In His Sights (Don't Tell) by Rie Warren Page B

eventually made us pull away from one another.
    I’d been iffy about this whole thing, wondering where I’d fit in. Throughout the night I got it. I belonged to Hawke, and he to me. This was a place where we could be together, two men, lovers, without the fear of being hunted down and strung up.
    When my eyelids felt heavy and my sight spun from fatigue, Hawke pulled me away from the town hall where the partying continued. “Let’s get you to bed, babe.”
    If bed meant him in it with no onlookers or anyone within hearing range, I was all for it. He took my hand, guiding me along twisting narrow trails that distanced us from the hubbub of the village. I smelled salty air and heard a wet crashing sound close by. Between the trees, a sliver of beach shimmered before my vision, waves rolling ashore. A long line of caravans hugged the verge of the forest where woods became the wide-open world of the Gulf.
    Stopping in front of a set of warped wooden steps that lead to the door of a bullet-shaped contraption, Hawke said, “This is it.”
    “This is it what? A tin can?”
    “My caravan.” He tugged my hand. “We call it rustic.”
    “I call it tiny.”
    “Don’t be an ass.” He opened the door and ducked inside.
    “I’m not. Too busy looking at yours.”
    I stepped in after him. It was small without doubt, but my barracks room wasn’t much bigger a lot less inviting. Hawke’s place was homey, well cared for. The two rooms told of life, Hawke’s life. Books lined the walls and polished weapons gleamed from built-in shelves. His bed was low to the floor and large in front of a window he must’ve cut into the metal hull of the caravan himself because it ran almost the entire length of one side, providing an unending view of the ocean outside.
    “No running water, no electrics.” He lit a few candles, standing uncertainly in front of me.
    “I don’t care about any of that.” His striking face highlighted by candlelight made me ever aware of the bed behind me. “Come here.”
    I undressed him slowly. I checked his wounds one last time and massaged them with salve. I snuggled him in blankets and slid naked next to him. Exhausted from the trip, the mindless torture he’d undergone, he fell asleep in a tangle of our arms and legs. I never got my homecoming fuck, but holding him in my arms where we were finally safe was just as good. Bathed in moonlight from the big window, Hawke simply glowed. Pale eyelashes skimmed his cheeks, his goatee rubbed my chest. He’d gone from enemy to warrior to lover to my only love. I listened to his even breaths, the perfect accompaniment to the surf outside.
    I kissed his brow tenderly, never pulling him from his first peaceful dreams. “I love you, Hawke.”
    Later, hot lips pressed against the nape of my neck woke me up. It was still dark, the candles burned low. Hawke’s body was molded against my back. His hand loosely circled the rigid steel bar of my cock. I turned my face aside to see him. His eyes were low, hooded, his lips pink and hungry looking. We exchanged a long deep kiss, our tongues spiraling and chasing. His cock nestled between my buttocks, a hot heavy weight I wanted sliding inside me.
    Thrusting through the slack ring of his fingers, I groaned.
    “This what you needed, baby?”
    I couldn’t speak, just nod, all the while pressing my lips to any part of his skin I could reach. His neck, his ear, his chin and the golden whiskers. I panted with mounting arousal, needing more contact than the teasing glide of his fist, but he held me caged against him, wickedly holding me back from my orgasm.
    When he started rocking against me with more force and whimpering in low moans, I knew he’d be coming soon. I closed my eyes to soak in the fingers tracing my chest, the mouth kissing my shoulder, the palm rolling over the tip of my cock. His hand moved away for a moment to lift my upper thigh enough he could slip his long cock between my legs. Then he was back to