Hello, Sailor

by Jane Davitt




Shawn's on him before he's cleared the door, climbing him like a tree, bringing an unprepared Carlton to his knees.

"Jesus, Spencer, warn a guy," Carlton grumbles, but his hands are quick and unsteady on Shawn when they both hit the ground, light against his face, clamping down on his ass, palming the thrust of his dick as it strains up to say hello.

"You've been gone two weeks," Shawn says as if that makes what he's doing reasonable instead of first cousin to assaulting a police officer. "Do you have any idea how much I've missed you? I've pined. I've moped. I didn't even have the energy to tell Gus that a fly had landed in his smoothie and he sucked it up and choked on it. Totally your fault."

"No, it isn't," Carlton tells him, but Shawn isn't listening.

"You're lucky I didn't do this to you at the airport and I would've if Gus hadn't refused to take me there when I told him how I planned to say hi with a lap dance. Next time, I'm going to stow away inside your suitcase along with the seven suits and thirteen ties you packed."

That has Carlton picturing Shawn sprawled out naked on the baggage carousel waiting to be claimed, draped ass up over some bulging piece of luggage, shamelessly squirming as strange hands reached out to grab and fondle, spank and pinch. Shawn would love that, the wanton little slut that he is, lap up the attention, the admiring glances -- and approve of the way the grinding gears working the belt would sweep him away, onto the next caressing hand.

Shawn always likes to move on.

Carlton won't push his way through the crowd to rescue Shawn, even if it kills him to see Shawn touched so familiarly. The fingers that shove between Shawn's legs, the curved palm that snatches the chance to slap color into his thigh -- Carlton grits his teeth but holds his place. Shawn's going to come to him soon, glance up, smile invitingly, hopefully.
Shawn arches up, poised, ready to be taken, manhandled off the carousel and into Carlton's arms, his dick impudently hard, wet-tipped, darkly red.

So close, so near. Carlton moves forward, twists his fingers through the soft strands of Shawn's hair and lets his free hand cup and squeeze that wickedly naughty piece of stiff flesh.

Then he steps back and lets Shawn go around one more time.

Shawn hadn't begged to be claimed, wasn't close to desperate.

Carlton's in no hurry.

"Earth to Lassie," Shawn says and bites down on Carlton's earlobe, taking him from lurid fantasy to what can be an equally lurid reality if he allows Shawn free rein and somehow he thinks that he will. "So, what did you bring me back? A T-shirt with a witty slogan? A mug with 'World's Best Psychic Detective' on the side? A --"

Carlton unzips his pants and grabs Shawn's hand, guiding it down to where his cock is waiting for that hand, those fingers. "I didn't have time to shop, Spencer. How's this for a souvenir?"

Shawn's breath quickens and Carlton's already planning just what to do with those freshly licked lips, that shimmying ass if he can ever get them both off the floor and into their bedroom. "Ooh. Good choice."

"Tell me you've behaved yourself," Carlton says against Shawn's mouth, kissing him to get the taste of Shawn back in his mouth where it belongs. He doesn't let Shawn answer for a while, cutting off each attempted word with his tongue, caressing Shawn's throat with his fingers, but eventually he relents and lets Shawn gasp out an assurance that he's been good, so good, angelic, in fact.

"Liar," Carlton says his hands stern, just the way Shawn likes them, even if he can't help giving that lying mouth one more kiss. "And I've got the credit card bill to prove it."

He's figured out what lies behind most of the more bizarre charges but he's going to have to cave and interrogate Shawn about the delivery of a thousand helium balloons. They're a total mystery. Once he's dealt with the bill from the spa, that is. No one needs a daily manicure, and he's told Shawn before about overdoing it with the exfoliating…

Still, it's nice to come home to a Shawn who's misbehaved so creatively.

It's even nicer to have been missed.


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