Stunned
Bodie, thought Doyle, looked stunned. Like after an op, before the mop, scooping peanut shells into little piles on the bar. His hands never stopped. 'Cept on me, Doyle thought, with a grin it would do well to hide.

Doyle was sore in unaccustomed places, s'what happens, innit, when blokes shove faces into walls, and bite a shoulder. When they bend and twist and grind. Bodie groaned and gave, and I, thought Doyle, came bang on the wall. Then came the stillness. The shock.

Bodie looked stunned, but Doyle smiled into his pint. I've a luscious arse, mate, don't I?

---

Smug
Doyle, thought Bodie, looked smug. Hiding a grin by draining a pint, his ruined cheek drew taut. Can't hide your thoughts from me, not while I still feel myself inside you. Bodie tried to stop his hands, at least from trembling, so he swept debris into neat little piles and ignored Doyle's smiles.

S'what happens innit? When a bloke takes what he needs. Had your hands on the wall but your head fell back next to mine as you shuddered a breath. Like death, thought Bodie, what a sound.

Bodie shifted, radiating heat. Doyle shivered. Right, grinned Bodie. Hello, Sunshine.

---

Smitten
Doyle said yes. Some walks take longer, don't they? A bloke tries to saunter coolly, even owned by need. Keys come out of pockets. Who unlocks? Bodie, this time, taking them from shaking fingers, he follows Doyle through the gate. Follows Doyle. Up the narrow stairway two at a time. And then what?

Watching. Stalking. Capture. Surrender. Someone starts the op. Someone does. Infiltration, reconnaissance, and penetration. Lips and skin get sticky, hot and damp and stuck. Unanticipated urges sated. Guess what's gotten complicated?

Hands found and clutched by touch, fingers laced. Hearts braced for disaster. Gotcha Doyle. Oh, Bodie.

-- THE END --

May 2008