Title: A Coconut Breeze

Author: Lyrica

Rating: NC17, slash

Archive: Yes, just let me know where it's going

E-Mail: <a href="mailto:lyrica@zebra.net">lyrica@zebra.net</a>

Archive: ~ <a href="https://www.squidge.org/theforest/lyrica/lyrica.html">https://www.squidge.org/theforest/lyrica/lyrica.html</a>

Pairing: Invisible Man, Darien/Bobby

Spoilers: Minor ones for The Devil You Know

Kinks: Unsafe sex, semi-public sex

Notes: Thanks to rac for beta-reading this on short notice. This is a missing scene from The Devil You Know, because Bobby looks so cute in that beach disguise, and because Darien spoke to me. Unfortunately, he spoke to me in first person, present tense, PWP, but.maybe it's not too bad. As always, all critique is welcome. 



<center>A Coconut Breeze
by Lyrica</center>

He's driving me crazy. Okay, so it's a short trip, and a frequent one, but.that doesn't mean I'm getting any better at ignoring it. 

I've tried concentrating on the soothing roar of waves breaking on the beach, on the gritty crunch of sand beneath my sneakers, the sun warming my shoulders, the yellow frame house across the beach, the gaggle of supposedly undercover agents playing volleyball. But this beautiful day at the beach, this case of a kidnapped CEO and the attendant agents circling like vultures waiting for a chance to feed, it's all background noise. Because my partner's driving me crazy. 

Not that he doesn't do that most days, but.today it's different. Today, Bobby smells like the perfect summer day--hot sun and cool breeze and blue water--and he looks like one, too. He's wearing this soft, silly Hawaiian shirt with a tight muscle shirt underneath and soft, baggy pants. And coconut-scented suntan oil. Every time the breeze gusts in off the water, it fills the van with the salty scent of the sea and the sweet scent of Bobby. The sea, well, that I can take or leave. I always forget my sunglasses, and I always did think salt water leaves a sticky residue, but.Bobby wearing white that flutters and clings in the breeze and Bobby smelling like coconut-scented suntan oil. Well, that's a bit too much for my already crowded brain to manage. 

I *should* be thinking about the poor, rich guy who's probably staring at us from inside the house, wishing we would stop futzing around and just break down the door and rescue him. I should be thinking about how I'm going to slip into that house once--if--I get the go-ahead from the bureaucrats. What I *am* thinking about is getting rid of the agents and the boss and the white clothes and running my hands all over Bobby's oiled, coconut-scented skin. 

"Did I mention that coconut-scented suntan oil makes me horny?" I whisper from the shadowy interior of the van where I've retreated under the dubious pretence of checking our equipment. My voice is loud enough for Bobby to hear, but soft enough that the Official only hears me talking, not what I've said. 

"Yeah, a couple of times," Bobby growls out of the corner of his mouth. He pastes on one of those goofy, patently fake grins when our boss glances at us. 

The Official's standing a few feet away, staring out over the sand at the volleyball game and the house that we're all watching. Well, that we're all *supposed* to be watching. But I figure there are so many eyes on that house that a flake of yellow paint couldn't fall off without being photographed and catalogued, so I'm leaving the watching to the experts. I'm watching Bobby instead. 

I've got a great view of his back-lit profile. He's standing right in front of me, in the open doorway, gazing at the house like the good little agent that he is. He's got one foot propped up on the step of the van, and one hand resting casually on his knee. And every time the breeze blows that coconut scent in on me, it billows the shirt back. I can see the sleeveless shirt underneath, a flash of Bobby's bare shoulders, the bulge of his pecs and the soft, sexy curve of his belly. It's like Bobby and the breeze are conspiring, teasing me with flashes of scent and muscle and naked skin. 

Thank god for baggy clothing, because my dick's been hard as steel since he picked me up this morning and I got a whiff of him, a glimpse of him, all white cotton and tanned skin, his balding head covered by a red baseball cap. The goofy cap is the touch that makes Bobby's disguise perfect. It's so outrageously loud against his white clothing that it's the last thing I'd expect an undercover agent to wear. Therefore, it's the perfect touch, the thing that makes him stand out just enough to be discounted. "Did I mention you look really hot in that red cap?" 

"A couple of times," he repeats, not taking his gaze off the house. In an endearing, schizoid way, he sounds like he's flattered while, at the same time, he's really regretting his choice of disguise. 

It makes my grin widen. I wait just long enough for him to think that maybe I'm going to be quiet for a while, then I lean forward and whisper, "Did I mention I'd like to see you wearing nothing but the cap.and suntan oil?" 

"Yes, you did." Bobby says with careful enunciation, like he's speaking to a child, or an idiot. He glares at me over his shoulder, his mouth compressed into a tight line. "Now quit joking around and keep your mind on the job." 

