Ezra swirled the last dregs of his tea as he headed back into the kitchen. He picked up the kettle, checking the water level out of habit more than anything else; then, he reached into the cabinet beside the refrigerator and pulled down a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He filled his cup with the amber liquid, noting how easily a man might hide his weaknesses from others, if there were any others around to hide them from. There weren't.

All of his nerves suddenly fired when a sharp knock sounded on his front door. He hastily set down his cup of meager comfort — afraid of spilling the much-needed contents — before managing to take a breath. As he retied the silk belt of his dressing gown a little more securely around his waist, he wondered who was at the door. He wasn't expecting anyone. He never did. But when he glanced at the clock as he headed down the hallway, his stomach twisted. 2 AM. Good news never came knocking at such an hour.

He paused before the front door, tempted to turn around and just let whoever was on the other side wait — wait until he became tired of waiting and simply went away. Given the hour — and the day he'd had — Ezra thought it probably the most prudent option.

Another loud rap suddenly sounded on the wood, causing Ezra's hand to reflexively shoot out, gripping the knob and pulling the door wide. The dim glow of the hall light shown out into the wet darkness, illuminating the man standing on the stoop, his hand still raised in mid-knock. He was pale, even in the sallow light, and his eyes were sunken and hollow.

A figment of my imagination, Ezra thought, trying to remember if he'd drained his cup of whiskey: he no longer had it in hand to check. He looked out into the night again, staring at the ghastly apparition. The hand was lowered now, hanging still at the man's side. His eyes, Ezra noticed, were red rimmed and the stubble on his face made him look drawn and tired, like someone who'd been riding a rough trail for far too long.

"Go away," Ezra said, turning and walking back down the hall, not even bothering to slam the door in Chris Larabee's face.

When the door clicked shut, Ezra cringed, the sharp noise stopping his forward momentum as effectively as a hand on his shoulder. A hand settled on him a moment later.

"What the hell are you doing here?" the southerner said, sounding resigned, even as the adrenaline began to pump through his body, preparing him for ... well, for anything.

"I need to talk to you."

Ezra wanted to turn then, wanted to stare this man down with a look of pure hatred and intimidation, but it was Chris Larabee standing behind him, and he knew he didn't stand a chance trying to beat that man at his own game.

"I don't want you here," Ezra finally ground out. "This isn't the time or the place." But Ezra knew different. There would be no better time, no other place — ever. They were both here, and there was no putting this off.

Chris's hand clamped more firmly onto Ezra's shoulder, fingers digging painfully through the fabric and into his skin. When Chris yanked him around, their eyes met. Then Ezra staggered back, flinching in anticipation of a blow when he saw the flash of movement — Chris's arm, jerking out towards him.

"I have your badge," he said, gripping the folded leather between callused fingers. But Ezra simply stared at it, refusing to acknowledge that the badge had ever belonged to him. He'd resigned. Unofficially, anyway. He'd make it formal in the morning with a letter to A.D. Travis.

"Take it, you son of a bitch," Chris said slowly, his voice low and more than a little threatening. Then he dropped the badge to the floor. "You think you can get away with acting like a piece of shit, day in and day out? You think I'll let you slide, when I won't let anyone else?"

Ezra just glared at him, swallowing the bitter taste of the man's words. Had he taken advantage? Had he allowed himself to believe he was better than everyone else, deserving of more privileges?

"You may say you don't care what other people think, but you ... I know you know differently."

Ezra lashed out then, belting Chris solidly in the cheek. The blow hurt Ezra's knuckles, but he didn't care. He knew Chris didn't care either; he could tell from the anger flaring again in his eyes. He was wet, standing in the middle of Ezra's entryway, and Ezra knew neither of them wanted to do this, not again, so he did what he should have done a little more effectively that afternoon. He retreated, this time not taking his eyes off Chris Larabee, not turning his back on the man he knew would send him sprawling to the tile floor given the slightest opportunity.

