Rated NC-17 for very unsafe M/M sex. Smut, Pure and Simple. No redeeming social value. No plot. Nothing but smut. If you're underage in your venue, or not into explicit sex between two beautiful men, you should definitely bail now. As usual, Benton Fraser and Ray Kowalski belong to Alliance/Atlantis, not me. Darn it.

Soundtrack: Still listening to those cheap 1980's compilation CD's: Just Got Lucky -- Joe Boxer, and Love is Like Oxygen -- Sweet.

Miscellaneous beta-ish thanks to AuKestrel, Kass, & Betty. :-) --Kellie

© 2001 Kellie Matthews

        Fraser's standing sentry outside the Consulate when I get there to pick him up. Uh oh. The Ice Queen doesn't make him do it much any more-- guess she finally figured out that he's just a big ol' red inducement to traffic accidents standing around in front of the Consulate like that. Jesus. Inducement. That he is. But I gotta watch that-- talk like that in public and there goes my carefully cultivated image. But today she's got him at it, that means she's pissed at him over something, probably the fact that he was late to work this morning. My fault. I forgot to set the alarm last night, and I kind of kept him up past his bedtime. And I suppose maybe waking him up with my mouth on his cock was kind of unfair, at that point he was hardly going to tell me to stop because he was late to work.
        I look at him from my vantage point across the street, just out of his peripheral vision. He looks a little tired, dark circles under his eyes. But his expression is serene, almost. . . happy. There's that little up-curve at the corners of his mouth. If I didn't know him as well as I do I might not see it, but yeah, it's there all right. I wonder if he's thinking of this morning? Hopefully he thinks it was worth it. And it's a nice day, sunny, but cool enough that the uniform probably isn't making him sweat.
        Right now he looks all toy-soldier-like, and that gives me a nasty shudder, brings up memories of him in that coffin. But then the next memory is him all flushed and sweaty, his hair a wild mess of almost-curls from tossing against my sheets as I suck him off, two fingers in his ass working him just like he likes, and that chases the bad image away. A nice-looking woman about our age stops and stares at him, and I wonder if she's imagining what he'd look like naked. I don't have to imagine, I think to myself, kind of smug. I know what he looks like naked. I know what he sounds like, what he smells like, what he feels like, what he tastes like.
        She moves closer to him, through the gate, one hand fiddling absently with a blouse button, and my back goes up like a pissed-off cat. Mine. He's fucking mine. I cross the street quickly, dodging between cars-- gonna have to ticket myself for jaywalking-- and nod at Fraser even though I know he can't nod back.
        "Hey, Frase," I say, making sure she knows he's my friend and I'm there to be with him. "It's almost six. You'll be off in a few." He knows that already, I bet. He has an internal clock. . . at least when I haven't been resetting the snooze button on it, he does. After establishing my territory, I give her a frown.
        "You lost?" I ask.
        She looks at me, taken aback. "No, no, I was just . . . what sort of uniform is that?"
        Lame. Very lame. "He's a Mountie. Royal Canadian Mounted Police."
        "Oh," she says. "A Mountie? Well, how interesting. I must say, the uniform is very. . . . "
        Hot, I think. It's hot. Shouldn't be, not with those stupid pants, but it is. "Red," I finish for her.
        She nods. "Yes. Red. Very red. Well, thanks. Have a nice day."
        She scurries off and I watch her go, until I hear a noise behind me that sounds suspiciously like a choked-off laugh. I turn fast, and catch the crinkles around his eyes just disappearing. Oh yeah. It was a laugh. I almost got to him. Fraser's told me about how Vecchio-- the real one-- used to always come up to him when he was on statue duty and try to get him to react. So I figure, hey, I'm supposed to be Vecchio. . . so I walk past him, deliberately, go lean on the wrought-iron fence where I know he can see me and hear me, even though I keep my voice low and my tone nonchalant.
        "So, Benton Fraser. Want to go back to my place and fuck after dinner?"
        I hear him suck in a breath, quick, startled, but he manages not to move, not to look straight at me. I feel my mouth twitching with a suppressed grin. "'Cause I do. Actually, I don't care if we go back to my place. Too bad it's not dark yet, because then I could just kneel down right here, and open up those silly pants, and get you out of those not-so-starched boxers . . . you didn't change yet, did you? No. 'Course not, Thatcher's been running your sweet ass off all day. As I was saying , I could open your pants, pull your cock out, and just suck you off right there where you stand."
