"Yours is more fun," I answer, dropping my gaze to his. I can see the blue darken, and by this time I know what it means. The bulge in his jeans confirms it, and I feel an answering stir in my own groin.

"So when are you going to let me fuck you?" he asks quietly, voice a little husky. It’s been something of a sore point, but the man is built like a horse. There’s a very real possibility he’d rupture something if I let him fuck me. And fucking him is maybe the most intense sexual experience either of has had. He claims, and I’ve seen it, felt it, that when I’m in him, he has what can only be termed a dry orgasm that’s even more intense than a wet one. I’ll have to take his word for it until I try it myself. It’s not that I don’t want to, let him fuck me, I mean, but neither of us is what I’d call widely experienced in same sex intercourse, so we’ve kind of made it up as we’ve gone along.

My experience is limited to what I gained at the hands of a sixteen year-old upperclassman at Berchardt Prep School in Texas, when I was thirteen. He seduced me, and we fucked like rabbits till he graduated, a year later. When he told me I was being ‘inherited’ by one of his buddies, a real prick named Mathew Ainsley, I said ‘no thanks’, and got myself gang-raped for my pains. Aside from a similar experience as a prisoner of war in ‘Nam, Vince is the only male lover I’ve ever had as an adult. And I was all too willing to take him. The whole time I spent tracking him down to a rundown plantation house in El Salvador, I had wet dreams about him.

I’m not sure when I actually fell in love with him, it’s hard to say, exactly. We met when I recruited what I thought was a Mob hitman into my palace guard when I was head of the Profitts’ security. He didn’t know it at the time, but I auditioned him in bed, with three stewardesses/whores Susan sent along to relieve the boredom of being stuck in Stockton, California. He handled himself well, not touching me, but not shy, either. No performance anxiety. That was something no one working for the Profitts could afford. It also showed he could handle himself in ‘vulnerable’ situations. Mel and Susan’s parties were known for getting a little… wild. Group sex was the end result of most of the week-long drug-fogged bashes they threw.

I know when I figured it out, though. It was when Frank McPike, Vinnie’s field supervisor in the OCB, showed up on my doorstep in San Francisco to give me the stuff Vince had left me in his will, and tell me Vinnie had been snatched by a handful of political crazies with CIA backing. He was the one who expected me to drop everything and go haring off to Central America to find our lost sheep. It took me a while to realize that I wasn’t going to let someone I care this much about disappear. Like about a minute and a half. So off I went. And I found what I was looking for. And things I didn’t know I was looking for, and all in all, I’d die a relatively happy man if I could do it in bed, with Vince.

In case you missed it, love is kind of a new thing for me. After twenty years in the CIA, trust doesn’t come easy. The only other brush I’ve had with it was with the Chinese whore in Vietnam who took that particular version of my virginity. My then-commanding officer was also sleeping with her, and he was convinced that she’d blown an operation he tried to run, so he told me to kill her. I refused. So he ordered me to maim her, instead. Gallant asshole that I am, I obeyed. And I never forgave myself for it. I took her with me everywhere for the next twenty years. She was all the family I had, till Herb Ketcher, my commanding officer, had her killed to keep me in line. That was the move that made me ‘retire’ from the Company. With a price on my head, after I blew open a scheme they’d had me orchestrating to get Mel to fund a CIA-backed coup. I testified to it in front of a televised Senate Investigating Committee. They’ve been looking for payback ever since. Vince was the only one who fought for me, not just beside me. He risked his cover to corroborate my version of events. Not that it did any good, but he was willing to take that kind of risk. For me. Maybe that’s when he slipped past all the defenses I’ve erected against getting too close to anyone.

I’m startled out of this musing by his hand on my shoulder, and his fingers brush up the side of my neck to weave through my hair. I glance up at him with the look he calls shit-eating-meets-inscrutable, then grin against his mouth as he bends down to kiss me. He tastes like the beer we’ve been drng, ng, bittersweet and rich. My cock is suddenly tight against my jeans and he crouches beside my lounge chair as that hand slides down my chest to my crotch. The heat of his hand on me makes me ache as it curves over my balls and he kisses me deeper. I can’t help the groan as his tongue slides over mine. He grins at me as he unzips my pants and strokes his hand down my belly and inside the waist. He knows it makes me nuts when he touches me like this, and I’m damned near panting. From zero to sixty in less than thirty seconds. No woman on the planet can get me this hard this fast. At least none of the ones I’ve slept with.

