If someone had asked Buck Wilmington how he'd plan to spend a Saturday afternoon, baking a cake would have been on the list only if he was dating a buxom brunette chef. It wouldn't have occurred to him to think about it in terms of Chris, and the ranch, and birthday parties that didn't involve children--that was what the bakery counter at Kroger was for. Sheet cakes, get them to write some kind of sweet, crude shit on it for you, $24.95.
But he had dated more than one chef, actually, and he'd learned to cook for women after he'd figured out how much they loved it. So he was no stranger to a kitchen, and he knew more than a couple of uses for a spatula.
"I haven't baked a cake since…" Chris said out of the blue, as they sauntered into the supermarket headed directly for that bakery counter.
Since Adam's last birthday, Chris would have said if his voice hadn't solemnly trailed off into nothing. On impulse, Buck made a command decision, and turned toward the bakery aisle. He reached as he pivoted, and grabbed Chris' jacket sleeve.
"Where're we goin'?" Chris asked, offering only mild drag.
"To bake a cake, stud."
Chris looked askance, but said nothing more until they stood in front of flour bags. "I'm not baking for Ezra," Chris said firmly, then added self-consciously, "I don't want to kill the team."
Buck laughed, loving that side of Chris that peeked out more and more these days, a mix of dry humor and sincere self-effacement. Chris had been shy, once, and the softness of outgrowing that shyness had remained right up until the fire. Buck was convinced it was the single character trait that had won Sarah's heart, mixed up as it was with all that macho testosterone-driven maleness. And now it was coming back.
"Okay, we'll start small," he amended, reaching for an instant mix. "Ez'll like it 'cause we did it. And six years is a long time in between cooking lessons."
The lines of Chris' face deepened marginally when he frowned. "You don't think two guys baking a cake for their co-worker is, I don't know, really gay?"
"No," Buck stated firmly. "I think guys who trawl bars and march in parades and make it easy for me to sleep over at your place are really gay. Guys like us who naturally check out women and you know, get into a rut with each other, well…" That was 'really gay' too, by most standards. Aloud Buck grinned and said only, "that's a gray area."
Chris raised an eyebrow and smiled back, and if the smile was a little sad, well, it was sunbeams on bright water compared to the look Chris might have had even a year or two before, for either the baking or the sex. "At least you don't have anything to worry about," Chris muttered.
Buck kept his mouth shut. Chris was still a little hung up about the whole sexual identity thing, whereas Buck never had been. The son of a prostitute learned early that words didn't mean shit. It was what you liked, and what you wanted and, if you were lucky, what you felt for the person that mattered which, frankly, made Chris monogamous and him a slut.
"You don't have anything to worry about either," he reassured, and threw a manly, affectionate punch at Chris' shoulder.
But Chris reached out, quick as a snake, and caught his forearm, turned his hand up to expose his wrist. One finger gently stroked back and forth from just an inch above his wrist to the center of his palm. Buck sucked in his stomach, not just at the intimate gesture but at what that light touch did to his dick. Chris had taken the time to find these places on him, these obscure erogenous zones that innocently and completely revved Buck's engine, and Buck still didn't know if it was the touch, or the love that turned up the heat.
Chris did it more often, more easily, tried new things with an eagerness that surprised Buck. He cleared his throat, but didn't pull his hand away. "Chris… quit that."
Chris just glanced up at him, playful threat in his eyes. "You know, I could ruin your reputation with the check-out girls with just one step forward?"
Buck could do more than that, and the picture painted itself graphically in his mind: grab his lover, one hand on that skinny waist and the other around his neck, bear him back toward the supermarket shelf and shove him against it so hard that groceries rattled and cake mix boxes tumbled to the floor... grind their naked mouths and their cloth-confined cocks together, making the fabric rub and scrape and irritate in a rhythm that echoed in the canned goods, thrust-rattle, thrust-rattle, thrust-rattle… some anonymous shopper's gasp, as Buck grabbed his lover's neat ass and hoisted him up an inch or two, as Chris reached behind himself to find purchase on a metal shelf, and spread his legs… cleanup on aisle two…
Chris' laugh was pure evil, and he let go of Buck's hand. "What the hell porno just played in your head?"
