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  Daniels looked bored, which only served to infuriate Chris more. “You don’t have your paper. What am I supposed to think?”

  Chris half rose out of his chair, placing his hands carefully on his desk. “You’re supposed to believe me when I say I did it!”

  “Why? Because you say so?”

  Chris was about to use a lot of profanity, and fuck the reprimand, when the thought occurred to him that Daniels was… liking this.

  The fuck?

  Chris took a closer look. Daniels was smiling slightly and there was no real hostility in his eyes. His stance was relaxed and easy, no aggression there at all, and Chris felt a momentary flash of confusion.

  Again—the fuck?

  He sat back down slowly and thought for a second before answering. When Chris finally did speak, he saw Daniels cock his head as if he were waiting for something. “You’re right,” Chris said. “There’s no reason you should believe me. I did write the damn thing, and I did forget it at home, but how the fu—I mean, um. How are you supposed to know that? I apologize.”

  And there it was—the barest hint of a smile. Daniels looked at him steadily for a minute. “Wednesday,” he said. “Have it then or you’re taking a ‘no pass’ for this course.” And with that, he collected his paperwork and walked out of the room.

  Chris sat in the empty classroom and wondered why he wasn’t more pissed off.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IT WAS a perfect day for a ride.

  Chris whistled softly to himself as he checked his bike once more, ensuring it was gassed up and ready for a three- or four-hour jaunt out to the desert and back. He loved days off like this, when the weather was caught in that low, warm freshness between spring and summer. The smell of the ocean carried to him, just faintly, on the morning breeze, and he relaxed and started to forget the past stressful month at work.

  His sexual harassment course had ended with no further incident. Morgan Daniels had stopped singling Chris out as suddenly as he’d started, and although he’d still not been what Chris would call civil, Daniels had at least quit being an overt asshole. It was a relief, especially since the rest of his crew had started to notice it and were giving him shit.

  “Wha’d you do to piss Daniels off?” Dave asked while they were shopping for dinner at the grocery store and smiling at the housewives who turned red at the sight of a uniform. “Fuck his sister or something?”

  Chris felt Tucker’s look at that comment and ignored him. He’d gotten good at ignoring Tucker. And also gotten fairly good at keeping his sexual preference private, though Chris was pretty sure it wouldn’t much matter to most of the guys he worked with. They all knew about McBride and Shanahan, anyway, and didn’t seem to give them any shit. But still. Chris liked things the way they were. “What? Jesus, no. Dunno what the fuck his problem was.”

  And he really hadn’t known, other than Daniels telling him he hated firemen. What the hell kind of opinion was that anyway? The whole damn world loved firemen. Chris shook his head and brushed the thought away, not willing to ruin his day with thoughts of Morgan Daniels.

  Never mind the fact that Daniels played a starring role in some of his jerkoff fantasies, late at night when Chris didn’t have to look in the mirror or think about it in the morning. It was just another face for him to picture when he wanted to get off; it didn’t mean anything. Hell, it wasn’t any different than thinking about Brian, his last boyfriend, who’d been a real dick but had a good mouth. Or about the guy he’d picked up at the Seagull a week ago whose ass had been so tight around Chris’s prick that Chris thought his circulation was being cut off.

  Wasn’t any different than that.

  Pack zipped and boots buckled, Chris put on his polished black helmet and flipped the shield down over his face. He turned the key in the ignition of his bike, a black Honda Superhawk, and smiled in satisfaction at the smooth noise of the engine that filled his garage. Nothing made him as content as the sound of a good-running motorcycle.

  Chris backed the bike out of the garage and wheeled it around, picking up his feet and taking off down the quiet street. He was already late; the group he regularly rode with was meeting at ten sharp and it was nearly a quarter after. Oh, well. Chris figured if they left without him, he could still ride on his own.

  But they hadn’t left, he found as soon as he pulled up to the small roadhouse just east of the beach. Six guys waited outside the bar, some sitting on their bikes, some standing around, slapping their gloves against their thighs and looking impatient. Chris lifted a hand in greeting as he approached, and the ones who were standing up flipped down their helmet shields and mounted their motorcycles.

