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Neal sat alone at the bar in his favorite tapas place in Chelsea, sipping at a dry oloroso and unwinding. Their last case had taken an unexpected physical toll, and he wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t pulled his ACL during the chase with Henry van Horn. It was an old injury from high school that gave him trouble from time to time if he used his knee wrong. It was an occupational hazard, he supposed, for a man who made it a habit of scaling the walls of Danish palaces or fleeing from murderous corporate executives with scary compound bows in their private collections. He shifted in his seat and winced as he rapped his knee against the bar. He put his drink down and bent forward to rub at it.
He felt a hand rest on his shoulder as a familiar voice said, “Knee giving you trouble?” He turned to see Clinton Jones standing behind him, a wide smile on his face.
Neal held his hand out with an answering smile and Jones shook it. “Clinton! How’s it going? Yeah, I think I strained it running from van Horn.”
Jones’ face clouded; the man had almost cost his friend his life. “That guy…” He shook his head, as if not trusting what he would say.
“…is going away for a long time, thanks to you and Jimmy. And good riddance.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Clinton said, nodding at the bartender and ordering a beer. He took a long pull and gestured to the seat next to Neal, who nodded, inviting him to sit. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?” he asked Neal, making small talk.
Neal shrugged and took another sip at his sherry. “It’s my local.” When Jones gave him a look he explained, “It’s on my way home from the office, so it doesn’t set off any alarms when I stop here. And the house-made charcuterie plate is phenomenal.”
“Charcuterie?”
“The art of curing meats and sausages?” Neal leaned towards him and licked his lips. “Do you like sausages, Agent Jones?” Jones colored and Neal immediately felt bad. He reached out and grasped his friend’s shoulder. “Sorry, flirting’s like my resting state. I can’t not do it. You’re not even into guys.”
“Well, not necessarily,” Jones said quietly, turning an even deeper shade of red that extended all the way to the tips of his ears. Neal sat back, straightening his back, his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline.
“What? I went to college,” Clinton pointed out, as if that explained everything. He sipped at his beer; Neal noticed how his tongue always flicked out to lick the mouth of the bottle before he took a swig. When Jones glanced up at him, he caught Neal staring, and it was Neal’s turn to blush.
“So what brings you here?” Neal asked, changing the subject. “Not exactly in your neighborhood.”
“I just put Isabelle on a train back to Princeton, needed to clear my head, so I thought I’d walk home from Penn Station. This place looked interesting, and apparently, the charcuterie is something to write home about.”
“It’s a life changer. You want to join me for dinner?” Neal smiled. He was happy for the company, and didn’t much want to go home – it felt so empty with Sara gone.
“I would love to.”
Neal called the hostess over and asked for a table for two.
----
They passed a pleasant evening, ordering plate after plate of tapas, and were midway through their second bottle of wine before Clinton finally held up his hands and said, No mas.
“This food is delicious, but I’m about to burst.”
“But you have to try the Crema Catalana,” Neal protested. “It’s the house specialty.”
“I’m not much of a dessert guy. But I’d love to sit and finish this delicious wine with you, if you don’t mind.”
“Sounds good. But hold that thought.” Neal got up and dropped his napkin on the table. “You only rent a fine Crianza, you know what I mean?”
“I’ll have to take your word for it.”
Neal headed for the men’s room and took care of business. As he was leaving, Clinton was heading in. Neal sidestepped to let him in, but Clinton stayed where he stood. Neal looked up at him, a curious expression on his face. Clinton raised his right hand and placed it on Neal’s chest, right over his sternum. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he said.
“Yes?” Neal said, fixated on Clinton’s hand, the tiny half-moon shapes of the nailbeds, his nails short and even – buffed – Neal wondered if he ever got manicures.
“Are you feeling something between us?”
Neal looked him in the eyes then. “I, um, we’re co-workers. And friends? I mean, I think we’re friends, yes?”
“Yes. Could we be more?”
“Do you think that’s wise? I mean, I just broke up with my girlfriend and you just had to send your ex-fiancé home on a train…” Neal felt like maybe he was babbling. But there was no denying he’d felt a heat and attraction to Jones the other night, but he’d chalked it up to loneliness and frustration after Sara dumped him. It didn’t stop him from beating off into his toilet the minute he got home, however.
