If You're Going Through Hell Keep Going (MM)

Mann of My Dreams 1

JMS Books LLC

Heat Rating: Sizzling
Word Count: 83,614
0 Ratings (0.0)

Mark Vincent and Quinton Mann have finally kind of, sort of, exchanged promises. Mark has returned from an assignment on the West Coast, and he’s looking forward to spending some quality time with his lover. After all, it’s the St. Patrick’s Day weekend. What could be better than a little beer, a little corned beef on rye, and Quinn in his bed?

However, on Monday it’s back to the grind -- this time to an almost empty department. Matheson is away on assignment and Ms. Parker, Mark’s secretary, is taking sick time, something she never does. But these aren't the only signs of something unusual, well, more unusual than normal, going on. Gradually, Mark uncovers a series of events going back to the previous spring and involving not only his senior special agent but Theo Bascopolis, a former rent boy who is Mark’s friend.

While Mark unravels the threads of the Gordian knot the WBIS has become, he realizes how deep his feelings for Quinn have grown. But can a spy like Mark ever hope to be “the one” for a spook like Quinn?

If You're Going Through Hell Keep Going (MM)
0 Ratings (0.0)

If You're Going Through Hell Keep Going (MM)

Mann of My Dreams 1

JMS Books LLC

Heat Rating: Sizzling
Word Count: 83,614
0 Ratings (0.0)
In Cart
In Wish List
Available formats
PDF
ePub
Mobi
Excerpt

Because it was the St. Patrick’s Day weekend, a local movie house was showing The Quiet Man, so we went to see it in the afternoon, and that evening, I took Quinn to the Dungarvan, a little Irish pub on H Street. We wore casual clothes -- Vincent casual, which meant jeans, Doc Martens, fisherman knit sweaters, and bomber jackets. And of course we carried our clutch pieces.

The Dungarvan was dark and rustic, with lots of wooden beams, sawdust on the floor, and tables and chairs as opposed to booths. We had corned beef on rye with a side of potato chips, washed down with Irish Red Ale, and we listened to the band sing about Irish rovers and colonial boys, flutes and wakes and “Brennan on the Moor.”

I took it easy on the ale, since I’d be driving, but Quinn really liked the taste of it. That kind of surprised me, since he usually preferred seasonal beers like Spring Bock, which he got from a Virginia brewery. But what the hell? I figured he might as well enjoy himself.

By the time we left, just before one, I got another surprise: Quinn was feeling no pain. The ale seemed to have gone right to his head.

I had an arm around his waist, trying to keep him from falling on his ass. “You’d better hope no one decides to jump the fags,” I groused under my breath.

In spite of the fact he’d been humming “The Seven Drunken Nights,” he must have heard me. “There are fags around here?” He looked around as if searching for them.

“Jesus, Quinn.”

He leaned close and kissed my cheek.

“How drunk are you?”

“I am not drunk,” he said, with drunken dignity.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“And anyway, that’s what you get for filling me with beer.”

“Are you going to have a hangover tomorrow?”

“I don’t think so.”

Fortunately, by that point we’d reached my car, and I unlocked it and poured him into the front seat. He stretched his legs, tipped back his head, and closed his eyes. I buckled him up and closed the door.

“I guess this means no sex tonight,” I muttered as I put the key in the ignition and switched it on. From the corner of my eye I could see Quinn straighten and unfasten his seat belt. “Quinn ...”

And then he toppled over, landing with his head in my lap.

“Fuck a geezley goddamn!”

His hand was busy on my fly.

“Quinn ...”

“Hush.”

“We’re gonna get arrested!”

“No we won’t.” He had my cock out, and his breath was warm on it. “You’ll keep us safe.”

Okay, maybe he was drunk, but the fact he knew I wouldn’t let anything happen to him indicated he still had it together.

A car not doing anything but sitting with its engine running would draw attention. I turned off the ignition just as Quinn’s mouth closed around me.

We should not be doing this, but God, it felt good!

There was a tap on the driver’s side window, and I wanted to punch something, mainly whoever was standing there. Quinn was lost in what he was doing, but I didn’t want to take a chance he’d sit back and show his face. I put my hand on his neck. He took it as encouragement and continued bobbing up and down.

Whoever was outside was getting impatient. He rapped harder on the window. And of course it was a cop.

I sighed and pressed the button to lower the window. “Yes, Officer?”

Read more