Jumping the Bull Page 5

  “No, we’re not. But we’re here and F—our family is trusting us to do what we believe in. That’s got to count for something, right?”

  Ben snorted. “Oh sure. It’s a count against our intelligence.”

  “Barrett…”

  Damn it, he hated that name on Oliver’s lips. He should be saying Ben, and only Ben. “I’m serious. We’ve got the opportunity, but not the skills. What are we thinking? What is—she—thinking?”

  It wasn’t until Oliver’s fingers touched his lips that Ben realized he’d shouted the last. “It’ll be okay.”

  Ben made an inquisitive grunt.

  “Because you are a kickass…person.” Oliver mouthed, “Agent,” and Ben wanted to protest…but he also didn’t want to lose Oliver’s touch. “We’ll do what we need to do, then get out. Remember, the family knows where we are. They’re watching out for us.”

  The director had said the same—that they’d be nearby—but for some reason Oliver’s words were way more comforting. “You think so?” It came out more like “Youf fink tho?” because of Oliver’s fingers, but Oliver understood.

  “I know so.” He offered Ben a gentle smile. “C’mon, let’s get some sleep.”

  They each took a turn under the shower to give their cover story some weight, and damn, but it took all of Ben’s willpower not to ogle Oliver’s long, lean body. He didn’t catch more than a glance through the foggy glass, but it was enough to get his dick interested in making friends. He shucked off his clothes and thought about getting caught until his dick gave up and disappeared.

  Well, not disappeared. Bison shifters were big all over.

  By the time they stepped out of the steamy bathroom into the suite proper, Ben was ready to crash. Maybe if he closed his eyes and went to sleep, he’d forget about the temptation that was Oliver Zuraw.

  Scratching on the window and angry chittering interrupted Ben’s fantasies about sleeping. Oliver went over to the window and opened it, and a second later, a gray squirrel jumped through. A gray squirrel wearing a harness that held a cellphone and…something else.

  Oliver unstrapped the harness as though it were something he did every day. As soon as the squirrel was free, he shifted—into Jeremy. The salty nut stealer. He held up a finger to his lips and gestured to the second device.

  Oh, Ben knew what that was. A bug sweeper. Oliver tossed it over to him and he obediently swept it around the room to find out if their suspicion about bugs was justified. As it turns out, it wasn’t.

  “Good.” Jeremy kept his voice low and grabbed at the blanket from the end of the bed to draped around himself. He looked at Oliver, then at Ben, and snorted. “Damn, she was right.”

  “What?” Oliver glanced at Ben with an expression he couldn’t quite interpret.

  But apparently Jeremy could. “Oh my god, you’ve got it bad.”

  They both looked at the squirrel. “Hm?” they said, almost in unison.

  “Yeah, whatever. You’re not going to need a stash of salty nuts anymore,” Jeremy muttered.

  Ben squinted. “Is there a reason you’re here, other than the cellphone?”

  “Yeah. The director has some directions for you. Imagine that—a director directing.”

  “Jeremy…” There was no ignoring the note of warning in Oliver’s low voice.

  “Okay, okay. In your conversation with him, Paul mentioned expanding. Find out what his new market is. And don’t get dead. And remember, you’ve got two days. And…don’t get dead. That’s really important, okay?”

  Before Oliver could say anything else, Jeremy shifted back into his squirrel form, and jumped out the window.

  That was one way to end a conversation. Ben was just happy to see Jeremy gone, though—he was tired enough to fall asleep standing.

  “Oh no.” Oliver’s quiet lamentation sounded loud in the room.

  “What?”

  Oliver gestured at the bed.

  Ben looked at Oliver, then at the bed, and then back at Oliver. “It’s a bed.”

  Oliver widened his eyes and gestured more emphatically at the bed.

  What? It was big and comfy looking, with a fluffy burgundy duvet and plump, inviting pillows that were just begging for Ben to lay down.

  Ben widened his own eyes and gave a “yeah, so?” shrug.

  Oliver sighed. “How many beds do you see?”

  Oh. Oh.

  There was only one bed.

  And they were supposed to be married.

  “All I want to do is crash. I promise.”

  It was the right thing to do. The honorable thing. But Ben had a split second where he wished he could take advantage of a situation without worrying about the consequences. Because this might be the only chance he ever had to make a move on Oliver…and he couldn’t.