Buck resisted the urge to adjust himself, and thanked God his dick hadn't quite caught up with his brain. "What's gotten into you lately?" he asked instead, barely containing his thrill.
"I'd say you have, often enough," Chris shot back with a grin.
Desire surged again, and Buck frowned, tugging at the waistband of his jeans to try and make a little room down there. "Give me a break will ya?"
Chris smirked. "Have I ever?" His pale green eyes wandered back to the cake mix displays, analyzing various marketing techniques, and Buck knew before his lover said it aloud that they'd do it.
Moving on. It had taken Chris a long time, with fits and starts and defiant rejections of everything good in life, but eventually he'd started moving on. Almost a year, just to sleep at the ranch alone and not wake up still drunk after a long night of drowning his pain. Another year before he could spend more than a few days sober with Buck without lashing out, waves of grief and anger pouring off him in tears and curses and cruel accusations. Just Chris needing to be sure Buck wouldn't leave him, too, because Chris--well, Chris had an unhealthy faith in Buck's longevity.
Buck still remembered the words, from back when they were kids. You survived the streets in Las Vegas, your ma's murder, and you survived the sons of bitches coming after you, and now they're gone and you're not. Pal, you're never gonna die.
Buck did what he could to live up to that faith.
Chris squared his shoulders. "You tell 'em you baked it, and I'm in. If anything goes wrong, it's your fault." Chris grinned. "Look what you've gone and got yourself into, pal. Now we'll be cooking all afternoon, instead of doing whatever it was you thought of, a minute ago."
"Any reason we can't do both?" Buck asked, and grabbed boxes to the tune of Chris' indulgent laughter.
They got back to the ranch just after noon, unpacked the truck and set about becoming bakers. Groceries put away and leather jackets safely protected in the hall closet, guns and badges on a shelf, they'd pulled out the few ingredients and opened the chocolate mix first. Cake mix wasn't as fun as flour, maybe, but there were a few tricks that might impress.
"I'm going to show you how to marble," Buck announced as he rummaged through the cabinet for baking pans.
Chris, mixing his chocolate mix per Buck's and the box's instructions, made a face. "What are you, Julia Child?"
"Just goes to show you how out of date you are, stud. You should spend more time watching Iron Chef."
Chris snorted. "The only reason you watched Iron Chef was because you were trying to impress that woman in cooking school."
"She was a graduate of cooking school," he corrected, "and I impressed the hell out of her."
"I know," Chris said dryly, "you impress all the girls." Then after a second, not dry at all, he said, "but I'm guessing, not in the kitchen."
Buck turned, mock aghast, and drank in the smile on Chris' face that spread to his eyes and clear back to his soul. Sometime soon, he would have to cop to the fact that he'd stopped sleeping around, then whip out a camera to snap a picture of the look on his friend's face.
For now he said mildly, "That's because you're too conservative in the sack. I've done some of my best work in the kitchen."
Light eyebrows climbed, green eyes narrowed defensively. "I'm conservative, just because I don't own a trapeze?"
Buck had never actually done the trapeze thing, or half the stuff people probably thought he did, but he sure as hell wasn't averse to having a little fun. Chris had been, though Buck was sure it had more to do with an extra dick being involved than with the kinky intricacies of sex.
Chris had been an eyes closed, on his belly, in a dark room trying not to moan out loud, lover, the few times he'd let Buck seduce him years ago, and it didn't seem like he'd changed much by the time they'd gotten back together. No practice, Buck knew. But Chris was getting better. Opening up. Playing more, instigating more.
Moving on.
