Pierce’s naked body was strong, almost sinuous, as he pressed Griff into the mattress, sliding up and down teasingly, their cocks rubbing and bumping. He was braced on his arms, smiling down confidently at Griff. His hair fell in a black sweep over his forehead.

“What do you like?”

Griff made a face. “Anything, I guess.” He was not good at talking about sex. That was one of the things that had always pissed Levi off. But it embarrassed Griff to talk about coming and, er, going. What was there to say, really? He was experienced enough, but no one would call him sophisticated. He tried to concentrate on pleasing his partner and enjoying himself. Wasn’t that pretty much it?

“Anything?” Pierce teased.

Well, no. Not anything actually. It must have showed in a line of worry between Griff’s brows because Pierce’s expression grew quizzical. He swiveled his hips in a grinding motion and Griff gasped and arched up against him.

“You like that?”

Griff nodded. He did. He liked the warmth of their naked bodies, the pulse of their cocks diving heavily against each other, the weight and the pressure and the tension. It all felt great, and it was going to feel even better unless Pierce got too fancy, too tricky.

Pierce’s flat nipples were rosy brown points against the tanned, hard planes of his chest. Griff lifted his head and licked at them. Pierce sucked in a sharp breath.

Griff closed his lips around one tiny point. He sucked hard and Pierce’s arms trembled. He whispered, “Nice. That’s nice. Do that some more.”

Griff smiled inwardly and applied himself. He knew a few things about the proper use of tongues and lips—they weren’t only useful for talking.

Pierce shifted, rocking up, and Griff scooted down, kissing and licking until he found the satiny dip of Pierce’s navel. Pierce quivered, his breath coming in harsh gasps, anticipating. Griff stole a quick look at his face.

Pierce’s eyes were closed, his lashes dark and curling and trembling against his high cheekbones. His beard was blue-black and heavy at this time of the evening. His mouth looked curiously vulnerable. Griff wanted to kiss it, but maybe that was too personal now.

Instead he slid an arm around Pierce’s waist, flipping him over. Pierce made a surprised sound, but went with it, falling onto his back, laughing a little. His cock, long and straight, jutted up all flushed and needy. Griff closed his mouth over the swollen head and devoted himself to answering that need.

He liked the sounds Pierce was making, and the way Pierce’s hips pushed up to meet him. He liked this feeling of power.

Pierce shuddered, panted, “You’re going to make me come.”

Griff’s mouth was full, he couldn’t speak, he just nodded agreement.

Pierce groaned a soft protest, though it was as much a yielding, encouraging sound. There wasn’t any stopping that train, Griff knew from experience. Pierce’s skin and hair smelled a fainter variety of that spicy cologne mingled with the musky scent of sex. He tasted salty but with a promise of sweetness.

Pierce’s hand found Griff’s head, fingers locking in his hair in half caress, half insistence. Griff tongued and teased, always returning to that deep, delicious drag of hot, wet friction. He took his time, drawing it out, making it last as long as possible for Pierce.

“Oh God,” Pierce said. “You...” The strangled words stopped and he went rigid, and then he was coming in white spumes like a champagne bottle shaken hard and smashed open. Too much and too hard for Griff to swallow, even if they’d known each other well enough to exchange premium bodily fluids. He laughed and wiped his forehead, enjoying the shocked magnitude of Pierce’s orgasm.

“Where the hell did you come from?” Pierce said, when he had breath to speak again. He pulled Griff down beside him, rolling over so that Griff was wrapped tightly in his arms. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Why?” Pierce sounded honestly bewildered. Clearly this was not something he gave easily or often or maybe ever. His loss. He drew back, stared at Griff with dark intensity, his hand slipping down between the moist crevices of their bodies.

Griff closed his eyes as Pierce’s fingers closed around him. It was an awkward angle, but Pierce’s touch was warm and experienced. His palm was slick from his own release, his grip firm without crushing or bending.

“I didn’t even think you liked me,” Pierce muttered after a time, as though he’d been thinking it over.

It hurt more than it should have. Nothing could have made it clearer that liking wasn’t part of this, that Pierce probably didn’t like him, that it was just another physical activity. Like squash. And sexual curiosity. Which really was fine. Not like Griff was looking for love. But he did like Pierce. Even if he hadn’t quite worked out yet why.

Since he couldn’t answer that without looking like a fool, he kept his eyes closed and faked a smile.

Pierce’s hand moved briskly, efficiently, pleasurably up and down his cock, and Griff made himself focus on that skillful application of friction and speed. Yep, Pierce knew his stuff. He shoved into Pierce’s grip, cooperating, making it good—better—because it was good. Nothing not to appreciate in excellent technique.

He pushed further, harder, strained for it. And there it was. His whole body seized, hung motionless between utter emptiness and complete delight, and then he plunged down into shivering, overwhelming sensation. A few seconds of such sweet happiness when everything really seemed okay, like everything could and would work out for the best. He tucked the feeling away inside, dimly aware that Pierce, having used tissue from the box on the nightstand to deal swiftly, efficiently with the mess, was holding him again.

He opened his eyes and smiled at Pierce.

Pierce was watching him, his expression odd. “Well, hell,” he said very softly.

“That was great,” Griff assured him.

Pierce kissed his brow, rested his forehead against Griff’s. They exchanged quiet breaths. “I feel like I should apologize,” Pierce whispered finally.

“Huh?” Griff laughed uneasily and moved away. Getting a little distance, a little perspective.

Was he supposed to grab his clothes and take off now? He wasn’t sure. How did guys like Pierce, guys who had sex with people they didn’t like, handle this part? He was definitely out of his league.

The worst part was, he didn’t want to go. He knew he should, but he was still watching Pierce, waiting for his cue. And of course the problem was, the minute he really looked at Pierce he was instantly distracted by lust and longing.

Every inch of Pierce’s body was tanned and taut until you got to the sharp white line of where his silk briefs—silk briefs—fit. He was not waxed. There was a sexy swirl of sable on his chest and a silky black tangle at his groin. Dark hair feathered his muscular arms and long legs, and somehow it seemed all the more masculine on someone so polished, so groomed.

Pierce was giving away nothing, unfortunately. His expression had fallen back into its usual unrevealing lines. He flopped over onto his front, resting his head on his arms as though they were lying on a beach. The bed was as big as a beach, for sure.

He didn’t say anything, but Griff was pretty sure Pierce could let him know without saying a word if he wanted him to leave. He studied the long line of Pierce’s naked back, surprised to note that way down in the velvety dip of the sacral region was a small, graceful tattoo. A pair of wings floated over the inked word ZION.

“Zion?” Griff asked.

Pierce muttered something into his folded arms.

“What?”

“Youthful mistake.”

“Ah. I remember my first beer too.”

Pierce turned his head, smiling. “That joke is older than you are.”