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“Knees, Bodie. Now.”
Incredible. Nothing is coming at them. There are no bullets flying, no assassins lurking, no heavies in the shadows. But fuck if Bodie doesn’t go to his perfectly tailored-clad knees as soon as the words are out of Doyle’s mouth. Right there on the shag pile carpet of his own front room.
Doyle leaves him like that a moment, lets him settle. And it has nothing to do with the fact that Bodie’s face is inches from Doyle’s groin, every breath a cock-twitching wash of warm air.
Doyle looks down, widens his stance a little. Bodie’s head isn’t bowed. No amount of submission is going to do that. But his arms hang at his sides and fuck, he is not moving.
Because Doyle hasn’t told him to.
Doyle has to resist the urge to sway forward.
Not yet. Not fucking yet.
He thinks about putting a hand on his partner. Maybe on his shoulder. Or his hair. There is a thin line of blood at Bodie’s temple from the ring Kalovski’s thug was sporting, and he knows he should probably give them each time to at least wash their hands first. But he’s getting good at reading the signs, at knowing when Bodie needs this.
Besides, since he looked across from the passenger seat and saw that muscle jump along Bodie’s jaw and tighten him into silence, he’s been hard at the thought of how to fix things.
“Move closer.”
Bodie does. Shuffles on his knees a little.
Bloody hell.
Doyle finally puts his right hand on Bodie’s head, urging him forward that last inch. “Open up,” he breathes. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back when Bodie does, because who knew Bodie mouthing him through heated denim would be this fucking exquisite?
It’s taken two days, four pissed off Russians and a family caught in the crossfire to get them here this time. Not to the sex itself, of course. Because this may be a million miles from any kind of Sunday afternoon activity the rest of England is currently going about, but he and Bodie do what works for he and Bodie. Always have, always will. And if Queen and country have any objections to this way of letting off steam after a job well done, they can, quite frankly, stick it where the sun doesn’t shine.
Pretty much like Doyle intends to, actually.
Doyle groans, pushes his fingers into Bodie’s scalp as Bodie’s teeth almost make it through the denim. “God, yes.” He leans down. “I’m going to ram this down your throat, Bodie. Fuck those lush cock-sucking lips of yours...” Bodie’s eyes are closed, but Doyle feels the noise he makes at those words, feels it vibrate into his cock even as Bodie sucks in a breath and goes for his fly.
The dirty talk used to be when Bodie blushed and Doyle swore. But practice has them nudging on perfect now.
Prior to this particular practice, they’d spent nearly two days and nights caught in the crossfire between a group of fanatic Welsh anarchists and some highly annoyed Russian heroin dealers whose stash they’d accidentally burnt down. Mix in a family stopping to ask directions at the worst time ever, and six people, a dog, and two CI5 agents with very few bullets and a burnt out car, had somehow manged to hold opposing forces at bay. Doyle had done his part, soothing the wife when her husband got shot, talking their teenage son out of a Rambo fantasy, and backing Bodie when the real thing went down. But it was Bodie the scared family had turned to for direction when the bullets started flying. Bodie, silent and removed from Doyle’s negociating skills, his mind pure SAS as he glared at the furniture and calculated angles. So yeah, Doyle could live with the fact that Bodie barking orders basically kept all but one of the anarchists alive.
Just as Bodie now has to live with the fact that he needs all that off his shoulders for a while.
“Deeper,” says Doyle, increasing the pressure of his fingers. “And use your hand.”
Bodie does, hollowing out his cheeks, pulling Doyle into him with the force of it and almost gagging himself in the process. Doyle doesn’t tell him to stop. Instead, he pushes his fingers in harder, feels Bodie respond with a faster twist of his hand up to his lips while Doyle rocks in and out of his mouth. Doyle’s head goes back as Bodie tightens the suction and his grip. He could come like this. In about one more minute it would be lights out and it would be just what the doctor ordered. But it’s not what he wants. For himself or for his partner.
“Fuck... Enough.”
Bodie pulls off with a wet pop and sags forward to rest his head on Doyle’s left hip, breathing heavily. “Ray,” he says raggedly into the skin above Doyle’s briefs. Doyle shivers. Bodie doesn’t often speak when they have sex like this. It’s nothing they ever acknowledge, but it always gets to Doyle. Like his partner will even give speech into Doyle’s hands for a while.
“On your feet, mate.” He can’t help gentling his voice. Bodie sways a little as he stands, and Doyle puts his fingers under his chin to tilt it. Lust, exhaustion, blood; it’s all there.
