|
Welcome
to the Hotel California, "Hey, old man," the prison guard said brusquely as he smacked his club against the bars. "Gunther!" Gunther turned to see what he wanted. It was only six-thirty in the morning and they hadn't had breakfast yet. "Let's go," the guard said. "You've got a visitor." Only his lawyer could get access to him at this hour. His heart pounded. Had it worked? Had Cantrall finally defeated them? Obtained his release? His palms started to sweat. Rubbing them against his prison-issued clothes, he stepped out of the cell and preceded the guard to the conference room. There was no one waiting for him when they got there. "He'll be here in a minute," the guard said in that same disinterested voice. "Make yourself cozy." Then he chuckled at his own witticism and left. The door locked behind him. Gunther listened to the clanging doors and clung to hope. But when it opened again, he didn't recognize the person who entered. It was a young man, startlingly handsome with bright blue eyes, his red hair perfectly groomed. Two other, bigger men stood behind him, shoulder-to-shoulder. Gunther didn't need to be told who they were. They might as well have had FBI stamped on their foreheads. Gunther waited, saying nothing. Where was Cantrall? What was going on? "Mr. Gunther?" the young man said. "My name is Robert Kincaid. I'm your lawyer." A cold flash ran through Gunther's spine. "No, you're not. Josh Cantrall is my lawyer." "Mr. Cantrall is in police custody," Kincaid said matter-of-factly. "He's been charged with several counts of conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy to undermine the authority of the state, conspiracy to overthrow the police department . . . well, let's just say he's going to be too busy working on his own defense to be worrying about yours." Kincaid cocked his head to one side and gave Gunther a small smile. "These gentlemen are here to serve you with some subpoenas." Without another word, one of the FBI agents stepped forward and placed legal papers on the table in front of Gunther. He did not look at them. Instead, he kept his eye on Kincaid. "Since Mr. Cantrall," Kincaid went on, "is currently unable to serve as your attorney, and since his law firm is currently under orders to freeze all its assets and records for the court, and since Mr. Cantrall claims that you are involved in the alleged conspiracies with him, the court has assigned me to represent you." "You're a public defender," Gunther said, staring at this boy who couldn't have been out of law school more than a year. "That's correct, sir," Kincaid said respectfully. But the subtle body English that went along with that statement chilled Gunther even more than the lawyer's inexperience. You're a public defender fresh out of law school—and you're gay. The drab room suddenly seemed ten degrees colder. "I have the right to choose my own attorney," he insisted. "As long as I can afford . . . ." One of the FBI agents stepped forward and placed a blocky finger on one of the papers. "The remains of your personal assets have been frozen by the courts, Mr. Gunther. Mr. Cantrall has indicated those assets have been used in an ongoing conspiracy and to fund other crimes. While our investigation proceeds, your remaining assets are unavailable. If it is determined that those assets were, in fact, used to facilitate a crime, they will confiscated." "So, I can't afford a private lawyer," Gunther said, trying to keep the defeat out of his voice. "In addition to the freezing of your funds," Kincaid said, "I must advise you that the courts have found ample evidence that you have repeatedly used your assets to corrupt your legal advisors. You need to know that while you still maintain the right to private counsel, our interactions will be under the court's scrutiny. If there is any suspicion that you have again attempted to coerce illegal activity from your legal counsel—me—the courts will remove me and reassign another lawyer in my place." To ensure that my defense is perpetually fractured, Gunther realized. As if there were anything in this smirking faggot that he could use to his advantage. It was not the first time Gunther had felt a frustrating hopelessness when going against his two adversaries, but it was the first time it felt so final. "What happened to the policemen, Starsky and Hutchinson?" He shouldn't ask this man, but now he had no other source to the outside world. "I brought you this," Kincaid said in a kindly way. He snapped open his elegantly appointed leather briefcase and brought out several newspapers. Dropping them on the table, he said, "These should give you the information you need. I'd like to set up an appointment with you for a consultation after I've gone over your court records. I know I have a lot of work ahead of me to prepare for your defense." Gunther barely heard that. Any "defense" this ridiculous baby would come up with could only be slightly better than nothing. His attention was captured by the garish headlines and bizarre photographs on the front page of the daily papers. "GAY COPS UNCOVER VAST CORRUPTION IN POLICE FORCE." "GAY COPS SAVE THE CITY AGAIN." "MAYOR MAY RESIGN UNDER CONSPIRACY CLOUD." "GAY COPS USE PEACEFUL PROTEST TO WIN JUSTICE." Once again, their pictures were staring him in the face. Happy. Smiling. Hugging. Touching each other right on the front page. Winning. Beating him. Again. His eyes roved the page and he saw a quote. "'Justice isn't for only a select group,' Detective Hutchinson said. 'Justice is for everyone. That's what Starsky and I will always fight for. Whether we have a badge or not.'" Gunther felt the blood drain from his face. He sat heavily in the nearest chair, not really hearing the FBI men take their leave, or his new lawyer assure him he'd be back within three days to plot their defense. The door clanged shut behind them as Gunther sat alone and stared at the taunting newspapers spread across the table.
