Beyond Duty E-Book

SJD Peterson

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 328

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Beyond Duty: Book One The repeal of Don't Ask, Don't Tell didn't come soon enough for Gunther "Gunny" Duchene and Macalister "Mac" Jones, career US Marines who met at boot camp in the 1990s. They've been somewhere between best friends and lovers in peacetime and wartime both, but as the clock ticks toward Mac's and Gunny's retirements, the guys have much more to worry about than coming out. Whether their relationship will survive outside of the closet they've had to shove it into for over two decades is a big question mark. Gunny questions why a hot military man like Mac—who could get any guy he wanted, including a younger, sexier one—would want him. But as Gunny and Mac navigate emotional waters as choppy as any they saw on duty, they just might learn Semper Fi applies to more than their careers.

Leseprobe

By SJD PETERSON

NOVELS

Beyond Duty

Plan B

WHISPERING PINES RANCH

Lorcan’s Desire

Quinn’s Need

Ty’s Obsession

Conner’s Courage

Jess’s Journey

GUARDSOF FOLSOMPup

NOVELLAS

Masters and Boyd

Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Copyright

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

5032 Capital Circle SWSte 2, PMB# 279Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Beyond Duty

Copyright © 2013 by SJD Peterson

Cover Art by Paul Richmond  

http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-62798-002-9

Digital ISBN978-1-62798-003-6

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

August 2013

This story is dedicated to Virginia for her amazing inspirational photo and story prompt. Thank you for helping to bring Gunny and Mac to life.

Chapter 1

THE short six-block walk from home to Gunny’s favorite diner on Main Street was one that he normally enjoyed. Riverview was full of southern small-town charm that was rich in history, and for the most part, the attitude among the residents was relaxed and easygoing. He’d bought the house not long after being promoted to gunnery sergeant, and knew when he retired, he’d be staying. Sure, he’d have much rather owned one of the grander homes closer to the main strip—he’d always had a thing for historical homes but could never figure out how to get rich in the Marine Corps. Besides, his house was perfect for him, tucked back off the street with a large private garden that could be viewed from every room in the place. The gardens were great, but it was the privacy he liked more. The fact that his best friend Mac fell in love with it made the decision to buy an easy one.

Most mornings, Gunny enjoyed the short walk, but he’d woken up in a shitty mood. Not that it was any different from the morning before. In fact, he’d been having a lot of those mornings over the previous couple of months. Whether he woke in the middle of the night or after the sun had risen, it was always the same. His gut would knot up, head filled with static noise, and his whole body would tense. Not just tense, but holy fuck tense to the point where he’d wake up with back spasms and cuss and groan in the middle of the night. And didn’t those oh-so-fun, twisting-in-agony nightly events make his new, unwanted, best friend insomnia even more irritating. In this irritable mindset, made all the worse because he couldn’t figure out what was causing the problem, he grabbed a newspaper and stomped off to the Bonnie Mill Diner.

The Bonnie Mill had been some fancy-ass private home before the turn of the century. From the outside, it was a huge Victorian painted lady with a wraparound porch. Gunny could imagine the typical ladies-in-the-parlor, men-in-the-manlier-rooms kind of house. Cute little chambermaids scurrying around with lace doilies on their heads yelling, “Yes mum, no mum, right away mum.” Nowadays, it featured apartments on the upper floors and a kick-ass place to eat Saturday-morning breakfast on the main floor. It wasn’t that he couldn’t cook his own breakfast. Hell, he’d been a bachelor since eighteen years of age. It had been either learn to cook or suffer the canteen seven days a week. It just seemed pointless to make a big breakfast for a party of one. Besides, the food at the diner was great, the company enjoyable, and it was routine. He liked routine.

Stepping through the door, a lively chorus of “Gunny” from about ten familiar faces filled the air to mingle with the smells of fresh baked pastries, bacon, and freshly brewed coffee.

“Morning.” He returned their greeting and waved.

