Dark Edge of Honor

  Mike’s hand slid between Sergei’s legs, fondling his sac, then stroking up his cock, pushing his hand away. Sergei put his hand back on the ground to support himself, but Mike’s touch didn’t stroke. Just teased. Same as his tongue.

  “That’s not…fucking,” Sergei protested, but he really didn’t mind the torture, only that it made him feel helpless with the sheer pleasure of it. Getting fucked was one thing, but this could go on forever.

  Mike’s tongue stilled, withdrew. His breath against Sergei’s moist skin was almost too much, the drag of the man’s teeth over the curve of his ass eliciting a full-bodied shudder from him. “Want more?”

  Sergei nodded, breathless, needing. “Yes.” He bit down on a “please,” but it was a close call. Nobody had done that to him, nobody could make him say that, because, when the deal was struck, it wasn’t about please and thank you, just about getting to the climax and parting swiftly afterward. This situation had never come up.

  Mike’s shoulders pushed at his thighs, his tongue back suddenly, wet and hot, laving down his crease, lips trailing over his sac. Sucking the sensitive flesh into his mouth, a wet fingertip probing his sphincter, sliding inside effortlessly, pumping, stroking, curling. Finding that spot inside that made every muscle in Sergei’s body surrender completely and lose all resistance.

  Sergei shuddered and pushed back, couldn’t keep the groan in, didn’t care, just wanted more. “Do…it.” He glanced over his shoulder to lend the request more weight. “Mike, please.”

  The man’s touch retreated, offering a momentary respite from the sensory assault. His hand returned, touching his back again. “Turn over.”

  Sergei paused, not quite sure how that worked, but he obeyed, turning, hip touching the ground first, then he lay on his back, one hand pulling the foreskin back over his cock head. He lifted his knees, feet on the ground, spread open.

  Mike studied him, gaze intense, kneeling between Sergei’s legs, stroking himself, cock glistening with a sheen of oil. Then he leaned forward, bracing his free hand by Sergei’s shoulder, guiding himself to Sergei’s ass. The head of his cock large, hard, insistent, Mike pushed, gently, controlled, every muscle in his body clenched, standing out beneath his skin.

  Sergei pushed back against it. He wanted to feel it all inside, and his legs crossed behind Mike’s back, pulling him closer. Another thing he hadn’t done, sex usually happened from behind and this was awkward, but good, being able to see and touch like this. It worked both ways, though—Mike could read his face too.

  “I’m not…a virgin,” Sergei reminded the other man, his voice strained with pleasure.

  Mike glanced up, eyes slightly glazed, face flushed. “I know.” His expression changed as he rolled his hips, pushing forward, past the natural resistance of Sergei’s body, only to stop once again. He brought his other hand up, framing Sergei’s head with his forearms, and lowered his lips to Sergei’s mouth. “Doesn’t mean it’s okay for it to hurt.”

  “Just in a good way.” Sergei groaned, arching against the sweet, sweet pressure, hands coming up to trail the muscles of Mike’s back, his arms, shoulders. “This is…too good,” he muttered, trying to get more, trying to get him to move again. Nobody had done this. He felt as if he had no clue about sex, as if he had nothing much to offer to one that knew this much about it. “I feel…feel you.”

  Mike traced Sergei’s lips with his tongue, trailed his mouth down to his neck, nuzzled that soft spot just below his ear. “I feel you too. Gods, you’re tight.” He shifted to hook Sergei’s leg at the knee, opening him further. Another thrust of his hips, and Mike seated to the hilt, sac brushing his ass. Mike went completely still, cheek pressed against Sergei’s, breath ragged against his shoulder. “Fuck.”

  Through the haze of sensation, something registered vaguely in the back of Sergei’s mind. That hadn’t been Doctrine. Or any language the natives used. He pushed the thought away as inconsequential and tightened his muscles around Mike, rocking up against him to get him to move. Fingers digging into muscles, he couldn’t just wait patiently—he just didn’t have the same amount of control. “I’m all right…”

  “I’m not,” Mike laughed breathlessly. “Give me a moment, or this is going to be a really short ride.”

  He took a deep breath, chest expanding, pressing him into the ground. And he was aware of every shift and clench of muscle, of strength and power, as Mike gathered himself and began to move. Finally.