Bodie’s cock is straining inside his trousers, and Doyle grinds against it with his own as he takes Bodie’s mouth in a rough kiss. His fingers make quick work of the buttons on Bodie’s less than immaculate shirt. He pulls back just enough to get it off him, then shakes his head at what’s underneath.
“You and your vests,” he murmurs when he gets his hands on the hem of it and pulls it over Bodie’s head. Then he’s sucking Bodie’s tongue back into his mouth as he goes for the zip on his trousers. He puts Bodie’s palms on his own hips and tilts his lower body back, because if Bodie’s cock gets anywhere near his right now, he’s not going to last. And he already knows exactly how he wants to come. Next, he tugs down Bodie’s trousers, stopping when he realises Bodie’s Italian shoes are in the way, laces tied tight. For a split second he thinks about kneeling, thinks about unlacing them.
Instead he leans in, bites Bodie’s ear. “Your shoes, toe them off.”
Making Bodie break the habits of a lifetime is all part of the fun.
Maybe one day he can take it that one step further.
They nearly always undress without ceremony, no matter how it’s about to go down between them. The need to get naked and against the nearest surface outweighs any urge to tease around with something as silly as a button. Doyle got drunk and tried a kind of belly dancer approach once, and collapsed in a fit of tipsy giggles as Bodie sprayed lager everywhere. So that was pretty much it for stripping as foreplay.
This – Bodie slowly toeing off a pair of expensive shoes without undoing the laces first - is as close as they get, and it’s more than enough. Bodie sways, blinking down at his shoes, and Doyle resists the urge to shake his head.
On any other night, Bodie would be heading for the scotch and some late night telly to numb out to. With maybe a quick handjob on the sofa to ease any leftover tension before lights out and an attempt to unwind. But Doyle has his own plan for getting the kinks out. So to speak.
He straightens, starts on the buttons of his own shirt and lifts his chin in the direction of the open door to the hall and the bedroom beyond. “Off you go, sunshine. You know where. And Bodie?”
He waits till Bodie’s at the door, makes him look back just as he’s got his hand wrapped around his own shaft, lazily stroking and pulling. “All fours. And don’t you dare touch yourself.”
Yeah.
Definitely no telly.
“God, Bodie...your back. Your fuckin’ back...”
Doyle is kiss-biting a trail across the back of Bodie’s shoulders, watching all that pale skin ripple every time his teeth pull off. Not that this is about pain. It isn’t, though Doyle knows there’ll be marks on both their skins before the night is over. He’s got Bodie gripping the wooden slats of the headboard, so that his shoulder blades are even more pronounced. He licks a stripe up the left one, loving the groan he hears. He has such a shoulder kink when it comes to this man.
Doyle’s cock is hard and steadily leaking into the groove of Bodie’s arse as he plays up and down Bodie’s back with his mouth. Bodie is arching up whenever he can, twisting and turning but never taking his hands off the slats.
“Good boy,” purrs Doyle, maybe recklessly. This is still Bodie, after all. A man trained to keep any and all impudence at bay with knives, guns, and well-timed chops to the throat. When Bodie simply hangs his head, bunching his muscles anew, Doyle bites down on what’s offered, soothing the skin with his tongue, and never more grateful for a chain of command he gets to subvert and play around with every once in a while.
He eases back a little.“Stay on your knees, Bodie, yeah? Whatever I do.”
Doyle has one more trick up his sleeve, one more move to get this particular field agent out of his mind and boneless before he fucks him into the mattress.
He reaches for the whisky bottle he knows is next to the bed. Bodie sees him do it.
“Ray...”
It’s broken, unbidden, and it’s because Bodie now knows exactly what’s coming.
“Shh...” Doyle’s left hand strokes down Bodie’s back as his right trickles a little more of the amber liquid down the base of Bodie’s spine. It only has one place to go. And neither of them cares about the sheets.
Doyle takes three steady pulls himself before he sets the bottle down and eases Bodie’s arse cheeks apart. Wet and sticky, he can see the whisky shining up Bodie’s hole and the first thing he does, is reach out with the flat of his tongue to taste. Bodie practically bays into the mattress.
“Stay still,” growls Doyle, clamping one arm firmly around his partner’s hips as he uses the thumb of his right hand to stretch Bodie’s skin and give him all the room he needs.“Need to get you ready. Wide and wet with just my tongue and a little whisky. You up for that, mate?”
He reaches out with his tongue again, this time using his lips to keep it sharp, and Bodie writhes when he finds the target. Doyle can’t help smirking, even as he sucks and licks his way in a little deeper.