"You think I'm joking?" Under that withering stare, I roll far enough into the shadows that nobody but Bobby can see me. The rickety chair squeaks in protest as I lean back and spread my legs wide. Bobby's mouth falls open as I pull my shorts tight over my dick, showing him the outline of it, stiff and straining to get out. I smirk at him and run my fingers up and down the length, circling around my balls with a fingertip. I'd rather it was his fingers, but that's not likely to happen soon, especially since he's ticked off at me for teasing him on the job. 

He quickly twists his head away, which I expected, but he stays where he is, which I didn't expect. Instead of walking away, he shifts slightly and tugs at the hem of his shirt, adjusting the position of the raised leg as if he's uncomfortable. As if he's trying to hide an erection in those soft, white pants. Maybe he's not as ticked as I thought. Maybe he's just caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place. 

His clothes are loose like mine, but they're a lot more revealing. In shorts that are basically a pair of jeans cut off at the knee, my dick can stand up all day, and it won't show unless somebody's looking for it. But Bobby couldn't hide a cocktail sausage in those pants, much less a nice, thick hard-on. I guess I should feel at least a little twinge of remorse for teasing him, especially since I've been at it all morning. But I don't, because he's teasing me by standing there. 

The Official glances at us again and obviously decides whatever verbal game we're playing isn't worth his attention. Squinting against the sunlight, he returns to his scrutiny of the volleyball game and the nondescript house that's the focus of all the pale government muscle clogging up a perfectly good beach. 

With that tan, Bobby's the only one among us who looks like he belongs here. He looks like he spends hours in the sun every day, although I know he doesn't. That gorgeous tan's all natural, all over. But that doesn't stop pictures from popping into my head--Bobby sunbathing, waves crashing in the background, his compact body nude and oiled and sprawled out on a towel, or draped on a chaise lounge, poolside, his arms over his head and his dick lying on his thigh. I lean back in the chair and smile to myself. I like the pool picture best--less fantasy sand to get into fantasy crevices--and I like the idea of settling down on the end of the lounge and pushing his legs wide until he's spread open to me, to my mouth and my fingers. I like the idea of making him moan, of making little beads of sweat pop out and slide down his throat. The whole scenario sends a shivery thrill the length of my spine, down my belly, into my denim. 

Keeping an eye on the Official to make sure he doesn't turn around, I edge the chair forward until I'm right at the edge of the door. "Hey, Hobbesy, I was just wondering.you ever sunbathe in the nude?" I'm close enough to Bobby that I can hear him breathing, and I run my hand up the back of his thigh. 

"Fawkes, cut it out," he demands, but he doesn't move. He doesn't even twitch, at least, so that anyone watching us would notice. 

But I notice. He's got one hand propped high on the doorsill, and his bicep flexes right next to my face. His thigh bunches under my palm, just the way it would if he was naked under me in that lounge chair. 

That's all the go ahead I need to be even bolder. To palm the curve of his ass. God, I love his body! He's so strong and hard and round. So different from me. I'm all angles and length. And right now, my length is stretched to its limit and aching to be touched. I grab his hand and guide it back between my legs, and-- 

"I'm going to go talk to them," the Official decides. "Convince them to let the kid go in." 

Bobby jerks his hand free, makes an attempt at the appropriate noises, but it's all a little breathless, considering I pressed his palm to my erection before he got away. Considering that I've stroked the inside seam in his trousers from his knee to where the cloth is pulled tight over his balls. 

The Official's footsteps crunch off across the sand, and I peek out to make sure he's really going. When he's a few yards away, too intent on his mission to notice us, I drop to my knees behind Bobby, slide my hand along that hard thigh again, curl my fingers under his balls and pull. 

There's nothing like grabbing a guy by the balls to get him moving. With a squeak of surprise that's almost feminine, not at all like his normal voice, Bobby obeys the tug of my hand. He tumbles into the van and lands beside me on his butt. I drag his feet in and slam the door, locking out the bright sunlight and the prying eyes of the FBI. And without giving him time to adjust to the sudden darkness, I roll over on top of him. 

Bobby curses and flails, trying to grab something--the door, the floor--for leverage to get out of my grasp. I shove the chair forward, out of reach. He gets his fingers hooked around the edge of the equipment console. He's strong for a little guy, actually maybe a little stronger than me, but today I'm motivated. I hook my hands in his armpits and roughly drag him into the back of the van where there's more shadow, more room to maneuver and nothing for him to grab but me. In the scuffle, I toss his baseball cap in one direction, his sunglasses in the other. 

I shove at the folds of the two shirts, trying to get my mouth on him before he climbs out from under me. I find bare skin, soft and smooth and slightly slick, and I latch on. I've got a mouthful of shoulder, just in front of his armpit, and he tastes salty, like seawater and sweat. He smells sweet, like sun and coconut oil. 

