Prophet rolled off Tommy and onto the mattress, pretty sure he was a broken man . . . for the next hour or two, at least. “Jesus Christ, you’re trying to kill me with sex.”
Tom groaned. “Your fault. You’re the one who brought up that damned game of Truth or Dare.” He held up his white T-shirt and waved it around in an I surrender motion.
“That’s not going to help.” Prophet tried to rise. “And as soon as I can move again, I’ll prove it.” He collapsed with his cheek against the mattress. “Where are the sheets?”
Tom turned and tucked his head against Prophet’s shoulder. “Did we f*ck the sheets off the bed? How is that possible?”
“Voodoo,” Prophet mumbled. “Blame it on the voodoo.” He carded a heavy hand through Tommy’s hair and felt his c**k actually stir like it was some kind of motherfucking superhero. “And that fu**ing game . . .”
Months earlier . . .
Tom had been back from New Orleans and that hurricane—and Dave and Roger’s eyeballing—for three weeks. With Prophet. At Prophet’s apartment, since he’d been unceremoniously evicted from his own place. Prophet had helped move his boxes. Had even forced him to unpack them, for the first time in forever. And it’d all been surprisingly easy.
And easy and Prophet were words Tom would never typically put into the same sentence.
But that night started easy as well, with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Green Label between them, and Prophet setting shots on fire. Tom didn’t remember how or why that started, but there was an ice storm brewing outside. An early one for the season.
And then Prophet’d suggested an innocent game of Truth or Dare.
“I’m not playing Truth or Dare with you,” Tom told him seriously. “Not while we’re stuck here—”
“Wait a second—now being with me is ‘being stuck’?” Prophet pointed the bottle at Tom. “I’ll have you know there are plenty of people who wouldn’t mind ‘being stuck’ here with me.”
Tom crossed his arms. “Besides me, name them.”
Prophet narrowed his eyes. “You say that like it’ll be hard.”
“You’re deflecting. And procrastinating.”
Prophet’s smile was all cat with canary feathers sticking out of its mouth. “Cillian.”
Tom stood. “You’ll pay for that, Elijah Henry Drews.”
“Wrong.” Prophet’s voice was laced with satisfaction. “Keep guessing, but you’ll never know my middle name. I’ll never even tell you if I have one or not.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his voice low and huskier now. “But you’re so fu**ing easy, Tommy. Truth or dare.”
“No way—you first. Truth or dare. Choose, or I’ll choose for you.”
Prophet rolled his eyes. “Fine. Truth.”
It was Tom’s turn to smile. “Tell me about the favors.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. The favors you do for Mal when you owe him.”
“Oh, those favors.” Prophet smirked. “You really want to know, Tommy?”
“Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”
“First . . . truth or dare.”
Tom gave one of his best weight-of-the-world sighs that he’d learned from Prophet. “That’s not how the game works.”
“It’s how it works with me. My rules.” Prophet poured another shot and threatened to light it on fire. “Truth or dare, or this flaming shot?”
It was Tom’s turn to roll his eyes. “Guess which I’ll pick.”
“Dare, of course.”
“Good. Perfect. Thanks for being predictable.”
Tom gave him a smirk, especially because he could hear the anticipation in Prophet’s voice no matter how much Prophet tried to hide it. “Fuck you and your predictable.”
“Yes, fu**ing will play into it, I’m sure.” Prophet raked his gaze up and down Tom’s body, with that fu**ing look he got in his eyes that told Tom he was in for a long, long night. “I think we can both get what we want.”
“Your dare—go steal Cillian’s couch back and bring it up here.”
“You’re not serious.”
Prophet shrugged and tried a look that was obviously supposed to be innocent—a look that’d never quite worked, even before Tom knew him as well as he did. “Hey, you mentioned it.”
“I never mentioned Cillian—or his stupid couch,” Tom corrected, then realized it was pointless to argue. “Fine. Not a problem.” Prophet sat back and motioned toward the door. “Why do I have to do my dare before I get your truth?”
“Because you didn’t want to play this game in the first place.”
“First of all, that makes no sense. Second of all, you’re such a fu**ing pain in my ass. Swear to Christ.” Tom stalked out of the house and down the stairs to Cillian’s place. “Turn the fu**ing alarm off, yeah?”
“Whatever!” Prophet called back.
