Anticipation

Disclaimer: These boys belong to MGM, Mirisch and Trilogy, not me, woes!

Anticipation

One long finger swirled over the rim of the stubby shot glass, as if Ezra were trying to make it hum somehow. The way that finger moved, tracing the lip of the glass, barely touching, caught Chris’s attention and wouldn’t let it go.

Fingers on his skin, stroking, touching, coaxing sounds from him that he tried to stifle in his throat, in the pillow, against heated flesh.

The feeling he was being watched finally forced Chris tear his gaze away from Ezra’s hand, and he looked up, only to meet Ezra’s eyes, twinkling with amusement.

Then Ezra pushed the shot glass toward him. “If you’d be so kind, Mister Larabee, I believe I am in dire need of refreshment.”

Whiskey-tinted words, accent thick, coiling around his ear on warm breath, whispering all the things he’d like to do, to have done to him, painting a picture the devil would blush to see.

He sucked in a quiet breath and poured the shot, and his iron control was the only reason the bottle didn’t rattle against the rim of the glass. He pushed it back across the table, and Ezra took it, his fingers brushing against Chris’s, a caress so swift as to not be noticed by anyone else. Then he settled back in his chair, sipping from the glass, his eyes darker now, dimples winking in his cheeks.

Deliberately – and Chris knew it had to be on purpose – Ezra lowered the glass and licked his lip.

Wicked, the things that tongue could do, curling into his mouth, twining around his own, so wicked it nearly made him forget to breathe.

With an effort, Chris dragged his gaze away from Ezra to the saloon window, and the bustling street outside, full of townspeople on their usual business. It was only mid-afternoon, hours yet before either of them could slip away unnoticed.

With a nearly silent sigh, he slumped back into his seat, trying to find a comfortable position. He was all too aware of Ezra shifting opposite him, which didn’t help matters in the slightest.

Sweat-slicked skin under his fingers, firm muscles rippling, moving in a rhythm older than time, pleasure rising up with each arch of their bodies.

Christ, he thought, staring at his own empty glass. Fucking anticipation is gonna kill me.

He shot another glance at Ezra, whose lip was curled in a smile hinting at promises to be kept.

His own mouth stretched into a grin. But what a way to go.