"Something tells me you want me to play with your toys, instead of the other way around," he teases me as he bites my lower lip gently.

I catch his head in my hands, the thick, nearly black hair as smooth as silk to the touch, and I kiss him back with something like savagery. I want him, his skin against mine, with the same urgency I’ve wanted him since the first night he came to my bed. "You’re an asshole, Vinnie," I say when I let him go.

He laughs. "But I’m your asshole," he says as he pulls his T-shirt over his head and starts unfastening his jeans. "So are you taking me to bed, or what?" he asks me, that grin never wavering.

"Yeah, you jerk, and I’m gonna fuck your brains out," I tell him as I stand up, grabbing him by the bicep and dragging him after me. He yanks my shirttails out of my pants and slides his hands up my back, then forward around my waist, fitting himself against my back and making it hard to walk, as much because all the blood has rushed out of my head as because his legs are tangling with my own.

He’s nuzzling the back of my neck as we stumble into the nearest bedroom, his, in this case, and I nearly pass out when he slips his hands down inside the front of my jeans to fondle me. His fingertips are soft on my penis as he traces the big vein along the underside and I swear I’m about two heartbeats from ejaculating into his hand when he wraps those fingers around me and clamps me off. He goes on kissing my neck as his other hand moves back up my belly and he starts unbuttoning my shirt as I begin breathing again. We’ve figured out how to tease each other to the brink, then back off, until the satisfaction, when we do reach orgasm, is mind-blowing. Fucking another man has advantages I never expected, chief among which is the fact that the physiology is no mystery, for the most part. Since we share the same equipment, a knowledge of how to use it and what feels good is mutual and unspoken. There’s no learning curve except the one that teaches us the best ways to make it last. It gets better every time we do this, and we do it plenty, and if I don’t feel his bare ass against my thighs right now, I’m going to implode. I shrug out of the shirt as he pulls it back off my shoulders with one hand, his encircling fingers tightening down on me as he brushes his free hand over my chest, ruffling the sandy red-gold hair there. By the time that hand has slid down to my waist, I have myself under some sort of control, and I grit my teeth as he lets me go to push the pants down my hips, kneeling behind me to tug them off my bare feet. The kiss he plants at the small of my back, just above my ass, makes me gasp silently as my lungs stop working for a second, and I’m standing there stark naked, Vinnie at my back, ready for him to be the same.

I turn and grab his shoulders, forcing him to his feet so I can get his jeans off, and he laughs quietly while I undress him, then I kiss him, violently, when we’re both stripped, belly to belly, cock to cock. He’s as hard as I am, and a good inch longer. He must be close to nine inches, and his diameter is huge. He scares me, and I wonder how many of the women he’s fucked have been able to take that whole impressive length. I feel him move against me, teasing, as I rape his mouth, my hands holding his head immobile. I feel his hands curve over my ass, hot as branding irons, and the sneak attack on my balls from behind brings me back to a heartbeat’s distance from coming. Only the pressure of his fingers at the base of my scrotum keeps me from creaming his belly, and my groan makes him grin against my mouth.

"Roger, slown,own," he says, laughing softly. "We’ve got all day."

"You’re the one with the fast hands, Buckwheat," I tell him as I catch my breath.

He reaches behind me and yanks back the blankets, and we tumble onto the bed to lie there laughing at each other while we neck, content to take it slow. We spend the better part of an hour just tasting each other’s skins, breathing in each other’s scent. This is the difference between having sex and making love, at least for me. By now, I know his body as well as I know my own, every scar, every freckle, every chest hair, every inch of that majestic prick of his. Time is the biggest luxury we have. Time to know each other intimately. Every physical characteristic that makes Vince Terranova unique makes him mine as only a lover can be. I only pray he feels the same. He is the shrine I worship before, and I take that penis into my mouth, courting him with the roughness of my tongue. His hands in my hair encourage me, and I go deeper around him, timing my breathing to the rhythm of my strokes, concentrating on tasting him, teasing him. When I can tell he’s close, I ease off, fingers firm against the bulge in the perineum behind his testicles, the pressure short-circuiting an ejaculation, and run my tongue inside his foreskin. It’s torture. I know, because he’s done it to me. It’s the sort of thing that makes you beg for release, for the pleasure to end — and to never end. Every time he does this to me, I go totally mindless, my whole being concentrated on feeling. There’s no way for a coherent thought to emerge under that kind of sensory onslaught. He’s the same way, and he’s shaking, moaning my name like a chant under my touch. I release the pressure as I extend my tongue down the length of him and then suck hard on the head of his cock as I flick my tongue fast over the bulging vein where it meets the under-edge of his glans. His sperm roars down my throat like the stream from a high-pressure fire hose, bittersweet as the beer, and as intoxicating. I watch every muscle in his abdomen convulse with his orgasm, his head thrown back on the pillow, while he sucks air through clenched teeth as I caress his balls lightly, just to make sure I tease him completely empty. He has stamina like mine, and he’ll be ready for another go-round before we’re done here, but this should hold him while I fuck him. Slowly, I relax my touch on him, tonguing him more and more lightly as he lies there, hands in my hair, panting.