  It was his turn to sigh, and he stepped back. “Let’s go to bed.”

  Did he imagine it, or was that a flicker of disappointment in Oliver’s eyes?

  8

  Oliver woke up absolutely surrounded by hot, hard, virile man flesh.

  At least, he was pretty sure he was awake and not dreaming. In a dream, he wouldn’t be overly hot, right? And Ben’s leg wouldn’t be pinching his thigh. Oh, and his heavy arm wouldn’t be interfering with Oliver’s ability to breathe.

  His cock would probably be poking him in the butt, though. Like a velvet-covered steel homing missile.

  There were worse things.

  “You smell good,” Ben rumbled in his ear, his voice sleepy and slurred. Sexy.

  “Yeah?” Oliver’s voice wasn’t much better. “You’re a cuddler, eh?”

  Ben grunted an affirmative, cuddling closer—then froze. “Oh shit, I’m—”

  “Don’t you dare apologize.” Oliver rolled his hips to press his butt against Ben’s missile.

  Ben swallowed audibly. “No?”

  “No.”

  “For real?”

  Oliver flipped over so he could grab Ben’s face and stare into his eyes. “For really real.”

  And then he kissed him.

  It wasn’t slow and languid, or even all that gentle, as maybe first kisses should be. There was lots of tongue, a bit of teeth. Passionate—just as hot and hard as Ben’s muscular body and enthusiastic dick. Before he knew it, Ben had rolled onto his back, taking Oliver with him, and Oliver was suddenly sprawled over a sexy, sexy man. Their cocks lined up together, the best feeling, and Oliver rolled his hips again, with even more purpose this time. The drag of hardness against hardness, even with the layers of underwear between—god, it was so good. Oliver groaned. Ben moaned—then froze, doubt clouding his gaze.

  “Are you sure… Should we be doing this?”

  Oh no. Oh hell no. Oliver was not going to waste this opportunity, now that he had Ben where he wanted him—where he’d wanted him for weeks, if he was being honest. In bed, needy, hard, hopefully aching with want, just like Oliver himself was. He rolled his hips again, a flash of satisfaction arcing through him as Ben’s eyes rolled back.

  He leaned down low, so his lips were brushing Ben’s earlobe. “I don’t give a fuck if we should or not,” he whispered. “I want you.”

  Ben swallowed, the click of his throat audible. “God. Fuck. Okay. Yeah. Let’s… Yeah.”

  Oliver pulled back with a grin, thrilled at the idea that he’d reduced Ben to nonsensical one-word sentences. He lifted up and tugged at Ben’s boxer briefs. Ben arched his butt off the bed in obvious invitation to remove the offending garment. Oliver did so, and saliva flooded his mouth at the sight of Ben’s rigid cock slapping his stomach.

  “I knew that thing was a missile,” Oliver murmured.

  “What?”

  Oliver just shook his head and shucked off his pajama pants. He wore nothing underneath, and his own dick stood out proudly. It was slimmer than Ben’s monster, but a little longer, and Oliver swore he could see Ben’s pupils expand with lust as he eyed it.

  “Oh yeah. That. In me.” Ben let his legs fall further apar
t.

  “You bottom?”

  “Fuck yes, I bottom.” Ben scowled. “Don’t tell me you buy into the stupid stereotypes of big guys only giving?”

  In Oliver’s experience, it hadn’t really been a stereotype. All the guys he’d been with—guys like Ben, big and tough-looking with freaking drool-worthy muscles—they’d all insisted on topping. But hell, if Ben wanted Oliver’s dick, he could have it.

  A lot.

  Over and over again.

  Jesus Christ.

  Ben grabbed his thigh, right by one of his knees, and pulled his legs that much further apart. Oliver wanted to rub his hands all over that hairy flesh—and then he realized he could, so he did. The hair on Ben’s legs was rough—wiry and there, but not too much. Enough to add texture and interest. He scratched his blunt nails along Ben’s skin, and Ben groaned at the sensation.

  “Yeah?” Oliver husked.

  “Oh yeah. More.”