  “Late,” Jack said unnecessarily.

  Chris shrugged at the paramedic who worked on another shift at his station. “You could’ve gone.”

  “Then you would’ve bitched, just like the last time we left your late ass.”

  “The fuck? I don’t bitch. And you shouldn’t have left, asshole.”

  Jack laughed at him and turned on his bike, waving to the group that was waiting impatiently. “Prince Matthews says we ride,” he shouted, and Chris was chagrined when he saw a few of them offer their middle fingers.

  They all took off in small groups of twos and threes, watching over their shoulders for cars as they headed out to the highway and turned south. Chris felt the familiar thrill of riding, as always, and grinned behind his helmet. Even his cock stirred slightly, confined as it was in his tight leathers.

  They reached the San Diego border in twenty minutes, making the turn inland to get to the desert, and Chris could feel the oppressive inland heat start to beat down heavily. A trickle of sweat ran down his spine, and he reached up with a gloved hand to ensure the vents in his helmet were open. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the rider next to him doing the same thing. Chris turned his head slightly to see who it was, but he didn’t recognize the bright red bike or the white helmet with red streaks. That wasn’t unusual, however; there were always friends of friends coming along on their monthly rides.

  It was how Chris had met Brian, come to think of it. One of the medics had invited his brother along to ride with them. He and Chris had wound up tailing each other for the entire three-hour ride, and when they’d reached the diner out in Ocotillo Wells where their group always stopped for food, Brian had taken off his helmet and Chris had fallen hard for the chestnut hair and light brown eyes. A quick blowjob in the restroom before they set out for home had sealed the deal, and although he and Brian had long since gone their separate ways, Chris usually wasn’t averse to meeting new guys on their rides.

  The ride was mostly uneventful, save for a flat tire on one of the bikes that made them all have to stop in the desert heat and wait while the rider changed it. Chris flipped up the shield of his helmet and opened his air vents, but didn’t remove it. It would be too tempting to not put it back on when they had to get started again, and the helmet law in California forbade him from riding without it. Not that he would—he’d known too many guys who’d died or been made into comatose vegetables from not wearing the right protective gear when riding.

  They got back on the road in under half an hour, and though the wind was hot, Chris still loved the feel and sound of it as they rode. This was why he did it: not for the thrill, but for the power and steel between his legs. He loved being able to control that.

  Chris was just starting to sweat heavily and long for a drink when the diner came into view. Seven riders pulled into the parking lot, and then the air was loud with the sudden silence of engines being killed. Kickstands were dropped and the guys called to each other as they took off helmets and ran hands through their sweat-drenched hair.

  Chris did the same, sighing with relief as the breeze ruffled his hair. The wind was hot, but it dried the dampness on his forehead and the back of his neck. He balanced his helmet carefully on the front of his bike and followed the others into the diner, realizing he needed to take a piss in a bad way b
efore he could sit down comfortably and eat. He dropped his keys and wallet on the table next to Jack and headed toward the back of the restaurant.

  The restroom was uncrowded, only one other rider from their group standing at the urinals along the wall. Chris recognized the red jacket that matched the unfamiliar red-and-white helmet he’d noticed on the road. Stepping up next to the man, Chris unzipped and started to relieve himself without looking to his left. “Almost too hot to ride,” he said conversationally.

  He received nothing but a noncommittal grunt in return, so Chris tried again, if only for the fact that he was curious about who the guy was. “You hang with someone in our group?”

  The man finished his business and zipped up, and just before he flushed Chris heard him snort. “Yep,” he answered, turning away before Chris could see his face.

  Chris heard water running and finished up himself, then went over to the row of sinks to wash his hands. “So… who do you know?” he asked, rinsing off the soap and lifting his eyes to the mirror above the basin.

  Morgan Daniels stared back at him, dark hair damp with sweat and gray eyes boring into him. “A couple guys,” he answered.

  Anything Chris was about to say went right out the window at the sight of Daniels. “Oh, you’re fucking kidding me,” he murmured, trying to reconcile the memory of the man who’d tormented him for a month with the guy standing next to him, wearing expensive motorcycle leathers.