A little of his ire subsided, and a warm smile crossed his face at the early morning welcome reminding him of that old sitcom Cheers. Everyone was pretty much regulars, only a couple of the faces unrecognizable. A place where everybody knew your name, although instead of a big wooden bar, the main focus was a soda fountain-style counter, and rather than being a really cool Boston pub, the Bonnie Mill had been converted to a diner back in the nineteen fifties. It still had the original Formica tables and red vinyl chairs set in place back when the diner had been new. So, there really weren’t that many similarities between the Bonnie Mill and Cheers, but the greetings were the same.

The only variation came from Bill Klein, who yelled out, “Gunny Gunnery,” while he laughed boisterously and slapped the counter with a loud bang.

Not sure what Bill’s major malfunction was, but from the moment the guy had found out his nickname was Gunny, short for Gunther, and that he was a gunnery sergeant, the old man had thought it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard. He nodded in Bill’s direction and took a seat at the opposite end of the counter as far away from the strange man as he could get. There was just something creepy about a guy who laughed at the same joke nearly every week for a year.

“Mornin’, Gunny, what ya in the mood for?” Carrie Anne asked, as she set down a glass of water, then turned over a mug and filled it with coffee.

Carrie Anne was another routine at the diner: more accurately, a weekly annoyance. Every Saturday morning she insisted on waiting on him. She claimed if she had to make sweets all week she was entitled to the man candy—that would be him—on the weekends. And she was entitled to whatever she wanted at the Bonnie Mill. Carrie was a twenty-eight-year-old insane bleach blonde with a big mouth and an even bigger, um, set of assets. She had married Carl, the owner of the place, who just so happened to be butt-ass ugly and thirty-something years her senior. She’d tried to convince Gunny she’d married for love, but he didn’t believe her, having heard the rumors of her affairs and seeing her leaving the local pub with one of those whom it was rumored she was sleeping with, only a few weeks after the wedding.

“Whatcha bake me fresh this morning, darling?” he asked with a smile.

Carrie Anne leaned in, her assets practically spilling from her two-sizes-too-small white blouse, and licked her brightly red-painted lips before murmuring seductively, “Hot, cherry pie.”

After a year of practice, the greasy-looking lips inches from his face and the sickly sweet perfume she wore no longer made his stomach roll. He no longer had to hide the gag behind a coffee cup, having grown used to it or perhaps just become desensitized. There wasn’t anything wrong with sweet perfume, just not a complete bottle at one time. Less was definitely more. Even the painted lips—again in moderation—didn’t bother him. He’d dated a drag queen once, hot as hell. The things he could do with those pouty and glossy lips— Well, let’s just say Carrie Anne was so not sexy. But the woman was a fan-fucking-tastic baker, so he put up with her batting her fake lashes and groping his ass while she walked him to the register each Saturday morning.

“I’ll have the three eggs, over easy, bacon, ham, sausage, hash browns, and an extra side of toast, please.” He gave her a wink. “And a slice of your cherry pie.”

“Coming right up, sugar,” she purred, returning the wink.

Gunny shook his head as Carrie swung her hips exaggeratedly as she swished and swayed her way to the kitchen. Gunny couldn’t help but wonder as she walked away, trying to be all sexy, what she would say if she knew he was gay and none of her shenanigans did a damn thing for him. Not that he had plans to tell her anytime soon, but sometimes he thought the shit storm that would rain down on him would almost be worth the look on her face. Talk about priceless.

After taking a sip of coffee, Gunny flipped open the newspaper; his eyes nearly bugged out and his breath whooshed out noisily when he read the headlines.

BREAKING NEWS: Obama, Pentagon certify “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” repeal

Heart hammering in his chest, Gunny wrapped both of his hands around the mug and brought it to his lips, sipping at the steaming brew to cover up the shocked look on his face while he continued to read the article.

“Today, we have taken the final major step toward ending the discriminatory ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ law that undermines our military readiness and violates American principles of fairness and equality,” Obama said in a statement. “In accordance with the legislation that I signed into law last December, I have certified and notified Congress that the requirements for repeal have been met. ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ will end, once and for all, in 60 days—on September 20, 2011.”

