“Michael,” breathed Tristan, gripping the glass like it held the cure for cancer. “I…”
“Shh,” said Michael. “I need you.”
“Take what you need. Not going to spill it.” Tristan bit his lip on a grin as he issued the challenge, dissolving into a moan as Michael put his mouth on his cock.
Michael hummed a little as he swallowed Tristan's cock, working it with the muscles in the back of this throat. He cupped Tristan's balls in his hand and squeezed lightly, just enough to make him jump.
“You're sure of that?” he asked, licking his fingers and pushing into Tristan's tight, puckered channel with two of them, just hard enough to be forceful, to get Tristan's attention.
“Mm,” said Tristan, meaning to say “yes,” but incapable of forming the words. He writhed under Michael's assault, his hips moving, the muscles in his back arching all out of his control, but he held the glass in his hands still by sheer force of will.
Sliding further down on the futon, Michael searched for and found a condom and lube, tossed carelessly in the bedding earlier. He nudged Tristan's legs as far apart as they would go, rolling the condom down his aching cock. “Want you so much,” he said, lifting Tristan's knees to expose him completely. He bent down once more to lap at Tristan's hole, now relaxing a little for him as he thrust his tongue deep.
“
Damn
,” cried Tristan, the contents of the glass he held sloshing dangerously around, a drop sliding to his cupped hands.
“Don't spill,” commanded Michael as he pushed two lubed fingers into Tristan, making him pant between thrusts to hold onto the glass. He searched for and found Tristan's sweet spot, hitting it, making Tristan jerk and clench his teeth.
“Not going to.” Tristan's every cell was rippling with the erotic, electric shocks generated by Michael's talented fingers.
Michael slid his arms under Tristan's knees, bringing his legs up like a pair of suspenders, one at a time, to his strong shoulders as he took what he needed, entering Tristan with a strong thrust of his cock.
“Feels so good, baby,” he sighed when he was in balls deep and rocking in slow circles, not moving yet. He got a shuddering sigh from Tristan, who breathed deeply and accommodated his body, his arms going rigid above his head.
Fully joined like that, Michael kissed Tristan hard and deep. A man's kiss. A plundering kiss that left no doubt that Michael knew he would get what he wanted from Tristan's body with the ease of long practice.
“Michael,” breathed Tristan in awe as Michael moved within him.
“
Come on, baby
,” said Michael, burying his face in Tristan's neck, his ear pressed to Tristan's throat. Tristan made inarticulate moaning sounds in time with his thrusts. Air, rushing through a human voice box, just going somewhere with no one to control it. Michael pressed his whole body into Tristan's, mindless now with pleasure, their mutual passion mounting as he pushed deeper and deeper still.
Suddenly Tristan stiffened beneath him, his body going rigid as he shot a ribbon of cum between them. The heat and the clenching of Tristan's ass pushed Michael into his own release. He lifted his head, arched his back, and slammed one last time into Tristan's channel, the gush of hot fluid filling the latex.
Tristan could still feel Michael straining inside him, felt his release and the pulse beat of his cock as he came. “Love you.”
“Tristan,” moaned Michael. “Tristan. Love. Mine.”
“Yes,” hissed Tristan, still holding the glass. “Yours,
yes. Yours, Michael
.” Still joined, Michael removed the glass from Tristan's trembling hands and took a long, slow sip, covering Tristan's mouth to share it with him. They kissed around the alcohol, and when it was gone from their mouths, they kept kissing until Michael softened, and his cock slid out of Tristan's body, and Michael had to put the drink down and leave Tristan's lips to slide off and discard the condom. He took another drink and shared it with Tristan again, jetting the fluid into his mouth with a push of his lips.
Tristan lapped at him languidly, his lips and tongue hungry to taste Michael's, the warm, whiskey-flavored kisses they shared the only thing that mattered. He felt the alcohol to his toes, the warmth spreading throughout his body as Michael's cum had warmed his core even through the latex. He was unused to even beer, and as the tingling feeling made its way around his limbs, he clung to Michael, whose solid body anchored him to the world. He was still mumbling as he drifted off to sleep.
“So…” said Tristan. “Much. Love you so much.”
It was a cold damned night as Michael got back into his cruiser after a routine traffic stop. The winds were high and icy as the southland was gripped by some of the coldest temperatures on record for LA. Arctic air whipped his exposed skin and chapped his cheeks. He'd already seen several downed trees, one of which had caught power lines, shutting off the electricity to Jeff Clayton's upscale hilltop neighborhood. Jeff had already called him twice on his cell, worried about his tropical fish.
Well, shit, can't have fish in danger
.
