Portland's Men 2: The Pirate's Cove

Michelle King

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Jamie loves Morgan and he has for years. He just couldn't tell anyone about it. Now he's finally free, and he wants to tell everyone. Starting with Morgan. But what if Morgan doesn't want to commit? After all, he's been keeping Mo...
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Jamie loves Morgan and he has for years. He just couldn't tell anyone about it. Now he's finally free, and he wants to tell everyone. Starting with Morgan. But what if Morgan doesn't want to commit? After all, he's been keeping Morgan his dirty secret for years.

Morgan DJs at The Pirate's Cove on the weekends. It's the perfect place to meet up with his lover. At least... so Jamie hopes.

An invisible wind puffed across the back of Morgan’s neck. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the sensation, but it was unexpected. Long ago, he’d learned to heed the message. The Winds of Change signaled a shift. Every cell in his body felt electrified.

No fear, however, only anticipation.

“Follow,” he repeated and led the way to his office. He heard the rough sound of his voice. It revealed his need, his desire, his craving, but he wasn’t ashamed.

The office door was unlocked due to his foray through it minutes earlier. When Travis alerted him to the fact Jamie was at the bar, he’d abandoned his post for his office in order to fetch a cigarette while he waited and to shove a condom into his back pocket in hopes of—well, this.

Morgan selected a spot in the middle of the room and turned around again, watching. With his arms crossed over his chest and his booted feet planted into the thick gray carpet, legs widened to show off his boner, he realized his stance was thisclose to being aggressive. He stifled a shrug.

It was who he was.

Jamie closed the door behind him, then thumbed the lock. His bluer-than-blue eyes darkened as his gaze wandered across Morgan’s body. They lingered on his crotch. Jamie licked his lips, and Morgan thought that act lengthened him another inch.

He had no illusions. He knew his face wasn’t anything to write home about and that his money encouraged forgiveness of his many sins, but it was his body that kept them coming back…and back…and back again.

Jamie was occupied removing his shirt. He toed off his loafers and set them aside, laying his folded shirt on top of them. With nothing but his desires and his trousers, he straightened and returned to his spot.

Ah yes, the role-play.

Jamie needed role-play in order to reach into his most private areas. Fine. Whatever Jamie hungered for, he was happy to feed. Morgan picked up his inner mask and pulled on its persona.

“What do you want, cabin boy?”

His cold voice cracked through the room.

Jamie flinched. He held out a hand, open and palm up. “No, wait. I want— I just…”

Jamie’s words ran together as they always did when the walls around him crumbled. The mix was familiar to Morgan as well. Hunger, shame, and desire. They crashed through Jamie and battled for freedom. He knew of only one way to help his angel take the needed step.

“Speak, boy.”

Jamie withdrew. He folded into himself and, with a gasp—maybe a hiccup—he sidestepped toward his clothing. He grabbed up the shirt and the loafers and balled them against his chest. He didn’t meet Morgan’s eyes.

“I’m sorry. I should go. We’ll maybe talk another time.” Jamie headed for the door.

Morgan got there first. He remembered the brush of a warning across his neck and cursed himself for not walking with more care. He’d frightened his angel. Regret clawed at Morgan. He needed to fix his mistake and fix it now. Jamie had a right to believe he was safe beneath his hands.

He caught Jamie by the back of his neck, like one would restrain a spitting kitten. Contact, like the sizzle of a lightning bolt. Sensation surged along his nerves and almost lifted him right off his feet.

Jamie cried out, a sound of heartfelt loneness. He stood trembling.

With a firm yet gentle push, Morgan urged Jamie against the door. He didn’t leave him there for longer than a heartbeat, but instead crowded close. He surrounded Jamie with his strength, his desire, his dominance, and giving himself.

Giving himself.

A soft and needy moan shivered from Jamie, who rested his flattened hands on the wooden door. He arched his back. His ass pushed into Morgan’s crotch. Yes, my angel. Trust me.

Morgan licked the length of Jamie’s neck, tracing the jugular vein with his tongue. The tempo of a heightened pulse throbbed tellingly. He put his teeth to the earlobe and nipped. Jamie shivered. He gasped. His hand moved restlessly against the door.

“I know what you want from me, Jamie. I just wanted to hear it.”

Morgan covered his angel’s lithe form with his dark, burly mass. As always, the contrast between them shook his awareness. His angel deserved so much more than an ugly, bloodstained brute like him, but he was too selfish to deny himself the gift of Jamie. The idea of stopping crossed his mind, but he brushed it away. Jamie would say something if he crossed a line, and there hadn’t yet been a protest.