"I love it when you do that," he sighs as I kiss my way up his body and run my tongue over his lower lip. He kisses me gently to taste himself on my mouth and I feel his hands run over my back and ass lightly.

"That makes both of us," I agree as I roll onto my back so he can take over. As much as I love touching him, I love being touched by him even more. Like everything else about him, his hands are big. Broad across the palms, blunt fingered, callused from years of weight training. The unmistakable roughness on the area between thumb and forefinger from target practice is a weirdly erotic thing to notice, but every time he circles my cock with his right hand, that little added friction makes for one of those things you never knew you were missing.

I don’t know what kind of experience he has with this sort of thing, but not a lot more than me. I know for a fact that he was raped in the Jersey Tombs during his stint there for cigarette smuggling to set his cover story, and that it was no more of a turn-on for him than it was for me. The nasty scar that runs along the inside of his right thigh is his souvenir from that episode. But I also know for a fact that he was in love with Sonny Steelgrave, the middle-management Mob cappo whose operation he infiltrated and brought down. When he talked me into staying with him at an OCB safehouse during my senate testimony, I got part of the story out of him, and since we’ve been lovers, he’s let the odd detail here and there slip out. Like me, Sonny was apparently a little spooked by his sheer size. Between that and the fact that Vince was supposed to be Steelgrave’s employee and subordinate, I guess it’s no surprise that Vinnie found himself catching instead of pitching. It’s definitely a dominance thing, in that it requires a high level of trust to let another man penetrate you that way, as an act of possession.

Don’t get me wrong, I do trust him. I do want him. But I’m definitely having a harder time not letting past experience color current actions than he is. The fact that we’re both alpha males means we clash on things as a matter of course, but he’s never had a pro wit with my wanting to do the fucking when we sleep together, beyond wanting his shot at me, eventually. At some point, I’m going to have to get over it. Maybe today. Especially if he keeps doing whatever it is he’s doing right now, geezus.

He’s nuzzling the inside of my left thigh, lips and tongue running along the skin just hard enough to drive me totally out of my mind. When he finally goes down on me, he has to use all his tricks to keep me from coming before he’s ready for me to, and every one of them makes me want him more intensely. I’ve only had this kind of reaction to a lover once or twice in my life, this mindless need to be touched, to be loved, to be fucked dry. I’m in love…

I’m in love…

I’m in love…

Jesus Christ, I’m in love.

It’s not like it’s ever happened to me before. I guess that’s starting to be obvious, huh? I figured, at forty, it wasn’t going to happen at all. Not to me, Lococco, the lone wolf. I’ve had my share of one-night stands, even periods of time when I slept with the same woman more than just once or twice. But except for Preet, the Chinese whore I mentioned, none of them have ever been long term. And even that relationship wasn’t between equals. This one is. Maybe that’s what’s scaring me the most. Vince doesn’t particularly need anything I can give him. He’s made that pretty clear. He’s with me because he wants to be. Not because he expects me to take care of him, or because he wants my money, or anything else I have. Except me. Body, soul, heart. And I don’t really know if he wants any of those things, or if he just feels some sort of obligation to me for dragging him back from the jungles. Shit, it takes real talent to depress yourself the the hottest piece of ass in the Caribbean is making love to you like there’s no tomorrow.

His next ploy succeeds in returning my focus to the immediate activity as he reaches into the nightstand drawer for the KY jelly we keep there and lubes my balls and ass, then slips a pair of fingers into me as he brushes his mouth over my abdomen just above the pubic hair.

"I thought that’d get your attention," he mumbles against my skin, sticking his tongue into my navel.