  Long, slow strokes, the muscles in his back bunching beneath Sergei’s hands. Mike’s hips rolled twisted, and when he increased his pace, Sergei stopped analyzing any of the sensations. This, too, was so much better—robbing him of breath and thought, very unlike encounters with the general, which he often enough only endured. No comparison.

  Sergei groaned when a thrust was just perfect, Mike’s belly offering friction for his cock, too, his changeable eyes half-blazing, half-hooded. He arched up to kiss him, bite and suck on those lips, hands, hips, legs urging him on, the pleasure so fierce he could barely stand it.

  Mike changed his angle a fraction, flashing a smile. “Right there?” he growled, then dipped his head and smashed his mouth against Sergei’s, tongue thrusting in to claim his mouth without waiting for a response.

  Exactly there. Sergei called out, not just a grunt of pleasure, but nothing that made sense, because he was getting close to the edge and couldn’t have stopped if he’d wanted. And he didn’t. Under the assault, all he could do was greet it, welcome it and revel in it, kissing, biting, squirming and thrusting against the other man. Losing his mind, all control, all thought. Close.

  “Goddamn, Sergei,” Mike muttered against his mouth, breathless. He thrust forward with sudden intensity, a blistering moment of ferocity, and then went rigid, cock pulsing, heat spreading in Sergei’s ass as he came.

  Frantic, Sergei reached for his cock and finished himself off with a few hectic, forceful strokes, spilling over his own chest and against Mike’s weight, feeling Mike’s cock even more when his own body clenched and released. He pressed Mike close and lowered his legs, breathing their scent in. A sweat drop formed at his temple and tickled down to his neck. “Wow. To…quote you.” He wiped his face with his arm.

  Mike laughed, a faint and breathless sound that registered as a gust of expelled air against Sergei’s neck. “I’ll move in a second, I promise…” His full weight rested atop Sergei, limp and sated.

  “Stay.” Sergei rearranged his legs and stretched out, holding Mike in place with one arm while resting his head on the other. “This is nice.”

  “Yes. Very.” Mike moved slightly to pull his cock from Sergei’s body.

  Sergei closed his eyes, content to just lie there and recover while, outside, Doctrine fought Cirokko for dominance. He checked the wristwatch, but they still had time. Enough to rest a little and share this strange thing that had been growing. Intimacy seemed the best word for it. A strange knowledge and acceptance that this wasn’t what he’d come to find after yesterday.

  Chapter Eight

  Mike traced his fingertips over Sergei’s scalp, enjoying the abrasive sensation of close-cropped hair. This was…he wasn’t sure. It just was…more than his handler would be expecting. More than any professional role or interest. Sergei…something about this man reached into places Mike had spent the greater part of the last two decades ignoring.

  He listened to Sergei’s breathing, felt the rhythm slow, synch with his own. It was eerie, this familiarity, this intimacy. Not in a bad way, but if he thought about it too deeply it touched upon unsettling emotions.

  Worse, he remembered saying a few things there toward the end and had no idea which language he’d slipped into. For a moment he panicked, tensing, trying to figure out what Sergei would make of it. How he would react once the endorphins no longer clogged his brain.

  Then gray eyes opened to look at him, not completely clear yet, and it was obvious the Doctrine soldier was waking up from a state as near to sleep as h
e could get without really falling asleep. He checked his watch again, and Mike rolled off, claiming part of the blanket.

  “I should be off in thirty minutes,” Sergei said, looking not only well-fucked but somewhat unhappy about the time frame.

  A twinge of disappointment arrowed through Mike, catching him off guard. He scratched at his chest, grimacing, and kept his attention focused on the ceiling. No use betraying himself more. “Okay,” he said cautiously. Careful to use Doctrine standard this time. It bothered him that he couldn’t remember what he’d said earlier. Bothered him a great deal. He twisted on his side, propping up on his elbow to study Sergei. “I think I could probably find someplace a little more comfortable. If you want to see me again, that is?”

  Several emotions raced over the Doctrine soldier’s face. After sex, he was much more unguarded and easier to read. Never mind during sex. “You’re teasing. Yes. I want to see you again. Tomorrow?”

