Three the Hard Way Page 3

  If this was another dream, he didn’t want to know.

  This had to be a dream. Or a nightmare. Maybe both.

  Four years after losing Justice, Tag’s body was reacting as if they were still together and nothing had changed. As if Justice hadn’t all but destroyed him.

  Clearly, Justice hadn’t destroyed his dick because it was all, I’m so happy to see you!

  Taggart ripped his mouth away, but Justice palmed his face in both hands and held him for his kiss. It was brutal and angry and Tag loved it as much as he hated it.

  He caught Justice’s bottom lip between his teeth and bit down hard, tasted blood. Justice growled, and Tag moaned as the raw, erotic sound vibrated all the way to his groin. Memories of dozens of past against-the-wall make-out sessions flipped through his mind, a distraction that gave Justice the upper hand. In an instant, Justice wheeled him away from the wall, hooked his leg behind Tag’s knees, and took him to the hardwood floor.

  His shoulder jammed on impact, and his ribs, fractured during the Itor/ACRO battle a couple of months ago, hurt like fuck, but he forgot all of that as Justice came down on top of him and pinned Tag’s thighs between his.

  “You dick.” Justice ripped open Tag’s shirt, sending buttons flying. “I see your impulse control hasn’t improved.”

  No, but Justice’s fighting skills had. For some reason that turned him on. Turned him on so much that when Justice fell forward, grinding his erection against Tag’s and plunging his tongue inside Tag’s mouth, he forgot to fight for a moment. God . . . so . . . good. Didn’t feel like they had four years of bad history behind them. And when Justice shifted to rip open Tag’s jeans and palm his cock, Tag damned near came the way he had back when they were teens and Justice had touched him for the first time.

  Wrenching their mouths apart again, Tag grabbed Justice’s wrist. “We’re not doing this. I didn’t bring you here for— Motherfucker!”

  His balls felt like they were in a clamp, throbbing in Justice’s tight fist. Justice’s touch was expert, holding him on the razor’s edge of pain but managing to make it erotic, and he wondered what he’d have to do or say to make the guy stop.

  Or squeeze just a little harder.

  They’d had angry sex before, but this was different. This wasn’t about Tag getting wasted and forgetting to help Justice study for his physics exam. This wasn’t about Justice flirting with another guy just to get a rise out of Tag. This was about real pain, and they had the real rage to back it up.

  “I don’t care why you brought me here.” Justice’s fist twisted, just a little, and Tag hissed. “You knew we had to get this out of the way before anything else.”

  Yeah, he knew that. He’d known it when he dialed ACRO. “I hate you.”

  If Tag had said that four years ago, he’d have seen hurt in Justice’s baby blues. Now he saw only cynical amusement. “Enough to tell me to stop?”

  Justice’s hold on his sac released, and the next thing he knew, Justice was fisting his cock instead. Tag damn near swallowed his tongue as his ex-lover’s hand slid up and down. It was over and he knew it. Fighting this was stupid, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t go down swinging.

  Falling forward again, Justice pinched Tag’s lobe between his teeth. “Well?” he prompted. “Do you hate me enough to tell me to stop?”

  Taggart arched into Justice’s palm. “I hate you enough to not let you fuck me.” He drove his fingers through Justice’s short hair and yanked his head back so he could look him in the eye. “No. Fucking.”

  The only sign that Tag’s words had struck their target was Justice’s subtle inhale. Tag would never let anyone fuck him if he didn’t care about them, and Justice knew that. Never. Hell, he’d only ever bottomed for Justice and Ian. Only Justice and Ian had been inside his body. Inside his heart.

  “I mean it, Justice,” Tag growled. “You so much as try, and I swear to God, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what? Kill me?” Justice’s hand wedged lower inside Tag’s open jeans until his finger found Tag’s hole. Tag bit back a moan. “You don’t have a killer bone in your body.”

  If you only knew. Tag jammed his fist into Justice’s ribs and bore down on a particularly sensitive nerve. “No. Fucking,” he repeated.

  Justice conceded with a shallow nod. “For now.”

  No, not for now. For forever.