  Daniels’s expression turned wry, and he raised an eyebrow. “Would I kid you?” he asked and turned to lean against the sink, folding his arms across his chest and crossing one booted foot over his ankle. “How’s it going, Mr. Matthews?”

  Chris leaned a hip against the porcelain too and shook his head. “Could you not call me that? Mr. Matthews is my dad.”

  “Calling you Christopher would imply we’re friends, or at least acquaintances.”

  “No one calls me Christopher,” he said with disdain, and felt the old familiar frustration rising up again just from their short exchange. “Except my mom. And Jesus, calling me Chris wouldn’t imply anything except for the fact that you know my damn name. Morgan.”

  It was possible Chris imagined it, but he thought he saw the hint of a smile playing around Daniels’s mouth. And then he hated himself for looking too long at Daniels’s mouth anyway. Fucker.

  “All right,” Daniels said easily. “Chris. And you might as well call me Morgan, since you’ve started to anyway.”

  Chris was taken aback. Was this—this wasn’t—a gesture of friendship? Or at least civility? “Okay,” he said, still wary. “Morgan.”

  Morgan shrugged. “There. Names out of the way. Anything else we need to discuss, before…?”

  He blinked. “Before what?”

  “Before you get down on your knees and blow me.”

  If he had seen himself in the mirror, he probably would have laughed at his cartoon-like double take. At least, that’s how it felt to him, since Chris could feel his eyes widen and his brow scrunch up in confusion. “Before I what?” he asked in amazement, and all at once became aware of how hard he was in his tight pants.

  Morgan unsnapped his leathers and ripped at the Velcro fly, letting his pants gap open enticingly and treating Chris to a glimpse of tanned, muscled lower abdomen. “Might as well get it over with.” He shrugged. “You could barely take a piss, you were so hard.”

  Chris just stared at him. “Who says I suck cock?” That was a ridiculous question, really, considering he’d tried to sneak a look while they were peeing and must’ve been caught. There was no other explanation for Morgan to so easily assume Chris was willing to get down on his knees on the bathroom floor.

  Morgan pushed off the sink and came closer, his eyes narrowing and lips pursing up into a pouting expression. “You’re right,” he murmured when he was within inches of Chris’s face. “I should have asked. Tell me, Chris. Which do you prefer? Cock or snatch?” And with one hand, he reached out to gently cup Chris’s erection through his pants.

  The question was obviously rhetorical, and when Chris felt a strong hand squeezing his dick, he didn’t bother to formulate the unnecessary answer. He reached out an arm and snagged the front of Morgan’s open leather jacket, dragging him in close for a punishing kiss.

  Their mouths met easily, more easily than Chris would have imagined. Not that he’d had detailed fantasies or anything (except he totally had), but he’d sort of always thought that if he and Morgan ever did kiss each other, it wouldn’t be—well, like this. This was hot and sweet and Morgan tasted like rich, thick honey. Chris let go of the man’s jacket and fisted both hands in Morgan’s hair instead, noting the short strands were surprisingly soft in his fingers. Chris angled his head to get a better spot for his mouth and Morgan opened for him, their tongues meeting and sweeping.

  Chris didn’t even notice he was panting until he felt a little light-headed. Prying his eyes open, he found Morgan watching him with a heavy-lidded gaze and a knowing look. All it took from there was a small push from Morgan on Chris’s shoulder and he was sinking to his knees on the hard floor, thankful for the kneepads sewn into his pants.

  One little tug and Morgan’s tight leathers were lowered enough for his cock to spring free, heavy and hard and the best damn thing Chris had seen in the last twenty-four hours. He wasted no time in sticking out his tongue to taste it, absorbing the musky scent and smooth, heady flavor. From there it was only a matter of opening his mouth wide enough to engulf the head, running his tongue in circles before he went down even farther.

  “Holy shit,” Morgan murmured from above him, and Chris could tell he’d sagged against the sink. If Chris could’ve grinned to himself, he would have. He was no slouch at giving head, and he knew it. Hey, everyone had to shine somewhere.

