Salt, Tequila, Lime

eStory Notes: This is all Bone's fault! <eg> Like any sane person (you'll notice I didn't say normal!), I had managed to avoid her Kitchen Table Challenge, even though a kitchen table fantasy had been rattling around in my head for weeks. Then she issued her challenge, and since it was connected with her excellent Territorial Imperative series, I couldn't resist. Any
complaints...e-mail her! (Just kidding.)

Some of the events mentioned in this story take place in Bone's Territorial Imperative, Parts 1-4, but they contradict the canon of her Part 5. She said I could blame her for that, too, but...the truth is, I goofed. I re-read Parts 1-4 at least twenty times (it's a dirty job...), but I forgot to check Part 5. Bone was kind enough to allow me the error in continuity stand. You can probably understand this without reading her stories, but read TI anyway. It's too good to miss.

Thanks to Bone, who takes blame very well, and K'Kathy, the fastest beta in the west, for beta-reading.

Salt, Tequila, Lime

by Lyrica

The front door to the building squeaked at the halfway point, the way it had for the last six months, then bounced off the wall as someone powered through it. Jim Ellison looked up from the pot of vegetable stew he was stirring and automatically concentrated his hearing to the hallway three floors below. He was maybe a little over-sensitized to slamming doors and the like, considering how often some low life crashed through his. But this particular low life had a heartbeat as familiar to him as his own, and while Blair frequently burst through the front door, he always used his key first. Jim relaxed. A little.

The door bouncing off the wall was the first indication he had that Blair was home, which sort of didn't make sense, since Jim had been listening for him. Not with total concentration, true. Just in a hearing-dialed-up-but-in-the-background sort of way, but that was normally enough, because he could zero in on his Guide, his lover, without even thinking about it. Even in a
crowd of 10,000 screaming Jags fans. Even on buy one/get one free ice cream day at Wonderburger, when the crowd might only be twenty strong, but was composed of six-year-olds on a sugar high.

Jim turned off the burner and took a couple of steps towards the door, frowning, playing back the sounds he'd heard within the last few moments. The swish and rattle of traffic, people in the building, people outside the building, cats in the alley a half block over, hissing of the ovens in the bakery--but not the uneven sputtering of Blair's Volvo.

He grimaced, wondering what had happened to the car *this time*. Whatever it was, it couldn't be too bad. He could hear Blair, in the elevator now, humming to himself, and he couldn't help but grin. Some old sixties song, completely out of tune. How could someone who had a voice so compelling, so dominating, so powerful, not be able to carry a tune any better than that?

But at least Blair was in a good mood, which was more disappointing than surprising, since Blair hadn't given any indication that he was going to be otherwise. Even though Jim had an appointment to go over his testimony in an upcoming trial. With Beverly Sanchez. Over dinner. In an hour.

Jim drummed his fingertips on the countertop, bonked his forehead on the cabinet door a couple of times as he waited for the slow, creaking elevator to complete its trip and deposit Blair on their floor. It didn't make any sense really. At least, not that he'd been able to figure out. And he had tried. Blair thought--the whole damned world thought--that Jim Ellison didn't look
at any question above the emotional level of 'What am I gonna use to drown my steak tonight--beer or beer?' They were all wrong. He did. He just didn't regurgitate his innermost feelings and dissect them verbally the way some people did.

He had expected something a little more volatile than off-key singing when he told Blair he was going to dinner with the best looking ADA in the city, a gorgeous woman to whom he'd once been powerfully attracted. And when it hadn't been forthcoming, he'd realized he *wanted* something more volatile. He and Blair had been doing the nasty for months now. Shouldn't his lover, the man who slept in his bed every night, be a little upset, or maybe just a bit jealous, that Jim had what amounted to a date with a woman to whom he'd once been attracted?

The only thing weirder than realizing he'd been looking forward to experiencing a jealous Blair was that Blair hadn't said anything about Beverly or the appointment. At all. And there were very few things on which Blair Sandburg had no opinion at all.

Blair had just looked at him with that peculiar, piercing Sandburg gaze. The gaze that would have been easier to bear if it just went clean through instead of stopping right at the heart of whatever was bothering him. With one look, Jim suspected that Blair knew what he was thinking and what he was feeling. That Blair saw the excitement, the uncertainty, the hope, the guilt. That he understood that this non-date with a woman who had once made Jim's pulse race still had the same effect, but for a different reason. Because Jim had never stopped wondering, questioning... Couldn't stop even though it was the same wondering that had driven him to actually go into a strip club and wander around, sniffing horny guys and gyrating dancers.

That whole strip club scene was one of those surreal things that he kept hoping would one day be funny. It should have been funny the night it happened, except that his dick was involved. Or rather, his dick wasn't involved. His dick hadn't even made a showing, until he got back to the truck...and Blair. And that kind of thing made a guy wonder and worry about himself. Ask questions no man wanted to be asking about himself...or his dick.

The elevator signaled its arrival with a wheeze and a low grinding creak that said if the door wasn't greased, it was going to stop opening altogether. Jim bumped his head on the cabinet again. A little less forcefully this time, though, because his skull was still vibrating from the last thud.

No, Blair didn't sound upset. In fact, he still sounded affable and out of tune and...drunk? He thumped off the slowly opening elevator door, backed up, then muttered at it while he waited for the door to open fully. A moment later, Blair strolled into the apartment, moving more slowly and much more carefully than usual. Then careful ended, and his backpack went in one
direction, his coat in the other. Surprisingly enough, the coat actually landed on the coat hook. Rung like a horseshoe on a stake.

"Two points!" Blair rolled up onto his toes, minus his usual bounce, miming dunking a basketball with his hand, and almost rolled right on past the point of catching himself. It was a follow-through that would have made any golfer proud. He turned from the coat rack and the controlled fall, victory grin wreathing his face.

And that was when the smell hit Jim square in the face. Confirmation of his suspicion. Blair and tequila. Lots of both. From the flush on Blair's face, too much tequila for the amount of Blair. Jim's smile of welcome dropped past the point of grimace. It went right straight to frown.

Blair wasn't the least bit fazed. He wolf-whistled right through Jim's glower as his blurry gaze swept Jim from head to toe and back again. "Man, you look great! All except that frown, which you can wipe right off. I know what you're thinking and you're wrong. I didn't drive like this." The whole time Blair was talking, he was moving across the room towards the balcony, shedding his outer layer of flannel as he went. Despite the fog of tequila that had preceded him, he really wasn't slurring his words too badly, just speaking a little slower, with a little less precision than normal. But he did have that weaving slinkiness to his gait that only happened when he'd had too much to drink.

Watching Blair's ass move beneath his jeans was almost enough to make Jim forget that his apartment suddenly smelled like a bar. Or that Blair had pulled that piercing gaze, mind reading thing again.

Blair stepped out on the balcony and craned to see down the street, waved with expansive gestures, then came back in on a gust of cold air. "We had a going away party for the sociology professor who's moving to New York, and, yes, I had maybe a few too many drinks. But I didn't drive. I bummed a ride from Julie." He jerked his thumb towards the balcony as he came weaving back into the kitchen. "She even waited to make sure I got inside safe."