Tom waited a beat, said a silent prayer that Prophet had done as he asked, and then used the extra key he’d snagged on the way down to open Cillian’s door. It was heavy steel and slid just like Prophet’s. And thankfully the couch sat front and center as if it was waiting for this moment, under a light of its own like some kind of insane trophy, right in the middle of the living room.
He pushed it out of the room easily enough—there might’ve been a lamp casualty, but he gave it the finger and kept moving. Wrestling the couch to the stairs wasn’t that hard, but carrying it up would be a bitch. He got behind it and tried a combination push / slide, but no, the way the back was structured didn’t make for a smooth ride.
Still, it was the best way, beyond strapping the fu**ing thing to his back, which he seriously considered. He was cursing enough to make Prophet laugh, and by that point, Tom was so pissed off he didn’t care about Prophet’s truth—or anyone’s goddamned truth—at all. He only cared about taking Prophet on this fu**ing couch and making sure that if Cillian was monitoring the situation, he’d see something to blow his mind.
He lifted the end and then pushed as hard as he could, the couch bouncing up each stair with a hard slam. When it got stuck, he put his entire weight against it sharp and fast, like he was a human battering ram, before realizing that the arm was half-caught against the bannister and yeah, there went the arm.
Fuck it. Didn’t need that arm anyway. He pushed and shoved and got the couch into Prophet’s apartment, leaving it in the middle of the foyer before turning to grab the arm from the landing. He came inside again to slide the apartment door shut before semi reattaching the arm by pushing it back onto the exposed nails.
Prophet was watching, grinning unabashedly. Until Tom went and switched on the alarm . . . and the cameras. And then stripped his shirt off and said, “You. Couch. Now.”
Huh, no more laughing. Shocking. Just Prophet’s intense gaze as Tom gave out more directions. “And take your clothes off before you get here.”
“You don’t like that?”
Prophet rolled his eyes. “It’s like you don’t know me at all.”
“Your c**k likes it, though.” Tom waited, hands on his hips. “Seems to know me quite well.”
Prophet’s c**k was also a complete traitor . . . and a slut for the tattooed, pierced, handsome-as-fuck Cajun-drawling man in front of him.
Tom was breathing hard, but it honestly didn’t look like half carrying the goddamned couch up the stairs had caused him any strain.
Granted, it never had to Prophet either, but he hired movers to do it each time. Pay someone enough, and they didn’t ask questions.
Then again, the movers didn’t take their shirts off the way Tom was doing now . . . or look like Tom.
Tom unbuttoned his jeans, unzipped them a bit and left them hanging open enough for Prophet to note the lack of underwear. “Nice,” he managed. “You can keep going.”
“You first, Prophet.”
Fine. Two could—and would—play at this game. Prophet took his shirt off, flinging it to the floor with a flourish, and then unbuttoned his jeans. Left them the way Tom had his. Because he could tease just as well. Better, even.
But Tom’s next words held more than an edge of warning. “I’ll throw you over my shoulder and bring you here if I have to.” Even though they were only maybe twenty-feet apart, Tom would do it too. And Prophet might want to let him.
But hell, he wasn’t going to let Tommy know that, so he walked toward him like he was bored of the entire thing. Even though he could—and most likely would—come if Tommy touched him.
Tom waited until he was right in front of him, then said, “No fu**ing way, Proph—you’re not coming until I say you are.”
“How the hell . . .?” Right. Cajun voodoo crap.
Tom smiled, then reached down and unzipped Prophet’s jeans the rest of the way. Then he pushed them off Prophet’s h*ps while Prophet willed himself not to come.
“Step out of them,” Tom ordered, and Prophet did, kicking them to the side.
Tom appraised him in a most appreciative way that Prophet swore made his entire body blush.
“Turn around, Proph—hands on the cushions.”
Prophet swallowed. Okay, nearly swallowed his own tongue too, but managed, “Even if Cillian was watching, you know he turned the camera off on his end the second you told me to strip.”
Tom growled, low in his throat. “Yeah. And that was two seconds too long.”
“You’re going to make this couch suffer, aren’t you?”
Tommy smiled. “Definitely.”
“But me first.”
“Yeah, Proph, you’re always first.”