Starsky opened his eyes to see bright sunlight streaming through his bedroom window. Birds were singing, fresh air was gently blowing the curtains around, and he could hear some kids playing street hockey on noisy roller skates. All of it perfectly normal. He was comfortable in spite of the cool breeze. He was still encased warmly within his velveteen patchwork bedspread, and around his back was wrapped the man he loved. The man I love. He rolled that thought around his brain for a few minutes. Hutch clung to him like a spider, his arms wound securely around Starsky's chest and middle, trapping his right arm, while his left remained free to hold Hutch in return. Their fingers were entwined, gripping firmly. Hutch's legs were so thoroughly entangled with his, it felt like no inch of his skin was not in contact with Hutch's warmth and smoothness. The ball of Starsky's right foot idly rubbed against the top of Hutch's in a reassuring caress. He lay still, assessing his surroundings on this new, strange day. His head was nestled comfortably by his pillow and Hutch's shoulder. Against his ear, he could feel the warm draft of Hutch's breath whistling against his neck. It felt good. He didn't want to move, knowing that the minute he did the aches he'd acquired from last night would remind him of everything he'd been through at the rough hands of the rogue cops. Better to just lie here and feel the texture of Hutch's golden skin, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the security of his strong gun hand. Much better to feel all those things—along with the steady bloom of arousal from Hutch's impressive shaft currently growing along the crack of his ass. He shivered uncontrollably, unable to stop his body's reaction to the subtle suggestion Hutch's body presented. I offered it to you once out of fear of losing you. Can I find it in me to offer it again, out of love? Because you're deserving and so worthy? Because I want to give you all that I am? The involuntary shudder must've roused Hutch. His arms tightened protectively as his mouth moved against the shell of Starsky's ear. "'Kay?" he mumbled groggily. "Ssssh," Starsky soothed, cuddling back. "Everything's fine." His shifting caused Hutch's now substantial morning erection to nestle confidently in the furrow of his body. God, you're big, he thought with trepidation. He moved his ass slightly, testing the length of it, the breadth. Could that really fit in me? Could I possibly like it? He felt a stab of guilt. Hutch had taken everything from him without complaint. Even when he'd been too rough, too hurried. It didn't matter whether Starsky could handle it or not. They were partners. He would not let their love affair—he ran those words through his mind again, love affair—alter the basic fairness that had always been part of them right from the beginning. "You keep wigglin' 'round like that," Hutch said sleepily, "and things'll be a whole lot more than fine before you know it." He tightened his already possessive grip and shifted his hips subtly, deliberately rubbing his hard-on against Starsky's crack. Starsky hissed at the sensation and managed to whisper, "It's yours if you want it." Then he closed his eyes and froze. Hutch kissed the edge of his ear. His voice was still thick with sleep. "You said that that first night. Do you remember?" Starsky sifted through his memory warehouse. He saw himself in the mirror, sprawled, wanton, hotter than he'd ever been. They'd been tickling, wrestling, playing around, and Hutch's heavy cock had found its cradle just as it had now. It's yours if you want it. "I remember," he told Hutch. "I meant it." Much to his own surprise. Starsky recalled the white-hot desire curling inside him, the craving to give himself to Hutch, to use their passion to bind Hutch to him forever—his desperation to make that happen—his fear that their passion was just a romp for Hutch, a one-time aberration he would not be willing to repeat. Was any of that fear still there? "I still mean it." Whatever else he felt, that was the truth. Hutch deserved it. Deserved anything he wanted. It didn't matter what Starsky feared, how it felt, what the consequences were. He belonged to Hutch. Hutch deserved to know that. "I'm yours, babe. All of me. Now and always." His own cock rose to the promise. Hutch's hand found him, gathered him up in his big palm. Starsky swelled larger at the warm attention, pulsing in Hutch's loving grip. Hutch breathed a purr of pleasure against his ear. "Waking up with you every day is going to be a test of stamina." Starsky grinned to hear the easy banter in his sleepy lover's voice. "Think you're up for it, cowboy?" he teased back. Hutch chuckled wickedly and warned, "Don't push your luck." They hugged each other and rested in mutual warmth, letting the excitement skitter enticingly along nerve endings. "I could make us breakfast," Starsky offered. He wanted to give Hutch everything. Comfort, food, coddling, endless hours of long loving. Hutch's hand tightened warningly around his cock. "Haven't you heard? You're breakfast. The perfect health food. Quick. Convenient. Warm. Nutritious. Cholesterol free. High in protein. And packaged so beautifully." He nuzzled the juncture of Starsky's neck and shoulder, making electricity dance along the knobs of his spine. "Who's quick?" he challenged, affronted. Hutch tickled him with his nose, making him snort in laughter and scrunch up his shoulder. "We both need a shower," Starsky said. Hutch's semen was now a flaking dry patch on his belly, gluing his body hair to his skin. "Ummm. You're right. Okay. One wet breakfast coming up." Hutch's hand slid lower to toy with Starsky's balls, making his eyes roll up. "Hutch!" he breathed as Hutch played with his testicles with an expertise that amazed him. "Feel good?" Hutch murmured, even though he obviously knew the answer. Starsky shifted his legs, spreading them, slinging the outside one over Hutch's. If Hutch kept that up, he'd have Starsky begging for it. Fill me up with you. Possess me and make me love it. Hutch shifted, his cock slipping between Starsky's thighs, his crown sliding back and forth against his perineum, the wet tip kissing the back of his balls. "Starsky . . . ?" Hutch said softly, a sudden edge of urgency in his voice. Starsky gently enclosed Hutch's long shaft with his thighs, deliberately stimulating him. "Yes . . . ." He shuddered, not wanting to think too much. Not wanting to examine the unreasoning fear that stoked his adrenaline that much higher. Hutch shifted, his arms tightening around Starsky, making him feel trapped. Isn't that the way I made you feel the night I took you before you were ready for me? Go on, Hutch. Hold me down. Make me take it. I know I'll love it from you. "Starsk—?" Hutch breathed. The phone rang, startling them both. "Goddammit!" Hutch swore, wide awake now. "Should I let it go?" Starsky asked, praying Hutch would say yes while his cop's instinct screamed at him to answer it. Hutch paused for another ring before muttering disgustedly. "Could be Dobey. Kelly. Better get it." Shit! Starsky swore silently, then grabbed it on the fourth ring. "What?" Just because he'd answered the damned thing, didn't mean he had to be nice about it. "Starsky?" a breathy voice asked. "That you?" "Yeah," he said grumpily, trying to place the voice. He propped himself up on one elbow and moved the phone to his other ear. "It's Trixie. Tried to get you over at Hutch's but no one answered. I've got a surprise for you." Yeah, we already got it, he thought, annoyed. But he softened his voice when he said, "This better be good, Trixie." He felt Hutch's curiosity as he sat up and leaned over to share the earpiece. There was a rattling sound over the phone as if Trixie were handing it off to someone else. Then suddenly a voice