Blair gave one of those I-know-you-can't-resist-me smiles and stepped so close that Jim could feel the warmth of his skin beneath the layer of cold that still clung to his clothes. "'Kay, Mom?" And he tilted his face up for a kiss.

Jim rocked back from him despite the allure of the upturned, smiling mouth. The alcoholic haze that surrounded Blair was enough to inebriate, just from being in breathing range. It popped the dials on his sense of smell. "You smell like a cantina." Underneath that cold smell was the faintest hint of cigarette smoke and the yeasty, beer smell that Jim associated with bars. And overpowering everything, tequila and lime. "Did you take a bath in tequila?"

"We were doing shots." Blair let his head roll back, a boneless miming of tossing back a drink, only this time, he was a little more careful with his gesture, and he didn't wobble.

Jim closed his eyes to shut out the sudden, brilliant flash of image, but it didn't help. He could still see it on his eyelids, Blair doing tequila shots. It was the kind of thing Blair would love--the ritual, the ceremony. Salt. Tequila. Lime. The image was so sensual...darkened, smoky bar, Blair lit with cool neon light, music vibrating the floor. Blair's tongue snaking out and lapping up salt off his own skin, muscles in his throat working as he threw his head back and swallowed, hair spilling down his back. That lush mouth closing around a slice of lime. Sucking... It did something dark and smoky to Jim's brain, as if he'd slipped his teeth into the throbbing pulse right beneath that square jaw and mainlined hot blood and sweet tequila.

"Hey, Jim, you okay?"

His eyes snapped open when Blair squeezed his forearm.

Blair was rocking lightly, maintaining his grip on gravity with his grip on Jim. Peering up at him with a squint that said the world wasn't quite in focus. "Where were you? Called your name twice and you didn't even *move*."

Jim flushed. Busted. "You're drunk," he said, part accusation, part question, all obfuscation to keep Blair from worming his tequila fantasy out of him. He glared, expecting Blair to deny it, then watched, bemused, as Blair shrugged.

"Toasted," he agreed amiably. 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.

He surveyed Jim's work in the kitchen. "Whatcha doing?"

Jim tore his gaze away from his partner's body, reminding himself that he had an appointment in less than an hour. He swallowed. His mouth was as dry as if he'd been the one knocking back shots of tequila. "I was making your supper." He turned away and pretended to be busy, giving the stew another quick stir, gathering silverware and placemat and coaster. "Not that it matters, now, since you'll be too busy praying to the porcelain god to eat."

Blair repaid his sarcasm with such guileless pleasure it made him feel guilty. "You made supper for me? Gee, thanks, man."

Jim shrugged and placed the things on the table, taking inordinate care to situate the spoon at the edge of the placemat. "My night to cook," he said shortly. "Even if I am going out--uh, working."

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Blair for some reaction and got none. It annoyed him and confused him and he didn't begin to know how to frame the question that he wanted to ask. Okay, so he didn't talk about his emotions until he was pressed. But he normally didn't have to struggle for the words to start the conversation because Blair pressed. But Blair wasn't doing his part in dissecting this, and Jim couldn't bring himself to just blurt out a confession.

They hadn't talked about things like this. Dating. Women. Exclusivity. Another experiment on his dick. Blair hadn't minded him going into a strip club and trying to get a hard-on from an anonymous patron. But he'd minded when he thought it worked. Did he mind Jim going out to dinner with an ex-flame and trying the same trick? He wanted Blair to say he understood and was
okay with it. At the same time, he wanted to see the resigned, deflated reaction he'd seen in the truck that night, before Blair realized that *he* was the one who made Jim crazy enough to risk a blowjob in a busy parking lot. It was stupid, wanting Blair to be both sympathetic and unsympathetic to his concerns, but it seemed like the least Blair could do. After all, it wasn't Blair who had a dick that only worked with one person. Was it?

In shocked retrospect, Jim realized that Blair had never said he only got hard for Jim. He turned to ask. Actually had his mouth open to say the words. But did he really want to know the answer? Did he even know how to frame the question?

Blair watched him open and close his mouth like a fish looking out of a glass bowl, but he didn't change his sprawled posture. His head listed to one side and he stared at Jim, doing that piercing thing again. "Did you know Beverly and that hotshot lawyer called off their engagement?"

Jim started. No, he hadn't known. And he didn't know how Blair knew either. The kid had a grapevine that the KGB would have envied. People told him things. Inconsequential, important, personal, impersonal. And Blair remembered it all and dredged it up at the most inopportune times. "How the hell do you find out this stuff?"

Blair just grinned, that toasted tequila grin, and pushed off from the counter. He sauntered the few steps to the table, into Jim's personal space again. "You look good enough to eat, man." He ran a hand up Jim's chest, smoothing the spotless white shirt over his chest, his shoulders. He hesitated at the open button, teasing Jim's throat above the stand-up collar. "I love this shirt on you. And these jeans..." His fingers danced over the black denim, sliding from hip to hip. "...they're sinful."

"Sandburg..." Jim consulted his watch. "Beverly will be here to pick me up in less than an hour." His voice carried a warning, but not a very forceful one. Blair's hand felt good, hot and familiar. And familiar, he had learned, could be very, very good. He took a breath. A deep breath of air that seemed suddenly too thick. Musky and scorched with the scent of Blair. Sludgy and shot through with tequila. He wrinkled his nose. "Did you drink that stuff, or bathe in it?"

"Both?" Blair leered up at him and waggled his eyebrows.

So inviting. And so goddamned beautiful, even with his eyes edging toward bloodshot. Air gummy with the scents of liquor and lime juice slipped into his lungs as Jim breathed in. It was enough to choke him, but it didn't stop him from tangling his fingers in his partner's hair, from tilting the smaller man's face up for the kiss that he'd invited earlier. It didn't stop him from opening his mouth to his partner's questing tongue and inviting one of those time-stealing Sandburg kisses.

Blair didn't disappoint him. He grabbed onto Jim's biceps and kissed back with slow, slurred grace. As if they had all night and part of tomorrow and there was nothing in the universe more important than stroking Jim's tongue with his.

Jim staggered, caught himself against the edge of the table. Steadied himself with his grip on his lover, though there was no way to stop his head from spinning, and it was silly to expect his drunken partner to hold him upright. He sighed into the kiss, overwhelmed by the remnants of tequila in his mouth. Blair in his mouth. Tongue on his teeth, brushing against the roof of his mouth. Sucking at his lower lip.

He moaned softly and returned the pressure. The ardor. Felt the heat behind Blair's jeans get a little warmer. The languor in his muscles begin to show a little tension. And best of all, the taste of him, the smell of him, changing to something hotter, darker. To something that transformed scent into sensation. And sex.

"Brought you something," Blair purred. He pulled down lightly on Jim's arms, then his fingers slid away, went to work unfastening his own jeans. "Brought you a shooter."

Jim groaned. "Bad puns, Chief?" But it didn't stop him from edging them around, propping Blair against the table, and sinking to his knees. Just the way Blair wanted him. "Is that what tequila does to you?"