Jones took a step closer and as he did, his fingers splayed farther open so that Neal could feel the press of his fingertips against his left pec. “No.”
“We should probably think and talk about it another time...without so much wine. Probably.”
“Probably. But consider this: I’ve been thinking about it, and I think you’ve been thinking about it, and, well, I do have access to your tracking data, Neal.”
“Are you saying you knew I was here?”
“It’s your local,” Jones reminded him.
“So it is,” Neal said, stepping in close and reaching his hand around Clinton’s neck. He pulled him in close and they kissed, tentatively at first, but with more heat and urgency eventually. Clinton wrapped his hand around Neal’s tie and pulled him in tight, placed his left hand in his hair, running the fingers through. He pulled back then, and looked at the way the waves of Neal’s hair fell away from his fingers.
“What?” Neal asked, curious.
“It’s as soft as it looks,” he replied, and moved in to kiss Neal again.
They were interrupted by another restaurant customer entering the bathroom, an elderly Spanish gentleman with a cane who had been seated at the bar all evening. They quickly parted and stood there, embarrassed.
“Don’t mind me, mijos. Bésalo!” He made waving gestures with his hands, encouraging them to continue, smiled and shuffled over to a stall.
Neal colored. “We should maybe-“
“Head back to my place?” Clinton suggested. “It’s not far.”
It took Neal a solid minute to finally agree.
----
By the time they’d walked the fifteen blocks to Jones’ place, Neal’s knee was killing him and he was trying not to limp. He regarded the five steps down to the basement apartment ruefully. There was a definite clicking sound when he took the first step down, and he hissed in pain. “Shit!” he muttered.
“Knee bothering you?” Jones said. He came back to Neal’s side and offered him his shoulder. “Here, lean on me.”
Neal did as he was asked, and it was awkward, and he hated showing any weakness, but the gesture was sweet and, he thought, gentlemanly, and his already high opinion of Clinton Jones was raised accordingly.
Jones closed the door behind them and removed the jacket he wore. He was wearing the same type of clingy t-shirt he’d worn the other night, only in a different color; Clinton was clearly one of those men who bought something in every color when he found what worked for him. And this shirt certainly worked for him; it stretched just slightly across his chest and strained in all the right places when he moved his shoulders or his arms; its buttery yellow color was the perfect complement to Jones’ silky skin. Neal was distracted by the dip the shirt’s v-neck made, exposing just enough of Clinton’s clavicle to make things interesting. He wanted to suck on every inch of his powerful neck.
“Have a seat – I’ll get you some ice,” Clinton said, heading for the kitchen. He returned with a Ziploc bag filled with ice in one hand and two glass of Scotch left over from the other night in the other. Neal accepted both gratefully. Jones sat down in the easy chair opposite the couch where Neal had placed himself, leaning forward with his forearms on his knee. His eyes were dark, inscrutable, and Neal watched him watching him.
“So,” Neal began.
“So,” Clinton said, cocking his head to the side and then taking a sip of his whisky.
“Are we really going to do this?”
“I would really like to be with you tonight, Neal. If you’ve changed your mind, I understand. But I’ll be very, very disappointed.”
“Well, I’d hate to hurt your feelings,” Neal said, smiling.
Jones put his glass on the coffee table and slid to his knees. He moved over to the couch and Neal sat forward, meeting him with a kiss. He put his hands on Jones’ shoulders, leaning forward and hissed again as his knee twinged with pain. He pulled away. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We can take it slow.”
Neal smiled at him gratefully, and Clinton reached up and placed his hand on his cheek, running his thumb along Neal’s lower lip. He slipped onto the couch and removed Neal’s jacket, then loosened and removed his tie for him, attempting to toss it over his shoulder, but instead its end caught there and it landed, hanging down his back. Laughing, he chucked it onto the easy chair and leaned in to kiss Neal again.
Neal gave in to the sensations of being with a new partner. It had been a while since he’d been with a man, and he was enjoying the experience – kissing someone his height, the push and pull as they each jockeyed for position. It was refreshingly different, and just what he was looking for to take his mind off his troubles and off of Sara. The memory of her rejection still hurt like hell, but he pushed those thoughts from his mind. He owed it to Jones to at least pay attention as the man was making love to him.
