23. Twenty-Three #2
"There it is," he got out. "There it is — Christ — ye impatient bastard, ye couldn't wait the five fucking minutes upstairs—"
"You're the one who got out of the car, Fin."
"Aye, and what a brilliant fucking decision that was."
I crooked the fingers and he let out a small, impatient sound and started trying to work himself on my fingers.
The hood under him was hot. I could feel it through my jacket where his cheek had gone down on the fabric.
He'd turned his face into the wool and the steel under it had to be warming his skin through two layers, and he didn't seem to care.
He was breathing hard and his good hand was fisted in my jacket sleeve, and the bad one was flat against the hood beside his head with the four fingers spread wide.
I pulled my fingers out of him and worked the rest of the lube onto my cock.
"Come on, then. Hurry up," he mumbled. "Now would be grand."
"All right since you don't want it nice and slow…" I lined my cock up against his hole and yanked his ass back, sliding in all the way in one long move that left him gasping and shaking under me.
I put my hand flat between his shoulder blades. "Fast enough for you?"
"Aye."
"You sure?"
"Aleksi Laskin, if ye ask me again I'll bite ye."
I started to fuck him properly. He took it with his face turned into the jacket on the hood of a four-hundred-thousand-dollar car.
The noises he made were small and broken, punctuated by gasps and moans and the occasional colorful curse.
This was Fin at his most raw, at his best, the way only I got to see him.
I fucked him hard enough the Viper rocked a little under us on her shocks, just enough I felt the suspension working through my hand braced on the hood beside Fin's head, and I had the bad-good thought that I was fucking a man into the chassis of my favorite car and there was something undeniably hot about that.
I kept watching him, kept watching the pink swallow the freckles on his nose and cheeks, kept watching his cock leak all over the expensive paint job, watched his pre-cum drip thick and heavy down onto the wheel of those fucking four-thousand-dollar tires.
It was the most obscene, wasteful thing, I thought, and I fucking loved it.
I put an arm under his hips and dragged him back to meet me and he went up on his toes and the bad hand scrabbled at the hood and he laughed once, broken, like he couldn't believe what was happening to him.
And that laugh. That fucking laugh. I'd have crawled through hell to hear that sound again.
I leaned over him and put my teeth on the back of his neck.
He made the keening sound again.
"You're not going to go back to Scotland," I growled into his salt-slick skin.
"Aleksi…"
"You're not going," I said and fucked into him harder. "You're not going anywhere ever, Fin. If you try, I'll fucking find you. I'll drag you back here kicking and screaming. I'll lock you up again, I swear to fucking God—"
"Ye don't have to!" he panted and moaned. "Ye don't have to. I'm not runnin' ye bastard. I'm right here with ye and I've no mind to be elsewhere."
I growled and wrapped my hand around his cock and started to stroke him. He was close. I could feel it in the way he was clenching around me, and I wasn't far behind.
"After this," I panted against the back of his neck.
"After Mr. K is dead and in the fucking ground, you're going to stay with me.
You're mine, Fin. And I'm not about to give you up.
Not for some Italian prick. Not for Nikita.
Not for anybody. I'd burn it all to get back here, you hear me? Every last fucking one of them."
"Aye, Christ, Aleksi—"
He came on the jacket. I felt it pulse in my hand and the rest of him went tight and that was it for me. I drove in once, twice, and stayed, my forehead down against the back of his neck, my hand flat on the hood next to his and our fingers half tangled there.
For a minute neither of us moved.
Everything had gone quiet around us. The Viper ticked under us as her metal cooled. Somewhere out in the dark a generator hummed and the rain that had stopped before we left the city started up again, soft, on the asphalt at our feet.
He turned his head on the jacket.
"Aleksi Laskin."
"Yeah."
"Ye've ruined yer jacket."
"Fuck," I muttered. "That was a nice jacket."
"Ye gonna survive the loss?"
"Yeah, I think I'll manage."
He laughed into the wool. I felt it through my whole chest where I was still pressed against his back, and I closed my eyes and let myself have the laugh for one more second before I pulled out of him.
He hissed when I pulled out. I always hated that sound. The way he winced into it. He'd been sore from before and I'd fucked him hard on the hood of a car and there was a part of me that wanted to apologize for it, and a bigger part that wanted to do it again as soon as he'd let me.
I pulled my pants up. He stayed where he was on his forearms with the jacket bunched up under his chest. "Ye meant that, did ye?"
"Meant what?"
"Ye know what."
I didn't answer right away, because I didn't know how. Pop would've. He always knew the right thing to say at the right time to the right people. But I hadn't inherited his gift for words. I'd always just laid it out plain. It was the only thing I knew to do.