  But before Tag could say that, Justice slid down his body in a quick, agile move and opened his mouth over his cock. Holy shit. His hips came off the floor in a massive surge, seeking more of that wet warmth. Justice took him deep and then began a merciless, punishing suck-lick-swallow rhythm that made Tag’s vision go blurry.

  But not blurry enough to be able to pretend that it wasn’t Justice’s blond head bobbing up and down on his dick. No, when he looked down his body at what his ex-lover was doing . . . Holy shit, this was really happening.

  Part of him wanted to weep with relief—the rest of him dreaded the regret and self-loathing he’d experience the moment it was over.

  Pleasure streaked through him, erasing all that emotionally charged bullshit in his head, and he surrendered to Justice’s masterful touch. There was plenty of time to mire himself in a black pit of remorse later.

  Justice sucked hard, hollowing out his cheeks, and Tag shouted in ecstasy. He was about to blow—

  Abruptly, Justice reared up, tore open his own jeans, and shoved them down with his boxer briefs. His cock sprung out, a beautiful dusky column of flesh that made Tag’s mouth water. He licked his lips as he watched Justice crawl up his body and put the head of that gorgeous cock against Tag’s lips.

  “Open your mouth,” Justice said, his voice smoky and commanding, a combination that was impossible to resist. “Suck it.”

  Taggart gave it to the count of five, just to be stubborn. Then, with as much control as he could muster, he parted his lips and accepted the easy push of Justice’s erection into his mouth.

  They both moaned. Tag knew every ridge, bump, and vein of Justice’s cock, and fuck, this was like coming home. Like four years hadn’t passed. Tag left all the anger and hatred behind and began to pleasure Justice eagerly, gripping his jeans-clad ass in one hand, while he wrapped the other around Justice’s thick length. His own cock was demanding attention, but the bastard could wait.

  Pulling Justice in more, Tag forced him to fall forward and brace himself on his palms as he straddled Tag. The leverage allowed Justice to pump his hips and fuck Tag’s mouth the way they both liked it.

  Closing his eyes, Tag concentrated on the warmth radiating from Justice, warmth he’d missed for a long time. He’d ached for this . . . but had he ached for the sex, or for Justice?

  If the sound of Justice’s panting breaths was any indication, he was aching, too. Good. Tag was going to make him ache a little more.

  Baring his teeth, he scraped them lightly along Justice’s shaft, wringing a hiss of pleasure-pain from him before sucking him deep and repeating it all again. And again.

  When he was done punishing Justice—for now—he swallowed hard on his cock, and Justice groaned. “So good. You’re the best at that.”

  Ian had said the same thing, and fuck that thought—Ian and his betrayal had no place in what was going on here, now, with Justice and his betrayal.

  Tag’s cock was straining and his balls were throbbing, and this was enough foreplay. Wrapping his arm around Justice’s thigh, he forced him to shift positions. For a moment, Justice withdrew from Tag’s mouth, but a couple of seconds later, he was straddling Tag’s head again and sinking his wet cock back between Tag’s lips. Tag moaned around his shaft as Justice’s warm mouth engulfed Tag’s erection and sucked it deep.

  Tag knew Justice had never liked this position, but he loved it, top or bottom—loved giving and taking pleasure equally—and he lasted approximately ten seconds before his balls tugged tight and his climax blasted through his cock. Justice swallowed, milking Tag hard, and even before the last spasms of Tag’s bl
iss faded away, Justice was also coming, his hot semen splashing into Tag’s hungry mouth.

  Tag took it all, licking and sucking as Justice did the same, taking every last drop Tag had to give. His pulse pounded in ears as pleasure wracked him, and inside his chest, his heart was knocking painfully against his ribs as if warning him against feeling anything besides lust and anger for this man.

  His ticker didn’t have to worry. Even now, utterly spent and his body trembling, Tag’s mind was filling up with all the reasons why what they had done was a terrible idea. No doubt Justice’s thoughts were heading in the same direction.

  Groaning, Justice shifted off Tag and rolled to the side, his soft, glistening cock resting against his hard abs just inches away from Tag’s face. Four years ago, he’d have loved that. Now, feeling exposed, Tag tucked and buttoned up, but Justice apparently didn’t give a rat’s ass, just lay there, chest heaving under the red Iron Man sweatshirt he wore. The ratty, threadbare Iron Man sweatshirt Tag had gotten Justice as a gag gift during their first year of college.