Buck dipped his thumb into the batter bowl and gently reached out to spread it on Chris' lower lip, a dark, chocolate lipstick. "Don't." He stopped Chris from licking it off with just a word, and leaned in to perform the task himself. Chris' eyes smoldered at moments like these, Buck noted, before they went out of focus. He licked the batter off with great care, and when somehow Chris' tongue got in the way, he sucked on that too for a second, just to be thorough.
Then he breathed across his lover's damp mouth, "No, you're not conservative 'cause you don't own a trapeze," and waited for some sign that Chris remembered what he'd said. Tilting his chin, Buck finished, "You're conservative because you've never had cake batter licked off your face until today."
A whole conflagration of emotions crossed Chris' face, among them embarrassment that heated his cheeks and delighted Buck to no end.
"Okay so I've-- you act like I was some kind of ignorant virgin."
Buck didn't comment on his lover's blush, instead going for the kill. He pressed himself against Chris, incidentally pressing Chris against the refrigerator, and rested his hands on that smooth curve just below his lover's narrow waist, where his hips flared ever so gently. "You were."
Chris rolled his eyes. "You know what I meant," he snapped, peevish and horny.
Buck grinned. "Yeah, stud. But hell, I'm not complaining. I think you're coming around just fine."
"Too bad for you there isn't an Olympic category for fucking," Chris groused, and impatiently shoved Buck off. "Now what the hell is marbling and why the hell are we doing it?"
Buck laughed at Chris' discomfort, moved to mix the white cake batter in a separate bowl, and proceeded to show him.
They sat on the deck and drank iced tea while the oven preheated, and discussed the merits of investing in cattle.
"Lots of work," Buck reminded, though Chris knew that better than anybody, since his dad had made a profit in that sideline for years.
"Yeah," Chris agreed. "But the land's fenced, and everything's overgrown. I was thinking, maybe 30 or 40 just to graze it down, and give the horses something to herd. Get a new dog. Hell, maybe board out the last three stalls in the barn."
"You won't just let me rent a bush hog?"
Chris tilted his head lazily, his eyes sharp. "What's the matter, Buck? You used to love playing cowboy when you were younger."
"I still do," Buck admitted, though he kept to himself that there were better places, and better ways, to play. "I just don't want this place overrun with people. Right now, you've got privacy, which means we've got privacy, and you don't have to worry about some temp worker or horse boarder walking in on us. Only people we worry about showing up unexpected are the postman and the team, and the guys mostly call first. That'd change, don't you think?"
He watched his lover's face darken infinitesimally, and wondered if Chris really hadn't thought about that. But Chris just sipped at his tea and didn't answer.
"Hey, Chris," he soothed, "I wasn't trying to get at you."
Chris waved off his effort. "I know. And you're right. I make a problem out of all of that shit. Sorry."
"Nothing to apologize for. I mean, this isn't San Francisco."
"It isn't the Dark Ages, either." Chris seemed to want to brood about it, but Buck wasn't in the mood.
"Come on," he cajoled. "It's a beautiful day and all of the guys are gonna be up tonight or tomorrow. Let's just enjoy it, okay?"
"Easy for you to say," Chris said sourly. "This kind of thing never bothered you."
"Don't mean I advertise it," he said, trying to allay Chris' fears. "And you being a tight ass never bothered me either, so just let it go."
Chris looked over at him, and his somber look faded, turned quietly speculative. "I reckon you like me being a tight ass, don't ya?" he said, and smirked.
The muscles in Buck's belly and thighs clenched, the herald of new arousal. Chris' double meaning hit him where he lived, and after the teasing at the grocery store, he was more than ready to act on it. "When you put it like that--"
The oven timer pinged, and Chris snorted and stepped past him. "Am I saved by the bell?"
"Barely," Buck said, sighing. $24.95 and they could have been in bed right now. Shit.
They went back inside and set the pans in to bake. Buck unwrapped eight sticks of unsalted butter and dropped them into a big plastic salad bowl.