  Mike reached out, trailed a finger over Sergei’s forehead, followed the bridge of his nose, brushed his lips, and continued down along the meridian of his body, sweat slicking his touch. “Same time? I can meet you here. Take you…elsewhere.”

  “You already did,” Sergei murmured. “Yes, I’ll be here.”

  He recalled the way Sergei had behaved yesterday, once he had his uniform on, and leaned down to brush his lips against Sergei’s. Unable to resist just one more kiss. Fine, a few more. Who was counting, anyway? He slid his palm over Sergei’s stomach, feeling the muscles move beneath his touch, to rest on the point of his hip. Couldn’t resist grabbing hold and pulling the man toward him again. Languid, sated, he still wanted to feel.

  “Hmm, nice.” Sergei changed positions and leaned against him, kissing him back. He did learn pretty fast, though, all told, and was a lot less skittish and awkward when it came to tenderness. Strangely gratifying, to see Sergei trust him and try things out, and he’d definitely found a liking for kissing.

  “Get somewhere with a sturdy bed.”

  Mike smiled against Sergei’s lips and resisted the urge to roll over on top of the man again. It was very tempting.

  Who’s the bait here, anyway? Irritation swelled. Not at Sergei, or himself, but just…things. Everything else. Including his spectacularly crappy timing. Only I could come halfway across the universe and manage to find the one thing I’ve avoided for so long.

  “Sturdy bed, check.” He pulled back, all trace of smile long gone, and studied Sergei’s face. “Anything else you want?” Mike hated that his voice was husky, hated the surge of emotions roiling through him right then, that he had to work so hard to keep everything under control. For the most part, he succeeded.

  “More time.” Sergei smiled and sat up, resting his arms on his knees for a while before he stood. “I’ll have to go back. There’s…too much work waiting. My superior is back home on Liberty. Guess who does the work.”

  Mike knew he was in dangerous territory, especially when the words he uttered weren’t entirely bent toward the goal of intel. “Anything I can do to help?”

  Sergei smiled. “I wish.” He gathered his clothes and started to get dressed, methodical and efficient as always. “We have to get more translators but it’s dangerous work. There are people that target ‘collaborators.’ Some are hedging their bets and seem to be waiting, but others…take a more proactive approach.”

  Mike lay there, poked at a rip in the blanket, as the soldier slid back into his armor. Like a reverse striptease. He decided to step out onto the branch and see if it held his weight. A faint surge of adrenaline purged the last dregs of postcoital bliss from his body and mind. “I’m capable of taking care of myself…and I’ve been here long enough to be familiar with the locals as well. Would you consider me for a position as translator?”

  Sergei paused, frowned, then seemed to give it some serious thought. “That might work. The Doctrine would have to check your background. If…that is okay?” A cautious note in that slight hesitation.

  “I have nothing to hide.” Mike felt a twinge of guilt as he fed Sergei the lie but CovOps provided their agents with solid histories. “You may poke me as much as you like,” he added with a lecherous grin.

  “I will. Tomorrow.” Sergei, now fully dressed, pulled him into another kiss. “I’ll ask about the translator job. Strictly speaking, I’m not handling it, but I don’t see how we could say no.” He pulled back and put his cap back on, tilting it at the right angle. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Mike leaned against the scarred wooden door and watched the young Doctrine officer walk off down the dusty lane. Disappear around a corner.

  The skeevy sensation of being watched tickled the back of his neck and he stiffened. Remained still, in the shadow of the entry, and scanned the block. The rooftops and vertical coffins of doorways and windows in his line of sight.

  Long minutes passed as he waited and observed, patience fueled by curiosity. Who would know where to find him, in this hovel, in this area? The list was short, and the locals had enough survival instincts to mind their own business, for the most part. Mike doubted it was a native, which left two distinct possibilities. Either it was a fellow CovOps agent, or the Doctrine operatives were obsessive enough about policing their own that Sergei had gained a tail without realizing it. Or without caring.

  Both were disturbing.

  He was about to move away, back into the shelter of the room, when he caught a subtle shift in one of the coffin-shadows halfway down the street. Mike froze as Pat’s familiar physique appeared in the lane, glancing over his shoulder in the direction Sergei had gone before darting toward him, staying close to the protective overhangs of the buildings.