  Oliver loved how Ben didn’t ask him to rush, didn’t seem to be impatient for the endgame. He was so tired of guys who thought only penetration counted as fucking. Simple touch could be too—kisses, love bites, gentle scratches. Licks.

  Oliver drew his tongue from the base of Ben’s thick cock to the tip, loving how Ben tensed beneath him. Ben’s scent surrounded him, enveloping him in a way nothing else could. He smelled of sun-warmed prairie grasses, and tilled earth, with a hint of honey that could be wildflowers or Ben’s own natural sweetness. Oliver nudged Ben’s missile upward, then lowered his mouth over it as far as he could.

  “God, Oliver.” Ben moaned. “So good.”

  Oliver hummed in agreement. There was something so powerful about reducing a strong, virile man to little more than putty with only his mouth. With this little bit of attention, he could make Ben’s body react without his brain being engaged—as evidenced by how Ben’s hips were bobbing without concern about how deep he was going into Oliver’s throat.

  Deep. And he loved it.

  He took his time loving Ben’s dick—kissing, licking, sucking, but backing off whenever Ben’s movements got too frantic. Ben huffed, like the bull he was, but he never complained at the teasing. Oliver got the sense that he knew it wasn’t teasing, not at all—it was exploration and discovery. Foreplay. What a concept.

  It took forever, and no time at all, before Oliver couldn’t hold back any longer. He needed to be inside of Ben. He needed to feel how Ben would grip him and hold him tight.

  He just needed.

  There was lube in the drawer—which would be creepy if Oliver thought about how Paul had made sure they were supplied, so he resolutely shoved the lube’s origin out of his head. At least it was a completely new bottle with the seal still intact. Oliver used it to slick himself up and prep Ben. Despite his eagerness, Ben’s hole was tight, and Oliver didn’t want to hurt him. He took his time opening Ben up, getting him ready, and pegging his prostrate with his fingertip just to hear Ben bellow with pleasure. It was a fucking amazing sound.

  Oliver pressed the head of his cock against Ben’s opening. “Let me in,” he murmured.

  “Yeah.”

  “C’mon. C’mon.”

  Slowly, so slowly, Oliver sank inside. Ben grunted out breaths, sounding more like a bull with every inch Oliver gained. Finally, he was all the way in, but he didn’t move right away. No, a certain huffing bison bull needed a kiss first.

  “You’re cute.” Oliver nudged his nose against Ben’s and teased his lips with his own.

  “Fuck that, I’m not cute. You’re cute.”

  Oliver swiveled his hips, reveling at the feeling of being surrounded by warm, welcoming flesh. “Uh huh.”

  “Oh, fuck, Ol, just move.”

  Oliver drew back and thrust back in, hard. Ben keened and it made Oliver’s inner crane puff up with pride. Yeah—he’d made Ben sound like that. Him. No one else. And he’d make him make that sound again…and again…and again…

  Before long, Oliver was thrusting in abandon, completely lost in the need to climax, to come, to mate. He reached down to stroke Ben’s cock, but already found Ben’s hand there, doing the job. He intertwined their fingers and helped him along.

  “Yeah. Oh god, yeah. Coming!”

  Oliver watched as white streams of spunk spurted across Ben’s hairy abs, and the sight of it, the feeling of Ben’s body contracting around him—it pushed him over the edge with him. Oliver shouted—as loudly as he’d ever sung his greeting to the sun—and collapsed on Ben’s chest.

  They panted for a few minutes, almost in sync. Ben’s hand idly brushed Oliver’s hair, and Oliver gave Ben’s chest tiny, random kisses. Oliver didn’t know how long it was before Ben rumbled, “You’re loud.”

  Oliver chuckled. “I’m loud? You sounded like your bull was about to emerge, Mr. McSnorterson.”

  “I wasn’t snorting.”

  “Oh, sorry. Mr. McHufferson.”

  Ben pushed at Oliver’s head, but without any real strength behind it. “I was gonna say it was cute, but I was wrong—you’re not cute. You’re a menace.”

  “I’m totally a menace.”

  “I kinda l—like that about you.”

  Oliver lifted his head to see a blush spread across Ben’s cheeks that had nothing to do with his recent exertions. “Back atcha,” he said, smiling. “Mr. McHufferson.”

