Chapter 2
ANDREW
A flutter of nerves stirred in Andrew’s stomach.
He still couldn’t believe he’d allowed Ford to touch him earlier, let alone such intimate skin on skin contact in a crowded room of his former peers—who were also police.
But the memory of Ford’s hand on him had occupied his thoughts far more than stealing back business.
He should put an end to this, tell Ford off, tell him it was never happening again, and leave. But even just the thought of Ford’s touch, in public like that while still in secret, shot a spike of excitement through him, and he shuddered under his familiar stare.
Ford looked so good in actual clothes instead of in a prison jumpsuit or stolen uniform—sleek, simple attire in all black that made his blond hair stand out starkly in contrast. Like the tattoos Andrew knew were hidden beneath the layers.
“If I agreed with that… what would you want?” Andrew asked.
“What do you think?”
Heat climbed Andrew’s neck, his own clothes suddenly suffocating. “Do you want me to come over there?”
“No, Andrew,” Ford's voice dipped lower. “I want you to come right where you are.”
Andrew hardened from Ford's voice alone.
“Maybe a better view is in order. That ledge looks wide enough. Why don’t you stretch out on it for me?”
This was a terrible—wonderful—idea. They were alone. On separate rooftops. There was no threat, no danger. And Andrew couldn’t deny the shot of heat that pulsed down to his groin.
He sat on the ledge, scooting back to lean against Bruce, their lone witness, and spread his legs, resisting the urge to touch himself, though he didn’t try to hide the way the fabric between his legs was starting to strain.
Ford looked at that telling sign, at how hard Andrew was growing from nothing more than his intense gaze and teasing words, and then flicked his eyes to Andrew's face. "I am going to tell you what to do, and I expect you to follow my instructions exactly."
“Or what?” Andrew challenged.
“Or I’ll have to come over there and spank you.”
Andrew choked back a whimper. That should not sound appealing, but he was already so hard. He’d needed to get off that morning, and another round sounded amazing, even if it was by his own hand. He deserved something out of the cat and mouse they’d played today, didn’t he?
Shifting his hips, he let his legs drop open another inch. "What do you want me to do?"
"Stay like that." Ford squared himself facing Andrew at the edge of the other roof. "Take off your jacket. Then start to undo your shirt. Slowly. Don’t do anything more until I tell you to."
Shrugging the jacket from his shoulders, Andrew let it pool around him and reached for the top button of his shirt. Slowly, as asked, he undid one and then another, hesitating when he got to his navel. "Do you… think anyone can see us from all the way up here?"
"Anything is possible, Andrew. Feeling shy? After this morning, I got the impression you liked living dangerously."
Andrew swallowed but kept his eyes on Ford, who was rapt with attention on everything he was doing. Once his shirt fell open, he hovered near his belt.
“Take it off. Then unzip.”
Andrew obeyed. His cock was still trapped within the confines of his slacks, but it was obvious he had nothing on beneath.
"No underwear?" Ford asked smugly.
“They got a little wet this morning. I didn’t have another pair.”
“We’ll make an even better mess this time.” Ford snickered. “Won’t we?”
With a bite of his lip, Andrew nodded. He wanted to pull himself out, felt pained by the pressure, by how much he needed to be free, to be touched, but Ford hadn’t given him an order to do that yet.
His mind buzzed with all the things Ford might ask of him, and the last thing he wanted was to interrupt that.
“You want to touch yourself, don’t you?” Ford asked.
Andrew nodded again.
Ford’s eyes took in his bare, revealed chest, his hips, hands twitching at his sides to touch something, anything, and the bulge still somewhat hidden. “My only regret about this morning is that I didn’t get to see you. Show me.”
The quick dart of Ford’s gaze to Andrew’s eyes, holding there, watching him, before he glanced again to Andrew’s hand reaching into his slacks, shot another pulse between his legs.
Andrew pulled himself free, careful around the edges of the zipper, and held himself for Ford to see—who looked at him so hungrily, out in the open, on a rooftop, where anyone could easily see what they were doing—and then Andrew dragged his thumb down his length.
“Stop,” Ford ordered, jerking Andrew to a halt as he looked up at the sharp tone, only to see Ford soften. “I didn’t say you could do that yet. Wait to be told, or you’ll ruin the game.”
Stilling his hand, Andrew calmed any burst of frustration and waited.
“Good boy. You do this right and next time you can call the shots again. Anything you want.”