Christ! There had been rumors, but just like in civilian life, rumors ran rampant among the troops and more often than not were complete bullshit. Being the government, the bullshit rule was probably even more accurate.

“Fuck me,” he grumbled around the mug. Twenty-two years he’d been hiding a big part of himself, and the day before his retirement, DADT was to be repealed? Are you fucking kidding me?

“Goddamn shame,” John complained to his right.

John Wilson was about a million years old. He still believed women should be barefoot, pregnant, and their place was in the kitchen. John still paid homage to the ancient belief that women should be seen, not heard. Most days John was laughable at best. It was kind of fun to tease the ol’ bastard. It didn’t take much to get him all flustered and steaming, and Gunny could easily admit he found a perverse pleasure in seeing if he could cause the steam to shoot out of the man’s ears before breakfast was over. For the most part the ribbing was in good nature, and he knew John was a dumbass so he didn’t take the old man seriously. In that moment, however, with shock causing his heart to beat erratically and him feeling a little off-kilter while his brain tried to figure out if the article was a fact or a joke, he was in no mood for John’s antics.

Gunny looked up from the paper and turned to glare at John. “You got a problem with gays in the military, John?”

“Damn straight I do,” he spat, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up on his red, bulbous nose. “This country don’t need no damn queers fighting for it. A bunch of nancies running around slapping the enemy? Where is the honor in that? Next they’ll be allowing pedophiles and rapists to run our school systems.”

Now, for twenty-two years he’d been known as Gunther Duchene, United States Marine. It was the side of himself he presented to the world around him. It wasn’t a lie. He was a Marine at the very core of his being. But from the age of ten he’d known two things for a fact. Number one: he would grow up and become a Marine, just as his father and his father’s father had, and number two: he was gay. The two things mixed like oil and water, so he kept that private side secret.

He wasn’t ashamed of being gay, nor was he a coward by any stretch of the imagination. He was a realist. He’d had to sacrifice one thing for the other and didn’t have a single regret. Unlike some people, he didn’t need, nor did he ever want, to be one-half of a pair. He had no dreams of meeting Mr. Right, settling down in the ’burbs, and living happily ever after. His vision of a perfect life was combat, technical maneuvers, strategic planning, building a powerful body, and when the opportunity presented, a hot guy to fuck or suck his dick to satisfy his baser desires. Gunny had no wish to be loud, proud, and out. Never felt it his responsibility to be a representative, role model, or any other type of influence for the gay youth. Being a damn good Marine and damn good man defined him, not who his bed partner was.

Having spent over half his life around other Marines, he’d heard every joke and disgusting slur slung at gays and didn’t take it personal. They talked the same smack about commanding officers, men, women, straight, gay, bi, black, white, young, and old, it didn’t matter; they would eventually get around to disrespecting everyone. Hey, at least they were equal-opportunity dumbasses. He’d wager a good number of them, slinging some of the nastier remarks about gays, would have willingly dropped their fatigues and presented their asses to him. However, this particular morning, John’s statement had Gunny clenching the mug and his body literally shaking with anger. How the mug didn’t shatter under the pressure, he had no clue. What he really wanted was to wrap his hands around John’s thick, judgmental head and squeeze until bones shattered.

Gunny shut his eyes and counted to ten—it didn’t work—then twenty, and still the rage swirled around inside him like the coffee he could practically taste in the back of his throat. Somehow, he managed to get control of his body, mainly his hands, and eased the death grip on the cup and set it aside.

“You never served in the military, did you, John?” he hissed.

“No, I had an—”

“Yeah I know, an injury,” Gunny interrupted. “I’ve heard the story.” With calm he didn’t feel, Gunny folded the newspaper, and tucked it under his arm and pulled a wad of bills from the pocket of his jeans. “Here’s the thing, John. I’m having a hard time swallowing your statement this morning.” He slammed the bills on the counter with a thunderous slap; every head in the diner turned in their direction. Theatrical, hell yeah, but it got John’s attention.