Blair paused, fingers tucked inside his jeans as he struggled with the buttons, and peered at him muzzily. It took a moment, but then the light dawned and he grinned. "No pun." And he popped another button and his penis popped free. Already erect, flushed with blood. And pulsing with the scent of tequila.

Jim's jaw dropped, which was also probably the way Blair wanted him, if not for the reason he'd intended. No wonder Blair smelled like he'd bathed in booze. He had. Jim didn't even have to strain to see the sticky residue of tequila and pulpy bits of lime on the straining erection. He reached out slowly, not quite believing what his own eyes and nostrils told him. All the
blood was seeping out of his head, replaced with images of Blair anointing his dick with amber liquid and rubbing himself with a wedge of lime. He caught the waistbands of Blair's jeans and boxers, tugged them carefully down to mid thigh. Leaned in, already half drunk on tequila fumes and the anticipation of tasting Blair.

He might not have all the angles of this guy/guy, extra-dick-in-his-bed thing worked out yet. He didn't understand why the only person who turned him on was his brainy, quirky, *male* roommate. It might be a Sentinel thing, or a reaction to pheromones, or a midlife crisis, or his closet door finally creaking open, but there was one thing he didn't doubt, question or wonder about. There was nothing that tasted better than Blair, and nothing he'd rather have in his mouth. Whether his dick came back on line for other people or not, whether they ever figured it out or not, his Pavlovian response to Blair's dick was a given. Unfortunately, Blair knew it, too. And used it frequently. Like now.

Blair held him back. Caught his shoulder and pushed, refusing to let him closer, demanding patience where Jim had little and Blair shouldn't have had any at all. "No, Jim, wait." He fisted his own cock and stared down at Jim with an intoxicated, intoxicating smirk. "You gotta do it right. First you get the salt." And he leaned forward, holding his erection pointed out
like he was offering a gift wrapped in red ribbon.

Jim inhaled sharply. Leaned forward, mesmerized by Blair's eyes and the sluggish throb of blood pooling in his own groin. His cock was filling, so slowly it ached, and his mind was shutting down.

Blair thrust his cock closer and caught Jim's face with his other hand. Blair's fingers curled beneath his jaw, thumb slipped across his teeth, hooked there, forcing him with light pressure to open his mouth wider. "First the salt," Blair prompted, leaning closer. The slick tip of his cock touched the corner of Jim's mouth, trailed a streak of wetness across his bottom lip.

Jim tasted Blair's salty, unwashed thumb, smelled the salty, bitter, sex scent that Blair was trailing across his mouth. He shivered. And stayed where Blair wanted him, on his knees, staring up, mouth half open to accommodate Blair's fingers in it. One of those low lifes crashing through his door couldn't have convinced him to move.

It wasn't like Blair had all that many inhibitions to begin with. But this... This drunken, tequila scented game had some tone to it... A wildness that he could see, lurking behind the avid gleam in Blair's gaze, that set his nerves to thrumming and his brains slithering south.

Blair's thumb teased the tip of his tongue, then his lips, mixing and smearing precome and saliva. Then he cupped Jim's head and held him still. "Do it."

He knew what Blair wanted. Jim resisted, just a little. Just for a moment. Leaning back, letting the strength of Blair's fingers, the command in Blair's voice, the knowing recognition in Blair's eyes, hold him in place. Blair was pinging a fantasy he hadn't known he had, like radar bouncing off an object and setting up a thrumming resonance over his skin.

He hesitated, just a moment longer, feeling the iron will of the man above him, savoring it. He thought about resisting. Actually closing his mouth and refusing to do what Blair wanted him to, just to see if Blair would force him. But his cock felt like it was bent double in his jeans. And Blair was dragging his cock across his mouth again. And Blair's tongue snaked out, pink and wet, touching that full upper lip, and Jim couldn't help but mimic the action, touching his own lips. He tasted the salt, like wine, like a shot of pure sea air, as Blair stroked the tip of his cock across his mouth. From one corner over to the other, grazing his
tongue. Back again.

Blair smiled at him, nodding approval. Sighed with pleasure. "Then you do the shot. And the lime," Blair whispered. And he let his cock go.

Jim lurched forward, fingers digging into Blair's hips, dragging him forward. Holding him. Insuring that he wouldn't be denied this time. And he latched onto the hot, thick cock. Searching with tongue and teeth for evidence of what his lover had done. Blair's cock was sticky with tequila, rough with pulp that exploded on his tongue as he mauled it. The combined scents had smeared across Blair's belly and dripped down onto his balls.

Jim sucked at him hungrily, hard male flesh filling his mouth, spurred on by the soft sounds of approval from overhead. And he tasted. Tequila always conjured up two things in his mind--the beach and Mexican food. Salt and sun, birds crying overhead and waves crashing, hot sand beneath his feet. Spicy salsa and crunchy chips and sticky sweet caramelized sugar over flan.
Now he added Blair to the list. The top of the list, because none of those other things measured up to sweat and male musk, velvety skin, salty precome. He moaned happily, following a trail of tequila down the fold of skin where Blair's leg met his torso.

Blair echoed the sound and leaned further back on the table, pushing impatiently at his jeans. Jim helped him get them down, working jeans and underwear, socks and shoes free, until Blair was naked from the waist down.

Blair slid further up onto the table, shoving the carefully placed mat and coaster over the edge. The spoon bounced off a chair and clattered across the floor, and Jim tracked it with his hearing, with his vision, watching the sparkles of silver as the thing skidded towards the refrigerator. He came back to the pressure of fingers on his head. To the sight of his lover, sprawled back, weight on one elbow, wearing only his smoke scented t-shirt.

Jim got his hands under Blair's ass, tilted his hips, and swallowed him again. He tasted so good, felt so good, pulsing against his tongue. Even though he'd licked Blair clean, his enhanced sense of taste could still detect a residue of sweet alcohol and tart citrus. It was almost as intoxicating as the idea of Blair coating himself with lime and tequila. Hiding in the restroom stall while he rubbed a wedge of lime over his cock. Or was Blair actually drunk enough to have done it in the bar? Slipping his wet fingers down inside his jeans while his friends stood nearby, oblivious.

That fantasy, at least, was no surprise to him. Blair and public sex. Him touching Blair while the crowds around them wandered by, unaware of Blair's arousal. Not noticing how the smaller man writhed against his hand. He lifted his head, letting the swollen cock pop free of his mouth. He cupped it in his palm, stroking gently. "How'd you do it?" he asked roughly.

Blair read his mind again. Licked his lips as he slurred sexily, "Went to the restroom." He slipped his hand beneath Jim's, rubbed his thumb slowly back and forth over the tip of his cock. "Made me *so* hard.... Made me think about your mouth." Blair grabbed Jim's hand, pulled it up to his mouth and sucked two fingers inside. He laved them, tongue darting back and forth
across his fingertips, slicked them with saliva. Then he pushed Jim's hand back at him. "Put your fingers in me."

Jim knew what Blair was going to say before he said it, and he still felt the words, the way he'd felt Blair's tongue, slipping between his fingers, the way he'd tasted tequila on smoky skin. It was all pressure at the base of his cock. An arc of fireworks at the base of his brain.

