Cole McGinnis 05 - Down and Dirty by Rhys Ford Page B

rumpled suede voice swore he would.
    “Yeah, be honest.” He was going to throw it out there. Ichi had nothing to lose, and Cole—it wasn’t like Cole had to find out he’d teased Bobby before the man tossed him out on his skinny ass. “Why would you change now? You think there’s something between us? Like what?”
    “You know there is. And fuck me, if it doesn’t get me to wondering a few things sometimes.”
    “More things? Other than this one thing?” Ichi dropped his hands to his thighs, waiting for Bobby to make the next move. “Like what exactly?”
    “Like whether or not you want to be bent over a bed or lying on it,” Bobby purred as he tilted his head back. “You know, when I fuck you.”
    There was no mistaking the challenge in the man’s darkening eyes or the cocky set of his grin as he twisted sideways to stare at Ichi over the back of the couch. It was a game Ichi knew well—one he’d played a thousand times before—the shoving out of a chest and the tossing of salt into a dohyō . It was a look he’d gotten right before he suckled down the gummy, hairy insides of a fertilized duck egg and shouted in triumph when he extracted the beak before he swallowed it. And it was a smile much like the one he’d gotten before he’d shot across a bed of salt flats in a broke-assed Harley held together with spit and a prayer.
    Folding his arms across the back of the couch, Ichiro leaned in and gave Bobby a cocky smile of his own, tilting his head as he drawled slowly, “What makes you think you’re the one who’s going to be doing the fucking?”

Chapter 6

     
    “C OCKY SON of a bitch,” Bobby growled at the man behind his couch. “Let’s knock that smirk off that damned pretty face of yours.”
    If there was a hell, Bobby expected his eternal torment would be the sweet taste of a demon’s mouth, then a forever spent longing for more.
    Ichiro tasted of that hell—a hot blast of sex, sweet, and trouble with a side of forbidden to spice things up—of fire and ink, and Bobby knew with the touch of that mouth on his, he’d be jonesing for that taste for the rest of his life.
    It was no wonder the Devil threw off his wings and plunged into the depths of depravity.
    They fought, tongues and mouths, with grappling hands tugging at hair and arms until their skin shone with the exertion of consuming one another. The sofa became a wall, then a desert between their lusting bodies, a separation Bobby knew he had to demolish. He hooked his arms around Ichiro’s waist, then bent forward and yanked the man up out of his seat.
    He dragged Ichiro over the back of the couch, long limbs catching on the cushions, and there was some moaning noise—either consent or grumbling at being manhandled—but he came over anyway, tumbling into Bobby’s embrace. Ichiro’s slender hands busied themselves with sliding under Bobby’s shirt, his fingers raking over Bobby’s back and catching on spots of abraded skin.
    “Shit, watch the nails there, Sunshine. Your brother tried to get me killed this afternoon,” Bobby muttered into Ichiro’s open mouth, then dove back in, sliding his tongue past Ichi’s sharp teeth and into the velvet heat beyond. “It’s a bit tender there.”
    “Can we not bring Cole into this? Couch isn’t big enough,” Ichi grumbled back, angling his mouth for another kiss. “Fuck, you taste good.”
    Fisting his hands into Ichiro’s hair, he yanked the man closer, savaging Ichi’s mouth until he mewled and squirmed in Bobby’s lap. Gasping, Ichi tried to pull away, shifting his legs to get his knees out of the cracks between the couch cushions. They fought for space and air, pulling back and moving in, delving into the fire building up between them.
    Bobby’s skin crackled from the friction of Ichiro’s hands roaming over him. At some point, he’d lost his T-shirt, while Ichi remained clothed. There were too many elbows and odd angles for Bobby’s satisfaction, especially when he