“Don’t seem to me a drunken coward who dodged the draft claiming he wasn’t physically able to defend this country against the enemy, but physically fit enough to beat on his wife, rightly gets a say in who can and cannot defend this great country of ours.”

Gunny didn’t wait for a response. A man could only control his rage for so long. Without a word to anyone else, he turned and walked out of the Bonnie Mill to save John Wilson’s fool life. Pretty big of this queer, considering the son of a bitch didn’t think I should be defending his country.

Gunny was still totally pissed off by John’s attitude by the time he arrived back at the house. Whether it was because the older he got the less he could tolerate bullshit, the shitty mood he’d woken up in, or if he’d just reached his limit, he didn’t know. With a snort, he kicked off his shoes the minute the door slammed behind him and threw himself on the couch. He snatched the remote from the coffee table and angrily clicked through the channels without discerning one channel from another, concentrating more on slowing his panting breath. By the time he made it through the couple hundred channels the second time, his jaw unclenched as the anger slowly drained from him. Giving up on abusing the remote, he picked back up the newspaper he’d thrown on the cushion and was finally calm enough to read more.

HALFWAY through the article, Gunny’s cell phone vibrated against his hip, and he snatched it from the clip, flipping it open without glancing at the display screen.

“What?”

“Are you reading this shit?” Mac’s voice came though the phone line, sounding as shocked as Gunny had felt earlier.

“Yeah, I’m reading it now,” Gunny responded, rubbing a hand across his stubbled jaw as he stared down at the newspaper. “Pretty fucking amazing, huh?”

“Only twenty-two years too late!” Mac huffed. “Do you know how much ass I have been denied because of this stupid fucking law? I was in my prime, Gunny. My prime!”

Macalister Jones had been his best friend since they went through boot camp together twenty-two years ago. Mac was also the only man who had shared Gunny’s bed for the last decade, and in turn Gunny was the only one who’d been granted access to Mac’s. They’d been fucking each other pretty much since they met, but were honest-to-God best friends and had never been what he would define as a couple.

“Stop your damn whining, you’ve had the best ass there is,” Gunny reminded him.

“Ha! That would be mine; that is why I don’t allow you to tap it too often,” Mac said pointedly. “It’s like a rare work of fine art that has to be adored and stroked lovingly, not slammed into and abused.”

“Jones, my bullshit meter is already full for the day.” Gunny laughed, feeling better than he had before the phone rang. Mac was a major joker, so it was hard to stay in a pissy mood when under his charm. He was also a big, lovable bastard who’d give you the shirt off his back. As long as you didn’t piss him off. Mac was part of the elite scout snipers, a Marine Corps special-forces team, which meant not only was he skilled in reconnaissance but once he found you, he could take your ass out.

“Oh ho! You are nowhere near full,” Mac chuckled. “But you will be as soon as I get there,” he added in a husky voice.

A rush of arousal went straight to Gunny’s groin at the seductive tone of Mac’s voice. Gunny started counting the hours down till Mac was home. “You still going to need a ride from the airport?” he asked, distractedly. He’d need to find something to distract him for—eight hours, he groaned silently.

“No, Gunny. I bought a new car and had it shipped to the airport, what the fuck do you think?” Mac asked sarcastically.

“Good, then you won’t mind me hanging up on your cocky ass and—”

“Gotta go. See ya at six.”

The line went dead.

Gunny flipped his phone shut and threw it on the coffee table, a big goofy grin spreading across his face. He heaved himself up off the couch and went to make breakfast. It had been three months since he’d seen Mac, so with his gruff voice still ringing in Gunny’s ears, thoughts of a fine, tight Marine’s ass running through his head, all thoughts of John Wilson, DADT, and the rest of the world were pushed out in favor of all the fantasies his little head was spinning. Over the last few months, Mac seemed to be the only thing he could focus on for any length of time. The pissed-off mood gave way to hunger and horniness.