The first time Doyle did this to Bodie, Doyle was drunk. Thought he had to be to get this last tick on his gay-things-to-do-with-Bodie-in-bed list. He slept with men before Bodie, but he never rimmed any of them. Just didn’t like the idea of putting his tongue there. His cock was one thing, his mouth was something else. But like everything else in his life, Bodie had this habit of blasting through barriers he thought he had, and somehow made it okay to stick his tongue in someone’s arse once in a while. Okay to enjoy it, too. Because whisky aside—and he still takes a deep breath, together with a long swallow or two to get his mind on board each time—he has no trouble closing his eyes and getting in there once he’s planted that first magical slide of lips and tongue. And it’s all down to Bodie really, because bloody hell, tough, stoic button-it-up-and-keep-it-all-in Bodie melts when Doyle does this. Turns himself inside out and makes the most gutteral noises Doyle has ever heard.
He’s melting again now, pushing back and almost keening into the bed. And he’s still on his knees, hasn’t buckled an inch. Though there’s a constant tremor running through the thigh muscles Doyle has his hands on. One final spit-slick thrust with his tongue and Doyle backs out, wiping his chin with the back of his hand, and then using that same moisture to rub his thumb around Bodie’s opening. No way he’s letting it go now. His cock is so hard it hurts, and he can only imagine how Bodie is faring. Because on his knees with his hands barely holding onto the slats anymore, Bodie is not getting any real friction, no matter how far down he goes to bury his face in the mattress.
“Bodie, Bodie, Bodie...” He strokes a hand down the sweat damp spine, gets his left arm around his partner’s shoulders. “Sit back now. On your heels.” Easier said than done it seems. Bodie’s harsh breathing fills the air but he doesn’t move..
“Ray...you need to. Doyle...I fuckin' can’t...”
Doyle pulls him away from the slats and gets him to sit back on his heels. He gets a good look at him and his heart trip hammers in his chest. It’s like Bodie’s strung out, quaking for an overdue fix. His pupils are blown, his bottom lip is bitten, and his colour is positively oxygen starved. As for his cock... Fuck, his cock is this huge, angry, red obscenity, jutting out so high and proud Doyle is tempted to bend down and end things with his mouth there and then.
But that’s not what he wants.
And this is his call. One hundred percent.
So instead he crowds up on his knees behind Bodie on the bed.
“Home stretch, mate. Home stretch,” he breathes into Bodie’s right ear. He switches arms and goes for the whisky bottle again with his right. “Open up, Bodie. No, not like that. Hands by your sides.”
He tilts the bottle carefully into his partner’s mouth, letting Bodie’s head fall back onto his left shoulder as Bodie closes his eyes and pulls on it greedily. Doyle strokes his throat with his left hand as Bodie swallows, loving the motion of it.
He takes the bottle back, tilts it into his own mouth and deliberately lets the large mouthful he took flow out again. Down his chin, neck, onto his collarbone. “Oops, “ he says, locking eyes with Bodie. He licks his lips. “Get that for me, would you?”
Two chests heave in unison for a single heartbeat, and then Bodie is on him, latching onto those amber trails like his life depends on it. He rocks Doyle back on his heels with the force of it, and all Doyle can do is wrap his hand around Bodie’s neck and hang on. Doyle doesn’t let him twist all the way around, because he knows Bodie is going to go for the friction if he does, but he lets him turn enough to get his own neck and chest throughly marked up.
“Bodie. Christ...wait.” Doyle is right on the edge, the pleasure and bite of Bodie on his skin too heady for him to stay in control much longer. He yanks Bodie up into a fierce kiss, and then pulls back suddenly. He squeezes the back of Bodie’s neck and dips forward for one last lick of that beautiful, swollen bottom lip. Slowly he pushes Bodie back around. “Hands flat on the bed, sunshine. Nearly there.”
Doyle slicks up his fingers once Bodie is on all fours again. Bodie’s head is hanging low, his breathing is a mess of gulps, and Doyle is pretty sure neither of them has a whole lot of stamina left.
“You’re doing fine, Bodie. I’ve got you. You fucking know that, right?” Doyle waits until he gets a ragged nod before pushing one finger in. Bodie keens, arches foward, and Doyle holds him steady whiles he works in another. He rubs and stretches, twists in a third—probably too soon, but fuck he’s got to get in there.
“Ray... Christ...”
Doyle eases his fingers out, gratified by the way Bodie groans and chases back for them. He leans in, presses his mouth to the sweat-slick skin of Bodie’s hip. “Shh, just hang on, mate. Hang...the fuck on.” He squirts the last of the small tube onto his cock, positions himself, and watches Bodie’s hole slowly take him.