As he stepped carefully back, slowly, one foot at a time, he noted Chris keeping pace with him — not getting any closer, not forcing him back so much as just keeping up, maintaining the meager distance. The man was stalking him, bald-faced, staring him down in his own apartment and stalking him, like a cat waiting for the foolhardy mouse to turn and run.

But Ezra wouldn't run. This was his turf, and he knew he could use that to his advantage. He just hadn't figured out how yet. And with Chris's eyes boring into him, it was damn hard to keep anything straight in his mind long enough to make use of it.

Chris kept moving toward him, his fists clenched tight at his sides, his rain-wet clothes dripping a trail behind him. Ezra knew he had to do something. Anything, at this point.

He chose to stop dead in his tracks, to try a little intimidation of his own. But, it didn't work. Didn't have a chance to.

Chris kept coming at him. The man reached out in a movement Ezra didn't see, but knew had occurred when his arm was yanked, and then twisted behind him as Chris spun him against the wall.

"What the hell are you doing? Get off me," Ezra intoned, trying desperately not to sound as if he were pleading for his life.

But Chris didn't. Ezra really hadn't expected him to. He swallowed hard when the man leaned his weight forward, pressing Ezra hard into the wall.

"Get off?" Chris whispered in his ear, and the man's harsh, low voice sent a tremor racing down Ezra's spine. Then the man grabbed his free wrist, forcing it behind his back to join the other. Chris Larabee was good — he'd spent far too many years in law enforcement not to know the most effective methods of restraint. There was no way Ezra could fight back in the position Chris had placed him, not without the highly probably risk of dislocating a shoulder or two, maybe even snapping a few bones.

Chris pulled him off the wall then, shoving his hands even higher and more painfully up his back. Ezra tried not to cry out, not wanting to give this man the satisfaction, but a small gasp escaped his lips anyway.

He was spun around and pushed toward the kitchen. He had no idea what this man intended, what thoughts were running through his mind. Ezra just knew it couldn't be good.

Chris ran him hard into the edge of the center island, doubling him over at the waist, and Ezra reflexively expelled a lungful of air. As he gulped in breaths to compensate, he felt the grip on his wrists shift, almost loosen. He tried to struggle right then, tried to get free, but his arms were shoved upward again and he didn't even try to hide his discomfort this time. A loud, long groan escaped him as lances of pain shot through his shoulders and arms.

He felt a hand then, on his hip, sliding downward, and the groan froze solid in his throat. The hand continued down, in an agonizingly slow progression that left a trail like flowing lava. Ezra moved his head slightly, tried to shift his shoulders to ease the strain — that was when he saw the block of knives. It was right there in front of him, inches from his face, book ended by the pepper grinder and the bottle of lemon-herb olive oil. If he could only get a hand free ... if he could just reach that block....

But that's when the direction of the trail Chris was blazing altered drastically. He was moving his hand upward now, beneath the soft folds of Ezra's dressing gown, up his bare thigh to his silk boxers. Ezra felt the hand stop there. And he sighed in relief, until he felt fingers curling into the fabric, gripping his shorts and tugging downward. They slid from his hips like water down polished rock, pooling around his bare ankles. Then Ezra felt the cold air against his backside as Chris shoved his dressing gown upward.

He shivered convulsively. He couldn't let this happen. Not here! Not in his own kitchen.

He struggled again, but Chris wasn't about to tolerate it and Ezra's shoulders burned with pain again. How could he keep forgetting that Chris would do that, use his superior position to call all the shots, remain in control of the situation? He wanted to forget, but Chris just kept reminding him.

Chris leaned hard against Ezra then, pressing his hipbones painfully against the edge of the butcher-block counter. Ezra saw Chris reaching forward, reaching above his head to where the knives were. His breath caught and his heart stilled. Chris was going to carry out his threat from that afternoon; he was going to kill him for what he'd done. Ezra shut his eyes tight, not wanting to see it coming, praying to a god he only occasionally believed in — like now — that the pain would be minor and the end would be swift.