"Fawkes. Fawkes, damn it!" Now that's the gravelly voice I love to hear raised in protest and passion. And that's the protest. I expected to have to overcome the protest. It's SOP for Hobbes, the consummate secret agent, to protest the irreverence of me groping him on the job. But Bobby.sweet, strong Bobby.he succumbs to my charms frequently. 

I snake my tongue down, along the edge of his armpit, and a gasp whispers out of him. The fight drains out of him just like I expected it to. I climb up over him, mouthing my way across the ribbed cotton of his shirt. I find a nipple with my teeth, the hem of the shirt with my fingers and the bulge of his thigh with my dick. I let go of the nipple to suck at his neck and whisper in his ear. "Have I told you, the way you smell is making me crazy?" 

"Fawkes." he protests, but his hips thrust up as he says it, searching for me. Thank god for soft, slinky cloth, because I can feel him through it, wanting me as much as I want him. He gives a half-hearted shove at my shoulder. "The beach is crawling with people." He whispers it urgently, like he thinks half those people are right outside the metal wall of the van. 

"Yeah, I checked 'em out, but there's not one out there I'd want to see sunbathe in the nude." I pause to grin at him, to run my tongue along his jaw, just to make sure he knows it's a joke. He should know by now there's nobody else I want, but sometimes that paranoia still gets the best of him. Besides, I kind of like the idea that we're surrounded and might be caught any minute. That there are people all around us who don't have a clue what we're doing. Who don't know that I've got my hand on his dick, and it's so hard I can feel the ridge along the underside, so hot I can feel the heat, even through two layers of cotton. There are people all around us and not one is going to know when I take him in my mouth and taste him and lick him until he moans. Oh, yeah, that's hot. I could really get into this public sex kink. 

"Besides, don't you think it's hot? There could be somebody right outside, and they don't have a clue what we're doing." I suck at him, his throat, his shoulder, the sweaty crook of his armpit, lick the velvety flesh on the inside of his arm. I lower my voice, just like he did, just like somebody might be right outside, listening. "They won't even know when I lick you, right here." Through the soft cloth, I rub the head of his dick, right where the ridge curves up. "They're not gonna know how good your dick tastes." 

His breath shudders in, and it's a couple of heartbeats before he exhales, just as raggedly. 

I've got him now, and I know it. It's just a matter of him realizing he's going to give in. Seems like he'd know by now that he can't resist me, but he's still protesting, breathlessly. "The Official will be right back." 

I shudder, but not with passion. The boss is the last person I want to think about at a moment like this. Besides, it'll take him ten minutes to talk those bureaucrats into letting me go in, and ten minutes to plan it out and five to wander back over to the van without looking conspicuous. That's gives me at least twenty minutes and I've already wasted too much of it talking. 

I shove Bobby's undershirt up as high as it will go, up under his armpits, and press my face into the expanse of bare chest. Scrub my nose and my cheek all over him. I can feel the scent of him coming off on me. Feel him shiver as I rub my day-old beard against his bared nipples. I love his nipples. All I have to do is breathe on them to make them hard, and even drawn up and peaked, they feel like satin under my tongue. I take one between my teeth and tug hard enough to take his breath away. 

"Fawkes." he gasps, but I know it's his last protest. His hands grip at my back hard enough to hurt. I know he's thinks he's pushing me away, but.it feels just like the way he latches onto me when we're fucking. 

I want to rub my face over every inch of him, lick every inch of him. He smells *good*, and he feels good. I've never been with anybody, man or woman, whose skin felt this good against mine. Warm and slick-- 

I almost let him peel me off. Not because of his half-hearted, husky protests. Because I've just realized his skin's slick everywhere. Under the shirt, across his ribs and his soft/hard belly. And down under the waistband of those floppy white slacks. All sexy and slippery, like he's oiled himself all over. Like he knew this was going to happen. 

We've played this game before, this seduction in the middle of an assignment. At least, *I've* played it, while he protested and complained and threatened. And occasionally succumbed. I've sucked him off while he taped boring, useless conversations. I've jerked off while he tried to keep his gaze on the suspects and not be tempted by me, over against the door of the van, stroking myself slowly. I've even driven him far enough that he's done himself while *I* tried to keep an eye on the suspects. And there are few things in my experience sexier than Bobby Hobbes stroking his own dick. Unless it's Bobby Hobbes stroking my dick. But I've never gotten him that far. He's never played the game on his own. He's only been dragged along by the strength of my lust. Until now. But for the first time since I climbed into the van and saw his undercover clothes, smelled his undercover scent, I suspect he planned this. He got himself ready for me. He set me up. And if he did, then he's even crazier than I am, 'cause we've never gone this far before. Not on the job. 

"What else did you oil, Bobby?" I fumble for the snap on his pants, and my heart's thumping so hard I can't hear his zipper slide down. But I hear him moan when I drag his thick hard-on out into the air and stroke it up and down. 