Chapter 2

MAC ended the call, still chuckling, causing the ache in his head to increase. He tossed his cell on the bed and leaned back against the headboard, shut his eyes, and rubbed his temples. The aching wasn’t only in his head, but in his chest too. God, he missed Gunny. It had been three months since he’d seen the man, and Mac was going fucking crazy. He’d tried drowning some of his loneliness in more than one bottle of beer the night before, but by the time he gave up and went to bed, he still missed Gunny something fierce.

The feeling wasn’t anything new; he missed Gunny whenever they were apart. They were best friends, comrades, lovers, and confidants. However, the absence seemed more extreme this time. Maybe it had to do with the fear that nagged him lately. Everything was changing and he was a little more than worried; in fact, he was scared shitless.

For twenty-plus years his life had been dedicated to the military; for the past ten years—even before that if he were being completely honest—he’d also been dedicated to Gunther Duchene.

Everything about them worked. They didn’t put unrealistic demands on the other; each understood his duty to the Marine Corps came first, everything else second. When they were together they took full advantage of their time, laughing, teasing, and fucking like bunnies. When they hooked up, it was always a chance to recharge their batteries even if when they walked away they were both physically exhausted and sporting bruises, but always sated and satisfied.

However, what they had together went way beyond the physical. During times he’d been deployed, thoughts of Gunny had kept Mac sane in an insane world. When he had down time, it was Gunny who assisted him in winding down, made him laugh, and helped ease his soul of some of the horrors combat had forced upon him. Gunny understood like only another Marine could, and that worked both ways. The Marine Corps banded them together, but would the bond between them be as strong once they no longer had a duty to the Corps? Would they tire of each other if they only had each other day in and day out?

You would never tire of him. Mac cocked his head, as the thought sunk in. No, he couldn’t imagine ever tiring of Gunny. What he was tired of was leaving the man. The long months, weeks, days, even hours unable to touch Gunny, not being able to see him, feel him wrapped around him while he slept, those were the things he was tired of.

Mac huffed out a breath and heaved himself off the bed. It was the same battle between his heart and head he’d been fighting for months without finding an answer. Knowing change was coming, wanting it, even if the uncertainty of the outcome freaked him out. Yet it was stupid to worry about shit he couldn’t change. He was going to retire, as was Gunny, and they’d just have to see where life took them, and if it didn’t work— The thought made Mac’s gut roll, and he pushed the depressing thought away.

Mac flipped on the bathroom light and grunted at the mess staring back at him in the mirror. Red eyes from too much alcohol and two days’ worth of beard growth from pure damn laziness made him look like shit. He brushed his teeth, grabbed his shower kit, and dug around in it until he found his razor and shaving gel. Time to get presentable for my man, he smirked at himself.

And Gunny was his man. The only man he wanted in his life. Even before they had become exclusive— The razor came to a halt against his jaw and Mac took a calming breath, before he continued. All these years later, and the thought of anyone touching Gunny made his blood boil. Early on, there had been long periods when they were apart, nearly two years at one point. They’d both sought itch relievers with random hookups. Problem was, for Mac, no matter how hot the guy was, how sexy or wanton, he’d never found anyone who made him feel the way Gunny did. That feeling had never wavered. Twenty-two years since he’d touched Gunny for the first time, and he still tingled when he felt it.

It was going to be hard to walk away from the life he loved, the thrills, missions, strategic planning, the satisfaction of taking out the bad guy. It’d been a good life, and in the end, he still had Gunny at his side, and that was all that mattered. Mac shook his head as the morose feelings made his chest ache. Jesus, he was getting old and sentimental, already mourning the loss of youth.

“Good God, man, listen to yourself,” he growled at his reflection. “You’re forty-two, not eighty-two.”