Blair fell back on the table, sprawling the way he'd sprawled against the counter, thighs falling open and body exposed, opening himself to Jim. "Oh, man," he breathed as Jim eased his fingers into him. "I love that." His head fell back, hair trailing across the table, curls of shiny silk pooled on hardwood.

Jim rose up, wanting to see him. All of him, lounging back with such lazy abandon that it was almost as if he wasn't aroused. Except for the flushed, gorged cock lying across his belly. Except for the rippling clutch at Jim's fingers as Blair's body accepted him. Tight. Hot.

Blair moaned his approval and gave a slow rock forward with his hips.

Jim was going to zone. He knew it. Felt it coming. Sometimes it was a train wreck, slamming him into oblivion before he even knew what had happened. And sometimes, it was like this, slow and sweet, giving him all the time in the world to enjoy whatever had his attention, a thing so seductive that he couldn't resist it. He let the edges of it tantalize him, tickle at his
consciousness, the pleasure of being lost in the sensations of Blair's body.

Then he leaned down and nuzzled at Blair's cock again, letting the taste and the scent pull him back from the edge of the zone. Let his thoughts continue on instead of swirling in place. That was what a zone was like, a whirlpool in which the same thing circled his brain until he drowned in it. And there was too much to experience to drown in one thing. Like thinking how much he wanted his cock to be where his fingers were. How hot and tight it would be and how Blair would move, just like he was now, slow and lazy. How he needed lube and a condom.

He managed to pull away, trying to remember if there was anything in the bathroom, or if they'd depleted their supplies during their last joint shower. He'd actually managed a step, brain working through the haze of arousal, when Blair stopped him.

"Where do you think you're going?" Blair rose up clumsily from the table and slid off, shoving chairs back out of the way. He caught Jim's arm and used momentum to swing him around.

Mock wrestled him, not that Jim was resisting. He just let Blair push him, guide him, and he was on his back before he realized it. More surprised that a drunk Blair was coordinated enough to have unzipped him and pushed him down and started unbuttoning his shirt than he was at ending up where Blair had just been. Just as surprised that Blair had moved so quickly when a moment before, he'd seemed in slow motion.

Jim's jeans were around his thighs, the table hard beneath his ass, cold except for the space where Blair had been. The residual warmth from Blair's body was as distinct as the grain of the wood, and he shifted against it. It was like tasting the curve of Blair's hip with his skin.

Blair made it to the top three buttons of his shirt before the alcohol caught up with his fingers. He fumbled for a moment, then gave up and yanked, and Jim's buttons went the way of the spoon. Sailed away, bounced on the chairs, and skidded across the floor.

Jim followed them with his hearing, annoyed that Blair had just ripped the buttons off his favorite dress shirt. But to be fair, he'd done worse to Blair's shirt that first time in the truck.

Blair folded the edges of the shirt back, with a careful, almost comical neatness, baring him to the cool air, laying him out like a banquet. Blair hovered over him, as if trying to decide what to do next. Which flavorful bit to sample. Then he ran his palms from Jim's shoulders to his hips. Back in slow motion again, with the deliberation of someone who recognizes how drunk he is.

"Um-m-m. Next time, I think I'll just drink my shots off you." Blair nipped at his throat, teeth sharp but careful. The lazy voice whispered over Jim's skin, tongue following the path of words. "I can put my salt here..." Blair licked at his nipples. "And my lime juice here..." Tongue swirled around his navel. "And my tequila here." The same hot, slick, rough tongue painted a line down his cock, circled his balls, tried to dip down below them, then started back up again.

Jim arched--chest, belly, hips, in order, always a moment too late to keep up with the teasing tongue. He pushed against the binding weight of the jeans caught around his thighs. Blair's fingers were brushing against his balls, teasing at the tender flesh beneath, but he couldn't get his hand further down, and Jim desperately wanted it further down. Wanted to open himself up for Blair the way Blair had for him.

He wriggled, came up on one hip, and Blair caught him, used the motion and his own weight to turn him, slide him. Blair tugged his jeans down as they shifted, caught one leg of them with his foot and held them down while Jim worked his foot free of the tangled mess of clothing and sock and shoe. He ended up on his stomach, feet spread wide, Blair's erection burning a line
across one buttock. He had only a second to think how ridiculous he must look, bent over the table with his jeans still on one leg, his shirt rucked up under his armpits, then Blair's weight came down on him.

Blair still had his t-shirt on, and Jim could feel his navel and his hipbones, the overheated cock. Blair whispered in his ear, "I want to fuck you."

Jim grabbed onto the table to keep from just flying off, shattering into the four corners of the room. It was still so new between them, Blair taking him. So raw. He wanted it. He craved it, but he didn't ask for it, because he didn't want to put pressure on Blair. Didn't want a repeat of that first time, even though Blair seemed to have gotten the hang of it just fine since then.

"Okay?" Another whisper in his ear.

He nodded, took a deep breath, trying to find his voice. His controls. He pictured his dials, just the way Blair had taught him, but the needles were all fluctuating wildly. Dancing to the crazy jerking pulse in his cock.

Blair was the one who'd had too much to drink, yet he was the one losing control. And he realized that Blair was doing it. Even drunk, his Guide was using his senses to arouse him. What had seemed like a haphazard, drunken seduction was actually a ragged, deliberate dance, keeping his dials fluttering out of control as Blair leapt from one sense to the next, from one act to the next, from one fantasy to the next. Sight and sound and taste and smell. Drysweet, tequila flavored flesh, sweetly whispered obscenities, intimate, knowing caresses.

Blair pulled away. His hands pushed Jim's shirt even higher, slid the length of his back, massaging, stroking. Palms cupping his ass, spreading him open, thumbs sweeping down the crease and then slipping away as he arched, mutely begging for more.

"You want me in you?" Blair came back down on him, and his t-shirt was gone.

At last. Warm flesh and the crinkly soft chest hair caressing his back. Two hard little points of nipples and the long column of erection pressed against him. All he could do was moan and slide his feet further apart. Offering himself. Moaning again. "Yes. I want it."

Blair pressed down on his hips, said with his fuzzy, hiccupy command voice, "Don't move."

Jim stayed as still as he could as Blair shifted away from him, listening to the slap of Blair's bare feet on the floor. To the shifting of his cooking utensils on the counter. Then Blair was against him again and something clattered onto the table. Loud crockery sound, vibrating through the polished wood. He twisted, trying to see back over his shoulder although Blair's weight was pinning him again.

The porcelain butter dish was on the table, near his hip. Jim could feel the coolness flowing off it. As he watched, open mouthed, Blair dipped his fingers into the softened half stick of butter and tore off a piece of it, all the while looking right into Jim's eyes, a beatific smile lifting the corners of his gorgeous mouth. This sacrilege, this ridiculous image--an angelic, drunken Blair about to use butter for lubricant--had the power to cut through his arousal. "Sandburg! You're not going to--" He twisted, trying to move out of the path of Blair's greasy fingers.