  “Iron Man, get it?” Tag engaged his power, and a pair of scissors flew off the counter and landed in his palm. “You’ll always be attracted to me.”

  Justice rolled his eyes. “Lame, man. Lame.” In a flash of motion, he hooked his arm around Tag’s neck and drew him in for a kiss. “I don’t need a metal suit to be attracted to you,” he murmured. “I’m yours.”

  Tag snorted out loud.

  “You wanna let me in on the joke?” Justice asked.

  No, not really. The last thing Tag wanted to do was acknowledge the damned thing, because Justice didn’t do anything randomly. Putting on that sweatshirt today had been a deliberate choice. Either he was trying to mess with Tag’s head, or he was trying to punch him in the heart.

  What a jackass.

  “I’m just wondering why you didn’t dress for Alaska in the winter. You could have frozen out there—” Tag broke off as Justice tugged up the hem of the sweatshirt to reveal a layer of fleece and a thermal shirt.

  “I’m not an idiot.” Justice’s voice was as rough and raw as what they’d just done on the floor.

  Shit. This had been as much a fight as it’d been sex . . . and Tag wasn’t sure who’d won.

  “Did you hear that?” Justice murmured. “A click—”

  The door banged open, and a blast of cold and snow roared into the cabin, bringing with it Tag’s second visitor of the day.

  The second man he’d ever loved.

  The second man who’d ever betrayed him.

  Justice looked between Tag and the man who’d just burst in. If the guy was armed, he wasn’t concerned about reaching for his weapon. Instead, he waited, framed by blowing snow in the doorway, as he calmly removed his hat and gloves, even as Justice, in one smooth motion, zipped up and swiped his Glock from his pack. As the intruder kicked the door closed, Justice leaped to his feet and trained the weapon at his broad chest.

  But that look on Tag’s face . . . his eyes . . .

  Why the fuck was Tag giving this asshole his look? Deep inside, his magnetic power stirred on its own. The set of knives on the counter started to inch toward him. Holy shit, he hadn’t lost control of his power in years . . . not since the terrible Christmas when they’d both lost their moms. Their deaths had been devastating . . . and the catalyst for the angry breakup that had sent Justice into an emotional loss of control that resulted in Tag’s mom’s house nearly being stripped of its siding before he could shut down his gift.

  Remembering his ACRO training, he inhaled on a slow count of three and cleared his mind. The knives stopped moving, but not before he saw, out of the corner of his eyes, Tag tense up, his gaze on the blades. Wasn’t that just great.

  He snarled, “Who the hell is this, Tag?”

  “Who the fuck are you?” the broad man demanded of Justice, who waited for Tag to say something, to make demands of his own about why this random man was bursting in uninvited.

  Justice turned to Tag for a quick second, noting that Tag was still staring at the intruder while he shoved to his feet. He was zipped up but not buttoned, and between that and his torn flannel shirt hanging open on his sweat-coated chest, it was all pretty much announcing I just got blown. And then he suddenly snapped to. “Ian, what the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Saving your ass,” Ian answered, and Justice noted that Ian’s tone was much gentler than the one he’d used with him.

  Oh, no fucking way, Ian. “His ass isn’t your concern.”

  Snorting, Ian clicked out of his snowshoes, and Tag chose that moment to grab a log from the stack next to the wood stove, and throw it at Ian’s head.

  Ian caught it in a motion that was so fast it blurred.

  “Ah fuck. Excedo,” Justice muttered. Excedosapiens were among the most versatile of the special agents, with a dominance of either super speed or a super strength, and sometimes mixed with other gifts as well. Even super speed or super strength didn’t make them invulnerable, though. Justice wasn’t Excedo strong, but he’d learned to hold his own in practice with them. He’d learned ways around their speed and strength.

  Especially if they had metal anywhere on—or in—their bodies.

  Ian gave a smug smile . . . until Tag punched him, catching him in a cross hook to the jaw, yelling, “You son of a bitch. You fucking bastard!” and following up with a knee to the gut and an elbow to the back of Ian’s pale-blond head, and for a moment, Justice thought the Ian asshole was going down.

