Operation 5 Foreign Soil
God
God woke at five in the morning out of habit, his eyes opening before the first hint of sunlight crept between the open blackout curtains of the Luxford Beverly suite.
For one disoriented second, he wondered why the hell he felt so rested. Then he remembered he was three hours behind Atlanta. It was eight a.m. back home.
The mattress was soft enough to sink into without swallowing him—easily the nicest bed he’d ever slept on. He was beginning to wonder if he’d been ripped off after dropping a couple of grand on his Tempur-Pedic.
Day was tight against his side with one arm stretched over his stomach, his slow breaths warm against his shoulder.
God stared at the ceiling. His body might’ve rested well, but his mind sure hadn’t.
It moved the way it always did—replaying, reassessing, confirming details over and over until every possible angle had been restructured in his head.
The entire flight yesterday had turned into one long operational breakdown.
After landing in Los Angeles, two chauffeured Escalades were waiting outside the terminal to transport them to their hotel.
Wes and Law weren’t playing around when they said the studio would cover all of their expenses. The SUVs alone cost more per day than some precincts operated on in a week.
The Luxford Beverly towered high above Sunset Boulevard in gleaming tiers of glass and white stone, overlooking the city like some lavish fortress for the rich and overpaid.
Valets in pristine uniforms rushed to open their doors before they even touched the handles. The lobby felt less like a hotel and more like luxury had developed a serious ego.
Oversized crystal chandeliers hung three stories overhead, glistening above a polished marble floor so spotless he could see the exhaustion in his own reflection.
Everything smelled expensive—the fresh flowers, grandiose furniture, and whatever absurd scent rich people paid to pump through the air vents.
There were no ringing phones, yelling kids, or stressed front desk clerks barely holding it together. Just soft piano music in the distance and beautiful people moving around as if they’d never worried about a bill in their damn lives.
He and his team drew attention the second they walked through the doors.
They moved through the lobby like a gang whose GPS had confused “luxury hotel” with “place that charged by the hour.”
More than a few people stared openly, as if trying to figure out if they were a retiring rock band, professional athletes, or there to collect a debt.
Steele had already gotten into a verbal altercation with a concierge within two minutes of arrival after being told he couldn’t smoke on the grounds.
And because Ruxs could never pass up the opportunity to join in a fight, they’d started double-teaming the poor guy until he looked ready to piss himself.
Green had dragged them both away before God had to intervene.
After checking out their separate suites and dropping bags, they met downstairs in the hotel’s private restaurant, The Ember Room, where the lighting stayed low, the whiskey shelves climbed two stories high behind the bar, and every steak on the menu cost enough to sponsor a child.
Free ordered dessert first.
The dinner had quickly turned operational.
They discussed Studio 8’s security problems, reviewed what Tech and Free had uncovered, and built the framework for how they’d approach the situation over the next few weeks.
God was already impressed with what they’d compiled on West Protective Solutions.
The owner sounded like the real deal.
Cassidy Morrison, retired Gunnery Sergeant, had done eighteen years in the Marine Corps Embassy Security Group. Taken two bullets protecting a senior-level government diplomat during an overseas extraction.
He had multiple commendations for leadership, tactical instruction, and crisis response.
God respected men who bled for the shield.
Tech had slid his tablet across the dinner table. “His recruitment standards are pretty brutal, honestly. Physical evaluations, psychological screenings, surveillance testing, live scenario assessments.”
“Good,” God had muttered while cutting into his Delmonico.
“Yeah, except lately he’s had to lower some of his standards because of staffing shortages,” Free added. “And his customer satisfaction ratings are starting to dip because of it.”
Ruxs snorted into his drink. “‘Customer satisfaction ratings’. Like he’s sellin’ microwaves instead of keeping people from gettin’ killed.”
“It matters in Hollywood,” Tech said. “Public perception is everything here.”
“You all know how I feel about public perception,” Ruxs said. “It can kiss my ass.”
By the time the dinner was over, they had a firm plan.
Ruxs and Green would handle Xander Vale’s personal detail since the actor was deemed the priority.
Tech and Free would oversee technical operations—security systems, surveillance upgrades, and communication vulnerabilities.
God, Day, and Steele would handle West Protective’s training.
As his husband pointed out, they weren’t bodyguards, but that almost made them better for the assignment.
Their entire careers revolved around creating and surviving chaos while making sure there was no collateral damage. Furthermore, they knew how predators moved because they’d hunted them for years.
God’s thoughts drifted back to the present, to bed, and the warm body pressed against him.
Day shifted in his sleep and slid one strong leg higher across God’s thighs, making his chest tighten with that same deep, possessive affection that still hit him after all these years.
He turned his head and pressed a lingering kiss to Day’s forehead before tightening his arm around him.
Day was warm and comforting, all toned muscles and tanned skin, his body somehow both solid and silken at the same time.
His husband was everything he didn’t deserve. Loyal, faithful, passionate, brilliant, and loved him more than he thought a man could love another.
There’d never been a moment in their relationship where God didn’t want or need him.