        Not a flicker of expression crosses his face, but he makes a sound. This time the noise is in his throat, almost a whimper, and he's breathing through his nose hard enough for me to hear it. I glance around and reach to adjust my own cock in my chinos, then steal a look at him. Hard to tell for sure, tunic's in the way, and the pants are baggy, but I'm pretty sure he's getting hard, too.
        "I mean, it's not a high-traffic area, we could probably get away with it at the right time or day. Or wait a month or so and it'll be dark already by this time of day, and I can keep you nice and warm if you get a little chilly. Could be . . . ."
        I shut up abruptly as the consulate door opens and Thatcher steps out, shoots me an annoyed look. "Are you harassing my constable, Detective Vecchio?"
        "Me?" I make big innocent eyes at her. "Never. Just waiting for him to get off. Gonna eat." Yeah, got breakfast that way too.
        I'm stunned to hear a choked-off giggle from Fraser. God, he must've read my mind. Thatcher heels around, staring at him for a second, frowning.
        "Take care of that cough, Constable, I won't have my men getting sick."
        Cough. Right. That was as much a cough as Fraser is her man, but if that's what she wants to think, that's okay by me. Next, she turns to me, eyes narrowed.
        "And you, Detective Vecchio, I'll thank you not to keep Constable Fraser out all night on stakeouts in the future. Remember, he's a liaison, not a full-fledged member of your department."
        I nod, all sorrowful. "Yes, ma'am. I'll try real hard to make sure he gets his rest from here on out."
        She still looks suspicious but nods anyway. "See that you do. Good night Constable, Detective."
        She nods to us curtly and heads around to the side where she parks. A moment later I hear a car start and she's gone. The alarm on my watch goes off, signaling that it's six, and Fraser sighs, rolls his shoulders, and cracks his neck. Then I see the evil gleam in his eyes and I know I'm in for some serious payback for the teasing I was doing. I get three steps toward the gate when his hand clamps on the collar of my jacket, and the collar of my shirt. . . damn. If it'd just been my jacket I could've skinned out of it and gotten away, but I can't do that with my shirt, not without half-strangling myself in the process, and I'm not into autoerotic asphyxiation. I subside and let him haul me back toward the consulate like some kid who got caught tee-peeing the local elementary school.
        "Come on, Frase, leggo. I'll come quietly."
        "That would be novel," he says, deadpan, and before I can do more than blink in astonishment at the double-entendre, he continues. "In addition, I'd really prefer not to put your honesty to the test that way."
        He opens the consulate door and gives me a little push in ahead of him. I take three steps inside, blinking in the dimness of the foyer. All that wood always makes it seem dark in here, even in daytime. I hear the lock click into place and turn, lifting my eyebrows.
        "Not letting Turnbull out tonight?"
        He smiles, and you know, it's true when they say some people start to look like their pets . . . not that Dief is a pet. I spend a second or two hoping I don't look like a turtle, then he starts to talk and I forget about animal companions.
        "Turnbull had an engagement and was given permission to leave early."
        Turnbull left. Thatcher left. "So, um . . . any lurking customers you need to take care of?"
        "No, Ray. We are, in fact, closed for the weekend."
        "Nobody here but us?"
        "Apart from Diefenbaker, no."
        He leans back against the door, and starts unlanyarding, unbelting, and unbuttoning. I stand there watching him, feeling my eyes get bigger. He drops the Sam Browne on the floor and I almost gape at him. "Um, that's kinda . . . un-Mountie-like there, Fraser."
        He lifts his eyebrows at me and then the sound of the velcro on his collar as he peels it apart sends a spark of heat through me that makes my already intrigued cock sit up and take notice. He looks at me and his gaze is . . . hot. Blazing.
        "Well?" he asks.
        I wonder if I missed something. "Well what?"
        He shakes his head sadly, like I just missed a really obvious clue. "While I realize it's not quite as open as you'd like, would this partially satisfy your apparent craving to fellate me in a public place? At least we're not likely to be arrested here."
        Oh. My. God. He did not just say that. He didn't. Did he? He did. He locked the door. We're alone. There's nothing like having one of your favorite fantasies handed to you on a silver platter. I've wanted to do this ever since he kept me here under house arrest when Cahill and his goons were after me. I look in his face and see just a faint hint of smug there, and it strikes me that maybe he thinks I won't do it, that I was just teasing him, and now he's teasing back but he doesn't expect me to follow through. This is going to be so much fun.