"Frosting," he announced, trying to get back into the spirit of things. "And I've gotta tell you, pard, good butter cream frosting is an art; it's manna from heaven; it's ambrosia in soft, sweet form."
"Not everything's a sex toy, Buck," Chris said quellingly.
"Well, I don't know about that," Buck shot back, and chuckled at Chris' defensive narrowing of eyes.
Chris threw a "back in a minute" over his shoulder and disappeared down the hall toward the bathroom. Buck got started on softening the butter, and poured in the first of six boxes of confectioner's sugar. Maybe he'd overdone it on quantity, there, but hell, JD alone would eat half of it. He'd just gotten the first of the sugar blended in when a body slammed into him from behind, pressing him hard against the cabinets.
The damn mixer, he reflected later, was why he never heard Chris coming.
A hand barred his way on the left, grabbing onto the edge of the sink. Another hand rose to his right and gripped the end of the counter.
He felt pretty proud that icing bits didn't fly everywhere as he thumbed off the mixer, heart pounding with a dark anticipation. He'd hinted more than once that he didn't have to stay on top all the time, but Chris had never taken him up on it. Looked like today was the day.
Ezra's presents were going to pale by comparison to the one Buck was about to get.
"I wondered where you got off to," he said, hearing the catch in his voice.
"I've 'worked' in the kitchen a time or two, myself," Chris replied, ignoring him.
Buck felt butterflies careen through his belly and make a beeline toward his pelvic girdle. "Yeah?" he asked.
It wasn't a challenge. It hardly needed to be. Chris was already humping against his jeans-covered butt, and the shock of it, the clear sense of hard hipbones on the padding of his ass cheeks and an equally hard bar of cock that rubbed against the crevice between, the steady bump of his own hips against the counter edge, did amazing things--not just to his crotch, but to his entire body.
He looked down to watch Chris' hands, sun-roughened and dark, reach for his belt buckle. With swift tugs, Chris threaded the black leather out of the metal, and after a moment's hesitation, pulled. The leather jerked all around his waist as the belt smoothly snaked out of its loops. Buck sucked in a jagged breath.
There was a moment's pause, a pregnant space of time during which even the thrusting stopped, and Buck wondered excitedly what Chris had in mind.
Gruff, hard-edged, not at all embarrassed-sounding, though Buck would have bet his last dollar Chris was nervous to suggest it, Chris said, "I'm thinkin' I'll need to tie your hands up to keep them out of the way, Big Dog."
Buck's muscles rippled from fingertips to breastbone. His nipples tightened in response, pebbling against the inside of his shirt. He wasn't sure if Chris was testing either or both of them, if Chris was voicing a desire of his own or just trying to please him, but if he was honest with himself, he didn't care either way. "Reckon you better, if you don't want me messin' up your plans," he breathed.
Chris' fingers closed tightly around Buck's wrist. A thigh found its way between Buck's legs, pressed up against his balls from behind and effectively pinned him to the counter. Chris wasn’t particularly gentle as he tugged Buck's arms behind his back, and the stretch through his biceps and chest made him want to groan. His face tingled, like his beard hairs were trying to stand on end.
"Cross your wrists," Chris ordered, the gentleness of his voice making the words all the more intensely arousing. "Now, come on, raise them."
Buck did as he was bid, until his forearms made a straight line from one elbow to the other, and he was grasping his own wrists at the small of his back. Out of the way. The smooth leather of his own belt, still warm from his body, looped again and again, over knuckles, wrists, thumbs. Tightened.
He sucked in a blade-sharp breath. Cop fantasies. A law enforcement side effect; Buck didn't know anyone, male or female, who'd ever worn a uniform and hadn't, at some time or another, wanted to use their handcuffs for something besides arresting people.
"Chris…"
"Be quiet."
