Love With the Proper Moustache

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Archivist Note: This story was published in April Valentine’s S/H zine, No Pants, No Badge, No Gun, in 1985 under the name “Jeannette Paris.” Art was by Dargelos.

Special thanks to April for allowing us to archive her work. And very special thanks to Keri for scanning and proofing this story.

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Slowly, carefully, Starsky made his gimpy way up the steps to Venice Place on crutches. His foot ached-even more than earlier, now that he had walked around the block from where he had parked-and in his clumsiness and frustration, he banged one of his crutches against the bandage. “Damn,” he swore loudly. He gulped guiltily, then realized that since Hutch wasn’t home yet, it didn’t matter how much noise he made. From then on until he reached the upstairs door, he took grim satisfaction in making as much noise as possible as he ascended into Hutch’s domain.

It wasn’t difficult to grab the key off the ledge above the door and let himself in. He crippled over to the window without turning on a light. He would wait for Hutch in the dark, watching and…anticipating. Ever since Hutch had sat on the barrel that was on top of Starsky’s foot at the hillbilly still, and ever since Hutch had added insult to injury by appropriating his date, Roxy, for the dance contest, Starsky had anticipated his revenge.

It had been fairly easy to decide what form his revenge should take. All during the moonshine case, he and Hutch had been playing games, each of them teasing the other, taking a strange delight in their mutual titillation, the apparent promise of better things to come following the conclusion of the case.

Now, however, having moved in on the sexy Roxy whom Starsky occasionally took out dancing, Hutch seemed to be changing the rules. Not so fast, buddy, Starsky thought wickedly, you’re not going to make me want you all week, and let me make you want me, and then get your rocks off with some girl. No way. I want what that look in your eyes and that bulge in your pants have been promising for the last three days-and I’m going to get it.

For years now, the partners had shared a satisfying, if sporadic, sexual relationship. Since the first time, there had been few discussions about that side of their life together, no ground rules, no promises, no commitment. They continued to date women, but often turned to each other, finding together a sexual gratification that just didn’t always happen when they were with the opposite sex.

And even though they had made no vows to each other, Starsky knew that what he felt for Hutch was love. It ran deep and true and strong in him and though there were times when he believed Hutch felt the same, there were other occasions, more and more lately, that Starsky sensed a restlessness in Hutch, a distance growing between them.

He had done his own share of keeping them separate though and he wondered if his reasons lay merely in enjoying the freedom he possessed or if they were caused by a fear that Hutch might eventually leave him. There had been too many serious cases lately, cases that both of them had a hard time forgetting. Hutch was affected by them-and showed it more than his partner did. Starsky knew Hutch tried to forget his gradual disillusionment with police work in the women he bedded and in the games he played with Starsky. Sometimes the games hurt, but their destructive force was going to backfire someday, and cause Hutch as much pain as he inflicted. And Starsky worried at the deeper psychological reasons that made Hutch do things like that.

Too many games lately, babe, Starsky thought morosely. I don’t want to hurt you, but I don’t know how to get to you, to be together with you, without playin’, too. Well, tonight it’s gonna be me makin’ up the rules. We’ll just play like being undercover… Starsky’s lips formed a dreamy smile, and maybe we’ll end up under the covers together.

Undercover… Starsky had enjoyed the good ol’ boys roles they had essayed this time out. Hutch had looked so damn sexy in those tight jeans and denim vest, his shirt open down to the third button, that wide-brimmed hat setting off the handsome features. It had been fun getting drunk together in that bar, laughing, falling into Hutch’s arms. They had been all over each other in there, touching more than they usually did in public, letting their actions be passed off as caused by inebriation.

Starsky had felt Hutch’s hard-on as he sagged in the man’s arms, his chin rubbing across the evident bulge. He had kept giggling and when Hutch didn’t let on-the man was a consummate actor when undercover-the bartender had not seemed to notice. Hutch had retaliated by groping Starsky’s ass as he replaced the over-turned bar stool under his rump. Starsky had not been able to stop himself from asking, “What’s going on back there?” Hutch’s lack of answer had spoken volumes.

Want you now, babe, Starsky had thought as he staggered outside into blinding sun. He could hardly look at Hutch, he was so bright under the harsh light, yet he didn’t want to take his eyes off him. Their tryst would have to wait, he knew, on several accounts. They were on duty in the first place, and Starsky himself was too plastered. But he had wanted to let Hutch know what was on his mind. As he fell against his swaying partner, Starsky had reached for the most beautiful mouth in the world. Though his aim was slightly off and his splayed fingers caught the hat brim, he had managed to stroke his thumb seductively over Hutch’s moustache, feeling the yielding softness of the upper lip he loved to nibble. Hutch’s eyes had become even more glazed and Starsky could have sworn Hutch’s bulge had become even more pronounced.