rough with disuse rasped, "Hey, amigo, que pasa?" Starsky's eyes widened. "Tomas? Is that you?" "Sort of," the voice said with a slight laugh. "I'm kinda in pieces here, bro'. But I'm doin' better. ID'ed the cop who set me up today. Thanks to Baylor and Meredith. And, Starsky, they think they're gonna save my eye." He was surprised when his chest suddenly tightened up hard and he couldn't answer. Hutch took the phone from him as if realizing Starsky was too overcome. He held it where Starsky could hear what was going on. "That's great news, buddy! The best. We'll try to get over to see you today, okay?" "Not today," Tomas warned. He was sounding tired already. "I'm going in for surgery on my leg. That's why we wanted to call you now. Trixie'll let you know how it goes. She told me about everything that's happened. You get your badges back yet?" "Not yet," Hutch said, "but Dobey thinks it's going to happen. Don't you worry about us. Just get well and get outta there, okay?" "You got it," Tomas said. "And, hey, we heard about the scene in the lockup. Trixie's all kinds of mad she missed it. Wants a rerun just for her. So, like, uh, when's the wedding?" He chuckled delightedly. "Soon as we can find enough bridesmaids," Hutch said, grinning. Starsky could hear Trixie let out a squeal in the background. "Good luck, Tomas," Hutch said. "We'll talk to you tomorrow." Hutch leaned past Starsky to hang up the phone, then put a big hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "You all right?" He was being Hutch, the old Hutch, his partner, checking on him, making sure he wasn't in too much pain inside. It felt good to know that was still there. Starsky nodded. "Still hurts, y'know. What happened to Tomas. 'Cause of us." "Not because of us," Hutch said wisely. "Because of Gunther. Because there were cops so crooked they could do that to another cop." Hutch was right. Starsky leaned against him. Hutch slung a long arm around him and gave him a hug, then a quick kiss on his cheek. That wasn't quite like the old Hutch, but who was he to complain about new and improved? He turned his head, wondering if he dared try a morning kiss before brushing his teeth. Then someone knocked on the door. The two of them collapsed back on the bed in dismay. "Didn't you put out the 'Do Not Disturb' sign?" Starsky asked irritably. "Thought that was your job," Hutch fired back. The knock came again. "We're never gonna be allowed to make love in the morning, are we?" Starsky asked plaintively. "Doesn't look that way, does it?" Hutch agreed mournfully. Starsky got out of bed, accepting reality. He grabbed his robe and donned it hastily. "Why don't you catch that shower and let me see if I can get rid of the bad news in a hurry." "You're on," Hutch agreed, shedding the quilt and moving stiffly toward the bathroom. The sight of all that golden skin covering the body he was so desperately in love with nearly caused Starsky to walk into the door. Hutch grinned and shook his head as he closed the bathroom door. "I'm comin', I'm comin'!" Starsky called at the front door, wishing ruefully that was true. His erection had subsided during the phone call, so at least he wasn't sporting a tent pole under his robe. He scratched his hands through his unruly curls, probably only making them worse, just before he squinted through his see-through at the offending visitor. "Did I wake you guys?" Peter Whitelaw said, as he took in Starsky's sleepy countenance. "Oh, no," Starsky said, opening the door and ushering Peter in. "The phone call just before you did that." Peter smiled. "Sorry, Starsky. But a lot of stuff's been going on while you've been catching your beauty rest." He grinned wider. "And by the looks of things you could probably use some more." "Cute," Starsky said, but smiled back. Peter was in the same suit he'd been in when they'd been arrested last night. His face was covered with a day's growth. "You haven't been to bed yet!" Peter shook his head. "If I'm lucky I'll get there soon. A lot's happened this morning after you guys were released. K.R. and I have been in a bunch of meetings . . . . And the mayor resigned an hour ago." Starsky blinked and settled on the arm of his couch. "He resigned?" "Cantrall fingered him hoping to make a better deal. Was able to show a transaction of Gunther's stock trading hands. Of course, it'll have to go to court, but the suspicion was enough for the DA to demand his resignation." "Hard to believe how far reaching this is," Starsky said, a little stunned. "All of that, just to get rid of two street cops?" "Two street cops who'd consistently undermined Gunther's operations, who'd brought a halt to his illegal activities over and over. This time, it looks like you've ended them totally. His assets have been frozen. He's going to have to use a public defender since he can't be trusted not to corrupt his private ones. Uh, listen, I really wouldn't have bothered you guys, but before I went home to collapse, I wanted to show you this. I figured I owed you, after bringing you the bad news that first morning." He opened his briefcase and tossed six papers onto the coffee table. Three were local and one of them Starsky had seen. But there was also The Chicago Tribune, The New York Daily News, and The Dallas Morning Times. They were national news again, but this time, in every paper, the words "GAY COPS" were equated with heroism, with protecting and serving their city. Starsky stared at the headlines. Peter waited, then said quietly, "Are you okay with this, Starsky? The label?" He smiled in reassurance. "You kidding? Hell, it's nothing but the truth now, right?" Peter had witnessed so much between them. Starsky couldn't help but wonder how confused he was by it all, by them, by their relationship. "You don't know what to think about us, do you?" Starsky asked. Peter shrugged, looking tired and confused. "I guess I don't. It's not like you two have followed a typical pattern for gays coming out late in life. You really think you're gay now?" "Well . . . I can't imagine cruisin' the guys at the Parrot on Friday nights, but I know how I feel about Hutch. I'm in love with him. And I feel great about that." "I . . . uh . . . never saw two men show the ferocity that you two showed for each other when you were both under attack. When we were in the bar during the raid and Hutch broke position to go after the cops assaulting you . . . I realized I didn't know him, didn't know either of you at all. It was . . . kind of sobering." "That was an extreme moment," Starsky said. "But Hutch and me, we've had many of those. Each of us would die for the other; we've always known that. This other thing . . . the passion . . . the love—we're still working that out. Trying to handle it. But we'll figure it out. Now." "Uh . . . is Ken . . . is Hutch here? I went to Venice Place first but no one answered. Or," Peter smiled wryly "do you have him stashed somewhere, handcuffed to the bed?" Starsky felt the blood rush to his face, but before he could answer, Hutch said behind him, "No, not this morning anyway. How are you, Peter?" He squeezed Starsky's shoulders in greeting as he had a million mornings before. He was showered, shaved, long hair wet and combed back out of his face, moustache trimmed neatly. He looked beautiful. Starsky wondered how long it would be before he could get him alone. Hutch plopped a few aspirin in Starsky's hand. "Here. Go take those, you'll feel better. Why don't you hit the shower?" So you can be alone with Peter? Starsky wondered for one traitorous moment, then realized Hutch probably had some ends to tie up there. He deserved the chance to do that. He tossed the aspirin to the back of his throat and swallowed them dry, then excused himself to see if hot water would work some of the kinks out of his bruised body.