  Mike huffed a sigh. The man had shitty timing. He’d have a good reason for coming down out of the wilds like this, though, to make personal contact. No doubt of that, really. Following Pat’s progress, he moved quickly to the opposite side of the open entry, plastering his back against the cool, rough-hewn stone of the wall. Boy needed some schooling. Should’ve laid low until nightfall. Or dusk, at the very least.

  Pat moved silently, the only harbinger of his proximity the tell of shadow on the hard-packed floor. Mike canted his head, tension coiling in his muscles, calm, watching the sharp line of sunlight on the floor. Nothing. He thought he could almost feel the man’s presence on the opposite side of the stone wall.

  Which was just too funny. He grinned, chewed his lip and waited.

  When the CovOp moved through the entrance, Mike slipped behind him and grabbed hold, clamping one forearm beneath Pat’s chin, pinning his arms with the other, immobilizing his defense reactions. The man didn’t need to be armed to be a lethal opponent.

  Pat went limp, dropped toward the ground and took Mike with him. Mike followed the younger man’s natural momentum, rolling him facedown on the floor, tangling their legs and using his thighs and knees to negate any further struggle. The material of Pat’s clothes chafed against his chest, skin still hypersensitive in the aftermath of his afternoon activities, and the sensation just piqued his irritation further.

  “What the hell, Pat?” he growled, mouth barely an inch from the man’s ear. “Acting like a strawberry on a straw.” Falling through the doorway like a top-heavy, brainless lump. The analogy was a residue from their years of training. “You fucking know better.”

  “And you’re the pickle on a pencil. Let me up, asswipe.” Pat didn’t sound in the mood for jesting. The strain in his voice, the tension in his body, conveyed this was more than a social call.

  Mike rolled off, pushing the man away and using the force to gain his feet in one smooth motion. Didn’t relax, even then. Stood there, muscles tense, joints loose, waiting for the retaliation. Pat just flopped over, sat up with a grunt and brushed the layer of grit from his clothes.

  A patch of charred, uneven hair along the right side of Pat’s head caught his gaze. Seemed superficial, except that probably wasn’t just soot smudged on his ear. Didn’t look too bad, though. Mike took
in the rest of his fellow CovOp, the signs of battle in the tears, the dirt ground into the cloth. The stone dust and deep gouges on the heavy leather boots.

  “Damn, boy. What’ve you been doing, fucking a Komodo dragon?”

  Pat’s dark gaze flicked up at him, annoyed and dismissive. “You’re in a good mood. Doctrine soldier gives good ass, then?”

  Mike kicked the sole of Pat’s boot. “Tell me why you’re here. And not out there, harrying the dispatching patrols.” He moved back again, safely out of range, as Pat pushed to his feet. Moving slower, with more stiffness, than he recalled.

  “Because I need intel. More, better. Faster. It’s not enough to know in what direction they’re deploying troops. I need destination coordinates. Can’t move ahead of them and set successful traps if I don’t. What we’re doing right now? Is like harrying a cruiser about to drop into a wormhole. Blink, and they’re fucking gone. Reappear on your rear, like a sore from a cheap whore.”

  Pat would know. “I gave some of that to Herschel, at our last meeting. A week ago.” And that birthed a thousand niggling questions in the back of his brain. Mike moved across the room to his kit, retrieving the slim case containing his backup data. Redundancy saved your ass when you were CovOps. Couldn’t depend on reinforcements to fix your fuckups.

  Or other people’s, as the case seemed to be. Didn’t even have to remove the datachip for this. Just tapped it, activating the low-range proximity feed. Pat scrambled for his handheld, pulling it from the small pack anchored at his lower back. His kit seemed dangerously close to needing resupply. It wasn’t easy to find foodstuffs and other luxuries up in those barren mountains.

  While Pat downloaded the data files from the activated chip, Mike scrounged through his kit and tossed crap at the man. Spare water-treatment tablets. Supplements. A couple of shrink-wrapped Space Forces MREs. The things were freeze-dried, vacuum-sealed and nasty as all hell, but they were high calorie and bland enough to be tolerated by even the most traumatized digestive tract. It made them perfect for situations like Pat’s. When your gut couldn’t handle quality anymore, but you needed every bit of quantity you could get. Mike doubted the man knew where his next meal was coming from, or what it would consist of, half the time.