Fresh from the shower, the melodious tones of his wind chimes caught Brock’s attention. He shuffled over to the stairwell. Originally, the brownstone had been divided up into flats; convenience prompted him to keep the front door buzzers on each level when he remodeled.
Of course, his sanity and temper changed the harsh buzz to this sound when premonitions of interruptions while he painted came to him.
He pushed the button. “Good Morning.”
“It’s Jon Taylor, your sister’s partner,” the answer clarified for him.
In case Brock hadn’t shouted it while jacking off.
“A very good morning, then.”
“Uh, can I come up? Official police business.”
The latter was said in a much firmer tone; the low, growly one Brock already loved. He could imagine the large man shifting uncomfortably on his front stoop.
“Sure. I’ll buzz open the entry door and meet you on the second level. It’ll take me a second.”
Not only would he need to get down from the third to the second floor, but he was not dressed for the early morning visit.
Or, more accurately, he was overdressed.
His favorite shapeless grey sweat suit draped his tall frame and a towel wrapped, turban- style, around his wet hair. Huge polar bear slippers adorned his feet.
The hardwood floors got chilly.
He kicked off the slippers and stripped the fleece away, tossing them in the general direction of his bedroom. Racing down the stairwell, he paused in front of the door. He sensed Jon on the other side.
Pulling the towel from his head, he draped it around his lean hips instead. Brock squeezed some water from his damp hair so drops beaded on his bare chest.
Glancing over his shoulder, hoping the opening of the front door didn’t reveal a mess, he spied his audience. Three cats were lined up on the back of the couch staring at him as if he was crazy on catnip and crack.
Brock glared at them. “Look casual!”
Pulling open the door revealed a rather uncomfortable-looking detective. Brown eyes widened, taking in Brock’s appearance. Those lush lips slightly parted as Jon began to breath through his mouth. Brock wondered how wonderful the other man would sound panting with excitement.
Perhaps he could find out, now rather than later.
“Come on in,” Brock purred.
He stepped back and waved Jon into his home. Brock decided to ignore his pets and hoped his guest did the same. Amelia now hid under the couch, peeking out warily while Jezebel busily washed her paws. Queenie sat with her back to the men, ignoring them.
“Why don’t we sit down?”
His wide and deep couch could easily hold both of them.
A gentle push of magic nudged the cats from it. Jezzie hopped down, Queenie glared first before complying. Jon shook his head, still hovering at the open door.
Brock’s manners kicked in. “How about a hot cup of Chai?”
Another head shake answered Brock. This time the restless shifting of large feet accompanied the negative gesture. It appeared as if Jon prepared to bolt. Brock’s flirtatious manner disappeared. Jon would not be allowed to escape after showing the courage to show up uninvited like this.
He moved forward, invading the other man’s personal space. Reaching past Jon, he pushed the door shut and continued to crowd closer. The detective backed up until he leaned against the oak panel.
“You are being rude, and rudeness needs to be punished,” Brock stated, making his tone low and firm.
He watched Jon’s eyes widen before dropping. But, not before Brock glimpsed the yearning. He placed his palm against the door level with Jon’s shoulder. Then Jon shifted sideways and Brock’s other hand moved to stop him. Now, Brock bracketed the set of wide shoulders and he leaned inwards.
Jon’s aborted movement ended with his legs now spaced apart, making his height even shorter. Brock realized this was deliberate and pleasure at his new playmate’s ingenuity flowed through him. He obliged Jon by looming over him.
No hands rose to push him away. Instead, they flattened low against the door. Quickened breathing betrayed Jon’s excitement and Brock noted that the lowered eyes fastened on his mouth. He leaned forward until his warm breath bathed the waiting lips.
“Look at me,” he ordered softly.
Dazed brown eyes obeyed and met his.
“Tell me your safe word.”
Jon blinked, confusion and awareness creeping into his gaze. It seemed that Brock’s command jarred the building scene. But Brock always asked for safe words first, they were just too important. Changing this, just to maneuver a sub into a scene, wasn’t the way Brock played.