That night at the honkey tonk bar, Hutch’s smile from the stage had been full of promise, so wide and bright and warm. Starsky’s arm had been around the curvaceous mountain girl, but his eyes had been on his partner’s mouth, remembering the way that moustache had felt under his thumb, imagining the way it was going to feel on his cock.

Thoughts of the lithesome blonde suddenly interfered with Starsky’s fantasy. Was Hutch annoyed by the attention Starsky had paid her? Was that the reason he had taken Roxy out? Surely Hutch knew that what Starsky did undercover meant nothing. Didn’t he?

Starsky’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt as the battered LTD drove up under a streetlight. Hutch climbed out, standing for a moment in the glow from the tall lamp. He stretched as if trying to get a kink out of his back, one hand rubbing at a shoulder.

You better not be too tired tonight, gorgeous. Maybe you won’t be when you find out who’s waitin’ for you. Starsky made himself comfortable, looking forward to Hutch’s arrival upstairs.

The heavy tread of booted feet heralded the man’s approach. Starsky could hear him feeling around for the key above the door-wouldn’t he ever learn?-and then the door opened.

Hutch didn’t bother with a light; he shrugged out of his jacket under the dim illumination provided by the street lights. As he reached to remove the western hat he still wore, Starsky spoke in a husky whisper.

“Over here, cowboy.”

Hutch jumped, grabbing for his holster, scanning the shadows.

Starsky chuckled. “Kinda skittish, pretty boy?”

Hutch visibly relaxed, but his voice held a trace of annoyance. “What do you want? It’s after two, for chrissakes.”

“Oh, I’ll tell you what I want. And you’ll give it to me.” Starsky made his voice seductive.

Hutch still seemed wary. “Come off it, Starsk. It’s late and I’m bushed.”

“Then you shouldn’t have taken that girl out dancing. You shouldn’t have stayed out so late. It wasn’t as if you didn’t think somebody’d be waiting for you when you got home.”

“Actually, I didn’t…”

“That’s too bad, pardner.” Starsky drawled the word, putting a Western twang on it, then he gave up his poor rendition of the accent, his voice going hard and menacing. “You been playin’ games all week. I decided I wasn’t finished playin’ ’em.” In the darkness, he drew his Baretta and pulled the slide back on the empty gun. The click sounded loud in the stillness. “Do I have to order you to strip at gunpoint, or are you going to go along with this willingly?”

“S-Starsk? Are you crazy? Is that thing loaded?” Hutch backed up a step, stammering.

“Is that a gun in my pocket or am I just glad to see you?” Starsky shifted the weapon, not pointing it toward Hutch-that kind of game he wouldn’t really play-he merely let the light reflect off the shiny metal surface to remind his partner he held it. “You remember that scene in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? Sundance and his lady pretendin’ he was some stranger come to force himself on her? Always liked that scene…” Hutch seemed to relax a bit; Starsky didn’t want him too complacent. His voice grew rough again, the gun glinted in the light. “I always thought a little danger put you in the mood, thought a threatening situation got you turned on. Go ahead. You heard me. Get outta those clothes. You been flauntin’ yourself the last few days, keepin’ me interested. I want to see what you’ve been promisin’.”

“Okay, Starsk. Just…put the gun down. You’re acting crazy tonight.” Hutch set fumbling fingers to comply with Starsky’s orders, hurrying and nervous.

“Take it slow. There’s just enough light right there for me to see a real good show, baby.”

Hutch’s fingers stilled in the act of undoing his shirt. “Starsky…if it’s because I took Roxy to the dance contest…”

“Did you make it with her?”

“No. Of course not.” Hutch’s answer came quickly. He sounded both relieved and sheepish. “I…she kissed me.”

“She kissed you?” Starsky expected an explanation.

“Yeah.” Hutch’s mouth formed a half-smile. “Said she wondered what the moustache felt like.”

Starsky snorted in derision, shifting uncomfortably, a growing hardness straining his jeans. He let his hand shift to cover the bulge, squeezing it for Hutch to observe. “That moustache is mine, lover. That’s what I wanna feel tonight. And not just on my mouth. All over. Get the idea?”