"I don't know about you," Hutch said, genuinely happy to see Peter, "but I need some coffee." He went to the kitchen to set up the pot. Peter followed him. "I feel like I'm always asking you this," Peter said, "but are you okay? Those cops really mauled you last night." Hutch shrugged dismissively as he turned the heat on under the pot. The aspirin and hot shower had eased some of his aches, but it was the anticipation of loving Starsky that made him feel like a nineteen-year-old with a perpetual hard-on. Even now, the whisper of Starsky's offer thrummed through his blood like an illicit drug. It's yours if you want it. Had there ever been anything he'd wanted more? Unless it was the thought of Starsky taking him again. Don't think about that or you'll throw a rod you'll never be able to hide in this robe. But he couldn't hide from the truth that bewildered him even as it excited him. If Starsky discovered he didn't like it, or couldn't tolerate Hutch possessing him, that was okay. He'd discovered the blissful freedom of giving himself totally to Starsky. The joy of that voluntary surrender to someone he loved and trusted implicitly was unlike anything he'd ever known, even with the women he'd really loved. He'd be happy if they were limited to that. Labels meant nothing. When he was under Starsky he was free to truly love and be loved in return. There was nothing like it in this world. He collected his thoughts enough to answer Peter. "Me and Starsk, we've had hairy scenes before. A little out of the ordinary, but—" "Just part of the job," Peter finished for him. "Hutch . . . I've never known any men who would really die for each other. It was a pretty incredible thing to see." Hutch paused. He tried to imagine himself from Peter's point-of-view. When he'd interviewed Peter about John's death, he'd been thoroughly professional, interested only in facts he could assemble to get to the bottom of a good cop's suspicious end. The next time Peter saw him was on film, making love to his partner. Then they met again at Venice Place. Hutch was rattled, confused, but still professional and calm. Between him and Starsky, he was the rational one of the team. Even after the shootout at the bar, Hutch had once more been cool and collected when Peter had come to see him afterwards. Through all the passive resistance training sessions at the bar, Hutch had been almost Zen-like in leading the classes, playing at being a bad cop, a demonstrator, showing a strong, centered togetherness he'd learned from yoga and martial arts. And then, in a heartbeat, he'd lost it all completely when he saw Starsky on his knees, imprisoned by Russo, being offered to Wilson. It wasn't as if he couldn't remember what had happened then. He could remember every second. The rage had filled him like a demonic spirit. He'd nearly levitated from where he'd been sitting in lotus, knocking people out of his way like bowling pins. He'd had no time to think. All he could see was Starsky facing the terror of rape again, just like in Brooklyn. There was no way he could let that happen. Peter had been near him when he'd broken formation. Hutch had been urging calm to those around him just before he'd acted. Peter must've thought he'd been possessed. No doubt Peter had never seen anything like that before. Hutch smelled the coffee boiling and turned off the heat. Reaching for three cups, he tried to remember what kissing Peter had felt like and realized he couldn't. He couldn't remember Peter's kiss . . . or Kira's . . . or Abby's . . . or even Gillian's. He couldn't remember anything before the magnetic pull of Starsky's mouth in that jail cell, the feel of those lips against his, the sweet taste of his tongue, the erotic touch of his teeth— "Hutch?" Peter asked, pulling his attention back, "are you happy?" His face split into an easy grin, one of the most genuine he'd had in a long time. "Oh, hell, yeah, I'm happy. I'm the happiest man in the world." Or rather he would be if he could get everyone the hell out of here and off the phone so he could be alone with Starsky, preferably for the rest of their lives. He poured three cups, doctoring Starsky's with sugar the way he liked. Distantly, he heard the shower turn off and worked at not imagining Starsky exiting the tub, wet as a seal, water dripping off the end of his cock, like some kind of god emerging from the sea. Damn, he had it bad. His face began to hurt from smiling. "I'm glad for you, Hutch," Peter said sincerely. "I mean it. Happily ever after doesn't happen that much in our community. I think it's great whenever it does." Hutch met his gaze, feeling poignancy for this man who hadn't found anyone worthy of his love since John Blaine. "It'll happen for you, too. Once you stop mourning and let John go." Peter looked startled and the shadow of pain passed over his eyes. Impulsively, Hutch grabbed him in a comforting hug. Peter stiffened, then relaxed and accepted the comfort, hugging back.
Starsky had just finished toweling his hair when the smell of fresh coffee permeated the bedroom. He cinched his bathrobe—his jeans were too confining right now, and he didn't want to give Hutch the idea he wasn't ready to climb back into bed at a moment's notice—and moved toward the kitchen. That's when he saw Hutch and Peter embracing. Hutch was grinning, his face a study in joy. For a half-second, Starsky's jealousy reared up hot and furious, but he clamped down on it and stepped back into the bedroom, giving Hutch privacy. He and Peter had to say goodbye on their own terms, and Hutch was a hugger. It was Peter's loss anyway, so what did he have to be jealous about? About six foot one of Nordic blond god, he thought, clenching his jaw. Starsky's Nordic blond god. No one else's. Grow up. The guy's given you all of himself. Don't make him crazy with your insecurities. Okay, fine. But if they didn't break that up in two minutes, Starsky wasn't sure how reasonable he could be. Then the phone rang. He rolled his eyes and called out to the kitchen, "I've got it!" He jogged around the side of the bed and snatched the receiver up. "Grand Central Station. The next train leaves at 12:02 on track three for New York, Albuquerque, and Middle Earth . . . ." "I'm disappointed," Sugar said in her best Mae West. "You're not even breathin' hard. I thought I'd catch you halfway to heaven." "Sorry to disappoint you," Starsky said, grinning at the phone. "There's not enough privacy in this place. Hutch and I are gonna have to sneak out to a hotel or accept a life of celibacy since there's always folks at the front door, and the phone won't stop ringing." "Always happy to do my part, big boy," she said. "Hutch is the 'big boy,' Sugar. I'm just a few inches better than average. What can I do for you?" "Don't even ask; you'd just break my heart. Having been part of the gay scene since the Pre-Cambrian age, I know what happens when two boys fall in L-O-V-E for the first time. They climb into bed and don't come out 'til their little treasures threaten to fall off. So, I'm taking the precaution of calling you to be sure you're going to be at work tonight." Starsky's eyes widened. "Work?" he yelped. "You're opening the bar?" "New glass is being installed even as we speak. I considered going for bullet proof, but decided that would take all the fun out of it. Place has been cleaned, set back up, Huggy sent over two cases of glasses for the bar, and