Instead of reaching for his ass, Blair reached for his hand. Twined their fingers together. He was so surprised, he hesitated, and then it was too late to protest. Blair's square, strong hand covered his. The buttery scent overwhelmed the scents of booze and sweat and arousal. Blair's fingers slid down, up, down, blunt fingers stroking his fingers the way he would have stroked his cock. Caressing his fingertips. Slippery caress of the web of flesh between. Down his palm. Waking nerves he didn't know he had. Making him forget that butter was greasy and messy and a totally inappropriate lubricant.

He rocked, riding his cock against the table, against his belly. Oh, god, he was going to come, just from having his hand stroked! He shuddered. And Blair eased the weight on him, rolled him back onto his hip, easing the pressure on his erection. He mumbled wordless disappointment and tried to hold onto Blair's slippery fingers

"Sh-h-h...it's okay. It's okay," Blair soothed him. He reached for more butter, returned to Jim's fingers. "Slow down. We've got time."

"You're killing me here, Chief," he whispered, rotating his thumb within the circle of Blair's fingers. Thrusting into it.

Blair smirked. As if to say, 'tell me something I don't know.' And he drew Jim's hand down to the table, slipping under his raised hip. Guiding Jim to grasp his own cock in his slippery fist.

Jim jerked with the sensation, tightened down to near pain before Blair guided him to move. To stroke himself while Blair reached for more butter. This piece was bigger, soft and solid and cool in the center. It melted as they stroked his cock together, making him so slippery he could barely hold on. The butter dripped through his fingers onto the table and smeared his
belly.

Then Blair pulled both their hands away, pushed him down on his stomach again. His cock slipped and slid easily between his abdomen and the slick table. Cool, slippery hands grasped his ass and a slick thumb slipped across his anus. Then the other. Alternating. Rhythmic. Brushing across his opening, slicking him but not pressing hard enough to enter, and the sensation was
like fire. Like ice. Like being drunk. Like having the worst itch gently scratched.

He pressed his mouth to his forearm, breath steaming his skin, to keep from whimpering like a baby. The taste of starched cotton filled his mouth. The scent of butter dragged at his senses. And Blair switched him to touch, nuzzling up under his bunched up shirt, kissing and biting his way across Jim's back, using his teeth on the bony protrusions of his spine. The hot, wet tip of Blair's penis grazed his balls as Blair rocked against him.

Blair never let up the stroking against his ass except to reach for more butter. Making him hot with it. Slick with it. Loose with it, until Blair was no longer able to just stroke lightly because his thumbs were sliding in.

Blair moaned against his spine. "You're getting all loose for me," he whispered. Sexy, throaty voice that caressed as surely as his hands did. "Feel yourself." Blair caught his hand, guided it back, across his hips, forcing his fingertips into his crease. "Feel how open you are."

Jim gasped and curled the fingers of his free hand around the edge of the table hard enough to hear the ligaments strain against the bone. Heat rushed over him. Arousal and shyness all flushing him at once. He twitched, almost pulling his hand free of Blair's. Almost refusing. He couldn't do that...but he did. He was. Touching himself. Stroking himself and feeling his body
open even more. Loosen. Beg for penetration.

"Do it, Jim. I want to see you." Blair's hand was heavy on his, pressing. Sliding more butter in against his skin.

He was as helpless to resist this as he was anything else Blair wanted. His body tried. And then gave. Allowing him in. Tight, hot heat. His own heat. Perfect pressure, no pain. Because he knew exactly how to touch himself, even though he'd never done it before. He groaned, writhed, but there was no place to go. No place to hide. No way to even pretend that the idea, the act, didn't arouse him to the point of insanity. Knowing that Blair was doing this to him, with him. Watching him stretch and stroke his own body.

Blair was no longer leaning down over him. He had one hand braced on Jim's hip, the other cupping his hand, and he wedged a slick finger in alongside Jim's. Both of them, penetrating him together, stroking him inside.

Jim gasped and arched. The fireworks that had been sparking at the base of his skull spreading down along his spine, shattering out across his lower back, around his hips, tendrils of fire that threatened to singe his whole body.

"Oh, man, you are so hot. So incredible. You're making me so hot. Got to have you." Blair pulled away, shoved his hand away. A thicker, rounded heat pressed against him, and Blair slid into him with one full, easy stroke. There was no hesitation, no careful slipping back and forth until his body opened. No coaxing.

No condom.

He jittered, on the edge of protesting, on the edge of losing control. He knew he was clean, couldn't conceive that Blair wasn't. And he knew it was stupid to not play safe. But Blair, naked, inside him, was too good. Skin against skin. Slick and velvety and hot. He knew that Blair had felt him tense, because he had gone unnaturally still, fingers digging into his skin, waiting for him to decide.

"Jim?" Blair lay fully across his back. "Is it okay?"

The weight slid Blair deeper into him, where no one's bare flesh had ever touched. And he could feel every curve, the raw pulse of blood beneath Blair's skin. And heat. Such heat, the way it was supposed to be. "Oh, god, yes." He barely recognized his own voice. Raspy, deep, twisted with arousal. It was going to be fast. So fast now and he could just let go. And he would feel
Blair come in him, the way it was supposed to be.

Then Blair rocked back off him, taking away his weight, leaving the sweaty imprint of his body cooling all along his back and hips and ass. He grasped Jim's hips and rocked him back, once again taking the pressure off his cock. Leaving him not enough friction to finish. "No," he begged. "Please. I can't take anymore." His cock was so hard it felt like it would break. His balls pulled up tight against his body.

And all Blair did was caress the length of his back, soothing the knotted muscles, painting buttery streaks amongst the sweaty ones. "Sh-h-h. It's okay. You'll like this." And he settled into a slow, steady rhythm as if they had all night. As if Jim wasn't about to combust and go up in smoke.

"Of course I'll like it," he ground out. "I just won't live through it." He grabbed onto the table again, sure that he was leaving fingerprints. No, not fingerprints. Indentations. Finger shaped depressions in the wood.

Blair laughed softly, hiccuped, and shifted his angle of penetration. Again and again, each stroke different until Jim groaned to let him know he'd got it right.

Oh, god, had he got it right! "There. Just like that. Just like that," he gasped. "But faster." Blair stayed there, just where he wanted him, but he didn't move faster. Every slow, lazy thrust, each lingering withdrawal, stroked across his prostate. Rocked his weight forward, then back so that his cock was being crushed from the outside, stroked from within. He held his breath between each thrust. Waiting. Waiting. Straining for the internal caress, for the outer compression, as Blair stole his sense of time and place. And his urgency.

He had no idea how long he lay there, gasping with the measured thrusts, rocking back slowly to meet Blair. Rocking forward slowly, feeling the slip and slide of his cock against his belly. Eyes closed, fingers locked around the edge of the table. The scents of their lovemaking swirling through him like colors. Right on the edge of orgasm. He hadn't known he could stay there so long without falling over. He didn't know how Blair had the concentration, the focus, the willpower, to keep him there.

Then Blair leaned down and kissed that sensitive spot just below his shoulder. Lapped at a streak of butter, and said, "You ready to come?"

He would have laughed, but it would have taken more concentration than he wanted to give to anything not connected with the slow, sweet firing of his nerves. "Yeah," he mumbled against the table. Yeah. "I've been ready for days."

