Dirty Laundry: A Tucker Springs Novel #3

on a table. You’re a dirty boy, Adam.” He licked the long length of Adam’s thigh. “I really, really like dirty boys. I like to eat them right up.”
    He applied his mouth to Adam’s hole again, and Adam tipped over into some kind of crazy lust state, babbling in tongues, thrusting back into Denver’s mouth, nearly pulling his legs off in an attempt to open himself wider. Denver drove him further and further to the edge, saying “mmm” and “tastes so good, baby, tastes like a good, dirty boy,” until Adam thought he might actually come without anyone touching him.
    He didn’t, though, not until Denver switched to finger-fucking and started jacking Adam hard, pausing to suck beside his fingers at Adam’s ass for a few beats before returning to his dirty litany, fucking Adam’s ears with forbidden fantasies of taking him out into the bar and fucking him on it, of having the whole thing recorded so he could watch it every night, maybe put it on the Internet so everyone could see what a dirty boy Adam was. Stuff he knew, somehow, Denver wouldn’t do, but that Adam enjoyed as a fantasy. Denver told him how good he looked with his legs spread, with lube leaking out of his ass—yes, lube had appeared from the same secret place the condom had at the laundromat—told Adam he’d look good with a dildo in his mouth, a plug in his ass, with his legs tied open so Denver could look at his pretty hole all day. Crazy stuff, endless, and on and on while Denver’s fingers stroked him inside and out, until finally Adam couldn’t take any more and came hard, so hard he almost blacked out, until he collapsed on the table, pulse racing, ass convulsing around the fingers still exploring the end of his orgasm.
    And Denver was right. He couldn’t move. At all.
    Those fingers stayed inside him as Denver’s mouth closed over his, kissing him deep, teasing out the last tendrils of arousal until Adam was completely, utterly spent. When Denver pulled back, Adam blinked up at him lazily, clenching around those searching fingers.
    Denver stoked Adam’s face with his free hand. “You’re something else, moth man.”
    Adam tried to smile, but he was so tired, he wasn’t sure he made it. He wondered, very absently, how he was going to get home.
    “I’m going to call you a cab,” Denver said, apparently reading his mind. He pulled out of Adam’s ass but kept stroking his face, looking at him with an unreadable expression. “You think you can get yourself dressed?”
    Adam considered this, then nodded. “In a minute,” he slurred. He’d have liked an hour to lie there feeling fucked-out, but he supposed that wasn’t very practical.
    He made himself promise to deal quite severely with his no-going-home-with-anyone phobia, then realized there wasn’t any guarantee he’d be going anywhere with Denver again.
    Except they must have mind-melded, because Denver’s thumb tugged on Adam’s swollen bottom lip as he said, “I work late most nights. But maybe sometime we could meet for an afternoon?” He winked. “Fuck in the park or something?”
    Adam tried to reach up to stroke Denver’s shoulder, but he couldn’t make his hand lift higher than the other man’s elbow. “Yeah,” he said. “Or something.”

Denver had to work early Thursday night, which meant it was still light out when he locked the door of his apartment. It was a gorgeous Colorado fall day, but it was chilly too, so he carried along a jacket, which he took back to the storeroom to hang up once he arrived at Lights Out. When he came out into the main room, Jase was manning the bar for the spotty afternoon crowd. Jase took one look at Denver and glared, folding his arms over his chest.
    So, New Boy Kevin hadn’t wasted any time with his gossip. Denver chuckled and tipped his hat forward in a salute as he straddled a barstool. “Afternoon, boss.”
    Jase rolled his eyes and leaned on the bar after he passed Denver a tall glass of tap water and a bowl of popcorn. “I hope you at least disinfected the table after.”
    Whatever. Denver grinned around the rim of the water glass. “You can dock my pay for the half hour if you want.”
    “What’s this?” one of the customers demanded. It was Rob, an older gentleman who Denver was pretty sure used to teach at Tucker University. He had no hair left but a ring of gray and a wispy white tuft in the back that stood straight up, making him look like a wrinkled elf. A wicked one at the moment, as his