Mac dropped his razor in his bag, flipped off his reflection, and headed for the shower. In just a few hours he’d be back with Gunny. He’d spend a little time taking out his pent-up frustrations on Gunny’s ass, and maybe once he wasn’t so damn horny and no longer feeling lonely, he could get a handle on what was really bothering him. For now he focused on getting home, getting his hands on Gunny, and he’d worry about the other shit later.

GUNNY leaned back against the car with his arms crossed. He watched Mac step out of the airport terminal. He was dressed in his fatigues, duffle over his shoulder and a big shit-eating grin on his handsome face. His hazel eyes were hidden behind his shades, but Gunny knew they were dark with hunger and need. They’d been apart three months while Mac was off training his replacement. Three months without heat, skin, and passion, which was two months, twenty-nine days too long if you ask me. Gunny’s body lit up, nerve endings tingling as Mac stepped closer, and just like that first night in a grungy little hotel in San Diego, Gunny was instantly so fucking hard it hurt.

Gunny recalled the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego. While waiting for his initial gear to be issued, Gunny had turned his head and met Mac’s hazel-green eyes for the first time. He doubted anyone else had noticed the way their eyes had lingered just a fraction longer than necessary, but Gunny had noticed and so had Mac. At twenty, Gunny was one cocky son of a bitch. He knew who he was and where he was going and wouldn’t let anyone or anything stand in the way of achieving his goals. Although he was completely selfish and goal-oriented, he still got horny. A lot. It was during their first three-day pass Gunny found out that as cocky as he thought he was, Macalister Jones was just a wee bit cockier, and Gunny ended up getting his cherry ass popped. Twenty-two years later Mac still owned his ass, only he hadn’t realized it at the time, or maybe he had but just hadn’t admitted it.

“How was your flight?” Gunny asked when Mac was within earshot.

“Good,” Mac said nonchalantly.

Years of discretion taught them how to hide their desires to the outside world. If anyone had walked by the car, they wouldn’t have seen anything more than two platonic friends. Nor would they have noticed the way the tip of Mac’s finger slid along Gunny’s thigh as he walked by, arms swinging. But Gunny was acutely aware of the touch that sent a tingling sensation to race down his spine.

Mac nodded, looking over the top of his glasses, meeting Gunny’s eyes with a predatory gaze so full of lust, his goddamn breath caught.

No one more than a few paces away would notice the slight touch, and they certainly wouldn’t have heard Mac whisper, “Get in the car before I fuck you over the hood,” in a husky voice with just a hint of growl.

Gunny heard it, causing the tingling sensation to turn into a full raging fire that settled in his groin. His head was screaming, Don’t you dare fucking move, let him bend your ass over! but he strolled casually to the driver’s side, slid behind the wheel, and slammed the door.

As soon as he had the car in gear and pulled away from the curb, Gunny shot a challenging look in Mac’s direction. “One of these days I’m going to drop trou and find out just how fucking cocky you really are.”

Mac threw his head back and laughed. When he was in better control of himself, he turned in his seat and lowered his shades. “Two more months and I’ll do you in the middle of fucking Main Street. Now hurry up and get us home before I change my mind and do you right fucking now.”

And didn’t Mac’s statement just make Gunny’s chest squeeze nice and tight and cause his gut to get all fluttery. That same weird feeling had been battling with another unsettling sensation lately, one of heart palpitations and nausea in equal measures. Gunny didn’t have a goddamn clue what was wrong with him, and he was beginning to think he’d stayed in the Marines one term too many. There was a reason most didn’t make a career out of the military, because they lost their fucking mind after that many years, and Gunny decided that was what his problem was. Better to concentrate on the sexual aspect and not try to make too much out of it.

Gunny laughed along with Mac and then stole a glance in his direction as he tried to pay attention to the traffic ahead of him. Then he did a double take at the sly grin that curled Mac’s full, luscious mouth as his wide, blunt fingers massaged the thick bulge in the front of Mac’s fatigue pants. The sight short-circuited Gunny’s brain, and the only thing he could think about was the throbbing ache in his groin and getting them to the house, pronto.

“Been a long time, Gunny.” Those fingers kept stroking.

