Some Like it Hot

by Jane Davitt




There's a bottle of ice-cold water in Jim's hand and he's playing with it, rolling it between his palms as he talks to Simon, then patting the back of his neck with a palm that's beaded with condensation, damp with coolness.

He's hot. He's sweating. The fan-stirred air in the bullpen is teasing his short hair, but it's sticking to his head mostly, heavy with heat.

I want to take him home and lead him up into the quiet darkness of his room. Heat rises and it will be shimmering through the air, a visible vibration for him. He'll need to sleep naked tonight, and I'll strip him slowly, watch the goose bumps rise on the bared skin and then fade away, hear the contented groan as I push him back against cool sheets and soft pillows.

I'll lick at his throat where the skin's dewed over and hot against my tongue, breathe out and cool it for a moment. Lick and breathe… I could do that to all of him if he'd let me.

I won't be able to touch him the way I want. Too hot for skin on skin, too hot for sex. Too hot for us to sleep in the same bed -- but we will.

He'll lie beside me, panting, his nipples just smudges, not peaked, pebbled, his cock a sweet, soft curl. I could get him hard, could lean over, mouth that softness until it fills and swells, pushing my lips open and round. Could brush it with my hair, a teasing strand or two dragged through the wetness welling up at the head. Could sponge him down, torment him with a cube of ice as it burns coldly in my hand and streaks his skin with a frosty lick.

Could do so much to him…

But it's too fucking hot to move, so I'll blow him a kiss and try to sleep as the fans whir and the city bakes.

Jim uncaps the bottle and swallows half of it, his throat working, his eyes closed in a brief, private ecstasy and I feel a wave of heat pour down me, head to toes, pure jealousy, and lust.

Oh, fuck the heat and blown kisses. I'm blowing more than that tonight -- and he'd better make that sound when I do, that purring grunt, that satisfied murmur.

He holds out the bottle to me as Simon walks away, his blue eyes bright in his flushed face.

"Want some, Chief? You look like you need to cool off."

And then his gaze drops to my lap and his eyes widen knowingly. "Forget it," he murmurs, and pulls the bottle away from my outstretched hand, the rasp of his smoky, husky voice giving me friction burns. "I think I prefer you hot."



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