And that's the sound I've been waiting for. That sweet, hot groan that tells me he's with me. Not that it matters. The idea of him getting himself ready for me is too much. I've lost it. I'll have him now, even if I have to do it with the Official peering in the window. My dick's so hard I can feel the teeth of my zipper resisting it. "Where else, Bobby? Where else are you lubed up? Where else are you slick and hot?" 

Even with his dick in my fist, he doesn't give in gracefully. "Fawkes, we should be--" He tries again to wriggle away from me, but all he winds up doing is thrusting up through the channel of my fingers. His dick is like the rest of him, short and thick and hard, and it fits my hand perfectly. 

I shove my shirt up and my pants down. My dick pops free and thumps him in the stomach. "Come on, baby, we'll be quick. You've got me so hot I'm crazy," I whisper in his ear. "Don't pretend you didn't plan this." I'm pressed against him, bare skin against bare skin from nipples to thigh. Bare dick against bare dick. And if naked, sliding, skin-on-skin's not enough, I know that calling him *baby* will make him as hot as smelling his coconut-scented skin makes me. 

Just as I cover his mouth with mine, he protests softly, "I didn't--" And the rest of his words are mumbled out over my tongue. I kiss him hard enough to silence him, then soft enough to make him gasp and arch up into me, to make him cling to me like he's drowning. He shudders, and the tremor travels through me, too. I pull back and watch his pupils dilate in surrender. Who'd have thought that tough, cynical Bobby Hobbes would be a pushover for soft kisses and sweet talk? 

I rock against him, tease my tongue across his lips, and he moans and holds me tighter, hips rising to meet my thrusts. His mouth opens against mine, allowing me in. He's passive for a minute, letting me taste him and tease him, then just as suddenly as he gave in, he's demanding. His tongue pushes at mine, sliding along my lips, my teeth. His dick is even hotter than I thought, sliding against my stomach, skating alongside mine. And maybe just a little slicker than precome would make it. "What else is oiled, Bobby?" I demand breathlessly. 

He's probably telling the truth. He probably didn't plan for me to jump him in the middle of the beach. Because while I've played the I-can-seduce-you-anywhere game, the only time he's ever played has been *after* work. Dedicated, serious Bobby Hobbes would never be so irresponsible on the job, not unless he was teased unmercifully. Or jumped from behind. And I've done both. 

But he wouldn't do it to me. Not out here. At some point, probably after the assignment was wrapped up and we were finishing up the debriefing, he would have whispered that he was ready for me. All slicked up and ready for my dick. He did it to me once before, on a Friday evening. He must have been ready all afternoon, but he waited until we were walking out of the building. We didn't even make it home before I lost it. I fucked him in a gas station restroom, bent over the lavatory, while I watched him in the mirror. I still can't drive past that place without getting a hard-on. 

The memory of Bobby, looking at me in that water-spotted mirror, makes me harder, hotter, wilder. I want him like that again, hot and slick and tight, hissing through his teeth to keep from moaning out loud, coming apart before my eyes. "Tell me you got yourself ready for me, baby." 

I bite him, his throat and his collarbone and across to that place where I was sucking earlier, the front of his shoulder. Then I kiss him again to distract him as I roll him from side to side, getting the soft white pants and the clinging white boxers down his hips. Down those strong thighs. If I told the truth, I'd actually rather be catching than pitching. But having those muscular legs wrapped around me makes me as crazy as the smell of coconut oil does. 

He hisses as his bare butt connects with the rough, gritty floor. His fingers slide down to grip my erection against his. His hand moves roughly, expertly, tugging at me, jerking us both off at the same time. I know he's trying to hurry me, to finish us before we get caught. 

And that's the way to do it. Oh, god, that's the way to make me forget everything else. I love his hands on me, his dick against mine. In fact, I'm beginning to realize that I'm crazy about most everything he does to me. It would be so easy to just let go and let him stroke us both off. To feel him shoot off over my dick, to shoot off on his, hot come spilling out over both of us. 

I hang there, over him, frozen except for the bellows of my lungs, moving air in and out. Except for the pulse I can feel beating in my throat. And in my dick. At the last second, just before he takes me too far, I pull away from him. Push his hands down by his sides and pin them to the floor. "Not like that. You know what I want." I go back to getting his clothes off. 

He's gasping, too, flushed red on his forehead and his cheeks and down his chest, and he tries to reach for his hard-on again. "Stop dicking around, Fawkes. We don't have time for that." 

I'd laugh at his choice of words, but I'm too annoyed. I've just realized it's going to take more time and concentration than I have to get his clothes off over the cowboy boots. "Why do you wear these damned things?" I've got his pants and his boxers tangled just below his knees, and the material's refusing to go any lower. 