Blair pulled back. Pushed into him. Hard. Fast. Once. His nails dug into Jim's hips and his teeth latched onto the sensitive spot. And then he slammed into him again and that was all Jim needed.

He fell. Everything seized. One big contraction that froze his lungs and his muscles and his brain. And then the orgasm just rolled over him. It didn't slam into him the way he'd expected it to. Didn't cause those finger shaped indentations on the table. It just washed over him. Slow, sweet, lazy. Just the way Blair had been moving in him. Swelling like a tidal wave. Building and building.

His semen spilled, pulsed and flowed out of him like lava, hot, thick, slow. Coating his pulsing cock and the table. Mixing with the slippery butter. His brain catalogued scents, gathered them, making a crazy kind of tactile connection with the ecstatic firing of his nerves. Salt. Tequila. Lime. Blair. Butter. Semen. Pleasure. Blair. Pleasure. Blair. He released the stabilizing grip on the table, the tenuous grip on his senses and let the smells and the sensations take him flying. Swirls of amber and green and yellow that he could taste. Sounds that he could feel. The table was slick beneath his cock, but he could taste the rough grain of it.

He groaned softly, whispered Blair's name, and Blair moaned softly, "Oh, god, Jim. I can feel you. Oh, man..."

And still Blair kept thrusting into him. Drawing little shudders of pleasure from nerves that should have been numbed and dead. Then Blair shouted, pushed into him so hard it was like Blair was trying to climb him, and he could feel Blair. Coming in him. Naked. Feel the heat and the wetness filling him. And he groaned again, shuddering with the pleasure of that. Of Blair coming, groaning loudly. So loudly that he hoped the neighbors weren't home yet.

Blair thrust another couple of times, but Jim was beyond feeling it now. He was all rocked out, numbed, beyond even moving. Even when Blair fell forward over him, panting and sweaty and crushing the air out of him. If the table was just a little less hard, a little less rough to his over-stimulated nipples, he could have slept there, too limp and sated to move. Too breathless to protest.

Blair finally roused him by mumbling against his back, "Wow. That was incredible."

Blair's voice was slurred, but Jim wasn't sure if it was the tequila. He suspected his own voice would sound just as garbled. God, what an afterglow. He could barely make out the texture of the table beneath his fingers. His vision was tinged a tired, unfocused grayish blur, as if he'd come so hard he'd gone color blind. And his hearing was pleasantly muffled by the slowing
thud of Blair's heartbeat against his back. Underneath was just a soft warm hum that left him aware of his surroundings, of the building and the street outside, but didn't intrude on his lassitude.

Until he heard the main front door open. It reminded him of how he'd heard Blair when he came home. Then the staccato beat of a woman's heels on the tile in the hallway tapped towards the elevator, and a rush of shock and memory slashed through him. He struggled to get up, to push the heavy, sleepy, tipsy weight of Blair off his back. "Jesus, Chief, get up!"

Blair mumbled a protest, something that sounded suspiciously like, "I hope you're not talking to me."

Jim reared, stiff arming them both up with returning strength. He caught Blair and righted him as Blair rolled, still boneless, off Jim's back and melted off the table. "Beverly's here. She's almost to the elevator."

Jim looked down at himself. His previously starched and spotless shirt looked like he'd slept in it for several nights. Slept in it, fucked in it, then used it to clean the kitchen, maybe not in that order. His jeans were down around one ankle. His stomach and his hands and the table were smeared with butter and his semen, and he could feel the same buttery stickiness gluing his shirt to his back. And ample evidence of Blair's passion and their lack of common sense trickling down the inside of one thigh.

The room was no better off. Blair's clothes littered the floor. The place mat was under a chair that had been pushed, at an odd angle, three feet away from where it should be. Something that resembled a stick of butter was oozing off the dish onto the able. The air reeked of sex and tequila and butter.

And Blair... Jim listed towards him automatically, his fingers reaching to touch, to pat and caress, before he brought himself up sharp. Jim would have ordinarily spent hours admiring him, grooming him back to cleanliness. Blair looked like a debauched angel, hair wild about his shoulders, face flushed with pleasure, cock nestled, all slick and spent, in the thick curls at his groin. His nipples were shiny with butter, and Jim didn't have the faintest idea when that had happened. But he wanted to lick them clean anyway.

Blair blinked, owlish, as if he needed his glasses to see. He was still a bit unfocused, still a lot lit, not standing quite solid even though his feet were firmly planted on the floor. Glowing with satisfaction. Jim allowed himself a moment of feeling smug and skillful. That glow had nothing to do with being lit.

Blair's gaze slid around the room, up and down Jim, and he swayed way forward to look down at himself. When he straightened, his eyes were crinkled with suppressed laughter, totally unrepentant. "Oops," he said without one drop of sincerity.

"Sandburg..." The growl that didn't have the effect it should have, since Jim was dancing on one foot, trying to untangle his jeans. He heard the ding of the elevator as it opened for Beverly on the first floor. He could feel his face getting redder, but Blair capitulated just as he thought the veins might start to swell.

"Okay, okay." Grinning, weaving slightly, Blair scooped up the dish of mashed and abused butter and deposited it neatly into its slot in the refrigerator door.

Jim looked up from where he was now hopping on the other foot, getting his sock back on. At least, he thought it was his sock. There were two other white ones that looked suspiciously like his lying near Blair's tennis shoes. "Sandburg, tell me you didn't just do what I think you did. Tell me you don't think we're going to keep *that.*"

Blair glanced back at the fridge, as if just realizing what he'd done, and grinned sheepishly. "Don't sweat the details, Jim. Let's just get you presentable, huh?" He scooped up a towel, held it under the faucet, hosing half the counter in the process, squirted dish soap on it and advanced on Jim.

"That's a dish cloth!" Jim tried to snatch his hand back as Blair grabbed it. Not that it mattered, since there wasn't much greasy residue left on his fingers. He'd already smeared most of it onto his jeans and his sock.

"It'll wash," Blair answered calmly and rubbed Jim's belly and groin.

Jim jumped like he'd been shocked. Yelped, "Dammit, Sandburg. That's cold."

The elevator whirred, protesting, into life, and Jim gave in, steeling himself for the clammy wipe-down. What choice did he have?

Blair swiped the towel across his chest, reached around, peeling his shirt away from his skin and did the same for his back, his ass. Reminding him of just what they were cleaning up. Jim shivered and leaned towards Blair again before bringing himself up short.

Blair turned the towel on himself, scuffing his clothes into a pile with his feet as he scrubbed.

Jim reached the top buttons on his shirt and found them missing. "Shit. I can't wear this."

"Yes, you can." Blair slipped into his jeans, sans underwear, and his shoes, sans socks.

The sight of Blair's bare, furry belly, disappearing behind the buttons, stopped Jim. That was one of the nastiest games Blair played with him, leaning over someplace public and whispering, *I don't have on any underwear.* Or even worse, coming back from the restroom and slipping his rolled up boxers into Jim's coat pocket. Or just dropping them onto the couch between them.

Knowing Blair had on no underwear was so delicious, so decadent. Knowing that there was only a layer of much-washed denim covering his tight ass. Knowing that all he had to do was unfasten a couple of buttons to get to that bare, velvety penis. That it was so easily within reach of his tongue. Oh, boy, he had it bad...standing there dreaming of stripping his lover after what they'd just done. Of licking him...