“I didn’t come here for that,” Jon protested.
His still body and needy eyes contradicted that statement. Brock did not deride him for that apparent falsehood. Instead, he waited.
“I wanted to warn you not to withhold information from me, especially if you were planning on only telling your sister.”
“I won’t,” Brock assured him. “I consider you Bee’s equal and partner.”
“But not your equal.”
Jon’s face flushed. Brock read embarrassment on the other man’s face. He knew of several subs whose self image of their submissive side warred with their personality outside of a scene. Brock also wondered if another reason for Jon’s hesitation was due to Jon’s work world crossing the line into his fantasy one.
“You know that the sub holds all the true power, the power to stop everything when uttering his safe word.” He paused. “So, tell me yours.”
“I haven’t agreed to a scene or anything else! Besides, now that I’ve seen you in just that towel I know I’ve got thirty pounds of muscle over you!”
Brock smiled. The heated gaze roving over his exposed flesh when the door first opened had almost dried him. Jon had noticed a lot, and appeared to like it very much. He remembered how the brown gaze lingered on his tattoos. They both knew that the scene had already started and Jon’s protest was a prod to be proven wrong, but Brock wouldn’t allow any gray areas between them.
He reached down and grasped the other man’s wrists, raising them and pinning them against the door. His fingers moved over the rapidly beating pulses. Again, no physical resistance halted him. Brock, though, was not going to allow Jon to get away with just letting things happen to him and enjoying them. He had to make an admission of want and a decision to consent.
Brock moved his hands away, fingers tracing a pattern on the door instead.
“You’re helpless now, so tell me you safe word.”
Brock made his tone taunting and washed a wave of tingling power through Jon. The other man narrowed his gaze, the odd sensation clearly jarring and confusing him. Instinctively he tried to move and discovered he could not.
Brock’s magic held him more securely than any chain or shackle.
Panic flared in the brown depths as he struggled. Brock buried his hands in the loose waves of Jon’s hair and directed his gaze to meet his own.
“Remember the rules, you have the power.” Brock squeezed Jon’s hands. “Tell me and choose if you are actually going to use it.”
A shudder shook the large, muscular frame followed by a sigh. Awe replaced fright in Jon’s eyes as he relaxed.
“Shit! You really could physically dominate me if you wanted to!”
“If you wanted me to,” Brock corrected.
“It’s ‘Peaches,’ and you’re right, my rudeness earlier should be punished.”
Upon hearing the other man’s consent, Brock’s mouth swooped to cover Jon’s. Their first kiss was not tentative and exploring, but harsh and invading. Brock ground his mouth against Jon as his body copied his movement. Pressing the other man against the unyielding oak door, his hips rubbed against the cradle of Jon’s pelvis. The towel and thin pant fabric proved to be flimsy barriers.
Jon moaned and Brock took that opportunity to force his tongue inside. He swept around, discovering the faint lingering hints of minty toothpaste and coffee. Warm wetness surrounded his tongue and he tangled his with Jon’s.
His hand reached to tangle in Jon’s loose hair, forcing a better angle for his invasion. The whimper he swallowed proved that Jon liked this action and Brock’s fingers tightened, producing more soft sounds. Brock’s other hand swept down the pressed dress shirt, finding peaked nipples under the stiff cotton. He tweaked one, twisting and pulling on it. The large frame trapped under him arched, a deeper moan rumbling from the massive chest.
Brock smiled in satisfaction, his mouth still devouring Jon’s. Finally releasing his prize, he moved his lips to nip and bite the strong jaw that curved to expose a tanned throat. Brock accepted the silent invitation and licked and nibbled Jon’s neck. The other man’s pulse raced under his lips.