Hutch’s smile widened in anticipation. He nodded, wiping his lips with his fingers. The moist sound the action produced made Starsky shiver with wanting. “Then get naked,” he ordered. “Quit stalling.”

Hutch seemed to be in on the game now, and his complicity further inflamed Starsky. He put the Baretta aside, but kept up the tough guy act, still smarting from Hutch’s teasing. They would both enjoy the payment he exacted of his lover this night.

Hutch began following his orders silently now and the only sound in the room was the rustling of cloth, the clink of a loosened belt buckle, the whine of a zipper. And panting breaths. Starsky’s respiration grew ragged as he watched Hutch strip, the slowly revealed golden skin making him ache with desire. He wanted to be covered by the smooth, hard body, to feel its heat surrounding him, to possess what had been begging for possession all week.

The faded jeans slipped down Hutch’s long thighs and he stepped out of them. He had been wearing no briefs. Starsky’s sex throbbed in response to the sight, begging for attention. “You made me crazy the last few days, lover.”

“Yeah?”

Starsky’s voice was low and throaty. “You’re gonna make it up to me tonight, aren’t you?”

Hutch’s eyes glittered in the moonlight as he nodded silently.

“Get over here.”

The naked blond approached the kitchen chair where Starsky sat. His eyes raked the glowing figure up and down appreciatively, but he did not touch.

Hutch spoke. “Why don’t you get out of your clothes, too?”

“Hey, I’m the one givin’ the orders around here tonight. Don’t forget that.”

A smirk. “I thought the idea was for both of us to have a good time.”

“We will. But I’m calling the shots. I’m tired of being teased, understand?”

Hutch nodded.

“Sometimes being teased is fun, babe. But sometimes it isn’t fair. It hurts. I don’t like wondering if you’re trying to hurt me all the time. You’re going to make me feel good tonight.” His voice had an edge of hardness in it; Starsky hoped it was sufficient to cover the real hurt he did sometimes feel. There was something very like repentance in Hutch’s eyes.

The blond swallowed. “Okay.” It seemed like he wasn’t able to say more.

Starsky tried for the imperious tone of the game situation. “Good. Then before I have to get rough, get busy.”

Hutch quirked an eyebrow, his own spirits restored, too. “Rough stuff, huh? Might be fun.”

“You know what I want.”

“My moustache?” Hutch bent close, took Starsky’s face between his hands and kissed him softly, nibbling on his mouth, letting him feel the bristly hairs of his lip warmer. “Here?” He trailed his mouth down Starsky’s jaw, tickling his neck with tongue and whiskers. “Here?” Moist lips and scratchy moustache grazed the lobe of Starsky’s ear. “Or down here?” His big hand covered the hard bulge in Starsky’s jeans, squeezing seductively.

Starsky shifted position, his groin aching. His voice was a whisper, raw with need and anticipation. “Yeah. Take it out. Suck it.”

Slowly, very slowly, Hutch pulled Starsky’s shirt out of his waist band. He unbuttoned the shirt, teasing the skin of his chest and belly with light fingertip touches. He knelt between Starsky’s legs and tugged on the belt, pulling it open, then unsnapped the jeans. With slow, deliberate motions, he eased the zipper down, spreading the denim fabric.

Starsky gasped as the searching fingers touched his cock, grasped it, freed it. The blond head bent, a wet tongue tip trailing cool fire, circling the tip, drawing a moist line down the hard erection and back up. Over and over again, lightly, not enough yet almost too much sensation, the slow torment continued. Hutch took it in his hand, the touch of his tongue, his breath, feather-soft, pure torture. Starsky’s hips pushed forward, he leaned back, precarious on the hard chair, legs spread, hands gripping the seat. He begged hoarsely, “Hutch, please… “

“Thought you’d get rough if I didn’t do it right.” The blue eyes that looked up at him were daring, mischievous. Hutch’s mouth looked wet, his tongue tempting Starsky as it traced the upper lip half-hidden by dark blond whiskers.

Starsky raised his right leg, putting his heel behind Hutch’s head. He pushed, shoving the man’s head down toward his crotch. “Suck me, damnit.”

Hutch’s mouth found the soft skin of his groin just above the aching organ, his teeth carding the wisps of curling hair, his lips nuzzling, moustache tickling. As his hand insinuated itself in the tight jeans, seeking more sensitive flesh to tease, Starsky arched forward. His backside ached, pressed against the wooden chair edge, his injured foot felt the pressure from supporting his weight. He felt awkward, unbalanced, fabulously aroused.

