He couldn’t even swallow; he felt perspiration bead on his forehead and the faintest cool breeze from the open window kissed his skin. It was a gentle thing, not at all like the way the dark-eyed man stared him down. That gaze wasn’t anything like a kiss; instead, it was more like a bite, a snap, a vicious thing.
“You don’t unders–” he tried to begin.
“No, I understand perfectly, Grey,” was the cold, clipped reply. There was something about the way his words came, rolled from the tongue, not harsh, not rough, but silksharp and icesweet.
There was a moment of silence, where both men could still feel the violent heat of wanting her, protecting her, having her, but only in the wake of her absence.
Silence, and Black stared at Grey, who finally stepped closer and let the gun touch his skin. He nuzzled at it, lips sliding along the barrel. He kept his grey eyes on Black, unblinking, hard and sharp and neither coy nor submissive, but hungry and watchful. Finally he opened his mouth and took the muzzle gently in his teeth, his tongue snaking out to taste the acrid sting of it, the tang of metal and the bitterness of the oil.
When he took the whole barrel in his mouth, swallowing as his lower lip slid against the trigger guard, and reached his hand for Black’s cheek, the gloved palm sliding over stubble, the thief didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, not even when Grey’s fingers pressed against his lips and parted them. Black’s teeth grazed the gloves as he kept his dark eyes on Grey’s.
They stood there, gazes locked, tasting hate and desire, each feeling that he had won.