He framed Jamie’s head with his hands against the door and leaned closer. Jamie shivered and murmured a sound of delight and pushed backward into his mass. Fireworks exploded behind his eyes when Jamie rubbed those delicious ass cheeks against his boner. He felt himself harden further, if that were at all possible.

Morgan urged Jamie to turn around and put his back to the door. Jamie complied. Calmly, even affectionately, he flattened his palms on Morgan’s pecs and caressed. Morgan felt the tension across his shoulders ease with the caresses.

He shaped Jamie’s mouth with his own. He offered a gentle pressure, causing Jamie’s lips to part, then slid his tongue inside. Electricity filled the air; rapture stole his consciousness. They both moaned and surrendered to the kiss.

They both sent their hands wandering across the other’s body; breaths intermingled. Hips arched and cocks pressed against each other. Two tongues danced an intimate waltz. Morgan sucked Jamie’s tongue for a moment, bringing a moan of submission, before he pushed his deeper into his angel’s mouth. He set up a rhythm, fucking Jamie’s mouth with his tongue, promising what he would do to Jamie’s ass.

Jamie swept hot hands down his back and curved around his ass. He gripped with fingers hard enough to leave bruises, but Morgan didn’t care. Jamie tugged at him with an urgent intensity, nearly fusing their bodies and opening his mouth wide for more.

Morgan pulled away. He caught Jamie’s hips in his hands, rocked his cock against his angel’s gorgeous boner, and watched Jamie’s sex-hot eyes dilate further and turn a darker blue.

Jamie licked his parted lips. Morgan watched. Jamie shivered beneath his regard, and Morgan knew it was because Jamie liked being watched, which was fine because Morgan liked watching.

“Tell me if you don’t want me,” he said. “Let me hear you say it.”

Jamie plucked the costume bandanna off Morgan’s head. His grin was impish. “Yes, I want you. Touch me. Take me.”

Delight shot through Morgan, hot like a gunshot. Spurred, he rocked against Jamie again, eliciting a chuckle for his angel. He watched Jamie’s hands play across his skin, white like pale snowdrifts patterned against the caramel-brown of Afghanistan’s mountains.

The snow. Winter was the worst— “Careful, Marine. Winter is the worst. When you dig in and wait, your blood turns to sludge. Keep your fingers warm so you can work the trigger or reload with speed if you have to. When I was in the cliffs last February, the fucking wind felt like it was spitting ice into my face and—”

He jerked himself free of the flashback. His heartbeat slammed against his ribs. That young marine hadn’t walked home; he’d been shipped home. Dead. Such was the reality of war.

That truth didn’t help.

Jamie was panting, his breath hot against the skin of Morgan’s throat. He leaned into the caress and tightened his grip. He didn’t want to let his angel go. Jamie wanted him. That truth did help.

Dressed for the club’s celebration, Morgan wore harem pants and a nautical-themed sash around his hips. Jamie worked at the knot, murmuring his impatience. The eagerness delighted Morgan. His beautiful cabin-boy was quite the slut.

More than willing to give in to the unstated demand, he set to work on Jamie’s khakis. It was a competition to see who got to the soft-skinned yet demanding fuckstick first. Who would win?

“God, yes,” Jamie rasped. “I love your voice. You make me insanely hot just with your voice.”

A zipper purred open, announcing victory. Jamie gasped, but it wasn’t him who’d won the delicious contest. Morgan’s pants were still fastened, and he tugged Jamie’s pants and boxers down. The sash around his hips dropped to the floor. He froze—spellbound—when one of Jamie’s hands slipped into his pants and wrapped around his unrestrained, throbbing cock.

All higher thought capabilities fled his mind. All he knew was pleasure. Waves of it rocked him. He stood firm as they pummeled his mind and swamped his body. He couldn’t think. He was instinct. He was sensation.

Jamie fed that fire. He squeezed, teased the cockhead, and pumped the shaft.

So fucking good.

Morgan gasped, moaned, and soon his breath rasped from his chest in rough grunts that matched the tempo created by the play of Jamie’s hand on his meat. He remembered to return the kisses, and he hoped they were reasonable ones.

A raging need to fuck, and to keep fucking until he collapsed, swept him. Animal intense and unrelenting, it clawed at him, tore at his control. His attention telescoped down to focus on the hand pumping his cock and how fucking amazing it was to have Jamie against him.

Amazing. He was addicted, and he knew it. More, he was unashamed. Jamie’s pale-skinned hand slid along his dark-skinned cock. An angel and his not-so-angelic self. Hell-to-the-fuck, yeah. He wanted… He needed… He would—

Copyright © Michelle King


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