Prophet stared at him for a beat longer, unmoving, before Tom’s hand snaked around his wrist, a firm grip but not a painful one. He looked at Tom and swallowed hard at the unabashed, na*ed heat in his eyes.
And then he let Tom guide him to face the back of the couch. Tom’s palm pressed down between his shoulder blades. He conceded slightly by leaning forward to hold fast to the couch’s back, but he didn’t bend over the couch, the way he knew Tom wanted him to. Because Tom was not the boss of him.
Not all the time.
And not now. This was his game, dammit.
Behind him, Tom snorted softly. “Still fighting compliance?”
“I am complying.” He somehow managed to sound halfway agreeable, albeit through clenched teeth. He felt Tom’s hands slide down his sides and land on his h*ps before his legs were kicked apart. And then Tom must’ve gotten on his knees behind him because he was holding Prophet’s ass cheeks apart, sliding his tongue inside . . . “Fuck.”
Tom gripped him tightly as he tongued him, his fingers digging into Prophet’s skin as the rimming intensified, both sensations sparking nerve endings. Prophet fought like hell to keep his legs from trembling as Tom speared his tongue to work him harder. And then Tom pulled back, causing Prophet to groan.
Tom chuckled softly, then pressed a thumb inside him, which made Prophet go up on his toes. Tom tugged him back down by a hip. And then he worked his other thumb inside, and Prophet stilled completely.
Tom slid his thumbs in and out of him, pressing, then stretching, and Prophet flushed with embarrassment and pleasure all at once at the exploration.
Finally, Tom took his thumbs out, then licked him again before burying his face in Prophet’s ass and holy motherfucking hell. His c**k was leaking, begging for him to touch it, but somehow he knew Tom wouldn’t want that.
And somehow, he complied with Tom’s rules. As Tom worked him, Prophet couldn’t help that his upper body slid lower, so his fists were touching the seat cushions. He made sure his c**k wasn’t touching the back of the couch, because any friction would send him over the edge.
True to form, Tom reached around to torture him, playing with his cockhead, running a finger around the crown.
“Gonna come if you do that,” Prophet told him, his voice husky to his own ears.
“Not allowed to,” Tom reminded him.
“Then don’t fu**ing touch me.”
“You’re not making these rules, bébé.” Tom’s tongue dragged up his spine, too lightly to be anything but squirm-inducing. And then he began to bite the taut skin along Prophet’s back, biting, sucking, claiming . . .
It was the same area he’d been drawing on, almost obsessively. Definitely mapping out his space on Prophet’s body.
“Marking me?” Prophet asked, like he did every time. Because he liked to hear Tom’s answer.
“Better fu**ing believe it. Problem?”
“Fuck. No. No problem.”
“Good.” Tom’s finger slid inside of him. At some point, he’d lubed his fingers, so a second finger quickly joined it. Tom twisted them as he worked them back and forth, with Prophet rocking gently to his easy rhythm.
“Tommy, please . . .”
Tom kicked his legs open more, forcing him to go palms down on the cushions of this motherfucking, no-good-for-anything-or-anyone couch, and he heard the rip of a condom wrapper. Seconds later, Tom pushed the thick head of his c**k inside him. Prophet went on his toes, trying to gain any kind of purchase as Tom’s c**k filled him. The couch was in front of him, Tom behind him . . . and the rest was a tenuous balance.
And Tommy had him. So fu**ing strong. One of the few men Prophet knew—or could admit—was just as strong as he was.
Or maybe stronger. He could feel the strength in Tom’s hold. Knew he’d have bruises. He’d feel this for days, all the reminder he needed that he was cared for. Well cared for.
He’d give Tom the same reminder, because Prophet wasn’t the only one who needed it.
Tom was precariously close to coming himself and f*ck no, he didn’t want this to end. Not yet.
Instead, he pulled out and grabbed Prophet around the chest, forcing him to straighten up. He bit the side of his neck, sucked hard. And then he took Prophet’s hand, forced him to fist it, leaving his pointer finger out. Then he took Prophet’s wrist and made him circle his finger around his own leaking cock, catching pre-cum. Then he tugged Prophet’s hand up to his mouth and said, “Open.”
Prophet did. Guiding him, he watched Prophet rub his finger along his own tongue. And then Tom moved Prophet’s hand out of the way, turned Prophet’s head to the side so he could put his own mouth on Prophet’s, licking the man’s tongue.