  Chris licked and sucked his way down Morgan’s cock, ignoring everything but that, conveniently forgetting they were in a very public restroom, and not even in a stall, for chrissakes, but out against the sinks where anyone could find them. He also managed to ignore the fact that he was so hard he thought he might break, because Morgan was moaning softly and when Chris looked up, Morgan’s fingers were flexing so hard against the porcelain sink that his fingernail beds had turned white.

  More licking, back up to the top where Chris gathered all the slippery fluid from its place at the crown and rolled the taste around in his mouth. Then abruptly, in one smooth move, he swallowed Morgan all the way to the hilt. Far enough down that his nose nearly touched the neatly trimmed hair over Morgan’s pubic bone, and Chris heard a gasp above him and felt the cock in his mouth twitch. This is it. He’s done, Chris thought, but miraculously, Morgan didn’t come.

  He was close, though, if the way he held his tense body was any indication, so Chris thought it was time to speed things along. After all, he was still on the bathroom floor, and his own needs were definitely making themselves known. Loudly. So he made a tight seal with his mouth and dragged back up the length of Morgan’s prick, keeping his teeth carefully covered. Chris flicked his tongue once more at the soft head before diving back down, and then it was done.

  Morgan groaned softly and Chris saw his fingers tighten even more on the sink, and then Morgan was pulling out of Chris’s mouth and using his hand to finish himself off as he came.

  “Hey,” Chris protested, wanting nothing more than to taste the milky fluid that was falling to the floor in a soft splatter. “What the fuck’d you do that for?”

  Morgan didn’t answer immediately, his eyes still shut tight and chest heaving, so Chris waited impatiently for him to finish. His own dick was screaming at him for release by now, and Chris was sort of hoping for reciprocation by Morgan. Either that or a fast jerk, he wasn’t opposed to either one.

  But to Chris’s astonishment, Morgan opened his eyes and stared down at him where he still knelt on the floor. “What do you mean, ‘the fuck did I do that for’? You heard of safe sex, Matthews? How do you know I’m negative?”

  Chris
barely registered the fact that Morgan had reverted to calling him by his last name. “How do I… uh.” He shut his mouth. It was true. “I don’t.”

  Morgan shook his head. “That’s right. You don’t. But you were ready to take a mouthful anyway. Fuck, you’re all the same.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Morgan turned and washed his hands, and it was only after he’d walked over to the paper towel dispenser and thoroughly dried off that he spoke again. “I told you I hated firemen,” he said calmly. “You’re all the fucking same. Daredevils who think nothing bad is ever going to happen to you. You’re no different, Matthews.”

  Chris opened his mouth to protest and possibly say some bad words, but the door was already closing behind Morgan. “Well, fuck,” he said out loud to the empty restroom.

  CHAPTER THREE

  WHEN THE fire broke, it didn’t look like it was anything to get excited over. Just a routine blaze in the corner of one of the old industrial buildings, and Chris didn’t even know why his engine company had been called. There were already three engines and two trucks on scene, according to dispatch, and Chris figured his engine would either be canceled en route or sent home as soon as they got there. Good. Then maybe he could get some badly needed sleep.

  It had been seventeen days since his ride to the desert and the discovery that Morgan Daniels was A. a rider, B. gay, and C. just as much of an asshole as Chris had always suspected. Chris had no idea which one of those was more surprising. Being left on his knees on the floor of a public restroom with his cock still hard in his leathers and the taste of Morgan’s skin still lingering on his tongue hadn’t been one of Chris’s finer moments. The only emotion he could conjure up when he thought about it was rage.

  And that rage, unfortunately, surfaced at really odd times. Like now, for example. It was two thirty in the morning, and by rights, Chris knew he should be completely focused on the job he was about to do. From his side of the engine, he could see the smoke rising in the distance as they drove toward it. The blaze was lighting up the bottom of the smoke cloud, creating an eerie haze that mixed with the marine layer rolling in off the ocean. It was beautiful and sinister all at the same time, and normally Chris would be filled with the familiar rush that meant he got to fight fire.