And he was doing it so well.
Jones had moved from kissing Neal’s mouth, had stripped his shirt off of him and was now sucking gently at Neal’s left nipple, which always made Neal’s toes curl. He pressed up against Jones’ mouth with a moan, wanting more of it. Jones grinned, raked the tight little nub with his bottom teeth, then turned his attentions to the other one. He let his left hand drift down and palmed Neal’s hard cock where it lay against his thigh and Neal twitched at the contact as Jones started to rub him with his thumb. His touch was tentative at first, then harder and more insistent as he went on. Neal marveled at the sensation of a man’s hand on him – such a contrast to Sara’s petite hands.
Neal could feel the wet spot growing on the front of his pants from the precome that was leaking from him. He watched as Jones undid his pants, got to his knees between Neal’s legs and pulled them off, followed by his boxer briefs. Jones paused then, taking in the sight of Neal’s dick as it stood out from his body, glanced up at Neal with a raised eyebrow, letting him know he was impressed. Neal looked away, unaccountably embarrassed, but then Clinton took the head of his dick into his mouth and most thoughts left his mind.
Clinton Jones gave surprisingly good head.
At first he sucked at the head, hard, eliciting a gasp from Neal, then took nearly the entire thing into his mouth, and began bobbing his head up and down, keeping a steady pace. He next turned his attention to Neal’s balls, kissing and licking them, burying his face in Neal’s sweaty pubes, glancing up occasionally to gauge his progress. The look in his eye – Neal loved how direct he was, how brazen – how Clinton looked at him like he knew how good he was. And he was so fucking good.
Neal reached out and put his hand alongside Clinton’s head, rubbing his thumb along his ear. “I’m gonna come in like five seconds if you keep that up,” he said.
Grinning, Jones straightened up and kissed him again. Neal reached his own hand down, undoing Clinton’s pants and freeing his straining cock. Glancing down, he licked his lips appreciatively. “That is pretty,” he said, weighing it in his hand. And it was – straight and thick and perfect. “Come up here so I can show it some attention.” He patted the couch next to himself. Jones pulled off his t-shirt, shed his pants and sat down. Neal put his hand on Clinton’s neck and pulled him in for another kiss, stroking his cock slowly. As they kissed, he noticed how Clinton’s breathing hitched on his every downward stroke; Neal found it unbelievably endearing.
Neal stopped kissing Clinton, letting him just react. His eyes were closed, but Neal could see them moving beneath the lids. His lashes were so curly, Neal noticed, and matted together from sweat or tears. Neal kissed each eye in turn, and Clinton hummed in response. Neal pressed his cheek beside Clinton’s and kissed his ear. “Tell me what you like,” Neal purred into his ear, making Clinton lean into him with a gasp. “Tell me what you want.”
“I like…” he was panting.
“Mmm?”
“I want…”
“Tell me, baby.”
“I want to feel you next to me, your cock on mine,” he whispered.
Neal nodded and gently pushed Clinton back into a lying position. He turned his own body so he was lying on top of him, ignoring the pain in his knee and fully realizing he’d regret it in the morning. He lined up his own cock along the underside of Jones’, using his hand to steady them, and began to move his hips. He moved slowly at first, spreading both their precome between to improve the slide, and at Jones’ sharp intake of breath, began to move more quickly. He thrust his hips against Clinton, who answered with thrusts of his own, and at last they found a rhythm. Jones clutched at Neal’s shoulders, his eyes still screwed shut, breath hitching on every other thrust.
Suddenly, Jones tensed up, and Neal stopped his movements. He adjusted his hand’s position and stroked both cocks together, against Clinton’s belly. Clinton came first, with a short bark of a shout, followed soon after by Neal.
Neal collapsed on top of Jones, stroking his jaw line and kissing his eyes until he opened them. “We have got to keep meeting like this, Agent Jones,” he said breathlessly, smiling.
“Mmm,” Jones said, still non-verbal. He put his arm around Neal and held him tight.
----
Thank you for your time.