I have to stop to yank one boot off. His sock comes with it, but not without a fight, and I'm so frustrated I throw both across the van. The boot thumps on the bare metal side and makes the whole van ring like a gong. 

"Oh, shit." Bobby moans and tries to get his hands between us again. His fingers wrap around my dick and tug gently. 

I get the pants and briefs off one foot, and that's enough. All we have time for. I don't really want to stop the slow stroking, but I shove his hands away again, his legs back. He rolls with the pressure of my hands, knees coming up almost to his shoulders. He's so hard, his balls are drawn up so tight, he looks like he'd come if I breathed on him. 

For a minute, for just a minute, my head actually clears enough for me to think. To see. His shirts are crumpled up under his armpits, and his pants are only on one leg, and he should look ridiculous. But he's licking at his lips like his mouth is dry as sand, watching me with those coal black eyes, and he's got this half smile on his face, like he's exactly where he wants to be. Like he wasn't, just a second ago, protesting that we didn't have time. His gaze locks with mine, holds me as if he's daring me to look away. And he slides his hands down his thighs, down, and he pulls himself open for me. 

There's no way to keep my gaze from doing exactly what he wants it to, follow his hands down to his ass. He's glistening and ready for me. This weird, little sound comes out of me as I stare at him. Normally, he's just a regular looking guy, but.there's something that happens to him when he's turned on, when he forgets to be so self-conscious and self-controlled, when he's flushed and his pupils dilate until I can't see any brown at all. There's something that happens to me. 

"Ah, damn, Bobby," I breathe, and I grab one of his hands as I snug myself up against him. 

He blinks, breaking the spell. "Fawkes, wait." He rasps the word out, like he really has gone dry. 

But he's not dry. He's so lubed up it won't even take much pressure. I can feel myself already starting to slide into him. I watch his body open around me, watch him swallow me. The head of my dick slides from warm and dry to hot and wet. And tight. Oh, he's gonna be tight like this, with no prep from my fingers. Tight and ready, a schizophrenic combination that's Bobby in a nutshell. 

"Rubber?" He barely gasps the words out, and his fingers tighten down, squeezing my fingers together. 

My gaze snaps back to his. I'm already half way into him bare. In my whole life, I've never gone bareback with a man and only with one woman. But I'm already pushing in and I don't want to stop. I like his skin against my skin, slick and hot. Tight and ready. And naked. I want to be naked in him. I want to come in him. In *him*, not in some safe latex glove. And I'm just dick-stupid enough to do it. I've reached the point that every man with a hard-on reaches at least once in his life, where I know better, but it's not enough to stop me. 

"I'm clean. You're clean," I rasp. "I want it like this." But I hesitate, just long enough to see from the way his eyes go wide and even darker that he wants it as much as I do. To feel, from the way he threads his fingers through mine, that the answer is *yes*. And still I wait until he nods. Until he breathes, "Yes." 

He arches his back and moans as I push, squeezing my hand, fingers of the other hand scrabbling at my jacket to get to me. All he can reach are my ribs, and his nails dig into my skin as I slide all the way in. Careful, because I don't want to hurt him, but it's all I can do to go slow. He's so hot and tight, and god!, so slick, and I've never been able to feel this before. The soft heat, the silky cling of his skin. 

"Damn, Bobby, you feel good. This is." I shake my head, but notto deny the words. Just because I don't know the words. Me, who always has something witty and cool to say, I don't know the words to tell him how tight and hot and ready he is. How it feels to be naked in him. 

I pull almost all the way out and let my weight carry me back in, all the way, as far as I can go, crushed up against him. He's so hot, so tight. And it's so intense, to be feeling him with nothing between us. Nothing to separate us. I have to let go of him to hold myself up. Sweat breaks out in the small of my back, across my forehead. My arms tremble with my weight, with the strain of holding back and not just pounding away. I'm barely able to hold myself up off him, and the floor's rough, grinding and gritty, beneath my knees, and the sun's turning the van into an oven. And there may be people just outside and a pounding surf, but all I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears. And the slick, wet slide of skin on skin. And Bobby's voice, low and sex-strained. 

He groans, loud and long, as I pull out and slide back in again, tilting his hips like he's not getting enough of me. His thighs grip my hips, his heels dig into my ass, like he can pull me in deeper, like he wants more. He moans, "Again. Like that. Again." 

But I'm not going to last for another one of those long, slow strokes. It's too good, too hot, being in him. Watching him watch me. Feeling his hands tighten down until I'm sure I'll have bruises tomorrow. It feels like balls of fire, dancing in my groin and along my spine. And I wish I had waited for tonight to do this, when we could have done it in a bed. Without the sand on the floor and the heat baking into the metal sides of the van. When we could have gone slow, stopping again and again just to draw it out. We should have made it last. *I* should have made it last. 