while we won't have our stained glass backdrop in place for a few days, we're putting in a movie screen temporarily. Thought we'd show news footage of the demonstration. I was wondering if I could prevail upon you and the golden one to pose nude for the new stained glass. A study in contrasts. Light and dark. Broad and built. Beautiful blond and bountiful butt. What do you think?" "Uh . . . " Starsky stalled, "Sugar, look—can't we call in sick? Just tonight. We only had a few hours sleep and—" "Let's remember who was willing to give you two a salary when the rest of the world only wanted you to disappear, shall we? Where's your loyalty? Look, I know you would like to stay home for about a year and discover the outer limits of your sexual stamina, but you're going to have to do that on your own time. We need you tonight." "Sugar—" Starsky said warningly. "That movie screen over the bar and the ones flanking the walls? Starsky, darling—if you're not here tonight I can assure you we'll forget the newsreel and Judy Garland and be running a continuous loop of the short but illustrious movie career of Studly Starsky and HotLips Hutchinson. We'll call it 'Cops on the Make.' In Technicolor. Kapeesh?" "That's blackmail. As an officer of the law—" "Don't give me that. You don't have your badges yet. I'll cut you a break, Starsky. You don't have to be in on time. But your adorable worn-out little ass had better be in here by eight p.m. And make sure you wipe that smug satiated smile off your face before you get here. It's too painful to see for those of us sleeping alone. Oh. One more thing. After you get your badges back, don't forget you have to give me two weeks notice! Ta!" She hung up before he could reply. "Who knew such a nice lady could have such a mean streak?" Starsky said disgustedly to the phone. He peeked around the corner toward the kitchen, but Hutch and Peter had separated and were sitting over coffee at the dining room table. Sauntering out, he found his coffee waiting on the counter, and took a long sip. "Who was that?" Hutch asked. "Sugar," Starsky said. "Wanted to be sure we didn't forget to come to work." "Tonight?" Hutch asked in dismay and Starsky almost cracked up at his forlorn expression. "We can go in late, but if we're not there, well, let's just say Sugar really knows how to appeal to our better natures." "She's blackmailing us?" Hutch said, eyebrows climbing to his hairline. "It's not like it's hard to do," Starsky reminded him. Hutch sighed in disgust. "Well, if I don't get home I'm going to fall asleep on the spot," Peter said as he stood. "Thanks for the coffee—and, even though it's pretty inadequate, thanks for everything." Starsky and Hutch looked at each other in the way they had a million times before, whenever they'd come out on the other side of a case that should have ended disastrously and hadn't. Only this time, seeing that look on Hutch made Starsky's testicles tighten. Peter walked toward the door and Hutch walked with him to see him out. Starsky, wanting to preclude the possibility of another long clutch, moved to Hutch's side. Peter opened the door then stood framed there for a minute, half in and half out. He seemed hesitant, then finally spoke. "You know, I've been gay all my life. This is all new to you. I just want to tell you—" he looked at them both squarely, "love each other as hard as you can for as long as you can. I wish you the best." There was loss in Peter's voice and it touched Starsky in a way little else could. He had a sudden rush of memory—Johnny Blaine teaching him to swing a bat, swing a fist . . . stand up for what was right. He missed Johnny, had never stopped missing Johnny, and for the first time he understood that Peter had never stopped missing him, either. It didn't matter that the feelings behind their loss had different origins. Johnny's death had left a void in both of them. Before he could think about it, he found himself hugging Peter really hard. He felt a little flustered when they disentangled. Hutch shut the door quietly behind Peter and cast a curious look at Starsky. "Brazen, aren't you? Hugging handsome men right in front of me! Did you think I wouldn't notice?" Starsky stared open-mouthed at his partner. "Me? But, you—! Peter—! In the kitchen—!" Hutch advanced on him threateningly, wagging his finger in Starsky's face. "Let's get some things straight, you should excuse the expression. I know you, Starsky. I've watched you operate for years. I've seen you flirt and tease and twitch your ass for attention. I've seen you take a girl out for the evening and pick up two new phone numbers while you were with her. You need to understand that whatever patience I might have had where you are concerned has definitely run its course. You are mine, Starsky, my love. And I'm not sharing." Starsky had backed up slowly until he bumped into the kitchen counter. "Now wait a minute," he protested, dismayed that his innocent hug with Peter would pull this kind of reaction from Hutch. "I saw you two wrapped around each other like a roll around a hotdog in my very own kitchen! Did I carry on like a—?" "Jealous lover?" Hutch asked, grinning shamelessly as he moved into Starsky's personal space, pinning him to the counter. "Sure you did. You hid in the bedroom and fumed until the phone distracted you. I just didn't want you to think you were the only jealous lover here. I meant what I said. I'm not sharing you." Starsky's blood pressure climbed. "Don't worry, babe. You'll never have to." Hutch's big hands cupped his face, and then his lips were being kissed by that warm, broad, delicious mouth. He opened for the questing tongue and sucked it deep inside, tasting its sweet flavor, its unique, intoxicating Hutch-taste. His blood sang in his ears. Hutch pulled out of the kiss long before Starsky had had his fill—as if he ever could. Grabbing Starsky under his arms, Hutch hoisted him up onto the kitchen counter, knocking assorted canisters and utensils out of the way. He pushed Starsky's legs apart and yanked open the belt of the robe. After parting the robe and exposing his body, Hutch leaned over and inhaled Starsky's growing cock into his mouth. Starsky shouted in delight and flung his head back, bonking it hard into the cabinet behind him. He didn't care. His whole world centered on the searing heat and slippery wetness of Hutch's incredible mouth. "Hutch!" he rasped, frantically twining his fingers in clean silken strands of long blond hair. He felt each separate sensation—Hutch's wet mouth tightening on his growing flesh, sucking with perfect pressure, slipping up and down his swelling heat while Hutch's tongue teased and tormented the vein along his shaft, the ridge of his crown, his already moist slit. One of Hutch's hands toyed with Starsky's balls in a way designed to bring him up to maximum hardness in minimum time, as Hutch's other hand twisted and tweaked Starsky's nipple to painful delight. Starsky banged his head on the cabinet again as he cataloged every intense feeling inflicted on him. It was like listening to a wonderful concert and being able to pick out each separate instrument playing perfectly together. He was fully hard now and loving what Hutch was doing to him. Would he make him come right here in the kitchen? Was this to make up for the Peter hug? Starsky hoped so. And he hoped he could catch Hutch in lots of friendly hugs in the future. Hutch