"Geeze, Vinnie," I groan as he moves those fingers inside me. He’s gentle, but he’s also insistent, distracting me, keeping me from tensing up by sucking on my prick like a lollipop, big wet strokes of his tongue that start at the base and move up to the head. When he slips his tongue inside the foreskin again, only the pressure of his thumb on my perineum keeps me from exploding into his mouth. He eases off again, and I swear, he’s determined to make me beg for it.

"You want me?" he asks around a mouthful of my cock, his fingers still inside me. I can feel his own erection against my calf, and I don’t know if he’s asking to fuck me or be fucked himself, and I know I’m not ready for him inside me. Not yet. Shit.

"Yes, damn you. You don’t let me in and I’m going to mess us both," I tell him.

"Just checking," he says with that grin of his as he eases his body up along mine nice and slow, slick fingers wrapping around me. He hands me the KY and turns his back to me, letting me take charge.

I’m practically shaking, I want him so bad. I’m generous with the jelly, on both of us, and I move into him with more self restraint than I would have thought myself capable of, knowing the slower I go, at least at first, the deeper I can go. When I’m buried in him, my balls sliding against his, I reach forward to stroke his penis, aware that if we do this right, both of us will come like it’s Armageddon, even if Vinnie’s is dry. I make love to him with the same single-mindedness he used on me, aware not only of every tremor in his body, but my own. I pace myself. I have to stay in control until I feel him lose it. Then, and only then, will I permit myself the luxury of an orgasm buried to the balls in the hot, tight ass of a man I #146#146;t want to live without. It’s not my nature to keep dwelling on losing him, and I concentrate instead on what’s happening in both our bodies, right here, right now.

And it’s worth concentrating on. God. As I move in him, working his penis with my hands, I feel his breathing quicken to match my own, feel the sweat slick on my chest, feel my balls tighten with that aching tautness that signals immanent orgasm, feel his big hands over mine along his own softening cock, feel him bear down to meet my thrusts, and I feel everything in him clench. He’s so tight around me that there’d be no way to free myself, even if I wanted to, and we climax almost simultaneously. The first time this happened, he had to reassure me that losing the erection was sort of a bonus for him. Not only did he wind up with an orgasm that beats the regular ones all to hell, but he gets to have the regular kind, too. No wonder he doesn’t mind being on the receiving end too much. He says it was like this with Steelgrave,

We lie there, breathing hard, watching as another postcard sunset streaks the vast sky outside his windows.’s romantic as hell, and I can’t even believe something like that would enter my head with my penis still deep in another man’s ass. There are minutes, a lot of them, when the incongruity of my current feelings compared to my past experience is so glaring that it makes me freeze up like the proverbial rabbit in the headlights. Romance in another man’s arms is… unexpected, to say the least. Particularly since I’ve been a confirmed homophobe all my adult life. I guess it just took the right man’s arms. Feeling him so hot around me makes me wish that sexual aftermaths didn’t require losing my own erection. I could lie like this forever. His back is warm against my chest, and I go back to stroking his prick gently, knowing he’s still hyper-sensitized. His sigh of pleasure is soundless, but I feel the expansion of his lungs with his quick intake of breath. He lays his hands lightly over mine, caressing the backs of my fingers and hands while I masturbate him. He hardens again as slowly as I soften inside him, until I slip free of him and his cock is rigid in my grasp. As always, its mass startles me, exhilarates me, excites me. I’ve been working on increasing the amount of its length I can take down my throat before the gag reflex kicks in, and nowadays, when I go down on him, I can feel the head of his cock ram against the back of my throat. It’s a little like being a sword swallower, I imagine. I circle a forefinger around the rim of his foreskin, just brushing his glans, and I can feel him start to tremble again, the tiny quiver of muscles straining against release.

"Rog, let me fuck you. Please. God, I want you," he says, voice breaking as the pressure of his hands over mine intensifies, unconsciously urging me to increase the speed and pressure of my sliding grip. And suddenly, I’m ready. Whatever psychological barrier it is that’s prevented me from allowing him into me evaporates in the face of that utterly uncontrived plea. He wants me. Right now, maybe as desperately as I usually want him at this stage of things.

"Yes," I murmur against the nape of his neck, the midnight dark of his long-ish hair sweat-spiked and salty against my lips.