Hutch laid a line of succulent kisses all along the trembling cock, his moustache dusting lightly in their wake. Starsky groaned, helpless, on fire. Hutch’s open lips took the head, sucking softly, the fingers of his hand working deep, letting the flames build. His mouth descended. Starsky could feel himself engulfed with wetness that only increased his burning.

And all the while he felt the moustache on him, the sucking soothing the scratchy rubbing as the mouth slowly swallowed his over-sensitized organ.

Hutch was good, so good at this. The game was a charade. Hutch was in control now, and they both knew it. Starsky didn’t care. It was a control that gave pleasure instead of withholding it. Hutch was giving him exactly what he had asked for, but doing it even better than Starsky could have imagined. It was a victory they shared that Hutch tormented him with the sensual delights of his mouth after teasing him to the point of distraction so long. The build up was worth it. He was so…damn…good….

Starsky came in an explosion of fire, a shattering orgasm that threatened to propel them both to the floor. Yet Hutch held on, claiming all he was, drawing out the soaring climax, swallowing Starsky’s pleasure as he eagerly gave his lover the release he had craved.

When it was over, Hutch stood, gathering Starsky’s limp form in his arms and, staggering under the weight, carried the nearly unconscious man to place him in the center of the brass bed.

There, he stripped his unresisting partner, then knelt beside him on the mattress. Starsky watched the naked blond through half-closed eyes. His tall form was outlined in silver from the streetlight, long hair tousled, perspiration dewing the contours of neck and shoulder and thigh. His body looked sinewy and powerful, his manhood standing out hard and ready. Starsky waited expectantly for the strong hands to take him, to turn him. In seconds, he knew he would feel himself possessed by that hardness.

Yet Hutch only lay down beside him, his hands skimming over Starsky’s sated body in a delicate comforting, his limbs trembling slightly from the suppression of his lust.

“Hutch…what?” Starsky’s half formed question was cut off by moist lips covering his own in a generous kiss full of love and tenderness. Lost in the taste of Hutch’s softness, Hutch’s warmth, Starsky raised his hands to capture the blond head.

He could feel the hard cock throbbing against his hip, could sense the desire held in check in the tense body pressed close to him. His tongue delved deep in the delicious mouth, his lips worked harder against the succulent full ones and his fingers tangled tighter in the mass of blond silk. Finally, the kiss broke with each of them panting.

“Come on, babe,” Starsky managed, “you’re ready…”

“Mmmmnn.” Hutch mumbled a negative response against Starsky’s neck. “…Your night. You’re callin’ the shots.”

“I had mine,” Starsky protested weakly as his throat was assaulted by hungry lips. “Thought you were gonna fuck me now.”

“Maybe later.” Hutch was nibbling on the tender skin over his collar bone, the bristly whiskers above his lips teasing the sensitive flesh. “Said you wanted to feel my moustache…everywhere.”

“Yeah, but…”

“I’m yours tonight, David.” Hutch bent to kiss then suck a nipple. “You said I teased you all week. Don’t you want me to make up for it?”

Starsky gasped as the alternate textures of the moist lips and rough moustache slid over his ribs. Hutch had made him come so hard he had been ready to forget the game. Now, the thought of taking his tormenting lover was too much to resist. “Damn right. But you’re gonna have to work hard to get me goin’ again.”

Wet lips worked over the skin at his hip bone, the moustache tickling in their wake. “My pleasure…” Hutch’s voice was husky, breathless. He applied his mouth to Starsky’s torso, kissing, nipping, sucking, teasing. Starsky shivered, and Hutch made him shiver more. Starsky trembled where that moustache brushed; Hutch made him tremble all over. Starsky’s sated body gradually began to reawaken as Hutch’s ardent lips patiently urged his response. He did not yet feel arousal, but that was all right; the slow petting was glorious. Hutch took his time; his touches were inventive, special. Starsky felt alive, attuned to Hutch sexually, in tune with him emotionally as they both participated in the loving game of reigniting his passion. And it didn’t matter if it took all night.

Hutch’s strong hands turned him over; he was his partner’s plaything, object of desire, adored bedmate. The lips and tongue and moustache took possession of the nape of his neck, nibbled his shoulder blades, then tickled seductively along his spine.

Lips and fingers were outlining the triangle of hair at Starsky’s lower back. “You’re beautiful,” Hutch murmured between love-bites. “Delicious,” he whispered as his lips slipped lower to tour Starsky’s buttocks. “Want to kiss you everywhere…like you asked.”

“Mmm…you are.” Starsky luxuriated under the stroking.