Buck shuddered as fingers came back around to tug at the button of his fly and ease the zipper down. Chris' hand snaked inside to find his package, firming up already, and the rough squeezes through his underwear, almost painfully hard, brought him the rest of the way. He twisted his wrists against the leather, testing, as his blood pressure shot up and his arousal pulled back and forth through him, like a tide.
The tug on his jeans to get them down almost caught his balls in his underwear. He grunted, and Chris eased up just for a second, just long enough to slide his hand further down, in between Buck's legs, to cage his genitals while the other hand kept working his pants down.
His bound arms threw off his balance as Chris worked his jeans and shorts down his legs and off. He leaned forward to compensate, and his bare ass pressed into Chris' hard cock, and Chris wasn't moving back to give him any room at all. Damn. He was sweating, he'd heated up so fast. So fast.
"Lube?" Chris asked him.
Buck jerked at his belted arms and bit off a curse of frustration. "How the hell am I supposed to supply--" he started to snarl, but the words cut off abruptly in his throat.
Chris was holding the frosting bowl, and Buck's eyes threatened to roll back into his head. Unsalted butter. A little sugar. Sweet but not sticky.
"Shit," he breathed.
"You did say it was a sex toy," Chris said, his voice dark, almost accusatory.
Chris stuck his hand into the bowl and scooped out a blob of frosting, and Buck suddenly wanted to lick it off his fingers. He leaned, muttered "Let me--"
"Be still, Buck." Chris' voice was quiet as the grave, as calm and clinical as a doctor performing an exam. But the thigh between his legs pressed more firmly, and Buck shuffled his feet wider in response, and couldn't stop twisting his hands against the belt leather.
A deep, throaty chuckle tickled his spine, right between the shoulder blades. A cold, slimy wetness slid over the curve of his butt, and then greasy fingers, chilly and shocking, rubbed at his ass hole. Just the pads, applying the slightest of pressure, testing, pressing... they slipped inside.
Buck grunted, jerked his arms again, stumbled against the cabinet. Chris, no doubt trusting him to be able to form coherent sentences if he wanted this to stop, pressed deep, and Buck found himself on the verge of orgasm. Skin tight, sex play hot, muscles tensed or clenched or both, and the knowledge that Chris was going to put it in him... it was almost too much. He whimpered, hips jerking erratically and all on their own.
Chris froze, then the fingers pulled out of him, the hand in his crotch disappeared, and Buck, cock throbbing to the rapid beat of his heart, almost hurting with the need to spill, wondered if he could hump the cabinet edge to get there.
"Jesus, Buck!" Surprise but not impatience, the amused tone of Chris' voice made Buck's ears heat up with embarrassment. "Didn't know you liked this shit so much."
Buck twisted his wrists again, took a shuffling step back until he bumped into his lover's warmth, and shook his head. "I didn't either." He never had before. It could be fun, kind of sweet or thrilling depending on the girl, but this, this was just so unexpected, so new. Chris all calm and quietly dominant, and the knowledge that Chris would do him now, all those thoughts had fueled his desire to flash point. He tried to talk himself down. "I think..."
Chris' fingers pushed back inside, and he didn't think anything at all. He just ground his hips back, measuring the limits of his containment, knees bumping the cabinet doors as he tried to speed Chris' maddeningly slow pace.
"Don't worry, pal," Chris said, tenderly. "Just enjoy it."
"Damn! Damn... damn... damn...." It was his own voice, chanting in the same rhythm that Chris stroked inside him.
The other hand, back to the bowl, and Chris squished frosting between his fingers like a child's mud pie mess. So much for finishing the cake... Buck had time only for that one rational thought before that same overslicked hand grasped his dick.
The yell was torn out of him. "I'm gonna--"
Chris' fingers left his ass again, and his other hand reached beneath Buck's cock, grasped his balls, and tugged them gently. "No you're not, stud. Not 'til I say. All right?"
It wasn't an order, or a demand or request. It was just a calm statement, quiet and implacable. Buck whimpered, nodded. Shook his head to try and clear his vision and his lust-fogged brain.