Unaware of the scrutiny, Blair juggled his t-shirt, trying to right it.

Jim caught the rebellious sleeve, gave it a twitch and the shirt unwound. He held it out, bottom down.

"Wear your gray sweater over it. It'll look fine." Blair wriggled up into the shirt, yanked it down over his head, and his hair exploded out of it, wilder than ever. He looked at Jim, obviously surprised to find him still standing there, staring. "Go! It's in your sweater drawer. I'll straighten up down here. And use some cologne. Lots of cologne. You smell like a bakery."

Jim sniffed the air. The lemony smell of the soap had nothing to dilute the scents of their lovemaking. Tequila. Semen. And Blair was right. Enough butter to bake a cake. But it wasn't just him. "Yeah, and what do you think *you* smell like, Juliet?"

Blair smirked. "I'm not the one with the hot date, Romeo."

"It's a working dinner," Jim growled and aimed a mock blow at Blair's head.

Blair tumbled into his arms, snickering. Mouthing his chest where his shirt gaped open.

The bell on the elevator pinged, indicating that Beverly was at their floor. The door creaked, reluctant to open, and Jim thanked whatever spirits looked out for Sentinels that he hadn't called the super to get the damned thing greased. He kissed the top of Blair's head before he rushed up the stairs. He pawed through his dresser, looking for the sweater Blair had suggested, listening with half an ear as Blair clattered around the kitchen, as the elevator door finally opened, as Blair answered the knock on the door and exchanged pleasantries with Beverly Sanchez. Telling her with breezy laughter about the party and his alcoholic
consumption.

It was only as he thrust his head through the neck of the sweater that he wondered why any of the others that he had tumbled in his search wouldn't have done just as well. Because Blair had said the gray one, of course. God, did he have it bad!

He checked himself in the mirror, smoothing his hair, making sure he hadn't left anything unbuttoned or hanging out, but there was no chance of that. The long, thick sweater covered him to below his hips, effectively hiding the rumpled shirt. And most of him. He wondered if that wasn't why Blair had suggested it, and for a moment, he contemplated changing into something that showed off his body a little better, just to see his partner's face when he came down the stairs. Then Blair was calling up to him that his *date* was here and he needed to hurry. His speculation shifted to one of throttling his Guide.

As he descended the stairs, smiling a hello to Beverly, he glanced at Blair. His partner was standing at the table, one hip leaning innocently, sexily, against it. The table had been wiped, but barely. Jim could see a shiny patch on it near Blair's hip. Jim felt heat spread from beneath his collar, rise up the back of his neck. And Blair had his boxers, socks and the spoon clutched behind his back. The heat crawled around to his face.

"Jim. Hi." Beverly greeted him. She was dressed casually, too, in tight jeans, an even tighter sweater and a suede jacket. Her hair was down, curling and glossy about her shoulders. She didn't exactly look like an Assistant DA, out for a night of work. "Ready?"

"Yeah, sure." He strode across the room, reached for his coat, studiously not looking at Blair. Or the table. "You gonna be okay, Chief?"

"I'm fine." The words were just a little high pitched, studiously pronounced.

"We're going to try that new barbecue place over near the pier. You can call if you need him," Beverly told Blair, as Jim held the door for her. Then to him, she said, "Have you been baking? You smell like butter."

Jim bit his lip, not sure whether he wanted to laugh or to sink through the floor. Either way, his color climbed another notch. He risked a glance back at Blair as he slipped out the door.

Blair was grinning widely, his eyes as bright as candles in a darkened room, and it was obvious that he was going to opt for laughter just as soon as the door closed. He waved good-bye to Jim with the spoon. "Have a good time."

Jim paused. "I'll talk to you later," he warned.

The sound of Blair's laughter, husky and delighted, the slither of cloth on skin as Blair stripped his way towards the bathroom, followed Jim all the way to the car. Half way down the block. Then he heard the shower go on, and Beverly looked at him strangely, and he had to dial it down and find something to talk about.

Just like she always had, she made it effortless. The remainder of the ride to the restaurant passed easily, filled with small talk about the weather and the department and her new car.

Even on a weeknight, the restaurant was, like any new place in Cascade, busy. But Beverly had called ahead, and they were quickly seated in a booth in a quiet corner. The table was a heavy, rough hewn pine, and there was a candle in a bowl of sand in the center of it. The setting, dark enough to be shading towards romantic, made Jim a little uncomfortable, especially when he
noticed Beverly wasn't wearing an engagement ring. He cursed Blair silently for putting such thoughts in his head. Just because he was tacky enough to consider using an ex-girlfriend as a test case for his dick didn't mean she was coming on to him.

He felt even worse when Beverly brought out the case file just as soon as their beers were delivered. Even so, he couldn't help but look at her. Admire how really beautiful she was. Dark skin and black eyes made even darker by the flickering candle on the table. He couldn't help but remember how good she'd felt in his arms. How good she'd smelled.

Beverly leaned close, lifting up a piece of paper from the file. Her arm brushed his hand.

Her skin was warm and soft. He remembered that, too, even without the casual touch. He remembered liking that. He wanted to like it again, if only for a moment. If only to prove to himself that he still could. Still did.

He'd completely lost the thread of what she'd been saying. He shifted a little, not sure whether he was comfortable with his thoughts. He loved Blair. He loved, craved what they shared in bed. But this was more than just wondering about himself. He *needed* to know. He needed... And he opened up his senses to Beverly Sanchez.

* * * * *

The apartment was dark when he came in, smelling of furniture cleaner and recently snuffed candles. It was lit only by flickering static on the television screen. Blair was asleep on the couch, glasses clutched in one hand, a thick book open across his spare belly.

Jim had seen him do it a thousand times. Lay the book down, take his glasses off and arch back, sensual stretch of his spine and shoulders, and snap off the reading lamp. He rarely got around to turning off the television because he was usually half asleep by the time he flopped back down on the couch.

Jim knelt beside him and slipped the glasses from his limp fingers.

Blair sighed and mumbled, and Jim could smell toothpaste and mouthwash, soap and shampoo, warm skin. Gone were the scents of lime and cigarette smoke, the slick warm scent of butter. It didn't slow the arousal that swept over him, warm and sweet as the taste of tequila on Blair's skin. He ran a palm over Blair's chest, encircled his throat, feeling the heavy pulse, the
sharp point of adam's apple, the healthy scrape of beard beneath the jaw.

Blair woke, blinked up at him with sleep heavy eyes, but didn't seem at all surprised to wake with his lover's hand across his throat. "You're home." It was a statement, warm welcome. Not surprise.

The words, the belief, rumbled beneath Jim's palm, vibrating the pad of flesh beneath his thumb, starting the dance of sensation across his lower back. He straightened, spreading his knees to accommodate the first rush of blood into his groin, and slid his fingers into the thickness of Blair's hair. It was soft and silky, still damp where it was thickest at the base of his skull.

Blair smiled and stretched, sending a rush of soap scented air sliding across Jim and the book edging towards the floor.