That's when he felt a coldness against his skin, then fingers slipping easily between the cheeks of his ass — too easily, he realized, until he remembered to breathe, catching the heady aroma of lemon in the air. An oiled finger slid painlessly inside him, moving forward, then back, and around, seeking and then striking against his prostate. He groaned loudly again, but this time it wasn't in pain.

Chris didn't bother to add another finger, didn't waste his time preparing him any further. Before the echo of Ezra's testimony had faded from the kitchen, Chris was pressing the tip of his penis between Ezra's cheeks, shoving forward, hard and a little too fast. Ezra cried out in pain, but it was just as much from his hipbones being shoved into the edge of the butcher block again as it was from the penetration itself.

As Chris began to move, though, the pain on his hips eased. And, thankfully, so did the too firm grip on his wrists. Soon, both of Chris's hands were braced on Ezra's hips, and Ezra's own hands were braced against the counter. He couldn't believe what this man could do to him, the pain and the pleasure, both physical and mental. It was so wrong, but he wanted it anyway. He always wanted it. The problem was, he never got it — never the way he wanted it.

And Chris was just enough of a goddamned, arrogant bastard to make sure it stayed that way.

Chris shoved in hard then, pushing all other thoughts from Ezra's mind. He let the man fuck him. Fuck him over; fuck him up. It didn't matter, so long as it was Chris doing it. Another shove and Ezra let out a moan, the man's penis grazing over his prostate, sending tingles and shivers racing across his nerves — an electrical storm to rival the one building outside his townhouse. A thunderclap rattled the windows just then, and Ezra nearly jumped out of his skin. But Chris placed an arm around his chest, holding him, securing him, restraining him, never ceasing his thrusts.

As Chris continued to move, the sensitive tip of Ezra's penis was shoved up and down the island's lacquered side panel, the finish just imperfect enough to cause the most incredible waves of sensation to jar, like streaks of lightning up his aching shaft. Ezra's breath was becoming ragged. It shouldn't feel this good, but, God, it did! He shuddered again, as Chris's balls slapped into his own with every thrust. He moaned deep in his throat as Chris moved harder into him, and his eyelids clamped shut with each stroke over his prostate.

Chris really was going to kill him.

Ezra shuddered suddenly, a crack of thunder barely muffling his cry of release as he shot his load against the side of the butcher block. But Chris came silently — the only indication his sudden, desperate grip on Ezra's hips and his frantic, unsteady final thrusts.

The man leaned against him then, his full weight pressing Ezra's upper body down onto the island. Ezra could hear Chris's rough breathing, could feel the hot air gusting past the sensitive skin of his ear. He wanted to turn over, face the man who'd just done ... this to him ... taken him ... in his own kitchen.

As another crash of thunder hit, rocking the townhouse by its wooden structure, lightning sent the room first into flash relief, turning everything a ghastly bluish-white, and then plunged them into complete darkness.

Ezra started, his knees trembling when the weight lifted from his body. He slid bonelessly to the floor where he remained, motionless, silent as the rain clattered loudly against the windows like hail stones. Then, the low, yellowish lights winked back on, as if awaking from some slumber. Ezra blinked his eyes, feeling rather hazy himself. As if what had happened to him had been a dream. But the rivulets of opalescent white cum streaking down the side of the butcher block island told a different story, the true story.

The southerner struggled to his feet. His legs still weak from all that had occurred, but he willed himself upright and began to walk through the house. He checked the back first, both bedrooms — though his stomach protested with a sickening twist and his mind laughed at him like some insane madman — then he made his way forward, checking the bathroom, the living room, the kitchen again, and finally the front hall.

Chris was nowhere. The only evidence that he'd been inside the townhouse was the puddle still standing on the tile. Ezra stepped over it, avoiding it with his bare feet as if it were filthy mud instead of clear rainwater, and then he threw the lock on the front door.

As he made his way back down the hall, he reached out to shut off the light — to shut out what had just happened — but something out of place, against the baseboard, caught his eye. He knelt and picked up his ATF badge.

"I don't want this," he ground out, though there was no one to hear him.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was just supposed to end.

Continued...