He rolls over to face me, his hands cupping my face as he searches my eyes for reassurance that I’m serious, then kisses me deeply, eyes sweeping shut in relief, long lashes dark against his cheeks. I love watching him kiss me, and usually, he doesn’t close his eyes, at least not all the way, letting me see his pupils dilate with desire. It’s a hell of a turn on, but the knowledge that he’s about to get something he’s wanted since he came to my bed in the first place, and that he can’t believe his luck, is even more arousing. Suddenly I can’t wait for the feel of him against me, inside me, and I rub myself against his rigid cock, encouraging him. As if he needed any. Encouragement, I mean. He rolls me over and settles against my back.

So naturally, that’s when the phone rings. The house has a couple of private lines, and one of them is jacked into Vinnie’s guest room. Maybe three people on the planet have that number, and none of them is anyone I care to hear from. Vinnie laughs against the nape of my neck almost soundlessly, clearly amused at the timing. Neither of us makes any move to reach for the phone on the nightstand, too busy with what we’re doing to care who’s calling.

About the time the answering machine picks up, Vinnie’s slicked me up thoroughly with the KY, and he’s sliding two fingers into me while he brushes the head of my penis with his other hand. His cock feels like a flag pole against my ass, and as he pulls his fingers out of me and positions himself against me, his glans pushing into me, Frank McPike’s dulcet tones issue from the machine’s speaker. Vinnie groans and I swear, our frustration mutual and total. He pauses, masturbating me with supreme gentleness as he listens to McPike’s message.

"Vinnie, it’s Frank," he states the obvious. "If you’re there, pick up. Vince?" There’s a pause before he continues. "Vinnie, your mother’s had some sort of episode. She’s in Montebello Hospital in the cardiac unit. She’s going to be -"

The speaker cuts out as Vince picks up the phone, abandoning his touch along me, and I swear again. Goddammit-to-fucking-hell. Now, of course, I want him and I can already feel him softening against me as his attention shifts to McPike completely. I get out of bed and stalk from his room as he converses with Frank, tuning out his half of the conversation as soon as I know his mother the bitch is still alive. Too bad, as far as I’m concerned. He’s told me about the way she cut him off when she thought he was taking up a life of crime. The double standard the old harpy adheres to ticks me off, since she had the gall to marry a ‘retired’ Mob Godfather after all the moaning and wailing about the company Vince keeps. I’ve only met the bitch twice, but her holier-than-thou judgementalism gets my back up but good. Her son is a better man than she’ll ever know, and it’s just my luck he loves her like one of the lost treasures of the ancient world.

It’s a forgone conclusion that he’s going home to Mom, the rat-bastard, and I fume as I get into my shower and turn the water on as hot as I can stand it. It’s another ten minutes before Vince steps in under the water with me, running his hands down my ribs and cupping my balls softly. I step away, too angry to kiss and make up that easily, ignoring him as I feel him soap my back and run the bath sponge over my skin and between my buttocks.

&qMcPiMcPikeus Interruptus," he says ruefully. "He’s got a real knack for crappy timing. I’m sorry, Rog. I have to go back to New York. My mother’s in the hospital again, some weirdness with her heart."

"Yeah, so I gathered," I say. The iciness in my voice makes him flinch. "I called my local pilot. He’ll fly the helicopter over in an hour, and take you to New York in the Lear."

He pauses at this, mid-lather, and his silence is deafening. I turn to face him at laand and I can tell from his face my expression must be as stormy as my mood.

"Thanks, Roger," he says, a peace offering.

I shrug. "I’ve always known where I stood in the hierarchy of Vince Terranova’s affections," I snap, sarcasm sharpening my tongue. "I’ll always be a distant third behind Mom and McPike. Come to think of it, I guess it’s actually fourth place, if you count your sainted Uncle Mike," I add as an afterthought, my voice cutting. I’m looking to hurt, and I don’t care how irrational I’m being. Jealousy rages in my chest, backing up my throat like bile. I finish rinsing off the soap and move to step out of the shower.

"Roger," Vince says sharply, catching hold of my arm, "cut it out. Stop being an asshole. She’s my mother. Of course she’s important to me. And yeah, I know the two of you didn’t exactly hit it off three years ago, but maybe you could give the hostility a rest?"

