Free Strongman by Denise Rossetti Page A

of the sheet.
    Never in his wildest dreams had Fort thought he’d call a man beautiful and mean it, but there was no other word to describe the indented sweep of Griff’s spine, the smooth roll of strong, healthy muscle under glowing, tawny skin, the symmetry of his shoulders, the mouthwatering curves of—
    Fort swallowed and nudged the sheet down a scant inch with one foot. It slid, gathered momentum and subsided around the tumbler’s thighs, exposing the globes of his buttocks, dusted lightly with downy golden hair.
    Ah, shit! Fort found he’d grabbed the pulsing heaviness of his cock in one hand.
    When had that happened? He gripped it, brutally hard. All he could feel and hear was the regular rhythm of Griff’s breath, a counterpoint to the thundering in his ears. His heart was trying to knock itself loose from under his ribs.
    Now he became acutely conscious of the heat of the other man’s body, of the clean, male smell of his sleep-warmed flesh. The throbbing sensation intensified, as though a temple gong was ringing right through his body, the sound gathering in his aching balls and leaking out of the cock he gripped with desperate, slippery fingers.
    One stroke, just one. That was all it would take, Lufra help him. And because of the way the tumbler was lying, he couldn’t even see Griff’s genitals.
    Griff grunted something into Fort’s hip. Then, as if he’d heard the big man’s thought, he rolled over with a grumbling sigh and was still again, one arm flung up above his head on the pillows.
    Fort bit his lip so hard, he tasted blood. Why ? Lufra , damn You , why are You doing this to me , You Holy Bitch ? What have I done ?
    He dug a thumb viciously into the base of his cock, gripped his testicles and squeezed. Greedily, he devoured the tumbler with his eyes, such a feast laid out before him he scarcely knew where to begin. Though…
    45

    Denise Rossetti
    Griff’s morning erection reared out of a neat thatch of sparse, gingery curls, a satiny column roped with a tracery of blue veins. The head had emerged completely, the collar soft and wrinkled because Griff wasn’t cut, unlike Fort. The smooth, pink dome of it was bisected by a slit that dribbled a bead of fluid. Gods, it looked so lickable , like a shy, ripe fruit, the summer’s first off the gaeta vine, the sweet ones you gobbled by the handful.
    Fort’s tongue felt too big for his mouth. The tumbler’s balls were drawn up close to his body, plump and high, so lightly furred as to be almost bare, so he could see how rosy and round they were.
    He bit back the fellwolf roar of rage and confusion that rose in his throat. Ruler God ,
    what did I do to deserve this torture ?
    His gaze ranged over Griff’s torso, over the saddle of muscle that was his abdomen, the diagonal notches of his hips, to the flat nipples nestled in the light, silky mat on his chest. They were broader than Fort’s, not as dark, more a rosy-gold shade of brown.
    What was that?
    A white line straggled over one hipbone and down into the delectable crease that led to— Frowning, Fort leaned forward, his nose three inches from Griff’s skin.
    Fortunately, he’d stopped breathing some time ago, so he wasn’t going to wake the tumbler. And it didn’t seem to make any difference to the way the musky scent of the other man’s genitals addled his wits.
    It looked like— It was! The mark of a blade. Someone had knifed Griff, dangerously close to a large artery. The bastard had hurt him, made him bleed, cry out. Nearly killed him.
    The room went dark, the walls pressing in. Fort had walked with death every day of his life as a mercenary. It was the coin he dealt, too easily sometimes when the cold dark sucked him in. He’d stared into so many startled eyes as he jerked his blade free, watching the life force drain away, the anger, the shock, the protest— shit , this can ’ t be happening to me ! He thought he’d become inured to the shocking fragility of life.
    But a world