  But a split-second later, Ian snarled, “Motherfucker,” through the blood coating his teeth, and tackled Tag, pinning him to the floor. Justice moved closer, weapon still trained at Ian’s head.

  “He’s Itor,” Tag managed. “He was a honey trap. He’s the reason they captured me.”

  Tag had been with Itor? What the fuck?

  Guess it explained why ACRO now, though. Check. “You both have some goddamned explaining to do.”

  “I don’t answer to you,” Ian growled. “Don’t even know who the fuck you are.”

  “You will,” Justice promised Ian—who was still holding Tag down—at the same time the floor shook beneath their feet. In the not-so-distant distance, a loud rumble started, growing louder with each passing second.

  “What the fuck?” Ian and Justice asked simultaneously.

  “Let me up! Let me up!” Tag yelled urgently, and Ian did. As Justice watched, Tag went around, opening hidden panels in the log walls and pushing buttons. It sounded like a part of the house was . . . shifting. And then there was a boom and then . . .

  And then the rumble sounded like a freight train, ready to blow right through the middle of the house.

  They all instinctively moved to the center of the cabin—and to each other—their backs touching as they formed a triangle, staring out, waiting for the invisible enemy.

  “Avalanche,” Tag whispered.

  “There goes my fucking snowmobile,” Justice bitched.

  “It was gone before this,” Ian assured him, and Justice narrowed his eyes at the pleasantly assholish way the guy admitted, “It was in my way when I drove mine in, so it met an untimely end.”

  “Fucker.” He turned to face Ian, but Tag put an arm between them.

  “Could you argue later?” Tag implored.

  Justice threw his hands up. “You mean, after the avalanche kills us?”

  “We’ll be fine.” Taggart made an encompassing gesture. “I bought this cabin from a prepper who designed doomsday shelters for the government. It can take an avalanche.” He glared at Ian. “But clearly, I need a new lock.”

  “No,” Ian drawled, “you need to use the existing lock.”

  Justice chose to focus on other matters. “You bought this piece of shit? When?”

  “After you left me for ACRO,” Tag snapped, as if he wasn’t the one who’d refused to go with Justice after years of swearing he would. “Used Mom’s life insurance and the money I earned on a crab boat. So yeah, Justice, glad you a
pprove of my dream home.”

  “This is Justice?” Ian asked, and Justice almost enjoyed the man’s anger. “The Justice? He’s ACRO?” Ian didn’t wait for Tag’s answer, looked over his shoulder at Justice. “So you’re the asshole who fucked up Tag’s head so bad?”

  He snarled at Tag and hoped the sound of the knives rattling on the counter was just in his imagination. “You told an Itor agent about me?”

  “I didn’t know he was Itor at the time,” Tag growled before turning to Ian. “And you . . . you have no right calling the kettle black. I fucking trusted you. I loved you, and believe me, after Justice, I didn’t think that would ever happen.”

  And then there was total darkness.

  The noise, the blackness, the anger . . . All of it took Ian back to that horrible day Itor was attacked in a coordinated ACRO sweep of every major Itor site of operations on the planet, including the Madrid offices that housed Tag. Ian had been close to the compound—close enough to feel the ground shake and smell the scorched metal. He’d prayed to find Tag alive . . . but he hadn’t found him at all. He’d prayed Tag had survived, but he’d been unable to search him out immediately, for fear of creating suspicion, or putting Tag in danger.

  Ian had been patient, waited for Itor to approach him . . . and they had, because he’d been the one to bring Taggart in originally. Itor had told him in the beginning that Tag would no doubt be one of his most difficult jobs.

  They were so right, but not in the way Ian had thought.

  And then, to discover Tag alive—to walk in on him in the aftermath of fucking another man, only to find out that man was Justice—well fuck, he’d barely been able to breathe.

  Just thinking back on it right now was causing the same reaction, but he couldn’t stop his mind from going there, now that he didn’t have the distraction of Justice gunning for him.

  Now that the seeming rejection—and anger—from Tag to him was still burning a hole in his chest, even as he remained backed up against Taggart, could feel the heat from his body burning through him.