Page 3 of Under Cover

“Then wh—”

Crosby turned on the bed and took Garcia’s mouth, not wanting any more scenarios, not wanting any “What are we now?” questions. He just wanted the taste of Garcia, and as he swept his tongue inside that warm, willing cavern, he tasted his own come and remembered that last slow, painful orgasm, the final of three, because Garcia had wanted to taste him before they fell back asleep.

Crosby’s cock strained against his briefs, the whole works threatening to bubble out of the unbuttoned fly, and he pulled back, breath laboring in his chest.

“I haven’t hooked up with Gail’s roommate since you started at SCTF,” he blurted as he pulled away.

Garcia tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Crosby nodded. He held his hand up because they’d done this quietly, under the table the night before, surrounded by colleagues. It was where they’d started.

Garcia gave him a guarded look and threaded their fingers together. “So what do we do?”

Crosby looked at his sex-swollen mouth, remembered his head tilted back, his eyes closed, as Crosby had pounded into his body and Garcia had begged so sweetly.

“We can’t come out to the squad yet,” Crosby said, wanting to do that again. Wanting to feel Garcia’s come spurting between their bodies. Wanting to hold Garcia’s cock, his home, in his mouth again.

Garcia started to withdraw his hand, but Crosby captured it.

“We couldn’t even if one of us was a girl,” he said, knowing he sounded like a meatloaf and not caring. “’Cause protocol. ’Cause it’s dangerous. ’Cause we’d worry every time we had to draw our weapons.”

Garcia’s eyes, black-brown infinity pools, sharper than daggers. “I already worry about you every time we have to draw our weapons,” he said, the brutal honesty stripping Crosby to the skin. He remembered the week before, Garcia catching a shelf to the back of the head, being sent sprawling, and how Crosby had needed to run right past him while Harding checked to make sure Garcia was okay because Crosby had point and there was an asshole with a gun and a death wish who wanted to make everybody else die first.

“But we still do our jobs,” Crosby said soberly. The job—it meant everything.

Garcia nodded, and they were on the same page.

“But you don’t hook up with Gail’s roommate anymore,” he reiterated.

Crosby nodded, not bothering to speak the truth one more time. Gail’s roommate hadn’t been a thing since Calix Garcia had walked in the door at the SCTF six months before. “And you don’t hook up with—”

“Nobody,” Garcia whispered. “I haven’t hooked up with anybody, not for a really long time.”

Crosby remembered the sweet yielding of his body, the way he’d devoured Crosby’s cock, like he’d been starving for it.

Apparently only Crosby’s cock.

“Only me,” Crosby said, feeling possessive.

“Yeah.”

“You only hook up with me.”

“Yeah.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, and Crosby took his mouth again, holding Garcia’s hands over his head and ravaging, claiming, knowing his short beard would leave marks, stubble burns, proof that he’d been there.

But Garcia submitted, took the kiss, made it more, until the buzzing of both their phones from the charger on Garcia’s dresser shocked them apart.

“We have work,” Garcia murmured.

“Yeah.”

“We can do this. Only hook up with each other.”

“Yeah.”

“Get dressed,papi.We can get coffee and bagels on the way in.”