I'm sure that's what he intended, not this quick, hard fuck in the back of an agency vehicle. And that makes me think of Bobby getting himself ready for me, thinking of us like this, touching himself, sliding his fingers into his ass. I've never seen him do that, but I want to. I want to bad. And I'm gone. I'm lost. 

"I'm gonna come. I'm gonna come," I warn him. Like he can't tell that I can't hold back anymore. And I let go. Stop trying to go slow. I thrust hard and rough, as my breath comes so fast I'm almost wheezing. The fireballs explode and gouts of flame flash out and around and over me. Colors sparkle at the edge of my vision. Hot and cold ripples across my skin. 

Bobby groans and reaches for his dick, those short fingers wrapping around the base, stroking hard and fast, trying to match the frayed rhythm to my lunging into him. But even as I groan, feeling the semen burn a hot, ragged path out of me, I know I don't want him to do it that way. I know I don't want him to do himself. 

"Wait," I gasp. In the midst of pleasure slamming into me like a freight train, I shove his hand away, and leave him hanging there, eyes wide with the pleasure of watching me come. His gaze just makes my muscles tighten down even harder, and I lunge into him one last time. 

I hear his soft, plaintive whimper as I hang there, gasping for air and shaking hard enough to cramp my muscles. Oh, god, that's good. That's beyond good, feeling that hot, wet heat jet out of me like lightning. I can feel every spurt, feel it welling up around the head of my dick, hot and slick. And I thrust again and shout. Can't help myself. The last eruption is a burn, jagged and sharp, that hot ball of fire exploding. But so damned good. And I think I tell him how good it is. I think. It could be just gasps and moans. Could be just unconnected words, but *too fucking good to end* must be in there somewhere. 

Even my scalp is tingling, hot then cold then hot again. My fingers are numb, and I think I've lost the bones in my spine. I think he's holding me up now. Taking my weight on his palms and his thighs while I shudder and moan. Shivers sliding up and down my back, and heat flowing into slick, liquid warmth. It's so damned good, knowing my come's inside him. It's some kind of weird, primitive thing, thinking I've marked him in some, intimate, animal way. I shiver through another spike of pleasure as I think of him fucking me bare, of him marking me. Of making it last and last and watching his face while he comes in me, the way he watched mine. 

He groans again and whispers, "Darien.you're killing me." 

I groan, too, and shiver as his voice washes over me. It's like playing a kinky sex game and using a safe word. The safe word for Bobby is my first name. He's got a dozen nicknames for me, *Kid* and *Junior* and *Sport*, and some that are even less flattering, but he never uses my first name unless he seriously means business. And it never fails to send a shiver down my spine. 

His fingers bite into my arms and he whispers it again, my name, pleading and breathless. And he tries to rock under my weight, trying to move me in him. 

He does look a little strained. His legs are pushed so far back, the muscles are standing out in his thighs. His fingers are opening and closing on me, like they're keeping time with his pulse. And his eyes look wild. Black and wild. His dick, dark purple/red, is as hard as I've ever seen it. It's straining up his stomach like it's trying to get even bigger. He must be killing brain cells there, with that much blood drained into his dick. 

I lean down to kiss him, slow and sexy, refusing to let him get more heated with it. I tease him with little swipes at his mouth and shift to his jaw and his ear when he tries to deepen the kiss. He rumbles a protest against my cheek and tries to lift up to stay with me. The movement pulls me out of him. I don't want out. I could hang there another thirty minutes, just feeding on the aftershocks. But I remember that, before I lost my mind there for a little while, I was hungry for the taste of his dick. 

He gasps in pain as I ease back. He lets his legs slump down around me and grabs at his hips. 

I massage the knotted muscles in his thighs. Change the stroking into a caress as I lean down and take the head of his short, fat dick in my mouth. I can almost, almost, but not quite, get all of him in my mouth without swallowing. But it's the swallow that gets him, or so he tells me. That last movement of my throat that squeezes. That and the way I slide my tongue along the hard, ridged underside of his dick. 

I bury my nose in the thick, black hair at the base of his dick. There's just the faintest scent of coconut oil scent here. Not enough to overcome the natural scent of Bobby, warm and musky, which is even better. I bite the inside of his thigh, just hard enough to sting, then lick it. 

He groans, a strangled, muffled sound, and arches up. And his hands leap from his hips to tangle in my hair. His fingers tighten on my head, and he pushes up towards me, wanting more, guiding my mouth back to his erection, which I don't mind a bit. I could suck him all day, just because he always makes me feel like he's there. Like he knows *I'm* there. 

He makes another sound, pleased and plaintive, as I slowly tickle just above the circumcision scar with the tip of my tongue. And a long, low groan as I swallow him again. And something even deeper, rougher, as I get my hand under this ass and push two fingers into him. He's wet and slick, and it's from me, and I growl at knowing it and suck him harder. 