Gunny got serious about the heavy rush-hour traffic, doing his damnedest to ignore Mac’s deep, husky voice.

Even with his best efforts, he couldn’t miss the way Mac pushed the palm of his hand hard against his cock. “Christ, I ache,” he groaned.

“Shut up, Mac,” Gunny hissed. “Just shut the fuck up. Not another word until we get to the house.”

Mac chuckled, the sound deep and gravelly, and Gunny felt it resonate against the pulsing veins of his shaft. He growled low in warning and cranked the radio.

Even with the heavier-than-normal traffic with tourist season in full swing, they made it to the house in record time. Mac set another record by having Gunny slammed up against the closed door, face-first, and his pants around his thighs in seconds flat.

“Fucking missed you, Gunny,” Mac rasped against his ear.

He could only nod, his heart hammering, as Mac bit and sucked the side of Gunny’s neck. His focus narrowed to the warm, wet mouth, and sharp teeth, and he was reduced to a series of incoherent grunts and growls that meant “hurry,” “Jesus,” and “now!”

Mac didn’t tease. The bastard could torment Gunny for hours, fucking days even, without letting him come, teasing that left him a hairsbreadth away from a padded room. Mercifully, Mac never teased their first time together after a long separation, just took Gunny hard and fast, the burn intense, with little more than spit and precum to slick the way.

“Oh, Christ, Mac.”

Mac grunted and slammed into him, his hands holding Gunny’s hips in a bruising grip, pumping his cock in and out of Gunny with forceful thrusts. Gunny splayed his fingers, trying to get as much purchase on the door as he could. His arms locked, muscles quaking, as he used every bit of strength to keep Mac from fucking him through the door. Raw, carnal power against brute force.

Mac could read Gunny’s body better than even he could himself. Mac increased his speed an instant before a knot started to form at the base of Gunny’s spine. Mac had his fist wrapped around Gunny’s cock. Two strokes with his big, calloused hand and Gunny howled his release; he clenched his ass around Mac’s cock and forced him into orgasm along with Gunny.

They were spent, breathing harshly, and Mac wrapped his arms around Gunny’s waist, burrowing his face into his neck. Gunny’s arms gave out, and Mac collapsed against him, still buried deep in his ass and holding him tightly against a solid chest as they came down from their euphoric high. Yeah, it’d been a long three months of porn and hand jobs, uncertainty and crazy mood swings, but Mac, he could make Gunny forget in an instant that they’d ever been apart.

The rest of the evening was spent in bed—no, not fucking the entire time, although he and Mac had been known to endure some epic fuck-fests in the past. After a quick shower, Mac, coming off a thirty-six-hour stretch of no sleep, crashed in Gunny’s arms the minute they fell into bed. Gunny spent most of the evening stroking Mac’s head, his muscular shoulders, down his spine, unable to stop touching his warm skin. That irritating battle between the I’m so happy chest tightening and the panic-induced palpitations grew fiercer the longer he lay there staring at the man in his arms.

It dawned on Gunny, right into his twisting gut, that this might be the last time Mac would be here. In two short months’ time they’d no longer have to hide their sexuality, so why would he want to come home to Gunny? Mac could have guys half his age falling at his feet in worship.

From the neck down, he and Mac could be mirror-image twins. They were six-foot, two-hundred-plus pounds. Their torsos were thick with muscle, and a light pelt of dark hair adorned their chests and abs. They even had the same tattoo. Abstract tribal designs in heavy black lines wove around Gunny’s left arm, Mac’s on the right, mirror images. About five years ago, they had some rare downtime together and spent a month in Europe. Mac… well, it didn’t matter what Mac said about the tattoos binding them together forever. He had been drunk at the time, showing off his new tattoo in a pub, forcing Gunny to show his, and telling the entire place how much he loved his best friend, blah, blah, blah. Mac was a loud, lovable, touchy-feely kind of drunk. It didn’t mean anything. At least Gunny hadn’t thought it meant anything to Mac at the time. Hell, at the time, Gunny hadn’t been sure it meant anything to him. At least he hadn’t admitted to himself that the chest tightening meant anything.

