Blair sifted through the contents of the box on his bed. So many toys…so many memories of using them to heighten what was already good into something better, but he wasn't going to be adding to either the box or his stock of memories.
Cinnamon lube, the bottle sticky, fragrant. That had made Jim's skin more edible than ever. Blair crooned in delight as he licked the cookie-spice-smoke taste off his lips after lapping eagerly at Jim's cock. Jim smiled indulgently and then the smile vanished and he'd yelped in shock and pain. "Fuck! Burns! Fuck, Sandburg, get it off me!"
The resulting rash had been slow to fade and, as Jim reminded him bitterly and frequently, it itched.
The handcuffs, fur-lined, and guaranteed not to leave marks, had never left the box. Jim had taken one look at them, smiled a slow, shit-eating grin, and taken his own regulation-issue pair off his belt. Holding them dangling from a crooked finger, utilitarian, the metal shiny and scratched and sexy as hell to a mouth-dry Blair, Jim had said mildly, "I prefer my own, Chief. And when I put these on someone, I don't give a fuck if they leave bruises. Still interested?"
Blair's fervent, "Hell, yes," had gotten him an eye roll not a night of kinky bondage fun. He'd get back to that one; so not a lost cause. Not yet.
The glow-in-the-dark butt plug… "Some of us can find our ass in the dark with both hands, you know."
The leather paddle… "Does it come with two Marines to hold me down?"
Sometimes, Jim was just a buzz kill. "It was for you to use on me!" Blair had said through clenched teeth and was rewarded with a speechless, blushing Jim for a full ten seconds before he rallied.
"I'm not whaling on your ass with that thing, Sandburg, so forget it."
"How about just your hand?" Blair asked sweetly.
Compromise. Bargain. Negotiate.
"Ask me again on your birthday."
"That's ten months away!"
"You want it enough, you'll remember to ask."
Blair sighed and tossed a cock ring back on top of a ball-gag. No, this box might as well go into storage. He was never going to get to play with its contents again.
Not when all it took to get Jim revved up and ready to blow was a strand of Blair's hair brushed over the head of his cock, or a light touch in one of a dozen places Blair had discovered on Jim's body. Not when he could get Jim hard from yards away with a look, a whispered word, the casual tug at his jeans that let Jim see he was bare-ass under them, and leaking precome to soak into the soft, pale denim and darken it visibly.
Visible to a Sentinel, anyway.
"You're easy, you know that?" he told a watching Jim. "No challenge at all. A pushover."
Jim smiled lazily and stretched his arms high over his head, muscles rippling, T-shirt taut across his broad chest, his nipples blunt and hard. Blair whimpered helplessly, pushed the box aside and went to him in a rush, arms around all that muscle and bone, mouth seeking Jim's greedily.
"Oh, yeah," Jim said dryly. "Play hard to get, babe. You know how that turns me on."
Blair huffed indignantly and went back to what he was doing, namely finding the exact spot to bite on Jim's (left) earlobe. Playtime was over. He had work to do.
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