He arches, back coming up off the floor, and whispers to me, words that are only half formed, nonsense syllables of pleasure. And I look up through my lashes to see that he's watching me. Watching me swallow him and his eyes are all black and he's biting his upper lip. I slow down, just a little, and exaggerate everything a little, make the licks long and slow, take him in a fraction at a time, stop just before he's as deep as he wants to be. Then I reverse it, let him slide out of my mouth, even more slowly. If he wants a show, I'll give him a show. 

I let him drop out of my mouth. His dick's so heavy with blood it drops down on his abdomen, so rigid it bounces, like it's stretching for my lips. I blow a breath across the glistening head. "You like watching while you fuck my mouth?" 

He shivers. Nods like he doesn't trust his voice. Which he probably doesn't. There's a point where Bobby likes the sweet talk mixed with a little dirty talk, and I think he's way past it. 

He lets go of my head long enough to lift his dick up to me, to feed it to me. I go slow until he rasps, "Faster," and then I give him exactly what he wants. And, man, he tastes good, salty precome with a hint of coconut oil. He feels good, slipping in and out of my mouth, muscles rippling around my fingers as I stroke into him. 

When he drops his head back and starts the litany of "ohgodohgodohgod" in rhythm to the thrust of his hips and the massage of his fingers on my scalp, I know he's gone. He's over the edge, just starting to feel the burn, and I back off just a bit. Just enough so that when he stiffens and hisses and comes, he spills over my tongue and into my mouth. He cries out and thrashes and pulls my hair and whispers my name. My *first* name. His ass clamps down on my fingers and his dick throbs against my tongue like it's full of little tiny heartbeats. His come fills my mouth like it's made of syrup, sticky and cloyingly thick, spilling in slow, thick bursts. And if I wasn't still tingling from a spectacular orgasm, easily a top ten, I'd get hard again. 

I love the way he tastes. I've been with guys whose semen was so bitter, I didn't even want to be in the bed with it, much less swallow it. Hell, I'm not crazy about the taste of my own. But Bobby's is salty and there's only a slight bitterness just as I swallow and by then, it doesn't matter. It's gone, and he's gasping softly and quivering with the power of his orgasm, and stroking my head where only seconds ago, he was yanking hair out. 

I suck at him gently, just the way he likes it, until he eases me away. I leer up the length of his torso at him and rub my head, making my hair stand up even worse than normal. I can still feel the hot/cold tingling and the sting on my scalp, from my orgasm and his. "You know, if I don't start cuffing you when I blow you, I'm gonna wind up with even less hair than you've got." 

Bobby's chest is still heaving, and the muscles ripple under his tanned skin as he lifts his head to glare at me. "Butthead," he finally says, then drops his head back down onto the floor with a heavy thud. 

My grin gets wider. Bobby's repartee is not exactly barbed right after he's come. He can go for days with only catnaps and be sharp as a tack, but give him a blowjob, and he becomes a poster boy for the quintessential male--just wants to roll over and go to sleep. But we don't have the time today for him to nap. 

The Official is due back any minute, and while we can probably bullshit him about why we're shut up together in the van, I don't think he'll buy that *getting set up* routine if he hears us thumping around, getting dressed. I get to my knees and start putting my clothes back on. I'm not as messed up as Bobby is. All I've got to do is grab a handful of tissues for a clean up, then pull up my boxers and my shorts, pull down my t-shirt, jerk my jacket into place. There's an advantage to dressing messy. Even if I don't put myself back together right, who'll know? 

Bobby looks so good lying there, his legs still spread to accommodate me, high color burning his face and his chest, that I hate to make him move. But I've got to. "Hey, tiger." I lean down, stroke his chest and the thick, soft length of his spent penis, kiss the corner of his mouth. "You don't want to be trying to get that damned boot on when the fat man comes back." 

Clumsy and sluggish, he sits up and tries to unwind the leg of his pants, which has wrapped around his booted ankle. He gives up on it and tries to tug his undershirt down, but it's all twisted up under his arms. He grumbles under his breath and tries the pants again. 

I laugh softly at the mess I've made of him, but it's bragging, too. *I've* done this to him, made him look sexy and flushed and unfocused. He attempts one of those Bobby Hobbes' glares, like when his brain comes back on line, he'll make me regret being such a smartass. 

Between us, we get him wiped off, his clothes back on straight. I even find the missing sock, after a hurried search, hanging across the switches on the equipment console. It looks so much like something out of those movies where the guy's shorts end up draped over the lamp that I can't stop grinning the whole time he's putting it on and jamming his foot down into the boot. 

I open the door and step out. The breeze feels good, cool and fresh, after the closed-up, sun- and sex-heated interior of the van. Bobby climbs out behind me, a little wobbly. I grin as he re-seats his baseball cap down over his forehead. "You're still going to do the red cap and suntan oil thing for me, right?" 