“Where’ve I missed?” Hutch teased the sensitive curve of ass with his moustache, just brushing the flesh with his lips. “Ummm…the backs of your knees.” He bent to nuzzle them, to lick, to spend as much time making love to the unexplored territory as to the better known areas of his lover’s body. To Starsky’s delight, he discovered that the back of the knees were erogenous zones, very sensitive indeed to the ministrations of Hutch’s eager mouth.

The wanton lips moved close to his ear, whispering softly as strong arms banded his chest. “Is that everywhere now?” His tongue licked lightly at Starsky’s earlobe.

Starsky thought hard. “I think so.” The wet tongue was distracting. “I…guess that’s everything.”

“No. I just remembered… ” Hutch chuckled deep in his throat, turning quickly to bend low. “Your feet.”

“No! Oh, no! Huuutch!”

His soles were being tickled by a bristly moustache, his legs held in an unrelenting grip. Just as he had begun to feel aroused again, Hutch was making him laugh. “Hey. Who’s giving the orders around here?”

The teasing turned to seductive torment as Starsky’s feet were stroked, his injured ankle soothingly massaged. Then he felt Hutch’s moustache on his soles again, felt lips, kneading wetness, gentle sucking at his toes. He gasped. It had always sounded dumb-even gross-but what Hutch was doing made him feel beautiful, beloved.

Hutch was turning him over again, applying lips and tongue and moustache to a path he charted up the inside of one leg and down the other. Starsky was aching now. He had been the instrument of Hutch’s passion forever, would be content to always feel those lips, those hands. Hutch did everything to him, for him, everything he had ever asked and more…all his unspoken fantasies….

And when the magic lips returned to his cock they found it hard and throbbing. Starsky had lain sated and passive, drugged and dreamy. Now he wanted more, wanted to participate in a more active way. He could no longer hold still, he wanted to take his lover, and beyond that, wanted to share his pleasure with Hutch. His partner was more than making up for teasing him during the past few days; Starsky wanted to return the favor. He wanted to touch that which had stayed so tantalizingly out of reach all week, the smooth, warm skin now hovering above him.

Starsky’s fingers twined in Hutch’s tangled hair, his palms cupping the cheeks that indented as they sucked him. He tugged at the blond head and the devoted mouth released his sex. Their eyes locked for an instant, emotion blazing, and Hutch reached to take Starsky’s lips. The kiss deepened, full of passion, building pleasure upon pleasure, thrill upon thrill. Starsky wrapped his arms around Hutch, clasping him close. His hands began to move, to stroke the smooth back, seeking the angles and planes so familiar to his hands, enjoying the vibrant, alive feel of the body in his arms.

Starsky explored the curve of hip and thigh, traced the long spine, held the broad shoulders. All at once, he rolled over, bearing Hutch on to his back. He lay full on the man, kissing him deeply. Hutch sucked on the tongue Starsky gave him an expression of pure, wanton lust on his face. A sudden urge to watch Hutch sucking him was impossible to resist.

Starsky drew himself up to kneel over Hutch’s chest, and the glazed blue eyes met his. The lips parted, ready, hungry for him. Starsky reached out his hand, caressing the face, his gaze attracted by the mouth. It was wet, swollen, used-looking, beautiful. Starsky’s thumb brushed the upper lip and moustache, echoing his drunk gesture outside the country bar. Now Hutch responded freely to the touch, his mouth opening, sucking on the thumb. The open eroticism of the act sent Starsky’s senses reeling. He pulled his wet thumb out of the devouring mouth; Hutch seemed loathe to let it go, but eagerly accepted the hard cock offered in its place.

The moustache exerted a bristly caress as the mouth consumed him. Starsky groaned brokenly, new sweat beading his skin. Hutch held his eyes, feasting on his pleasure. The magnificent mouth worked on him, the throat enclosed him in wet warmth, the cheeks becoming deep hollows. The sight of Hutch’s features molded around him, being willingly used, brought an emotional reaction to Starsky that doubled the physical sensations. He was ready, ready… would come again in seconds, he knew.

His hips began flexing slowly, thrusting his cock in and out of the tightening lips. As he pulled back, though, they released him abruptly and Hutch’s hoarse voice penetrated his erotic haze. “Fuck me, Starsk.”

“I am.”

“You know what I mean….”

Close as he was, it was too tempting to resist claiming what he had wanted all week. Starsky shifted position again, bestowing a loving kiss on the bruised mouth. His hands and lips traced a rapid path down the heaving chest. Lower, he found Hutch’s cock hard and eager. It pulsed in his hand, seeking the attention his fingers and lips paid before he pressed the muscled thighs apart.