Abandoning the nipple he tormented, he followed the line of buttons down to Jon’s belt. Brock moved slightly to the slide to give himself room to explore. Nimble fingers worked the buckle free and the rasp of Jon’s zipper sounded loud, even over the sound of their labored breathing. Brock felt the other man stiffen and decided not to let him think too much. His mouth still freed, Jon could safe word and stop him at any time.
His fingers reached in Jon’s slacks and found engorged flesh. Brock grinned at the feel of sensible cotton boxers. He stroked Jon through the thin fabric and the other man’s hips twitched.
“Don’t move, be still for me.”
“Sorry,” Jon muttered.
Brock sipped his fingers into the slitted front of Jon’s boxers. Coaxing and pulling, he freed the swollen cock. A swipe of his thumb found and spread the pre come beading from the slit. He gently ground the pad of his thumb into the narrow slit and more flowed as Jon gave a hissing groan.
He looked over, the other man’s eyes were closed a dull flush spread under the freshly shaven cheeks. Jon’s lips were swollen and wet from his earlier kisses. The hands held against the door fisted and the muscled chest heaved, brushing against Brock’s with every breath. Pleasure filled him at Jon’s reaction to his touch.
“You’re not going to come until I allow it.”
Jon nodded then frowned and shook his head. Brock’s fingers slipped to pinch the sensitive skin between Jon’s cock and scrotum.
“Agree with me with words,” he instructed.
“I’m not going to come until commanded.”
As a reward he closed his hand around the impressive girth of Jon’s erection. After a few strokes Brock removed his touch and Jon whimpered.
Brock pulled the towel from around his hips and swung it over his shoulder. His own cock curved up and he moved forward. Grasping Jon’s cock again he captured it in a firm grip with his own.
His other hand forced Jon’s head forward and he could feel the heat of the chocolate gaze as his new lover followed his instructions. Brock glanced down as well, at the contrast of his nude body and Jon’s clothed one, just a reddened cock protruding from dress slacks, almost obscene and definitely erotic. As the pace of his strokes increased, Brock leaned forward, his tongue tracing a pattern on Jon’s jaw.
His grip rough, only their pre come as lube, he jacked them furiously. Brock had the advantage of enjoying release in the shower just a short time ago. Too soon, though, he felt the familiar tingling at the base of his spine and of his balls drawing up. Jon, at this point, panted like a steam engine and all but trembled with suppressed tension.
He released his grip on Jon’s hair to grab the towel. Wrapping it around their erections, he moved his mouth to Jon’s ear.
“Now, baby, now.”
The muscled body bucking against his almost tossed Brock away as Jon shuddered in release. Feeling warm cum making his cock slick triggered Brock’s orgasm as well. His mouth covered Jon’s again, capturing the whimpers and moans the other man made.
After long moments Jon slumped back against the door, Brock’s body following. The spell restraining Jon evaporated without his concentration. Brock snuggled, recovering waiting for his breath to return to normal. The smell of sex filled the air and Brock gave a low laugh.
“See? You didn’t need an excuse to come see me.”
Surprise filled him as Jon pushed him away. Those muscles came into effective effect.
“This isn’t a game, the case is real! Someone died last night because of those damn daggers!” the detective growled.
Brock blinked in shock, the ramifications of this violent turn in the case affecting him. One of the still missing daggers resided at the Gary homestead where his mother, Gran and Uncle Matt lived. The towel being yanked from his slack grasp focused him. He watched as Jon hurriedly cleaned himself, the rough terrycloth rasping over sensitive skin.
“Did you do the sketch of the dagger?” Jon asked tersely.
“Yeah, it’s downstairs on my studio table. The door’s unlocked, I was down their earlier.”
Before he could add anything more Jon wrenched his door open and stormed down the stairs. Brock heard his studio door open and slam closed, and then that of his front door.
Brock sighed, knowing his fledgling relationship had taken a blow. He should have never mocked Jon’s job. He wondered how much damage control he would need to do. Brock scooped up the thrown towel; nothing to be done about it now. First he needed to make some phone calls.
Then he would concentrate on Jon. This was by no means over between them.