Chapter 6
Shaw’s pulse was kicking hard.
Benny was underneath him, flushed and panting, those ears crooked in his disheveled hair. The satin suit was rucked up and twisted down, and Benny was looking up at Shaw like he’d already decided this was exactly where he wanted to be.
He’d had a whole lifetime of not letting himself want anything, and he couldn’t remember why anymore.
Shaw’s hips pressed forward, grinding down, and the sound Benny made was worth every bad decision that had led them here. He could see how hard Benny was through the satin, could feel the desperate push of Benny’s hips chasing friction.
Shaw rolled his hips again, slow and grinding, and watched Benny’s face twist with the effort of not begging. He was failing at that, too—his mouth was already running, a breathless stream of words that shouldn’t have been as hot as it was.
“More,” Benny managed, his hips working against Shaw’s. “Fuck, Shaw?—”
Benny was scrabbling at his bunny suit, trying to get it off, making frustrated noises that were half curse, half plea. “Get this fucking thing off?—”
Shaw caught his wrist. “It stays on.”
That got a stare, then a roll of Benny’s eyes. “You’re kidding.”
“I said they stay on.” Shaw let his mouth curve. “I meant it.”
Benny’s protest died as Shaw’s hand slid between them, cupping him through the satin. “Oh fuck. Okay. The suit can stay on.”
Shaw laughed—low and dark, a sound he barely recognized as his own. His mouth found Benny’s ear. “You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. This stupid fucking costume and all.”
“Romantic,” Benny managed.
“I don’t do romantic.” Shaw bit down on his earlobe. “I do honest.”
He tugged the satin aside and wrapped his hand around Benny’s cock. Skin on skin, finally.
Benny’s back arched off the floor, his mouth falling open.
Shaw stroked him slow at first, learning what made him gasp, what made his hips buck.
And Benny let him hear every bit of it—every stroke pulling another sound out of him, Shaw’s name and breathless commentary that went straight to Shaw’s hindbrain.
Benny was loud and desperate in a way Shaw was becoming addicted to. The way his voice broke on the good strokes. The way he said Shaw’s name like he wanted to wear the word in.
Benny was making commentary even now. “Your hands—fuck—you have really good hands, you know that? I’ve been thinking about your hands all night—” Shaw twisted his grip, and the words snagged on a groan. “Don’t you dare stop.”
Shaw was past the point where stopping was an option. Benny was coming apart under his hands, and Shaw wanted every second of it.
“There’s lube in the first aid kit,” Benny said, his voice steadier than it had any right to be.
Shaw reached for the kit one-handed, found the bottle. Benny spread his legs wider, suit stretched to the side, tail somewhere near his hip, ears still somehow clinging to his hair. He looked ridiculous. He looked hot as hell.
He was about to fuck a man in a bunny suit on the floor of a closed bar in the middle of the night. He’d been stabbed earlier. There was a dead body in an alley across town.
And Shaw couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted anything this badly.
He thumbed the cap open and slicked his fingers. His wound pulled as he shifted—white-hot, a sharp reminder that he was running less on blood, and more on whiskey and whatever it was about this boy that made Shaw forget about things like stitches.
Didn’t stop him from being rock hard. Probably draining precious blood away from his brain. He didn’t care.
Shaw pressed a slick finger into Benny first, then a second, working him open while Benny swore and shoved up against his hand like he couldn’t get them deep enough.
Shaw took his time with it—curled his fingers until Benny’s whole body jerked, until the words gave out on him entirely—and only pulled free when Benny was slick and ready, cursing him for stopping.
The sound of Shaw’s belt buckle was loud in the quiet club, followed by the rasp of his zipper. Benny watched him get himself out, breathing hard, bottom lip caught between his teeth.
The first aid kit had a condom along with the lube. Handy. Shaw rolled it on, then slicked himself with the rest.
The first press in made them both groan.
Shaw went slow—reading Benny’s body, the tension in his thighs and the grip of his fingers on Shaw’s shoulders.
Benny’s body fought the stretch for a moment, then opened for him, and the sound Benny made was low and broken and so good it nearly ended Shaw right there.
He pushed deeper. Inch by slow inch, until he was fully seated and they were pressed together from chest to hip and Shaw could feel every flutter and clench of Benny’s body around him. Benny’s breath on his lips, Benny’s hands pulling him closer like closer was possible.