Jim caught it and lowered the heavy volume to the floor before he did the same with Blair. Tugged him off the edge of the couch and swung the stocky legs until Blair was kneeling between his thighs. The way he had allowed Blair to propel him earlier, Blair now gave up physical control to Jim, allowing Jim to position him where he wanted.

Jim used his thumb to tilt Blair's head back, then he kissed him. Hard, demanding, the hot desire that he'd been holding so closely in check for hours suddenly spilling over.

Blair grunted softly, arms going around Jim's waist as he tried to lever himself even tighter into the embrace. "Oh, man," he moaned as Jim eased the kiss. "How can you still be so wired? Does this mean you answered all those burning dick questions you've been struggling with
lately?"

Jim froze, his tongue against Blair's full lower lip. How the hell did he do it? Where the hell did the words come from? He edged back, just far enough to see Blair's face. To glare into the sleepy blue eyes. "I hate it when you do that," he said finally.

"What?" Blair grinned up at him, impertinent, sexy. Running his tongue across the spot on his lip that Jim had just left wet. "Read your mind?"

Jim choked, speechless, watching the path of that pink tongue tip. As he was supposed to. "Smartass," he growled. He caught the hem of Blair's sweatshirt, tugged at it, then gave up when he realized that Blair was just going to lean there, shirt caught between his back and the edge of the couch. Grinning up at him.

He stripped his own sweater off instead. The air was cool on his throat and down his chest where his shirt, bereft of buttons, gaped open. And still, Blair just sat there, legs sandwiched between his, knees resting against his balls, back braced on the edge of the couch, that Mona Lisa smile on his face. Jim shuddered and gathered him close, leaned his forehead against Blair's. "You knew. Is that why you--? You know...before I left...?"

Blair shifted, moving away to strip the sweatshirt over his head. "I thought *you* seduced *me*," he murmured.

Jim glared at him and Blair grinned wider, sliding back in his arms, shivering slightly, but Jim couldn't tell if it was the cool air or the way he ran his hands over Blair's chest, paused at his nipples, then slid around to map his soap-clean back.

"No, Jim. I was not trying to fuck you mindless because of Beverly. We abused the kitchen table because I was toasted and you are just too damned sexy to resist."

Jim couldn't help it. He glanced toward the table. The kitchen was in shadow, the top of the table above the level of his vision. And still he wanted to check it.

"I cleaned it," Blair said, laughter in his voice.

"We'll see," he answered gruffly, slumping back down again. He knew he'd have to scrub the table. There was no way they were going to eat muffins and drink coffee off that table until he scoured it with bleach. Even if it did send his sense of smell off the scale. Even if he did wind up sneezing for three days. After a moment, while Blair stroked his back, smoothing the wrinkles in his shirt, he took a deep breath and asked the question he should have asked days ago. "It didn't make you jealous to know what I was thinking? To know why I agreed to go out with her?"

The slow stroking paused, then resumed. "You sound like you want me to be jealous."

It was the typical Sandburg non-answer answer, guaranteed to make his jaw ache. And to make him think. To make him honest. "Maybe. Maybe I do. Did. A little." His hands aped the movement of Blair's, up and down, although he couldn't reach as far down on Blair's back. "Chief..."

Blair had leaned into him, slumped against his chest and fitted his head beneath Jim's chin. He was as heavy as if he was about to go to sleep. "Hm-m-m?"

Jim took a deep breath, deciding he wasn't going to wait a week to ask this question. Might as well just do it all at once. Even if it did use up all his reserves of inner reflection. "Do you get hard for other people?" The words all gusted out in a rush.

Blair stiffened, losing that sleepy limpness, but he didn't shift out of Jim's arms, and that told Jim that the question was okay. That Blair was just surprised. Or thinking. Or probably constructing another one of those non-answer answers.

"I-- I guess," Blair said finally. "I don't know. It hasn't come up."

Okay, so Blair had been thinking up a bad pun. And he hadn't really answered the question. "Smartass. Answer me."

Blair chuckled against his shoulder, huffing steamy breath through his shirt, but when he answered, it was with seriousness, and Blair pushed back to look right into his eyes to show him that. "Jim, what difference does it make? I haven't even bothered to try. Why should I? Even if I looked at someone and my dick liked him or her...it wouldn't matter. It doesn't matter where I get my appetite. I know where I'll be eating dinner." Blair edged his hands between them, aiming for the remaining buttons on Jim's shirt. "And breakfast. And lunch. And between meal snacks."

Jim sighed. The kid *did* have a way of putting words together. And a way of cutting straight through to his heart. He nuzzled past all the curls, burying his face against Blair's neck. There was nothing in the universe that smelled better than that one spot, almost to the back of Blair's neck. Although, the very center of his chest, where the hair was thickest, ran a close second.

"So," Blair said casually, still tugging at his buttons. "What did you find out?"

Warm air brushed Jim's ear. A hand slid between his thighs, pressed hard against his swollen cock. Kneaded him. Jim pressed up into the touch, then pounced. Held Blair against the couch and was rough with him. The way he'd never been able to bring himself to be rough with a woman, even though he'd sometimes wanted to. He mauled Blair, with his hands, with his teeth, marking the smooth skin. Pinching his nipples so they puckered up, hard and tight. And the words came so easily. "I was sitting there, watching her eat. Thinking how beautiful she was. How much I wanted to know if my dick would get hard, if I just gave it the chance. And I let the dials go, opened up my senses to her."

Blair moaned, let his head loll back, baring his throat. "What happened?" he asked breathlessly. "What did you sense?" But it was obvious he wasn't paying as much attention to the words as to Jim's teeth, worrying at his flesh.

"You. Oozing out of me."

Blair laughed, a little breathlessly, and arched his neck. "Eeuw. Squick. Wet shorts."

"Smartass." Jim growled, bit him. Sucked hard enough to leave a mark. If he was going to be marked, forever remembering how it felt to be slicked with Blair's passion. Remembering how it felt to sit there, across from a beautiful woman, and feel his lover's come trickle out of him, then Blair could stand being marked for a few days. "It wasn't like that." He breathed the words across the wet mark at the juncture of Blair's shoulder and throat. "You wouldn't even have been able to feel it. But I could." He shivered. "I could."

"Oh, man..." Blair moaned, rubbed roughly up and down Jim's cock. Pressing hard enough that it would have hurt, without the layer of denim to protect him. Blair laughed, low and evil, deep in his throat. Suddenly, he was the one on the offensive. He pushed Jim hard, bending him towards the coffee table.

The edge of the low table caught Jim in the small of his back, and he shifted, levering himself up onto it, allowing Blair to push him down. Once more on his back, splayed over a piece of furniture. He resisted a little. Wasn't this where they'd started the evening?

Blair reared up over him, ran his palms up Jim's thighs, cupped his erection, fingered his zipper. He caught the tails of Jim's shirt and held them in his fists. "You still haven't told me what happened with her," he said. Mock accusing. Pretended threat. "What did you find out?"

Jim smiled and let the tension ease out of his muscles. Let himself sprawl back on the coffee table. "That I want to come home for dinner, Chief."

The last of his buttons sailed into the air.

The End