Mia by Francesca
Blair was pulling him down, pulling Jim down on top of him, stroking his back with those workmanlike hands, and he grabbed two fistfuls of Blair's hair and plundered his mouth, wanting him so badly, so fucking fucking badly. Suddenly his chest was tight, and he pulled his mouth away, needing to breathe, and Blair was holding him close and kissing his face and god, it was almost too much for him to take...
Go. Read. You won't regret it.
And then Jim was back, looking rather like the debauched hero of a nineteen forties film: jacket on, dress shirt open, pants unzipped. Carrying lubricant.
I love that line, a whole lot. Actually, I love Francesca, a whole lot. She'll be recommended here. Like. A whole lot
And because he was, well, up against the wall, here; and because he'd been thinking about this a lot (well, maybe not this-with-Jim-this, but this-with-Jim was a damn good this anyway, and he wished he'd thought of it, and he was certainly thinking about it now), Blair shoved any lingering doubts firmly onto the back burner, and decided to take care of his serious front-burner first. He managed to pry Jim's hand off his arm, holding tight to all those wonderful, strong fingers while he pulled Jim's hand down, wedging it between them so that he could get Jim…ohh…right where he needed him. "Whoa," Jim said. Somehow it managed to sound profound when he said it.
Blair leaned back against the cabinets and rested his arms along the counter top, probably to keep from sliding right down to the floor. His head lolled as if his neck wasn't going to hold it up much longer. His legs sprawled, one knee cocked outward so that his thighs were spread. He looked relaxed to the point of stupefaction, except for the one foot, tapping slowly to some internal beat, flexing the muscle in his thigh. The movement pulled his jeans taut across his groin. Flex. Release. Flex. And that was where the mask of relaxation ended. His cock was half hard, revealed in the rhythmic stretch and release of denim. Heat simmered just below the surface of his skin.
Jim half-expected to see Blair disappear under the table, and he was already weighing the decision of whether to jump up and dash for the bathroom or just slide down in his chair and let the good times roll; but Blair didn't. Jim watched, paralyzed, while Blair shifted in his seat; and then the deep, amplified voice of the good ol' boy currently up at the podium and the hushed murmurs of the rest of the room were entirely obliterated by the soft-meshed sound of Blair's... zipper... coming... un... done.
Oh, and it has one of my all-time favorite sex-in-the-front-seat-of-Jim's-truck scenes, ever. So very, very hot.
Sandburg looked up at him, grinning. His eyes were huge. "We takin' him down?"
"We're following him," Jim said. He rolled his eyes and gave Sandburg a shove to get him moving.
"You could totally shoot him from here."
Annoyed, Jim didn't look over. "He's not dangerous."
"He could be armed," Sandburg said. "He could be packing heat." Now Jim did look turn. The kid was thrumming. "You read a book, didn't you."
Sandburg turned his grin on the sidewalk. "I...uh. Did a little research."
Jim pressed his body against Blair's, and Blair turned his face into Jim's neck. The blindfold was rough against Jim's skin.
"Smell good," Blair said, and then put out his tongue and delicately tasted Jim's skin, making Jim shiver. "Taste good, too."
"How --" and Jim broke off with a gasp as Blair's tongue moved along his neck and down his throat -- "how do I taste?"
"Good. I don't know. Like you."
Blair bit him gently, and Jim heard himself let out a soft moan. Then Blair moved his face further down, rubbing it against the front of Jim's chambray shirt. "I can smell that you ironed this shirt, you freak," he said softly.