        I take off my jacket and kind of roll it up as I close the distance between us, drop it on the floor at his feet, then grab his face for a long, hot kiss. And just because Fraser doesn't carry a loaded weapon, don't ever believe he's not armed. His tongue ought to be registered, so thank God he uses it only for good. Real good, and me good. Times like this I think he could ID me from dental records without ever looking at an x-ray. He knows every crown, filling, and cap in my mouth. Even found the scar on the inside of my cheek from where it got cut bad in a fistfight with Johnny Jancowszki back in ninth grade.
        I get my fingers into his hair and pull a little until he lets my mouth loose, frowning. I smile. "Not that that's not great stuff, Ben, but I've got a different destination in mind," I say, and go to my knees on my rolled-up jacket. I'm not stupid: hardwood floors plus my knees equals pain.
        His tunic's unbuttoned all the way down so I push the sides apart, tucking the 'tails' back behind his hips, then my fingers go to work on the suspender buttons inside the waistband. I half expect him to protest, but when I glance up at him his gaze is hot an intent, and I manage to catch him just as his tongue slides across his lips. Oh yeah. His cock is making a little tent of that nice loose wool, and so I'm extra careful as I slide the zipper down. Don't want to catch anything by accident, even if it is protected by a layer of formerly starched cotton as well.
        Finally get his pants down around his knees, I'm not even going to try to mess with the boots. His pants are far enough down that they're out of the way and that's all I need. Unfortunately that cotton is a worse barrier. Damned boxers are a lot tighter than his pants, and if I pull them down around his knees he won't be able to spread his legs very much, which takes some of the fun out of things. Damn. I start working him a little, right inside the fabric. They're an old pair, I can tell by how thin and silky the cotton is. They're also wet all down the fly, he's leaking, been leaking a while, it looks like. Probably since I first started teasing him outside. That's a nice thought.
        I lick along there, tasting that unique combination of Ben, cotton, and starch, get my fingers into the fly, on either side of that little button, and I can feel smooth, warm, damp skin hiding inside, feel his pulse, strong and quick, against my fingertips. I stroke a little, and undo the button, and slide him out through the gap. Probably looks silly, but hell, this close everything's a blur. Lick the head of his cock, all flushed and ripe, swirl my tongue into the little slit there. His hands cup my head, not pushing but I can tell he wants to. His fingers slide through my hair, stroking, petting. God, I want at him. All of him, not just a little bit sticking out.
        They're in the way, and they're old, and . . . oh hell. I suck him in and he moans and thrusts into my mouth, and as he does I give a sharp tug at the fabric and . . . yeah. It gives. Easy, really, surprises me, and they tear right along the seam below the fly, where the threads always wear through first. Suck again, tug again, got 'em split down to the inseam. Yeah. But damn it, not enough. I still want better access. I grope blindly on the floor with one hand, find his Sam Browne, find the sheath clipped to it, pop the snap and slide that baby out real smooth and careful-like. Ben keeps it honed so sharp it will cut a floating hair, or so he says. I don't want to find out.
        I manage a glance up, his eyes are closed, his head lolled back against the door so most all I see is the taut line of his throat. His hips are moving in little micro-thrusts. He wants to fuck my mouth but he's too damned polite to do it. Well, we'll see about that. I let him slide out of my mouth for a second, lick my lips.
        "Ben, keep your eyes closed, and don't move for a sec, okay? Just hold real still."
        He nods, swallows hard, and I take him back in. A tiny shiver goes through him but that's all. Damned amazing control. I suck and lick and tease until I can feel the trembling in his thighs, and then use one hand to pull the elastic waist of the boxers out a couple of inches from the fine, soft skin of his belly. Worried the whole time that I might cut him, I bring the knife up, and slide it carefully, sooooo carefully, through the fabric. Thank God I don't screw up, and the waistband parts almost without resistance. I keep holding the fabric in one hand so I don't give it away while I ease the knife back into its sheath and push it out of the way, then finally let go of the fabric. It curls down on either side of his groin, almost framing the thick, dark curls and heavy thrust of his erect cock.
        He makes a surprised sound and looks down. "Ray . . . how?"
        I grin. "Magic."
        I don't give him time to think about it, I go right back down on him, sucking him like candy, and now I can get my hand up between his legs to cup and stroke him just like I know he likes, to tease a finger back along the crease of his ass. That does it. He thrusts, making a rough, raw sound in his throat. God, I love that sound. It almost makes me come every time I hear it. Thinking that I realize my own cock is kind of uncomfortable, trapped in my pants like it is. I don't want to touch myself, don't want any distractions, but I need a little room too, so I fumble one-handed with my belt and zipper until things ease up. Yeah. Better.