God lay in bed and stared at the brightening Los Angeles sky out of the floor-to-ceiling windows of their suite.
The West Coast was nice but also temporary.
Another thought that pulled his focus somewhere else—the future.
It sat in the back of his mind constantly whether he wanted it there or not.
He was ninety-nine percent sure the auditors were going to dismantle the narcotics task force after the IA review wrapped up.
Even if misconduct wasn’t the deciding factor, the reality was simple. His task force cost too much money.
Their operational budget was insane. Specialized weapons, tactical vehicles, hazardous duty pay, travel, informant incentives, interdepartmental cooperation. Everything cost twice what it used to, and the city was already bleeding funds from a dozen other directions.
He couldn’t blame them, but he still hated it.
The thought of the team splitting up after twelve years made something ugly settle in his gut.
His guys weren’t coworkers anymore, they were his family.
What the hell were they supposed to do once this ended?
Go back to regular detective work?
God grimaced.
Boring.
Another agency?
Absolutely not. Too many rules.
Retirement?
He almost laughed out loud.
Should he move to a suburb in Florida and learn to play golf? Spend his days watching daytime television and talking with his neighbors about lawn care?
Fuck that.
He might not be in his prime anymore, but he damn sure wasn’t ready to start seeing a geriatrician either.
“Stop it.” Day’s rough morning voice vibrated against his throat. “You’re thinking too hard, and it’s waking me up from the best sleep I’ve gotten in years.”
God smirked as Day shifted closer, lazily grinding his hard cock against his hip.
A low, vibrating rumble started in God’s chest.
"You're not acting like you're trying to sleep," he growled.
Day hummed, dragging one hand up God’s chest before threading his fingers into his hair—which was becoming a problem.
He wanted to cut the shit.
But months ago, Furi had made the mistake of betting God he couldn’t grow his hair longer than his, and Day had taken it personally.
The bet pool had somehow climbed to eight hundred and ninety-three dollars so far.
Now he was stuck with thick, gold-brown hair that hung well past his shoulder blades because his husband was incapable of accepting defeat in any form.
“It’s too much now.”
Hell, God didn’t even like having long hair.
Day opened one eye. “You better not cut it. I don’t wanna have to hurt you.”
Day tightened his hand in his hair, and God kissed him before the argument could continue.
It was slow at first, lazy and comfortable, but it never stayed that way long between them—even after all these years.
Day canted his hips, grinding against God’s leg. His own cock rose to full attention, straining against the fabric of his underwear.
With a quick, commanding movement, he gripped Day around his waist and pulled him all the way on top of him.
Day pressed heavily on his chest, their breathing already syncing into a jagged rhythm.
They didn't speak. The silence of the room filled with their guttural groans and sharp hisses of breath.
God slid his hands down and gripped their cocks, stroking them in a punishing rhythm. The friction was intense, as the heat rose.
Day groped toward the nightstand, finding the bottle of lube they’d left there from last night, and squeezed a generous amount along their shafts.
God groaned as he got back to work.
Day leaned forward and bit God’s shoulder, moaning as he began to thrust into his palm.
"Damn, you're always a greedy bastard in the morning," God grunted.
“Shut up and fuck me,” Day hissed through clenched teeth, quickening his pace, and proving his point.
God responded by tightening his fist, squeezing their shafts with a strength that bordered on pain, pushing them to the edge.
"Cash, goddamnit," Day panted. "Gonna make me fuckin’ shoot in three minutes."
God didn't let up as he rubbed his calloused thumb over the sensitive heads of their dicks. He pumped them several times with deliberate pressure that made his own toes curl and his back arch.
Day licked and sucked God’s throat. The sensation of Day’s mouth on his skin, his moans, and curses were the breaking points, and he knew he was done.
As Day grew louder, God reached down, and pushed his middle finger deep inside Day’s hole, which was still slick and open from last night.
His husband released a strangled shout as his cum shot in hot, thick bursts between their abs.
God milked him, keeping his finger inside, drawing out his lover’s pleasure. Day reached between their legs, and gripped God’s balls, squeezing them hard in the way he craved.
God grunted, curling forward from the delicious spike of pain. The combination of the squeeze and the friction sent his own orgasm tearing through him with satisfying violence.
They collapsed against each other, heaving in the quiet LA morning.
Sometime later, Day rolled onto his side, breathing slower now while sprawled half across his chest.
Sunlight had started creeping fully into the suite, warming the sheets and painting Day’s toned shoulders pale gold.
God ran his hand slowly down his husband’s back.
“Feel better now?” he asked quietly.
Day smirked. “Much.”
“Mmhmm.”
For a while, neither of them spoke as the city buzzed faintly below the hotel.
Eventually Day pushed himself upright with a tired sigh. “We should probably get moving before Ruxs and Greene go downstairs for breakfast and find a way to entertain themselves.”
“Fuckin’ hell,” God muttered.
Day laughed as he climbed out of bed, walking naked to the bathroom. God watched him shamelessly the entire way, while he got up and began to dress for what would possibly be their last assignment.
New city, same bullshit.
Let’s do this.