lover's gaping hole and quivering thighs with his seed.

Exhaustion settled over him quickly. Ricardo pried TJ's fingers from the leather and pulled him to his feet, wrapping his arms around the man to hold him up. The mess they'd made of the desk could be dealt with later, but he happened to like those particular suspenders. He liked them even more now. He undid the belt again and gathered the various straps into his hand.

TJ went with him willingly, clothes discarded along the way, and he pushed the man onto the bed as he continued on to the bathroom. He cleaned himself and the leather, setting it aside before returning to his lover with a washcloth to clean him up as well. Finally curling up under the covers with TJ again in his arms, Ricardo hummed.

"Are you going to steal from me again?"

TJ smiled against Ricardo's chest. "I might."

"I guess I'll just have to punish you again tomorrow. To make sure you learn your lesson." Ricardo kissed the top of his head.

They both fell asleep before either remembered the plug they'd discussed. Oh, well. It could wait another day.