Chris read his body well enough, and a greasy hand settled gently at his waist. "That's it, Buck," Chris praised. "Hold it back."
Buck tried to get a little perspective, and forced out a laugh. "Feels a little funny," he tried, "me standin' here in a tee shirt and bare assed, frosting stuck everywhere…"
"You don't look funny," Chris assured. "You look like you need to be fucked."
Buck swallowed. "Yeah."
He felt Chris take a step back, heard fabric rustle and the buzzing promise of a zipper sliding open.
Then things got quiet. Buck wriggled his ass, bit his lip, twisted his wrists against his belt. Finally he craned his head around to see what the hell was wrong back there.
Chris looked nervous, just a little. "What?" Buck bit out.
"You sure? I mean, first time you did me, it was wine and candles and all that. Maybe--"
"Fuck me Chris, right here right now, don't make me wait anymore. I'm here, you got me where you want me, it's okay if it hurts just do it, you'll kill me if you stop now..." All the words came out on one panicked breath, but Chris' worry transformed itself, and the words were barely out before Chris pressed tight up against his back.
"I got it, I got it. We're good…"
"Aww, Chris, we're better than good, we're--" the pressure at his anus and the subsequent breaching of the muscle stopped his voice but not his breath; he groaned, dizzy.
First time, he thought hazily, spreading his knees a little wider. First time, in the kitchen in the sunshine with my hands tied and my ass leaking frosting. It was perfect.
Chris pressed in a little deeper, paused. "You good?"
He just whimpered, and Chris gently smacked his ass for him. "You good, I said?"
"Fuck!" Buck growled out, wrenching his bound arms in earnest now. If Chris didn't get on with it he was gonna Houdini his way out of this somehow and take care of himself! "Yes I'm good, I'm great, I'm about to die here, what do I have to do, beg?"
Chris pushed home, the thick shaft shoving deep, the force of it bumping his hips against the counter and there'd be bruises there later. He stumbled, widened his stance, tried to find his balance and push back, while Chris reached up and grabbed both his shoulders. Yeah. No more shy timid lover now, not as Chris thrust up into him hard, fast, the pain riding the pleasure, insignificant and thrilling atop a need so deep, so unstoppable, Buck could only stand there and take it.
He was close, on the edge. He found a rhythm finally, pushed back, tried to meet the speed and the power of what Chris was giving him and almost fell forward over the countertop. His dick ached, his balls throbbed, and he needed, he wanted--just one touch, maybe just to think of a touch, a tight hard grip sliding from the root of his pleasure to the leaking tip, the lightning rod that would bring out of him all the lust and urgency Chris pushed into him.
"Now, Buck, let it loose now," Chris growled it against his shoulder.
He jerked his arms, his hips, his head, trying to force it out of himself, so fucking close he could taste it, far enough away that he thought he'd scream. One tightly gripping hand eased off his shoulder, skittered like a mouse running, down his back, around his waist, the palm flattening and sliding along the edge of his hipbone.
The fingers barely had to stroke that sensitive knot of skin at the tip of his cock to make his semen spill, and he jerked again, stumbled some more, shoulders rolling ecstatically in their restraint, eyes wide open and blind to a white-hot passion that took his body by storm. Chris was no better off. The hard fast thrusts inside him jerked, erratic, reflecting the spasms of his lover's body, and nothing else existed but the cocoon of satiation, the pleasure that shut down his brain to everything but the feel of his body and the feel of his lover's.
He didn't know how long they stood there, gasping like landed fish.
He only knew that his thighs trembled and his ass was sore, and that it felt like he'd abraded skin off his forearms. What the hell, he had a sweatshirt up here somewhere. Chris was still inside him, the stretch of his cock aching a little now, but Buck just leaned against the counter and waited; Chris' panting breaths, the way his hands gripped Buck's elbows told Buck plainly enough that Chris wouldn't still be standing, without the support.
Damn, so good.
