Hook, Line, and Sinker

by Jane Davitt




The Riptide wasn't big enough to play hide and seek on, so when Cody woke from a siesta--they'd gotten to bed at three in the morning after a stake-out, and he had to be getting old, because after lunch and a beer, he'd crawled into bed and fallen asleep in minutes--it didn't take him long to track down Nick.

He stood on deck, still half-asleep, and watched the sun take Nick's dark hair and burnish it until it gleamed. Nick was wearing a pair of shorts, nothing else. Tanned, smooth skin, a broad chest smattered with hair, and shorts. White, tight, the way he sat on a deck chair making them ride up high, they were sinful to start with, but they were wet, too; Nick must've gone for a swim. Cody dimly remembered being woken by a splash, but he couldn't focus on the hazy memory. Nothing mattered but what he was staring at. Nothing existed but Nick.

The shorts clung to muscular thighs and a flat belly, outlining--oh, sweet Lord, Nick was hard as a goddamn rock. Even from a few yards away--and Cody wanted to get closer, but his feet weren't moving--Cody could see every luscious inch of Nick's cock and balls on display. The thin white cotton was so soaked through that he could see the dark shadow of hair, the pink flush of skin.

Nick was both displayed and hidden and the combination was killing him. Cody made a sound, strangled, yearning, and watched Nick's mouth curl in a knowing smile, though he didn't look up from the rod across his knees, his hands busy with the reel, fishing line glinting, almost invisible in the dazzle of light.

"Hey, sleepyhead."

"What are you doing?" Cody managed to say, the words dragged out, a drugged slur from a mouth that was watering and dry with lust at one and the same time, a mouth that wanted that thick, hard cock inside it, waking him up with those slow, sweet thrusts Nick loved. Cody was the one who got impatient, his hands holding Nick's head still, his hips jerking in quick, greedy arcs as he fucked Nick's open, willing mouth; Nick liked his blow jobs to last a while, until Cody's lips were numb and tingling and he had to ease away, lick the slick wet crown of Nick's cock for a while until he could go back to taking him deep, the way they both liked it.

Nick's smile widened and he looked up finally, the light too bright for his face to be more than a guess and a memory.

"Baiting my hook, babe. I want to catch a big one."

Cody breathed in. No fishy reek of bait, and Nick's tackle box was over to the side, out of reach… All that he could smell as he took the few steps needed to bring him in reach of Nick's touch was toast-warm skin and clean, salted sweat.

"How big?"

Nick tilted his head back, the long line of his throat there to be kissed and bitten, but not here, not out in the open, not safe…

"Oh, say 180 pounds."

"175," Cody corrected him automatically, and sucked in his stomach.

Nick chuckled. "If you say so."

One touch, just one-- Cody let his hand stroke that shining, damp hair and feel the coarse silk cling to his fingers. Love, lust, longing, all there in that brush of his hand, and he knew Nick felt it too, because he didn't even have to tell Nick he could put his rod down, and quit messing with that broken reel, because Cody was caught, captured, hooked.

Nick knew. And he followed Cody back to their bunk without a word, still smiling.

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