“Fuck,” Shaw breathed against Benny’s throat.
“I know.” Benny’s voice was shaking. His fingers dug into Shaw’s shoulders, his hips already shifting, testing—and the drag pulled a groan from both of them.
Shaw moved.
The first long drag pulled a groan out of him—slick and tight, hot wet pressure that emptied his brain in one stroke. He pushed back in harder. Found a rhythm.
Every thrust had Benny’s voice echoing off the walls and the bunny ears bouncing with every impact, satin already twisted and ruined beneath them.
It was ridiculous. It was the best sex of Shaw’s life.
The floor was hard under Shaw’s knees, his wound was aching—and none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was the way Benny said his name. Like it was the only word he remembered.
Benny ran his mouth through all of it. “Harder—fuck—yes—god, yes—you feel so fucking good—” Demanding and sharp even while falling apart. Shaw gave him everything he asked for because the idea of denying Benny anything felt physically impossible.
“You’re going to tear your stitches,” Benny got out—half moan, half scold, somehow managing both. “I’m serious, you pop one and I’m not redoing them?—”
“Then I’ll bleed.” Shaw didn’t slow down. He shifted his angle, drove deeper, and Benny’s whole body jerked—back arching, a sound tearing out of him that was pure broken pleasure. Shaw held the angle, drove in again.
“Fuck—yes—harder, Shaw—don’t stop, don’t fucking stop?—”
Shaw didn’t stop. Reached between them and wrapped his hand around Benny’s cock, stroking rough and fast in time with his thrusts.
The dual sensation had Benny arching off the floor, his commentary dissolving into incoherent fragments of Shaw’s name. Shaw cataloged every reaction—the way Benny’s thighs tightened around his waist, the way his nails scored lines down Shaw’s back that would sting tomorrow.
Then Benny’s body went taut beneath him. His hands clenched on Shaw’s shoulders, back bowed off the floor—and then he was coming, hard, over Shaw’s fist, his whole body clenching around Shaw in rhythmic waves.
Shaw came swearing against Benny’s throat. His hips kept moving past where he’d planned to stop, helpless, while Benny clenched around him in slow waves and wrung him out.
And Benny held him through it. Hand in Shaw’s hair, quiet satisfied sounds against his temple. “Yeah, like that, exactly like that?—”
For a long moment afterward, Shaw couldn’t move.
His face was pressed into the curve of Benny’s neck, breathing in the warm salt-skin smell of him.
The wound in his side was a dull, distant throb.
Everything was distant except Benny—the steady rise and fall of his chest, his fingers moving through Shaw’s hair.
His whole body felt hollowed out in a way that had nothing to do with the blood loss.
He should pull away. That was what he always did.
Benny’s fingers kept threading through his hair.
Shaw didn’t move.
Eventually he did pull out—they both hissed at the sensation—and Benny immediately curled into his side, head finding Shaw’s shoulder like it belonged there. Like they’d done this a thousand times before.
Shaw’s arm came around him without a conscious decision. It felt strangely easy.
Benny pressed closer, his nose against Shaw’s collarbone, his breath warm and damp against Shaw’s skin. The bunny ears tickled Shaw’s jaw. He didn’t bat them away.
“Your stitches held,” Benny murmured against his skin. Drowsy. Satisfied.
Shaw glanced down at the bandage. A little pink, but intact. “Nice work, Doc. What’s my copay?”
Benny laughed soft and tired against Shaw’s collarbone. “Depends. You going to run off into the night as soon as you can walk?”
“Hadn’t decided.” Shaw turned his head, pressed his lips to Benny’s hair. A small gesture. Almost unconscious. The kind of thing he didn’t do.
Benny relaxed against him. The bunny suit was a disaster—twisted and ruined, one ear at an angle that would never recover. Shaw flicked the bent ear with one finger.
They lay there in easy silence, wrapped around each other on the cold floor. Shaw could hear the hum of the refrigerators and the distant traffic outside, Benny’s heartbeat slowing under his ear.
Shaw let his eyes close. Benny’s breathing was evening out against his chest, slow and warm.
He’d worry about all of this in the morning.
He was almost starting to believe that when he heard it.
A noise. Outside. At the back door.
Shaw went rigid, every muscle in his body snapping to alert.
Benny’s head came up, eyes meeting Shaw’s in the dim light. The softness was gone, replaced by sharp alertness. They’d both heard it.
Someone was here.