Yes, Andrew thought—but no, shit, he should not be planning another ‘next time’ when he shouldn’t be allowing this time, shouldn’t have allowed this morning, or a first time! But the flutter of desire in his belly was too strong.
At Christmas, it had been about having control, finally, when Andrew had felt so powerless. But lately, fighting to keep his business going, he always had to be in charge, take responsibility, and it was exhausting.
“You look so wet, Andrew,” Ford husked. “I can see it from here.”
Andrew peeked down, though he could feel the precum dribbling over his fingers.
“You like me watching you like this, don’t you?”
Another whimper passed Andrew’s lips, as he looked up, caught in Ford’s stare, and God, he was right; the feel of his eyes on Andrew was almost as good as being touched.
He did still want to touch himself though, so badly.
“Answer when I ask you a question,” Ford said.
“Y-yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I like having your eyes on me. Like this. Holding my cock.”
“Mmm… you do, don’t you? You can touch yourself now, but slow. Very slow.”
The first pass of Andrew’s fingers down his shaft, even at a gradual pace, was heaven, picking up the wetness, curling around his tip, his thumb passing more firmly, and then finishing the stroke toward his base.
“Keep going… that’s it. A little harder now. Harder. Faster. Now stop.”
Andrew trembled at the order to cease.
“Take your pants off. Make yourself comfortable however you’d like but keep the shirt on.”
Mourning the loss of his hand, Andrew wondered how much more likely someone might realize what was going on up here once he was naked.
That didn’t stop him though, and he’d soon dropped his pants onto the rooftop, spread his jacket across the ledge, and returned to his sprawled position, with nothing but his shirt hanging from his shoulders.
“Good.” Ford ran his tongue over his lips. “Prop your knees up. Yes… like that. What a view. Now, I want you to suck two fingers into your mouth and keep them there. Get them wet until I tell you to stop.”
The image of what Ford intended to have him do shook Andrew, and he thought—no, he couldn’t do this, not here, not out in the open.
But he really didn’t want to spoil whatever this was between them, and the nervous tension in every action, in every moment spent exposed, intensified the heat building and how good it felt.
He lifted his hand to his mouth.
“Slower.”
Hesitating, Andrew moved at a more gradual pace, reaching his mouth and parting his lips to suck two fingers in as instructed—slow, slower, mouth wide so Ford could see. Then he closed his lips around his fingers, letting the saliva build to coat them.
“You can take them deeper than that, can’t you?” Ford’s grin was insufferable.
And so sexy.
Andrew groaned as he sucked them in deeper, saliva leaking from the corners of his mouth.
“Better. You can stop. Make sure those fingers stay wet. You can guess what I’m going to ask you to do with them.”
Opening his mouth to pull the fingers free—slowly, knowing Ford would remind him if he didn’t—he let them hover, waiting for orders.
“You learn quick. Bring them down. Tease yourself a little, but don’t press inside yet.”
Andrew was doing this, on a rooftop, exposed, in front of Artifice, his nemesis—for his nemesis. He’d never been so hard, leaking precum all over his thigh and the trench coat beneath him.
Leaning further against the gargoyle at his back, Andrew spread his legs as far as he could, touched his fingers to the budded skin, prodding at his entrance, just a little, but not letting even a fingertip slip inside.
Finally, Ford’s smug expression faltered, his mouth going slack. He was too far away for Andrew to see how blown his pupils might be, but he imagined them pure black.
“Let one finger inside, only the barest inch, slow as you can.”
Andrew whimpered again. Going this slow was torture, his gut on fire. He pressed in not quite to the first knuckle.
"Keep going."
Thank God.
"Deeper. Stretch yourself. Let me see how much you like it."
"Ugnnn," Andrew arched his neck and closed his eyes—but no. He wanted to see Ford, wanted to watch those magnificent eyes on him.
"You're so beautiful, Andrew, you have no idea. Add the other finger."
Whining eagerly at the touch, Andrew stretched himself wider, starting to scissor, slowly, always so slowly.
And as he lay there, balanced on the ledge of the roof, he saw Ford lift his hands to the waist of his pants, lamenting that they weren't on the same roof and imagining how differently this could go if they were.
Ford pulled himself free of his pants, took himself in hand, and stroked. Andrew wanted to touch him, touch himself again, feel Ford's hands on him, something.
"Keep going. Deeper," Ford's voice rumbled across the line, rough and quaking.
Andrew complied, pressing his wet fingers deep inside himself, found his prostate, and quivered. "Ford..."
"Wishing that was my cock inside you, Andrew?"