He glares at me, daring me to say anything else, and I laugh softly. I look him over to make sure everything's zipped and snapped and tucked. He doesn't look entirely debauched, except maybe to me, because I know where to look for the wrinkles. I know what the slight redness of his lips and those slashes of color on his cheeks mean. 

"What's so damned funny?" he demands, but I don't think he's really all that put out. 

For a peace offering, I feel around on the floor of the van and find his sunglasses. As he slides them back on, he works his foot back and forth like we got the boot back on wrong. "I've got sand in my boot. I hope you're happy." 

"That's not all you've got, hotshot." I wiggle my eyebrows at him. 

His face flushes even hotter, making me grin. I'm a little overheated myself, thinking of him all wet and slick from more than just lube and coconut oil, a lot overheated thinking of him returning the favor. A little overwhelmed, thinking what this kind of intimacy means for us, but I'm not ready to get into that. Not here, not now, not even in the privacy of my own head, so I keep it light. 

I nudge him with my elbow. "Anyway, a little sand is a small price to pay for ecstasy." I put my hands in my pockets and rock back and forth on my heels, trying to pretend that the grin I can't quite control is really a sudden interest in volleyball. The game's beginning to look a little ragged, and I wonder how long these guys have been going at it. 

Bobby's inelegant snort tells me the innocent act isn't working. "Ecstasy. Ph-h-ht! You've got delusions of grandeur, my friend." 

I leer at him and nudge him with my elbow again, hard enough to make him take a step sideways. "Oh, come on, Hobbes, you've never had better. Admit it." 

I grin down at him, waiting for the comeback, but Bobby just stares at the volleyball game, slips his hands into his pockets and rocks a little, in imitation of me. And he smiles. But not one of those snarky, smartass smiles we give each other a hundred times a day. This is a sweet smile, satisfied and as intimate as a touch, despite that the fact that he doesn't even look at me. He nods, and in a voice every bit as intimate and twice as sexy, he says, "Yeah, kid, you got me." 

And it just blows me away. All I can do is stand there and grin at him, speechless and feeling like I've just been sucker punched. Like a breeze just swept through me and there's nothing in it but Bobby, no air, just Bobby with the scent of coconut oil and me on him. Damn it, how does he do that to me? I can feel myself lean towards him, even though I'm trying not to. I swear, if we weren't surrounded by half the government agencies in town, I'd kiss him until he's breathless. I'd drag him back into the van and I'd-- 

At the edge of my vision, the Official steps out of the doorway of the lifeguard shack across the parking lot. He starts towards us, looking eager and pleased. 

That means we're going in. And that means I've got to get my mind off Bobby, off the smell of coconut oil and sex, off that promising smile, and onto the job. That annoys me more than it normally does. The Official. I don't even know the guy's name, but he's guaranteed to make me stop thinking nice thoughts. And here he comes, quick stepping across the hot sand, getting ready to put me--us-- in the way of danger. 

"Hey, I gotta tell you, I don't like this, Hobbes." 

As if he understands what I need, Bobby jumps right in. "Why? We're usually groveling for cases. Justice offered us this on a plate." He sounds just like he always does, gung-ho and sincere, not even a hint in his voice that he just had his brains fucked out. 

And we're off and running, arguing good-naturedly about job and duty and responsibility and what it takes to be a good little agent. I think these debates started out as a way for us to figure each other out, but now, it's just a way of blowing off tension, of centering. Although, I know Bobby means what he's saying. Like right now, he's parroting the company line, and I know he's talking for the sake of giving me something to focus on. But I also know he really does wish I'd be more committed to the job. He may be a little zealous for my taste, but he believes what he's saying. It's not just bullshit to him, and he's working hard to keep it from being bullshit to me. 

The nameless Official intrudes on our discussion, and I decide right then that before I put myself, and Bobby, into the line of fire for him again, I'm gonna know who I'm dealing with. 

He says, "You're going in. This is our chance to shove it to those smug FBI bastards." He sounds just a bit smug himself. 

Bobby claps me on the shoulder and uses me as a hand-hold to climb into the van. He pulls the chair over in front of the console and starts his equipment check. 

I perch in the doorway, my knees drawn up high, and Bobby's leg brushes against my back, lingers as he leans over and searches for something in a cabinet. I can feel the bulge of his thigh against my shoulder, and further down, the hard edge of his boot. The breeze flutters the hem of my jacket, and I take a deep breath, sucking in the smell of my partner. But the breeze didn't have to blow it to me this time. It's on my skin now, coconut oil and sex and Bobby, the scent of him all over me. 

I grin as I brush sand off my knees. And I gaze up at the Official, ready to take him on. Ready to take on the world. 

After all, nothing bad can happen on a day that smells like this one. 



<center>END<center>