The similarities below the neckline sure as hell didn’t continue above it. Yeah, they had the same buzz cut and dark stubble, but Gunny’s face looked like a growly English bulldog and Mac’s face, Christ, his could only be described as statuesque. His brow was gentle with high, perfectly sculpted cheekbones, and while there was nothing refined or stuffy about Mac, his features were regal. He was just fucking gorgeous head to toe.

Lying there some time before the first rays of sunlight streamed through the bedroom window, Gunny finally knew the reason for the shitty mood he’d been in. He was heartbroken. Heartbroken and so fucking scared. He’d never worried about where Mac was or what he was doing; Gunny always knew Mac would come home to him. After the scare with Private Carter, who had threatened to out Mac ten years ago, they’d been an exclusive—well, not a couple but at least exclusive lovers.

Now what? Now that Mac would no longer have to live in fear of being dishonorably discharged, surely he wouldn’t be content to just fuck his best friend anymore. He’d want something more, wouldn’t he? Why Gunny hadn’t thought of this sooner, planned for it, he didn’t know. Denial maybe? Contentment?

At forty-two, his hair was thinning, his beard had taken on a silver glow, and he hadn’t been on the prowl in over ten years. The thought of hanging out in clubs, looking for random hookups, worrying about safe sex issues, and learning to trust, made his head hurt. Would he ever meet anyone he trusted enough to let him fuck him? Would he have to take on the more dominant role with future lovers?

A small, frustrated sound escaped Gunny, and Mac patted Gunny’s chest and murmured, “Shh, I’m here,” still fast asleep.

Christ! The man knew what Gunny needed even in his sleep. Gunny tightened his arms around Mac, tears burning the back of his eyes. How in the hell am I ever going to find anyone like Mac? Better question was: when had he fallen in love with Mac, beyond friendship?

Chapter 3

ASTHEearly morning sun streamed through the blinds, Gunny wasn’t any closer to finding the answer to the question that wreaked havoc in his head. Careful not to wake Mac, he slipped quietly out of bed, pulled on a pair of fatigue pants, and snuck into the bathroom. After brushing his teeth and splashing cold water on his face, Gunny headed to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Only two things cleared his head: Mac—even though he was currently the source of the screwed-up head—and exercise. Probably why he was so muscular—his head was fucked up a lot and Mac was gone a lot. It was how he dealt.

Gunny shoved the coffee table out of the way, dropped down on the living-room floor, and started doing push-ups. Counting each one off, he concentrated on the push and pull of each muscle in his arms. Focused on the way his toes flexed under, keeping his abs clenched, and nothing more. By the time he’d counted off seventy-five, his breathing had sped up; sweat rolled down from his temples and along his spine. The burn with each contraction of muscle radiated up his arms, across his shoulders, and settled as warmth in his lower back. His head was his own once again, the burn and the fatigued muscles his only focus. At one hundred, Gunny rolled onto his back, planted his feet on the floor, and took a deep breath before counting off sit-ups. During these moments, he was in complete control of his body; his mind, and he, and he alone, decided how far he pushed and how hard he drove himself.

At one hundred sit-ups, Gunny began to slow and lose his focus just enough that Mac’s face snuck into his head. He pushed the image away and redoubled his efforts, pushed the sinews of his body past their normal limits. “One-twenty-five”—further—“one-fifty.”

A CHILLwhispered across Mac’s back, rousing him from his sleep. He rolled over and reached out, frowning when he encountered cool sheets. “Gunny?”

Blinking against the harsh morning light, Mac’s frown deepened when he spotted the empty bed. With a growl, he pulled the covers over his head and tried to snuggle further into the mattress, seeking warmth. Dammit, after three months of sleeping alone, was it too much to ask to wake up against a warm body? Not just any body either. He wanted Gunny’s big body wrapped around him, keeping him nice and toasty while he slept.