pulled off him for a moment. His eyes were glittering, the pupils huge in all that cool blue ice. His mouth was wet, the lower lip a bit swollen. Starsky couldn't stop staring at it. "Am I a good cocksucker, baby?" Hutch asked, smiling. He had a look of hunger on his face, his expression that of a starving man. Starsky's cock bobbed as if pleading for Hutch to return to it. Struggling to catch his breath, he ran his thumb over Hutch's moist lower lip. "You do that . . . you do that so good . . . ." "Say it," Hutch demanded, as if determined to exorcise the last of his demons. "Ask me for it." Starsky could see the word emblazoned on his locker. COCKSUCKER. He remembered the humiliation he'd felt the first time he'd seen the film of them going down on each other. It seemed a million years ago. The embarrassment seemed, at the time, more than he could ever deal with. He hadn't known how he would ever have the courage to face another man again. Now, all he had before him was the beauty of Hutch's love, his generous willingness to do this for him. That harsh blunt word seemed so inadequate to describe the incredible reality that was Hutch making love to him. But it was all they had. Sugar had told him they could reclaim ugly words and take the power out of them. Words like queer and faggot and— "I'm not afraid of words or labels anymore," Starsky said. "I'm not afraid of anything as long you keep loving me. My beautiful cocksucker." His heart swelled at the expression of delight on Hutch's face. "Put your mouth on me, Hutch. Suck my cock. Please—" Hutch went down on him before he could ask again. Starsky groaned, feeling every muscle in his body tighten in pleasure. The loud knock on the door made him slam his head again, only this time he felt it. "Ow!" They looked at each other and said simultaneously, "Forgot the 'Do Not Disturb' sign!" Just then the phone rang. "I would've thought our karma would have been better than this by now," Hutch complained, moving away so Starsky could get off the counter. Starsky knew there was no hope of hiding his erection, so he settled for pressing it against his belly. Whoever was outside knocked again. "I'll get the phone," Hutch offered, and went to the one near the couch. Starsky opened the see-through. He didn't recognize the tall, slender black woman standing on his porch. "Mr. Starsky? I'm Huggy's cousin, Theda. I've been cleaning your place for the last few weeks. This is usually the day I do it. Are you busy?" "Right now?" Starsky asked. "Well, actually, yes. Very busy. Uh . . . we had to work all night and we're, uh, just trying to catch up on our sleep. Could you come back tomorrow?" "Well, I'm over at the Johnsons' tomorrow. But I might be able to come back the day after, in the afternoon." "That'll be great," Starsky said with a smile. He'd have to remember to make sure they were at Venice Place by then. "Sorry to make you come up here for no reason." "No problem, Mr. Starsky," she said pleasantly. "You get some rest now." Gee, I hope not, he thought. He turned and scrounged around his desk for a piece of paper and some tape. He scrawled in a hurried hand, "DO NOT DISTURB!" then taped it securely to the front door. He finished just as Hutch was hanging up the phone. "That was Huggy," Hutch said. "He called to tell us a dozen things we already knew, but I got the feeling he just wanted to make sure we were okay. You know. About us. I told him we'd be a lot more okay if he'd get off the damned phone and let us go back to bed. He sounded pleased as punch. Wanted to know if this time he could have the film rights." Starsky nodded. "Take that damn phone off the hook, will you?" Hutch hesitated. Cop habits were hard to break. The phone rang. "Told ya," Starsky scolded and picked it up. "Hello?" It was more of a bark than a greeting. "Davey?" a male voice answered. "It's . . . Nicky." Starsky sat on the couch, stunned. The phone call was brief and awkward, but by the time it was over, Starsky knew he still had a brother who cared about him and, in an odd way, was proud of him. Hutch took the phone from his hand and this time followed his advice and took the receiver off the hook. He took Starsky by the wrist and pulled him off the couch. "Any idea where we were before we were so repeatedly interrupted, or is the mood totally wrecked?" Starsky looked into Hutch's loving expression and smiled. "You were proving to me that 'cocksucker' was the most beautiful word in the dictionary. I was just about convinced, too." "Liar," Hutch said gently. "You were such a true believer you were singing the Hallelujah chorus." "Sign's up," Starsky reminded him. "Phone's off the hook. Can we go back to bed now?" "I do believe it's your turn to carry me, Romeo," Hutch reminded him teasingly. "Yeah, you're right." Without giving Hutch a chance to react, Starsky grabbed his wrist, tucked his shoulder against his abdomen, and pulled him into a classic fireman's carry. "Oh, now that's romantic!" Hutch protested, as Starsky hauled him into the bedroom. Before he could put him down, Hutch had grabbed hold of the mounds of Starsky's ass and kneaded them as he walked. "However, it does have compensation." Starsky dumped him unceremoniously on the bed and clambered over him, yanking open Hutch's robe and pulling it off his shoulders. "Admit it. You love my ass." Starsky stripped his own robe off and tossed it onto the floor. "I admit it," Hutch said without a fight. "I love your ass. I love the way it rolls around in your impossibly tight jeans like two puppies in a gunny sack. I love the way it tightens up when I touch it. I love the way you twitch it around when you're trying to get my attention." "I do not twitch my ass!" Starsky protested. "You twitch it whenever you think anyone's looking at it. Those twitches had better be reserved for yours truly from now on, buddy, or that beautiful ass is gonna find itself in a sling." "Promises, promises," Starsky taunted, then deliberately twitched his ass back and forth over Hutch's groin. Hutch grabbed his shoulders and wrestled him over onto the bed until he was flat on his back, then loomed over him. "I love the smooth, ripe curve of your ass. I love the long sweep of your spine. I love your incredible eyes. I love your heavy, thick, dark cock. I love sucking it 'til you come in my mouth, and I love drinking you down and keeping that part of you in me. And I especially love when you pound your cock into me and make me yours." Starsky was nearly breathless at the poetry of Hutch's confession. "What? You don't love me for my mind?" Hutch laughed wonderfully, then covered Starsky's body with his and devoured his mouth. The unique feel of that powerful masculine body pressing him into the bed was terrifying and thrilling all at once. Starsky took his time experiencing this, realizing with every part of him that he was a man loving a man. As his erection rubbed enticingly against Hutch's, he accepted the amazing change in his life as desire traveled like lightning down his legs and arms then back into his groin. He wanted to weep in excitement and need. He was trembling with nervous anticipation when Hutch pulled out of the kiss for air. "You ever gonna fuck me?" Starsky struggled to ask. The fear was there immediately, making his cock jump, making his anus tighten down in defense. Hutch's large cock pressed against his, reminding him of its size. You're so goddamned