Chris seemed to come to his senses then, and gentle hands moved to cup Buck's ass cheeks. "You all right?" Chris asked, reflexive, as he eased his cock out.
Buck nodded, swallowed. He had the definite feeling he'd be shitting sugar for a day or two. "I'm fantastic." He chortled then, and clenched his ass muscles to get the blood flowing. "Ain't I fantastic, Chris?"
A puff of breath on his shoulder blade tickled, and Chris gently untied the belt. "Yeah," Chris said indulgently, the smile clear in his voice, "You're fantastic." Chris turned him and they bumped foreheads and just stood there for a time, eyes half-closed, minds half-off. Then Chris asked, "So what the hell are we gonna do now about the cake?"
Buck looked into the bowl, at the fingerprints and deep indentations from where Chris had scooped through the frosting.
"You double-dipped, huh?"
Chris laughed, breathy and maybe a little embarrassed. "I think so, yeah."
Buck shook his head; they'd worry about it later. He reached to draw Chris close but the look on his lover's face stopped him.
"Huh uh," Chris warned, and took a step back. "You can't see yourself."
"What?" Buck looked down his body, and realized. His slowly fading erection was slick with frosting, even his balls had been coated. He rubbed his thighs together to check; yep, it was everywhere.
"I guess I'd better shower off."
"Wait a minute," Chris said, and that soft speculation was back in his voice.
Buck knew that tone, and he was a damned smart individual; he reached back to rest his hands on the counter edge, and he waited a minute.
It took less than that. With one beneath-the-lashes look, Chris knelt before him and leaned in. Licked gently up and down his flagging erection, nuzzled in beside the root in a tender effort to clean up the worst of the mess. The touches were gentle, patient, and teased out of him those last zephyrs, those ghosts of pleasure that usually rested undisturbed behind the orgasm. Buck's skin tingled, and he concentrated on controlled, even breaths.
"Aww Chris," he finally said, his body thrumming at the gentle attention.
"Turn around," Chris said, kneeling back.
Buck had to reach out first, had to stroke his fingertips across his lover's cheek and through his hair. Then he did as he was told and turned, leaning on the counter and resting on his elbows. It was beautiful, outside the kitchen window…
…and beautiful inside, as he felt Chris slide up behind him. Hands settled gently on the curves of his ass, massaging, easing him open. The flat tongue licked, hot and wet, a long slow stripe up between his butt cheeks. It repeated its course, bottom to top, pausing at the very top of his cleft. Buck felt the gentle kiss that Chris placed on the tender skin of his lower back, and felt like he was floating somewhere outside his body. Chris licked again, dallying along the way this time, and Buck's skin shivered, across his belly, down his thighs.
Oh…* Damn, he loved this man...
Then a shock of cool air at his anus broke the spell. Another.
Chris' laughter.
He waited for it to abate, for Chris to say or do something, but pretty soon Chris was laughing so hard, it sounded like he couldn't even suck in a breath.
Buck shifted his legs as he felt Chris pull away, an answering smile stretching his own mouth. He turned around, found Chris sitting on his ass on the linoleum, howling like a hyena. "What?" he asked, reluctant to join in, but the sound was contagious.
"Guess you're right, Buck," Chris wheezed. "You always did think you had the sweetest ass in the department!"
Buck tried hard for a look of stern reprimand, but he missed it by a mile. He was laughing himself, for the joy of it, and because Chris could say something so fucking silly at a time like this. Dropping to his knees, whispered, "I'm right, aren't I?" and brushed his lips along the column of Chris' throat, loving the way the laughter hitched and paused.
Chris' belly jerked one more time, and his eyes, when Buck drew back, sparkled. "Yeah, Buck, you're right." Chris leaned forward and Buck met him half-way, and the kiss was sweet. The smile returned, and so did the faintest echo of the laughter. "But if you tell anybody I said that, I'll tell 'em why."
Chris just might, too.
The End