I glar him him until he lets me go and I get out of the shower. He follows me out a couple of seconds later, grabbing a towel and drying himself off without a word. He leaves me standing there and disappears back into his own room. I can hear him slamming around in his dresser and the closet, working off his anger. That’s one of the drawbacks to a relationship with him. We both have volatile tempers. I’m more prone to going off on him than the other way around, but I’ve pissed him off, and frankly, I couldn’t care less. In fact, I’m starting to feel better. A little vengeance goes a long way. He wants to go running off every time some clingy family member or a former work buddy calls, fine by me. It’s not like I plan on sitting around waiting for him. I have an empire to run that I’ve already neglected too long as it is, so while Vince is getting ready to desert me, I call my business managers back in California and warn them I’m coming home as soon as the Lear is free. Then I call my pilot again, and tell him to come back when he’s dropped Vinnie in the City. If Vince expects to return to the fold, he’s going to have to track me back down. Not that I’m planning on disappearing or anything, but I sure as hell don’t intend to spend the next however many weeks sitting around on a beach waiting for him to come back to me. I’m not that despe. e. And I don’t like the inexplicable sense of being abandoned. Suddenly the idea of staying here by myself leaves me cold. More than just cold, I feel something I don’t really want to look at too closely, so I settle for nursing my bad mood.

By the time the helicopter lands on the pad a few hundred yards from the house, Vince is packed and more than ready to go. I don’t bother getting up from where I’ve sprawled in an over-stuffed leather club chair, ignoring him when he sticks his head in through the big livingroom doorway. The chilly reception makes him think better of whatever it was he was going to say and I see him shake his head infinitesimally out of the corner of my eye as he shoulders his duffel bag and walks out the front door without a word.

So much for guilting him into changing his mind, I think, as I hear the chopper lift off and clatter away into the night. Well, shit. I hadn’t expected it to work, I tell myself, trying to hold onto that conviction. I’m not fooling anyone, least of all myself, but maybe if I believe it strongly enough, we’ll all fall for the bluff…

****

My pilot shows back up on my island the next afternoon before two, and flies me to St. Croix. I’ve booked myself a commercial flight to San Francisco rather than making my corporate pilot, who’s based out west, fly east to collect me. Since it doesn’t leave till this evening at nine, I have some time to kill, so I spend my time hanging out in the Conch, a bar Vince and I visit on the rare occasions we come to the main island. We come here often enough that the bartenders know us. It’s not a dive, not quite, but it’s sure as hell not designed to cater to the tourist trade. The patrons are working stiffs for the most part, like deep sea fishermen who run the tourist boats, dive instructors, off-duty waitresses, you get the picture. It’s the sort of place Vince gravitates to, his blue collar roots showing. It’s also the sort of place I’m more comfortable in when I’m looking for neutral territory. The tourist bars are fine if you’re trolling for an easy lay, but sex is definitely not my priority tonight. Or rather, sex with unknown women. If Vince walked through the door right now, I can’t swear I wouldn’t kiss him in full view of the moderate crowd that carries on their noisy conversation around me. Which is something that makes me sweat to admit even in the privacy of my own thoughts.

I order a beer and prop myself against a wall near the trio of pool tables, watching the game in progress on the nearest one as I sip the brew. Two of the three women playing look like they belong here, snug jeans, ‘night out’ make-up, flashy costume jewelry and hair that shows evidence of too many trips to the beauty parlor for dye jobs, crispy and lifeless looking. Or maybe all that’s just in comparison to the third one. I watch her as she leans over the table, sizing up her shot, then snicks the 8-ball with her cue using just enough english to sink the ball she was hoping to nail. She’s wearing black. Black jeans, black scoop-necked T-shirt, a simple but heavy silver chain with matching earrings, and no rings. Aside from the way the jeans hug her shapely ass, what catches my attention about her is the hair. It’s a little longer than Vinnie’s, cut in a girl-version of his fifties biker thug style, and it’s the most amazing shade of red gold. It looks like antique rose gold, patinated with gleaming highlights of burnished copper. Thick, the wispy fringe along the back of her neck damp with a light sweat, I want to run my hands through that mane. It has a sheen, a texture, a depth of color that didn’t come out of a bottle. The fact that a few pale freckles dust the bridge of her nose confirms the fact that the hair is natural. Forget what I said about sex not being a priority. I’d take this one to bed in a heartbeat, if only to see whether I’m right about the haircolor.