fucking big. You'll tear me apart. Hutch's expression softened. "We never have to do that, Starsky," he said. Starsky felt the surprise all the way to his toes. Immediately after came a startling disappointment. Just like I felt the first time. "You don't want me?" he asked in dismay. At the same time he reminded himself, Be careful what you ask for. "Of course I want you," Hutch said. "More than anyone I've ever wanted. But you're afraid. I can feel it in your body whenever you bring it up. See it in your eyes. Even the first time. You were offering me something you thought I wanted, but you were afraid. You're still afraid. Starsky, I love you. I never want to do anything that puts that look on your face. Maybe someday you won't be afraid. We can do it then. In the meantime, we can still fuck. I love it when you take me. I'm happy doing that with you." "But, Hutch, that's not fair—" "Starsk," Hutch interrupted him. "When we were in the bar . . . and the cops came in—I did my job, just like Tsuka taught me. And you did yours. I got everyone into position, encouraged them to stay put, hunker down, and maintain their calm. I watched you, my heart in my throat, as you helped the customers get out of there, then confronted the cops themselves. I didn't know what they'd do to you, and I was worried sick. I was afraid they'd do to you what they did to Tomas. Then they grabbed you, and instead of fighting back you resisted, collapsed into your lotus, and the uniforms surrounded you. I couldn't see you anymore. I was still doing my job, but I was scared. Then all of a sudden, the crowd cleared from my line of vision—and there you were . . . in Russo's grip. I saw his grinning face. Saw Wilson confronting you. You were on your knees. And you had that look of fear. I've known you a long time, Starsky. I've seen you face down some serious bad guys. And I've never seen you look like that. So, I knew what was about to happen. And I lost it completely." Starsky smiled. "You looked like a lion coming after Wilson. I thought my heart would burst when you attacked him." "Do you think I could ever do anything to you that put that look on your face?" "Hutch, it's not the same thing. I'm just scared 'cause it's new, not 'cause I don't want you. I love you so much I can't find enough ways to say it. And I always said that kind of thing best with my body anyway. I'm glad you like it when I fuck you because it's so good for me I could die. But I want you to have that feeling. I want to give you something I never gave anyone else and never will give anyone else, 'cept you. Take my virginity, Hutch. Seal our marriage for good. I want you to." "Starsk . . . I don't think we—" Hutch was well into his argumentative phase. Starsky knew he'd have to work harder. "I had a jar of Vaseline in the medicine cabinet. I put it in the nightstand. Think it's as good as Crisco?" "Starsk . . . ." That was a warning. "It's all I could think about when I woke up this morning, 'specially once you got hard." "Starsk . . . ." His voice softened and his expression did, too. "I bet if I rolled over now," he struggled to turn under Hutch until he was belly down beneath him, "and pressed up against you like I was doing then," he demonstrated by shifting his ass until Hutch's cock nestled deep in his furrow, "that pretty soon it would start feeling so damn good to you it'd be hard to think about anything else, wouldn't it?" "Starsk . . . ." That was a plea. Starsky ignored it. He moved his ass slowly, rocking Hutch's hardness back and forth imitating a slow fucking stroke. "You really like my ass, Hutch?" "Starsk . . . !" That was a gasp. Starsky smiled. "Feels nice like that, doesn't it?" He pitched his voice low, seductive. He spread his legs, letting Hutch nestle between them suggestively. "Think of what it would be like inside. I'll be so tight around you—" "Starsky!" Hutch growled, his voice ragged. "You conniving, little—" He rolled off him as if only now realizing he wasn't trapped there. He sat up, as if to collect himself, but when Starsky looked up in the overhead mirror he could see Hutch staring at his ass as though he were famished and Starsky's butt was a rare steak. As Hutch stared at him hungrily, Starsky twitched his rear from side to side, flexing the muscles in his legs, tightening his butt then relaxing it again, clenching it in invitation. With a cry of exasperation, Hutch pounced on him, nearly knocking the wind out of him. He pinned Starsky's shoulders to the bed as he climbed between his legs, and shoved them farther apart with his own. Oh, shit! Starsky trembled, fear uncoiling in his gut like a snake. "You think you can get whatever you want out of me just by twitching your rear, don't you?" Hutch snarled while pressing him hard against the bed. Starsky had pulled the bedspread off before, so his erection rubbed roughly against a jumble of dark blue linen. It felt good, but not good enough. And certainly not as good as the crack of Starsky's ass had to feel to Hutch's cock, which rode it deliberately. Hutch dug a heavy hand into Starsky's hair and pulled his head back. "You think I'm helpless when I'm in bed with you, don't you?" Not right now, Starsky thought, fighting down a rising panic. Maybe he should've listened to Hutch before. He wondered if he brought up those previous arguments if Hutch would have any patience for them. Probably not. "You think you've got my number, don't you?" Hutch persisted. "The only number I'm thinking of right now is sixty-nine," Starsky confessed. "Think of another one," Hutch said, then plunged his tongue into Starsky's ear as he shifted his hips so that his cock slipped under Starsky's ass to massage his perineum. Starsky moaned as Hutch's broad glans pushed against his balls. Hutch lapped the shell of his ear and the soft skin behind it. Starsky leaned into the teasing tongue, his blood boiling. He tried to pull his legs together so he could give Hutch's erection more stimulation, but Hutch wouldn't let him, keeping him spread wide. "You gonna fuck me?" he asked, hating the tremor in his voice. "Maybe," Hutch whispered into the ear he kept licking then nipping. "Maybe not." Starsky shuddered helplessly. Not knowing was making him crazy. He never did have any patience and Hutch knew it. "You scared?" Hutch asked, giving his hair a firm tug. There was no point in disseminating. "Yeah." Hutch made a soft sound and Starsky couldn't tell if it was regret or pleasure. His adrenaline level kicked in another notch. Hutch released his hair and his over-stimulated ear so both hands could play over Starsky's body. He stroked Starsky's sides, his arms, his flanks, then rubbed the sides of his buttocks possessively. Starsky bucked. Hutch handled him more, stroking, petting, pinching him lightly at the very bottom curve of his ass where the skin was especially soft. He cried out and lurched but couldn't unseat his rider. Hutch lightly tickled the same area and Starsky thought he'd go insane. "Please!" he called out, the sensation driving him wild. "Please what?" Hutch asked as he nuzzled the back of Starsky's neck under his hair, then kissed and licked his way down his spine. Starsky didn't know so he made something up. "Touch my cock. It's burning for you." "Mmmm," Hutch purred. "Love hearing that." He pressed his lips against the uppermost bullet scar on Starsky's back in a gesture that was almost reverent. That