        I fondle his ass again, he thrusts again, and this time I open up as much as I can and try to take him. He goes deeper than I expected and it's all I can do not to cough him out again. My eyes tear up, but I manage to ride it out. I've sucked him before, just always kept it shallow until now. Jeez, how the hell do those guys in porn flicks do this? I've watched a bunch of them, partly for pointers, partly for fun, before I got the real deal, and It's not near as easy as it looks. The magic of film.
        Still, just a few minutes and already my jaw's starting to ache a little. I ignore it. I'm not giving up yet. I love the way he tastes, the feel of him in my mouth, the sounds he makes, and knowing I'm making him feel good. I put a hand on his thigh for balance and start to rock back and forth, sliding my mouth on his cock because there's more control that way than there is letting him do it. His knees are shaking. That's a good thing, I think. We do that thrust-slide thing a few more times, and then to my surprise he's got his fingers in my mouth, breaking the seal, his other hand pulling me off him. His cock is dark and wet and he looks ready to explode. I wonder for a second if I'm going to get my own personal money shot, and start to reach for him, but he shifts sideways, moving out of reach. I frown and look up. "Hey!"
        He gives me a look like nothing I've ever seen before. Take his steely-eyed, determined look, and add pure distilled sex to it. Wow. He licks his lips and holds a hand down to me. "I don't want to finish that way, Ray," he says huskily.
        I take his hand, let him pull me up, hanging onto my pants with one hand. "Okay. So, how?"
        He stoops, picks up his belt. I pray the knife doesn't fall out and amazingly, it doesn't. He unsnaps the cartridge case, takes out a very familiar-looking small bottle. It's half empty, we've been using it a lot.
        "You sneak! When did you snag that?"
        "This morning, before we left your apartment, obviously," he says, laughing.
        "So you want me to do you?" I ask, stating the obvious.
        To my surprise he shakes his head. "No, Ray."
        "So then . . . . oh. Oh." Ooooh fuck. "Oh, yeah," I say, without even meaning to.
        So far I've always topped with him, but it's not like I don't like having his fingers up my ass. And if his reaction is any indication, it's got to be pretty fabulous to have even more up there than fingers. Sometimes he comes without me even touching his cock. He reaches out and pulls me to him, one hand in my hair. We kiss, and he humps my belly. I almost drop my pants, manage to catch them just as he starts walking me backward toward the reception desk: Cave-man Ben.
        For half a second I think 'he wouldn't,' but you know, I think he would. And he does. Pushes me right up against it, traps me there between his legs, shoves my pants down, and barely lets go of my mouth long enough to drag my shirt off over my head. I'm soooo glad I stopped by home first and ditched the gun and cuffs. Having to stop right now to put them someplace safe would really suck. My shirt gets tossed aside like an old grocery bag and then his hands are working me, one stroking roughly across my nipples, he knows I love that, and the other one cupping me, stroking my cock.
        Jesus, this is hot. I mean, I know he had an alpha side, I run up against it often enough when we're doing police work, but he's been keeping it out of the bedroom, so this is new. And I like it. I like it a hell of a lot. I don't care that the edge of the desk is biting into my ass, I don't care about anything but his hands and his mouth and how incredible this is. His slick, leaking cock strokes along mine, makes me jerk and shudder. I hitch my ass up onto the desk, kick off my pants, thanking a benevolent God that I went commando today, and wrap my thighs around his, pulling him in close. The desk creaks and shifts under my weight and we both freeze for a second, then, damn it, Fraser blinks and some of the heat leaves his eyes. He tries to pull back, clearly trying to get his breathing under control. I don't let him, reaching up to urge him back down to me.
        "Come on, Ben. Want you."
        He resists, shaking his head. "We can't do this here."
        "Sure we can. I'm good with it." I wiggle a little to show him just how good I am with it, and his eyes close as he sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, then shakes his head again.
        "I'm afraid we have no choice. I shouldn't like to have to explain to Inspector Thatcher why we need to replace the reception desk."
        Oh. I guess he's got a point. I squeeze him a little with my thighs. "Well, damn," I say, disappointed.
        It was the right thing to say. The fire flares in his eyes again. "Come on, Ray," he says, a little impatient, his hands on my ankles, trying to get my legs down from around his waist.