Fortunately, even though Christmas was only two weeks away, there were few people on the road this weekday night at four a.m. Bars had seemed more deserted than usual, and he hadn't gotten many calls that didn't have to do with the wind and the weather. Maybe people were smart enough and cold enough to stay inside. Which didn't reassure him at all, considering that if his guys from the park weren't in the shelter, somebody could die tonight. He circled around on Brea Boulevard, making the left on Harbor to run by the park. Hopefully, he wouldn't find anyone there, and he could finish up his shift by chasing down more tree branches and frightened homeowners. Maybe he'd even go home and get his generator for Jeff, to keep the fish alive.
Making a careful drive by Hillcrest Park, he couldn't tell if anyone was there, but the wind was wreaking havoc, kicking up dirt and debris and some rather large branches. He parked in the lot on the bottom terrace of the multi-level park, noting that the lights appeared to still be on in the surrounding areas. He got out his flashlight and took the path to the area behind the bathrooms, where he knew he would most likely find anyone who was squatting there.
At first he saw what he thought was a trash bag, slumped against the side of the building, in the small area that provided privacy on the way in and out of the women's restroom. Thinking it was trash somebody dumped, he almost walked past the dark shape, but realizing the small protected entryway was an adequate windbreak, he checked closer to see if the strange shadow was more than the bundle of rags it looked like.
Michael shone his flashlight into the confined space. The pile of rags scuttled sideways and backward, like a startled spider. Something about the dirty silver hair captured Michael's attention.
“Mary?” he asked. “Mary…it's me, Michael.”
“Don't know you,” muttered Mary. She cringed back from him in fear. “Mary don't know you.”
“Mary,” Michael tried again gently, not making any sudden movements. “Mary, it's me. Michael. Officer Truax. We talk sometimes. Do you remember?”
“Mary don't know you.”
Michael trained the flashlight over her body, wondering where her coat was, her blankets. She didn't have her usual things with her, and he was worried. Then he caught sight of a dark stain on the ground near her leg and saw that her sweatpants were torn and possibly bloodied.
“Mary, are you hurt?” he asked. “Did something happen?”
“Mary don't,” she said. “Mary don't know you, and you've gotta
back off
.” She barked this last. She didn't look at him directly; her eyes moved in wild patterns over the concrete at his feet. This wasn't normal, and it alarmed Michael as much as the wound she'd apparently sustained.
“Mary,” he said quietly. “Where are your things?”
This appeared to be the wrong thing to say, because all of a sudden Mary drew herself up to her full height and screeched at him. “They was taken!” she shouted. “They took my shit!”
“Mary,” Michael said again in the voice he used on charging dogs and frightened children, but before he could say anything further, she seemed to explode into action.
“Don't!” she screamed. “Don't you hurt me! Don't you touch me!” She was tearing at her hair, and silver ribbons of it were floating around her, caught by the wind.
Michael backed away immediately. He touched the radio on his shoulder to ask for immediate assistance and requested paramedics. He saw, now that Mary had stepped into the pool of light cast by a street lamp, that she was bruised all over her face and arms, and that the leg of her sweatpants wasn't the only thing torn and bloody. She'd been attacked, he surmised grimly. He racked his brain for something to say that would calm her.
“Mary,” he said. “Please. It's Officer Truax. Some of the kids call me Officer Helmet. Remember we talked about what to do when it's cold?”
He waited, but she just stood staring at him wildly, frozen, having stopped tugging her hair.
“I'm here to help you, Mary. I'm going to find you a nice, warm place where you'll be safe. Okay?”
“Not going to be safe,” Mary wailed, heartbroken. It hurt Michael somewhere deep inside to hear it. “Not ever going to be safe anymore.”
“Mary,” he tried again. “It's okay. We can go someplace safe.” He took a cautious step forward, then another. “Remember me? You always tease me that I get too cold?”
“No…Mary don't know you.” It was more like a whimper.
“Come on,” said Michael. “It's okay. It's going to be all right.”
“Can't be all right no more. I lost all my stuff,” said Mary. “Can't live without my stuff. Gonna die without my stuff, sure as shit.”
“No, Mary, we'll get your stuff,” said Michael, taking another cautious step. “Hey, you know what? Maybe we can shop for new stuff. I could get you some new stuff, Mary.” He didn't like the way her dark eyes looked like they were swallowed by the whites. It reminded him of spooked horses. Michael was two feet from her when a second patrol car and the paramedics, with their lights flashing, pulled up, and all hell broke loose.
“
N
o
!” screamed Mary wildly. “
N
o
! Not going. Mary don't know you!”
“Mary,” said Michael, putting his hands out where she could see them, holding his flashlight in the least threatening way possible.
“No,” she said, lunging for him. “Don't touch me, can't touch! Don't hurt!” She was on him in a second, close enough to for him to see the fresh bruises and lacerations on her face, her split lip. “No! Can't again. Not again!” Her hand lashed out at him and he thought she pushed him back, but when he looked down he saw he had some sort of shiny metal thing sticking out of him above his utility belt on the right side.