She circles the table, calculating her next shot, focused on the arrangement of balls and the trajectories that will clear the table with minimum fuss. The other two women lean on their cues, resigned to losing the game. Red is clearly a pool sharp. It’s hard to tell through the light-absorbing black wardrobe, but the body under the clothes shows the signs of hard workouts, tight-muscled, sleek. She’s about five seven or eight in her shoes, black boots that look like standard issue riding accessories. They’re polished, gleaming, but show signs of use. She sets up for her next shot directly opposite me across the table, and sinks another ball with a tricky rebound hit off the edge. "Nice," I comment.

She looks up to meet my eyes briefly before concentrating on the game again. "Thanks," she answers, moving on to the next ball.

I’m not sure, but her eyes looked green. Really green. Not the sort of stormy gray-green mine are, but honest to god emerald. It’s hard to tell for sure in the relative gloom of the bar. The other two women exchange looks and focus their attention on me, since it’s pretty clear the game is over, for them. The pool game, at least.

"You new around here?" one of them asks.

I shake my head negatively. "Just haven’t been in in a while," I assure them.

"You play?" the other asks.

"Some," I admit. Actually, I play pretty well. Maybe as well as Red. I can tell she’s following the conversation, even if she’s not participating, as she sinks the next to last ball in a corner pocket. "But I think your friend, here, could probably teach me a few things."

She glances at me as she slips past on her way to set up for her final shot, and the look is one I can’t identify, but her eyes are definitely green as grass.

White trash babe number one snorts ironically. "What friend? She’s cleaning us out!"

I catch Red’s grin out of the corner of my eye at this comment.

"We had to have three people in order to get a table," the second bimbo adds. Which explains the incongruity of this particular threesome.

"You could play with us instead," number one suggests, voice going sultry as she brushes against my hip.

Not what I had in mind. It’s Red I want to play with, and pool is not the game I pla pla playing. Right about then, one of the bartenders cruises past on his way to the bar.

"Hey, Lococco, where’s your friend?" he asks. He’s the usual night shift drinks wizard, and the one Vince and I have the most dealings with. Vince is a social creature by nature, and he’ll strike up conversations with damned near anyone. So he knows Vinnie by virtue of those little alcohol-lubed chats across the marble bar top they’ve had in the last month. And he knows me by association.

"He had business back in the states. He took off yesterday," I tell him. And my radar goes off as Red looks up sharply at this news before going back to her last shot.

"So you here for the company, or the game?" he asks grinning at me as the two bimbos move closer to me in a proprietary kind of way.

"The beer," I say and raise my glass slightly. "And maybe the company, if the right offer comes along." I ignore the pair behind me, locking eyes with Red as she racks the balls. The bartender moves on with a laugh, leaving me and Red to watch each other. The bimbos clear out in a huff when it becomes clear their presence is no longer required. "Care for a game?" I ask her as she chalks her cue.

She thinks about this for a minute and it’s obvious to me she recognizes the edge I can never quite hide. Most women are either fascinated or repulsed by that dangerous quality, but Red is neither. She’s interested, but wary, and I can see her brain working behind those eyes of hers.

"As long as it’s pool," she answers after a minute.

I grin as I pick up a cue, sighting along it to make sure it’s straight.

We play three games, whoever breaks winning without the other ever getting a chance at a shot. She wins her two and I win my one, and I offer to buy her a drink, which she accepts, having relaxed a bit. This one is not going to be a pushover. I don’t make a move on her, feigning lack of intent. I know she can see through it to some extent, but the question is, how much? Enough to dump me? Or just enough to think I’m being a gentleman? Our conversation is carefully casual, and halfway through the first drink, I introduce myself. She gives me her name in exchange. Tess. Tess MacTavish.

I can’t tell if we’re getting anywhere, even after our second drink, and by this time I’ve pretty much decided I have to have her. Careful courtships are not my strength. Usually, I’m more or less up front with my agenda, and if the woman is amenable, we’re in business. But instinct tells me that method isn’t going to get me very far with Red. There’s an animal wariness about her that interests me. It’s not the usual vibe I get off women, shy ones, and it takes me a while to figure it out. She’s not shy, not ie use usual way. It’s more that she doesn’t seem to play by the usual ‘girl’ rules. She is what she is, no apologies, no excuses. And she isn’t sure she needs men. My job is to convince her otherwise, if I’m serious about getting her into bed. Which may take a lot longer than I have to devote to a one night stand.

I decide to play that particular hand to see where we stand, telling her I’m scheduled to take off for points west in less than three hours. "It’ll probably be a while till I’m back this way," I finish.