  “I’ll show you huffing.” Ben reached down and pulled Oliver up to him, before flipping their positions so that Oliver was under him.

  Oliver had zero complaints.

  9

  Ben stifled a yawn as Paul and his contact—would-be business partner? friend? Ben wasn’t entirely sure—switched to yet another new, unimportant topic. Who knew being a bodyguard could be so freaking boring? Not much seemed to be expected of him other than to stand around and look dangerous. Ben wasn’t entirely sure how to do that, so he scowled a lot. By the pat on his shoulder he’d gotten from Paul, he assumed it was working.

  They weren’t at a strip club this time, but an upscale restaurant. The kind where each table had multiple waiters—one for water, one for bread, one for freaking cutlery, and so on—and no prices on the menu. The atmosphere was dim and gloomy, though Ben supposed they were trying for intimate, and other than Paul and Rylee, his friend, there was no one else in the place. Ben wasn’t sure if it was because the restaurant wasn’t officially open, it wasn’t popular, or if Paul or Rylee had bought out the entire place to do their deal.

  Though, at this point, Ben was starting to wonder if this was just a social visit. Maybe a date? He started out watching Rylee, cataloguing all of her features in case he needed to report on it later. He was pretty sure she was a shifter, though he couldn’t tell what type. Not a bird—she lacked Oliver’s gracefulness and she didn’t show the head tilts and quick movements Ben associated with other bird breeds. She also didn’t have a predatory air, so Ben guessed she was a herd animal of some sort. Maybe. He wished he’d had more classes on identifying shifters in their human form.

  Another point in the favor of this being a social visit—the woman didn’t look anything like what Ben expected a female mobster would look like. She was middle-aged, short in stature, and round. Her cheeks, her face, her bust and her hips, all round and soft. She looked like a soccer mom. When she laughed, she threw her head back, her short brown bob swaying with the movement, her blue eyes sparkling. Honestly, she was the sort of person that if Ben had met her in another context, she would have immediately put him at ease.

  Paul and Rylee smiled at the waiter as he took away their entrée plates and another waiter deposited the espresso Paul had ordered and Rylee’s caramel latte. Paul leaned back in his chair, his posture changing. Something in the way he was looking at Rylee told Ben that it was on. Whatever it was.

  “Your last shipment was…lacking,” Paul said casually.

  Rylee’s shoulders stiffened, though if Ben wasn’t looking for it—surreptitiously—he wouldn’t have noticed. Note, don’t play poker with criminals. “T
hat’s your opinion.”

  “It’s fact.”

  “The product was in prime condition.”

  “Some of it,” Paul conceded with a nod. “Most of it was uninspiring.”

  Ben had no idea what they were talking about. Drugs? The kind of description they were using didn’t really fit drugs. Stolen artwork? That seemed a bit high-end for Paul. He wanted to seem classy, but the dude held meetings in strip clubs, for god’s sake. He and classy had only a passing acquaintance.

  Oh…maybe guns. That fit better than drugs and artwork.

  “My product was top quality, and you know it, Paul.” Rylee smirked as she dipped a biscotti into her coffee. “You’re trying to work me up so I’ll give you a better deal on the next one.”

  Paul returned her smile. “You know me too well.”

  “I mean, you’re more than welcome to try to do business elsewhere, but I guarantee you won’t get the quality of merchandise that I can provide.”

  Ben looked around the room as he stuffed his frustration deep down. He couldn’t go back to the academy with only a vague idea of what they were talking about. Getting a name of Paul’s contact was good, but not as good as knowing what the fuck they were talking about.

  He caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone had just ducked back behind a booth, too fast for Ben to identify anything about them. Before he could think his actions through, he was moving in that direction. When the head popped out again, with a phone held up, he grabbed the person’s arm and yanked them into view.

  It was a young Asian woman, dressed in the uniform of the restaurant. Ben was pretty sure she was human. Her brown eyes were wide as she looked up at him, and she didn’t struggle.

  “I’m sorry!” She pressed her lips together tightly for a second. “I’m really sorry. It’s just that—it’s Nathan Rashad’s mother.”

  Ben frowned. “Who?”

  “Oh my god,” she squealed. “Nathan Rashad. The winner of Canada Goes for Gold? The singing contest? Do you seriously not know this? How can you not know this?”