        Okay, fine. If we can't, we can't, and the idea of ending up with my naked ass on a pile of splinters isn't very appealing. I can think of much better things to get stuck by. I get my feet back on the ground and stand up, and start trying to think of where to go. Thing is, I'm kind of at a loss for anyplace better than the desk. There's Thatcher's couch but it's slick and the back's in the way. And Ben would never desecrate the Queen's Bedroom no matter how horny he was.
        He tugs at my hand, pulling me toward the hallway that leads to his office, and I start to protest, because I've sat on that cot and no way is that going to work. It's too narrow, and those hard sides... ouch. Besides, it's got to be even flimsier than the desk. But he stops before we get to his office, reaches for the doorknob of the room next door, and pushes the door open to reveal a small room furnished with a desk and single bed. Now I remember, from when I stayed here before. Damn, I can't believe I forgot about it. I'm just so used to only seeing his office, or Thatcher's, I guess. They keep it ready, I guess in case some bigwig should decide to stay in the Queen's Room, and have a servant they need to stash somewhere.
        "I still can't believe that with this here you sleep in your office."
        "Well, of course, Ray, this is a guest room."
        I shake my head. "And you're not a guest."
        "No, certainly not." He grins. "But you are. And I can wash the sheets."
        Ooh, I am all over that. Messy sheets are my specialty. We both go for the plain beige cotton throw on the bed, fighting over it a little, then he lets go and I yank it back. I find myself folding it neatly. God, he's really getting to me. I'm just about to put it down on the desk when he says my name in that half-irritated tone he sometimes gets.
        "Yeah, just a . . . ."
        'Second' never gets out of my mouth as he shoves me down onto the bed and rips the bedspread out of my hands, tossing it onto the floor, then he's over me and on me and his tongue is in my mouth again and goddamnit he's still almost fully dressed. Tunic on, but open, henley rucked up to about mid-chest, suspenders trailing, pants open, boxers practically in two pieces, thanks to my handiwork, and his boots. Holy shit. Ben has his boots on the bed. That's even hotter than getting backed into the reception desk was. I thrust up against him, even though I don't like the scratchy wool against my cock. I turn my head a little to get his tongue out of my mouth and push at his shoulders, groaning a little.
        "Damn it, it's gonna take half an hour to get you out of all that stuff."
        He looks down at himself like he's just now realizing that he's dressed. "Two minutes." That's all he says, and he's up and practically ripping clothes off.
        "I can go get your knife for the laces," I offer.
        He shoots me a look, gives one yank, three quick pulls, and one boot is off. How the hell did he do that? The other one follows, just as quick. I wish I had rewind and slow-mo for that. Next he undoes the ankle ties on the pants, shimmies, yes, shimmies, out of them, shrugs off the tunic, drags the henley off, and he did it. Naked in under two minutes. I wonder if there's some kind of Mountie uniform-stripping world record, because if there is, he'd win it. Then I don't give a damn because he's back on the bed and nudging my knees apart.
        I open for him, hear the hollow pop of the lube bottle, and I grin, closing my eyes in anticipation. He brushes his lips across mine, kisses his way to my ear. "Ray . . . may I?"
        I can't help it. I laugh. "No, Ben, I'm lying here looking like a cheap hooker because I don't want you to fuck me."
        He scowls at me. "You," he says firmly, punctuating it with a kiss. "Do." Kiss. "Not." Kiss. "Look." Kiss. "Like." Kiss. "That." Kiss. "At all."
        Well, it was a just a joke but I like the results too much to correct him. He leans back in and kisses me again, long and slow and hot, teasing my tongue with his until I follow it back to his home territory and try to count his teeth, and then his hand goes between my legs like he has a roadmap, guess he's been there enough times to have the route memorized. I lift up a little to make it easier, and he slides one finger in nice and slick and slow. He works me until I'm feeling really good, and then he cups his other hand around my cock just as he introduces me to a second finger.
        The combination is wild, and I buck and whimper like a puppy. . . God, that feels good. He's humping my thigh a little, and I'm getting impatient. I start pushing back on his fingers, trying to make him go faster. It makes me ache a little but it's a good ache, and it eases fast. He's breathing a little hard, too, and even though my whole thigh is wet from him he's still in control, damn it, concentrating on his proper performance thing. Damn. I want Cave-man Fraser back. I want him in me and pounding me hard and heavy, and I'm ready for him, don't need more prep. And I think I know how to get him.