nearly did Starsky in. Hutch was stroking his ass so sweetly as he kissed and nuzzled the scars along his back. How long was he going to drag this out? Starsky went still, just enjoying his weight and presence, cataloging every gentle touch of lips to skin. He imagined the scars fading under Hutch's loving kiss, smoothing beneath his healing mouth and becoming perfect skin again. Hutch could do that, his love was so strong. I want you so much, Starsky thought, the sentiment clear in his heart. I want you in me. Hutch's mouth traveled lower, curing the scars on his back and in his soul. He gripped the pillow and waited, his cock throbbing, his balls drawn up painfully tight. He felt a kiss in the small of his back, just before the rising swell of his buttocks. Hutch's hands were still kneading his ass, as if they couldn't bear to stop. Then Hutch took hold of his buttocks with both hands, as if holding them in place. His thumbs rested near the join of ass and thigh, right near the crack, while the rest of his palm cupped the mounds, holding them firmly, as if to let Starsky know who owned them. Hutch kissed the high swell of one buttock, then the other. Then his tongue wrote a wet line of sensation over both. The teasing touch was killing Starsky and he squirmed. That hot tongue wrote another line, then the edge of Hutch's teeth took a possessive little nip and Starsky bucked. Hutch chuckled and did it again. Starsky felt a surge of pre-come dribble from his cock and wet the bed. He was dying. "Hutch! Come on! Quit foolin' around!" "Uh-uh," Hutch said. "I love fooling around. Especially when I'm fooling around with you." "You gonna fuck me or what?" He was demanding now, tired of being tortured into delirium. "Or what, I guess," Hutch said, a smile in his voice. Then the tip of his tongue lapped at the top of Starsky's crack. Starsky flattened against the bed, stunned by the bold sexual move. He wouldn't! Would he? Hutch's thumbs moved up the crack of Starsky's ass from the bottom and pulled his cheeks apart as Hutch's tongue tip traced its way down that deep valley from the top. The wet assault was so delicious, so surprising, that for a minute Starsky was afraid he would come. He slid his hand down his belly and grabbed hold of his weeping cock. Sharp teeth came down hard on his tender ass and he jumped. "Don't you dare!" Hutch ordered. "That's mine to play with, not yours." "Hutch . . . ?" he whined, so hot he thought he would faint. "The cuffs are still in the drawer," Hutch reminded him. Starsky released himself immediately as a thread of fearful excitement traveled down his spine. Sliding his hands away from his body he held them out, fingers spread as if Hutch were holding a gun on him. Thinking of himself cuffed and helpless while Hutch took him was more than he could handle. And somehow Hutch seemed to know that the threat alone was all he needed. Hutch had his number. Hutch kissed the bite mark to soothe its small hurt. "Better. Hold still." Starsky knew that was impossible when that tongue went back to tasting him, sliding over skin so sensitive he couldn't bear it. Hutch was driving him insane with his mouth, with the thumbs spreading him wide, baring him for Hutch's sweet torture. He rocked and squirmed, rubbed his cock against the sheets, and it was all good but none of it was enough. He moaned into his pillow, insane with pleasure. Then Hutch tongued his anus. Starsky shouted and tried to lurch away, the pleasure sexy and scary and oh so hot. Hutch hauled him back easily, controlling him as if he had no strength, no power in his legs, his arms, as if only Hutch had those things. Those big possessive hands spread his ass wide, making him available to Hutch's mouth and tongue. He felt the soft sensual wetness, the hot tongue lapping at him, felt his body's irresistible response as he spread his legs wider, felt the betrayal of his own nerves as his anus clenched and relaxed, loving that wet seduction. Hutch's tongue controlled him, battered him, reduced him to a shaking, leaking sexual toy, something he could do anything with. Starsky was heaving, writhing helplessly under that simple touch, that licking tongue, and Hutch wasn't even breathing hard. Starsky knew he was finished, that Hutch could do this to him for hours without tiring, yet leave him a shaking wreck, weak and limp without ever having come. And, oh God, did he want to come. His hand moved to touch himself, but a sharp pinch at the tender junction of ass and thigh reminded him sharply of his lack of privileges. He gripped his pillow and humped the sheets uselessly, while Hutch lay between his thighs, feasting on him, driving him not-so-slowly insane. It wasn't long before Starsky was out of control with need. "Hutch! Goddammit! Please, please—make me come!" Hutch pulled away just long enough to say, "Maybe. Maybe not." Starsky cried out, then cursed him soundly. "You fuckin' sadist! You sonovabitch!" Then that tongue was back at work and all he could do was sob in pleasure. "It's good, Hutch. So goddamn good. Can't take anymore!" But apparently he could and Hutch knew it. Hutch reached under him, then gripped his cock tight at the same time that he penetrated Starsky with his tongue. The fact that Hutch would do that to him was enough to make him come, and Hutch had foreseen that and prevented it. The pleasure was so intense it was painful, but Starsky was in such a sexual fog even that felt good. Whatever made him think he could manipulate this man in bed? Hutch waited until Starsky was a trembling, shivering mass, on fire with pleasure. Then, when he had given up resisting, had decided that this would last forever and he would just have to endure it, Hutch pulled away from him. Before Starsky could collect his wits about him, Hutch grasped his knee and pulled him over onto his back. The sight of himself in the mirror, heaving, sweating, taut with desire, with his cock controlled by a blond demon clearly determined to drive him insane, was so hot his balls twisted. He found enough breath to ask the only question he cared about. "You gonna fuck me now?" "Maybe," Hutch said. "Maybe not." Before Starsky could cuss him out again, Hutch took his enraged cock deep in his mouth. At the same moment, he slid his middle finger up inside Starsky in one smooth move. Starsky remembered doing something similar, making Hutch insane with it, but then the onslaught of sensation was too much, especially when Hutch's finger stroked his prostate. Starsky yelled in shock and surprise, feeling as if every nerve ending in his body were standing straight up. He came hard, flooding the back of Hutch's throat. The sensation was so powerful, he found himself shoving Hutch's head hard onto his cock, wanting to drown him in the come Hutch wouldn't let him release before. Hutch didn't stop Starsky from controlling his head, even when his thrusts forced Starsky's cock down his throat. Somehow he swallowed everything Starsky had without choking. Hutch's hand kept fucking him slow and smooth, hitting his prostate on every inward stroke. It lasted until Starsky felt wrung out and collapsed bonelessly on the bed. Only then did Hutch release his cock and slide his hand out carefully. Starsky actually mourned the loss of that hand and the feeling of possession it had given him. Previews of coming attractions? It was a tantalizing preview if it was. And
I need you now, tonight
|
