Pastrami on Rye

by Jane Davitt




Tony's been busy, oh God, so busy making up to McGee all night. He's motivated not by guilt (a fleeting emotion for him, usually) but self-interest (a constant companion).

Probies don't put out when they're hungry; who knew? Tony's fed McGherkin (seriously; who doesn't like pickles? But he's glad that neither of them ate it once his tongue's licking past McGee's) and he's even been what passes for nice for him, but McGee's still pouting over that unshared, gluttonously devoured in front of him, pastrami sandwich.

It's unkind of McGee, really, and there can be only one bastard in this relationship, so Tony sighs and slides to his knees, penitent and resigned to waiting to get off. He opens his mouth wide enough for the evidence of McGee's return to normal (horny as hell again, who knew?) to slide in neatly, tasting clean and scrubbed, like all of McGee's skin.

McGee hisses, "I hope you choke on it" for the second time that day, but no chance, no way, no how.

Tony loves saying sorry on his knees and he smiles and takes McGee in deep, his hands on McGee's ass, urging him forward. He wants to choke. Wants to feel that ache in his jaw tomorrow as he eats a banana slowly (you don't mess with a classic) and watches McGee's eyes pop and his pale skin flush hotly.

Payback as foreplay. Works for them every time.


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