        On the next outstroke I lift up, and his fingers slide right out. Hate feeling empty, but in a flash I'm over on my belly, legs still splayed. Trying to ignore the way the smooth, clean sheets feel against my cock, I push up on my hands and look back over my shoulder at him. "Now," I say, and my voice sounds funny-- rough-- like I spent two days on stakeout smoking cigarettes and drinking bad coffee.
        He's on me so fast I don't even have time to breathe. Yeah. Got him. He slaps a hand on my hip, holding on tight, like he thinks I'm going somewhere. Right. The other's probably on his cock, guiding himself. Even so he fumbles twice, too excited to aim right, which is its own kind of turn-on. Then finally he's there and oh shit maybe I wasn't ready but there's no going back now. I take deep, slow breaths through my nose as he starts to push in, not a fast thrust, just steady and determined, just like he is.
        I close my eyes and, weirdly, I'm all the sudden remembering that baseball game: him and me out behind the dugout, him so calm, me about to climb right out of my skin. I can almost hear his voice. "Count the seams, Ray." So I do. I think about that baseball coming at me, see it in my mind, watch those seams spin and oh holy fucking wow, he's in. Home run. Right out of the park. No more pain, just the incredible, amazing feeling of him inside me, right inside my skin, as close as we can get and still be two different people. No wonder he loves this.
        He's rubbing his nose against the back of my neck, breathing hard, saying my name every other breath, making little pushes with his hips, not quite thrusts because he's all the way in and trying hard to stay there and let me get used to him, but I can tell he needs more than that and so do I. And I'm used to him. Feel like we ought to be this way all the time. I shift my hips forward a little, then up and back toward him, and he slides out a bit with the first motion then back in again with the second.
        No one ever said he was dumb. He pulls back slowly, pushes in slowly, repeats it, again, again. Not much rhythm but he can sure count time. He starts to get into it, picking up the tempo, putting more of his muscle behind each thrust. Feels so fucking good, that slide, that burn, that explosion of sweetness every time he hits me just right. I just splay out under him, hands braced against the headboard so he doesn't push me up into it, my head arched back because it feels like the only way I can get enough air in my lungs. The power of his thrusts is grinding my cock against the bed, and that's a whole other level of good. My body starts to tighten up with that familiar 'gonna come soon' tension.
        Ben's got his hands flat on the bed on either side of me now, and he's pounding me hard, just like I wanted him to, needed him to, and then he makes this sound that's my name wrapped in a growl and he's shoving hard up into me and I swear I can feel his heat pulse into me as he comes. A few seconds later he's wrapping his arms around my chest, hugging me, sounding like he might be crying though I don't feel tears on my back. Finally I make out what he's saying.
        "Love you, Ray. So much."
        Right then I couldn't care less if I come. I'm a big old sap and my fellow cops would probably kill me if they knew that-- well, after they got done killing me for being a fag-- but those words are way better than coming. Every time he says them I feel like the sky opened up and a sunbeam hit me. He hugs me hard, and kisses me behind my ear, then he bends one knee, pushes, and rolls us onto our sides. He's still mostly hard, hard enough to stay in me, and he starts a languid sort of humping against my ass.
        The slide's a lot easier now, he's not as big, and I'm full of his come, and it feels great like this. Feels even better when he reaches around and wraps his hand around my cock. He's still got a little lube on his hand, and he strokes me fast and hard, two pumps to every one of his cock in my ass, and the tension's back just like that. Gasping, I lean my head back against his shoulder, and he kisses what he can reach of my face . . . my temple, the corner of my mouth, my cheekbone. Then he sticks his tongue in my ear, fucks it in and out a couple of times, and whispers, "Come, Ray."
        And that's all she wrote. I come like a fucking fountain, all over his hand, my belly, the sheets. It's a strange feeling, coming with him in me, but a good one. Better than good. It rolls through me and over me like a truck, and I'm still shaking with it three minutes later when I remember I have a voice.
        "Love you, Benton Fraser."
        He hugs me again, kisses my neck, and nods. I drift sleepily, figure he is too. That's what guys do after they fuck. I'm just about to go down for the count when he tenses suddenly.
        "My knife? You used my knife?" he asks incredulously.
        I'm foggy and it takes me a few to figure out what he's asking. Finally I get it and I grin. "Yeah. But I was careful. I like the equipment too much to damage it."
        He ponders that, relaxes a bit, sighs. "You owe me a new pair."
        I chuckle. "You got it."

* * * Finis * * *

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