The second his cockhead pops that ring of muscle, he wants to sheath himself in the tight heat instantly. But as prepped as Bodie is, he knows he’s got to give his partner some time. Three jerks and pushes is all he can give him, though, before he’s balls deep and Bodie is one massive quiver, head to hole.
“God...fuckin’ beautiful. Love being...inside you...” He strokes his right hand down Bodie’s back, keeps the other on Bodie’s hip for balance. It’s the only comfort he can give before he starts to move, because this feels too perfect to stay still.
He takes a breath and slams in, once, twice, rotating his hips a little. He knows he’s hit pay dirt the third time from the way Bodie growls and bucks beneath him. He does it again, same angle, and Bodie’s neck snaps back at the sensation. Doyle wonders if he could make Bodie come like this, with no hand or mouth getting anywhere near his cock. But his own rhythm is starting to stutter as it builds, and Bodie is beyond hoarse in the noise he’s making.
“Let go, Bodie.” He slows his rhythm for a second. “Sit...back.” He doesn’t wait for his strung out partner to understand him, just bands his left arm tightly across Bodie’s chest, and hauls him up and away from the pillows. “I’ll do the work... I’ll do it, Bodie. Just... fuck.” He can already feel the burn in his thigh muscles from the angle and the weight he’s now supporting, but Bodie is impaled beautifully, almost sitting on him with his back to Doyle’s chest.
Doyle starts to move, not as hard and deeply as before because he simply can’t. Bodie’s head still jerks back. It finds Doyle’s left shoulder and Doyle tightens his hold. He looks down and finally gets his right hand around Bodie’s straining cock. Bodie’s eyes slam shut and his chest hitches violently. Doyle kisses a sweat-drenched temple. “Easy, easy,” he murmurs. He keeps his mouth and nose pressed there while he thrusts once, twice, cock and hand in unison.
Bodie’s orgasm rips though him, there’s no other word for it. Doyle holds him close as Bodie’s entire body seems to convulse. The clenching on Doyle’s cock is incredible, and he has about two seconds on Bodie before his own vision whites out and he follows, thrusting raggedly and kissing curses into Bodie’s hair while he comes and comes and comes...
When he gets his eyes open, he and Bodie are pretty much as they were. Bodie’s head is still tilted back on his shoulder, eyes closed, chest rising and falling fast.
“Bodie?” One cracked syllable just about makes it out of his mouth.
“What?”
Doyle swallows, gulps in more air. “You all right?”
Bodie still doesn’t open his eyes or move his head, but a smile creases his profile. “I,” he gets out, “am fanfuckingtastic, mate.”
Doyle feels his own smile start. He relaxes his hold across his partner’s chest and slides his hands down to Bodie’s hips in an attempt to lift him up. His cock is all the way soft now and his leg muscles are really starting to burn.
“Bodie...”
“Tough. You put me here.”
Doyle groans as he separates them, leaving Bodie looking decidedly wobbly on all fours again when he stands gingerly. “Prick,” he says fondly, slapping Bodie’s backside on the way past. Just because he can, and because Bodie losing his balance and tipping face first into the pillows will never get old.
When he gets back from a perfunctory wash up in the bathroom, he sees Bodie has already moved himself out of the whisky-stained wet spot and is stretched out on the right hand side of the bed. Doyle’s shirt is a rumpled mess on the floor, so he’s guessing that’s Bodie’s clean up for tonight. He switches off the light and climbs in under the sheet they rucked down to the bottom of the bed. He turns onto his left side so that he’s facing Bodie, who’s also lying on his side. There’s plenty of light from the streetlamp outside the window to see Bodie has his eyes closed, but he’s not asleep yet.
There’s also enough light for him to see the marks on Bodie’s neck and chest, not all of them from kissing. He remembers having his arm clamped across his partner pretty tightly at one point.
He reaches out to touch them lightly, unsurprised when Bodie makes a face.
“Knock it off. ’M tired.”
Doyle studies his partner. He shifts, worries his bottom lip. “Maybe we need a safe word, Bodie.”
Bodie gives an indelicate snort and then yawns. He settles further into his pillow.
“Don’t be a prat, Doyle. It’s you. I don’t need a fucking safe word.”
Doyle blinks. He thinks about inching forward.
Bodie doesn’t even open his eyes.“Enough. I can hear the gears grinding, Raymond.”
Doyle inches forward anyway. “How about jam tart?”
Bodie opens his eyes at that. “How about a smack in the mouth? Shut it and let me sleep.”
Doyle smiles, nudges into Bodie’s neck.
Mind blowing orgasms aside, Bodie is reasserting himself...
“Move your leg then, Grumpy.”
...or so he thinks.
******