"You joining your friend?" she asks.

I eye her with surprise. "What makes you think so?" I inquire. My alarms go off again, this time full force. Something is definitely different, here.

She shrugs. "I just heard Davey ask about him, and you said he was stateside. I assumed you were business acquaintances, and that you’d be off after him doing whatever deals it is you do. I mean, you don’t look like a local."

"I look like I make deals?" I ask, surprised. Generally, people don’t mistake me for the run-of-the-mill business type. My current get-up is faded jeans, worn a little thin over knees, ass and crotch, and a black button-down shirt with the cuffs rolled up to mid-forearm. It’s not exactly standard power garb. "What about you? You a local?"

"Seasonal," she replies. "I’m a croupier in one of the big casinos during the summers. I make enough to take the winter off, if I’m careful with the bucks," she tells me. "It’s reasonably easy work, and it pays great. The tips aren’t bad, either."

"Yeah, but the hours suck," I say, and she grins. The expression lightens her eyes and I feel her relax.

"So are you?" she asks a few minutes later after an extended but comfortable silence.

"Am I what?" I ask as I sip my drink without glancing at her. Instead, I watch her in the mirror behind the bar. She really is spectacular. What’s odd, is, she doesn’t seem to have a clue.

"Going to join your friend," she fills in the rest like she’s talking to someone in slow class.

"He’s off on personal business and I have business-business on the other side of the country. I doubt I’ll be seeing him for a while." And right then, a certain reluctant regret starts nagging at me for sending Vince packing. I’ve staved it off until now by nursing my pique, but the reality is, if he hadn’t gone home to mom, he wouldn’t be the man he is. Family is everything to him, and he doesn’t have much of it left. Just his pain-in-the-ass mother. And his goomba stepfather, if that counts. And me, even if I acted like a jealous high school cheerleader whose favorite tight end is suddenly distracted by some other pretty face.

Something in my tone must tip her off that there’s more to the story than that brief synopsis, and she turns to look at me while I stare into the bar mirror, not seeing either of us as I wonder how Vinnie is, where he is. Shit.

"I guess I was wrong. He’s not a business partner?" she persists.

I shake my head. "Nope. Not for lack of effort on my part, but he’s stubborn, he’s independent, and he thinks taking a job is more of a handout, at least if I’m the one offering it."

"Is it? A handout, I mean?" she asks interestedly.

I don’t answer right away, thinking about it. Really thinking about it, and trying it out from Vinnie’s point of view. I can see why he might feel that way, considering his overdeveloped pride. "All that matters is that he thinks it is. I just want him around."

She frowns. "He must be a pretty good friend, if you’re going to get all sappy about it," she comments dryly, and I feel myself blush.

"He is," I say sharply, swallowing the last of my drink and getting to my feet. "Maybe I’ll see you around next summer, if you’re back," I say coolly as I turn to walk away. She’s pissed me off with her sarcastic little dig, and even knowing she hasn’t jerked my chain intentionally, I’m suddenly feeling claustrophobic in the crowd. I miss Vince, and the strength of that feeling scares me.

"Roger, wait." She lays a light hand on my wrist and I freeze. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean -"

I don’t let her finish. Instead, I cup her jaw in my hands and kiss her deeply, tasting her gin and tonic on her lips, then on her tongue as I go deeper. Surprise widens her eyes, so I see the pupils dilate at the same time I feel her nipples harden against my chest and she sags against me as if her knees are about to buckle, her arms sliding around my waist. She’s snug against me, and I know she feels me, knows how hard I am. When I break the kiss and step away from her, she catches my hand, thumb brushing the palm and up the inside of my wrist lightly.

"Roger," she begins, slightly breathless.

"I think I made my point," I say and shake her hand off, taking another step backward, away from her.

Her laugh is empty of amusement. "I thought it was the woman who was supposed to be a tease," she says bitterly. "You’re going to kiss me like that and leave?"

I shrug. "I thought you doubted my… ability to perform," I say, thawing slightly.

"I never doubted your ability," she says, her eyes darkening again. "I just wondered where your sights were set."

"That answer your question?" I ask. With my usual mercurial perverseness, I’m now amused at the idea that she wondered, when it pissed me off less than a minute ago. I never said I was predictable.

Her answering kiss is all the ‘yes’ I need and she doesn’t resist when I lead her off.