Shaking, Starsky positioned himself and slid deep in one smooth motion. Hutch welcomed him, his hips lifting, body accommodating. He arched his back, seeking the deep penetration Starsky gave, gasping as sensitive inner tissues were stimulated.

“Hard… harder. Do it, babe.” Hutch’s rasping voice begged and Starsky let go all restraint, all conscious thought. He used his strength, driven by Hutch’s need and his own lingering build up. He shifted, balancing on his right arm, lifting his left hand to caress the exposed balls and pump the full cock.

Hutch moaned, hips bucking, muscles clenching on Starsky, bringing them both to the peak. They reached it together. The world went dark and silent; feeling remained the only reality. The orgasm ripped through their joined bodies, overwhelmingly powerful, yet the tiniest sensations were discernible, magnified, devastating.

Starsky could feel the warmth of the seed that filled his palm, the pressure of the fingers that clenched hard on his ass, the weight of the body resting against his thighs. He fell over Hutch, pressing their bodies together, reveling in the touch of taut muscles, sweat-sheened skin, pounding heartbeats.

Eyes closed, his hands stroked up Hutch’s damp sides, capturing the square shoulders, enfolding the heavy head in a warm embrace. His mouth sought its partner, claiming Hutch’s lips in a kiss soft with satisfaction, lush with love. The contact was a prolonged luxury he savored.

If not for their mutual exhaustion, Starsky thought, they could have drifted into another orgasm, and another. As it was, they slipped into a dreamy state of afterglow while their respirations gradually returned to normal.

Starsky became aware of the soft flutter of eyelashes against his temple, of the rougher texture of Hutch’s moustache twitching against his earlobe. “Mmm…tickles…” He made no attempt to move away.

Hutch blinked again, repeating the butterfly kiss with his eyelashes, and wriggled his upper lip, placing a second fuzzy kiss against the ear he nuzzled.

Starsky turned his head the minimal amount necessary to bring Hutch’s face into his line of vision. So close, he could just focus on a stubbled cheek and bloodshot blue eye. “Don’t you ever get tired?”

Hutch shifted, rolling them on to their sides, his arms pulling Starsky close. His whisper tickled. “Not of loving you. Wanna go again?”

“Now?” Starsky’s reply was an incredulous yelp.

Hutch snickered. “You offered. Asked me to fuck you.”

Starsky remembered, though it seemed like an age ago when he had expected Hutch to take him after dumping his lax body on the bed. Summoning all his hardly returned strength, he rolled away to lie on his stomach, his voice a muffled challenge. “If you can get it up, babe, go for it. Just don’t ask me to participate.”

Again the deep chuckle came to his ears, and the soft breath and teasing whiskers. “Did ya good, didn’t I?”

“You’re smug. I deserved that TLC after a week of being driven crazy.”

Hutch kissed a soft spot just behind his ear. “Like I said…”

Starsky felt so good, yet he had to ask one question. “Why’d you make yourself wait so long, really? When you carried me in here, I thought…but you just kept makin’ love to me.”

“I’m not keeping a count, Starsky.” Hutch’s voice was subdued. “I guess I…like knowing you want me. And I like you to take what you want sometimes, that’s all.”

The big body snuggled close to his, warming Starsky all along his back and flanks. He felt wonderful lying tangled up with those long limbs. It seemed all his earlier misgivings were unfounded. In giving love so unselfishly, thinking only of Starsky’s needs and pleasure rather than his own, Hutch had more than demonstrated his true feelings. Starsky relaxed, content. The game had worked out far better than he had ever intended. He felt more secure about his relationship with Hutch than he had in a long time. As usual for them, actions meant more than any spoken words.

Hutch shifted their positions slightly. A large, warm hand stroked possessively down Starsky’s side and over his hip. long fingers insinuated themselves between his buttocks, sought intimacy. The hoarse voice whispered a request. “Bend your knees a little…”

“You’re kidding!”

The fingers wriggled. In spite of his fatigue, Starsky’s knees drew up a bit.

“Come on, Hutch. It must be four in the morning. We’ve been at it for hours. You said you were tired when you got home.”

“And you said you had orders for me to follow.”

“You did. Very beautifully.”

“Right. And I said…”

“Hutch, I can’t believe you have the energy to go at it again right now.”

Moist lips lay a wet trail down Starsky’s spine. “I said I’d put my moustache everywhere for you, like you wanted.” A bold tongue found its way down the crack of his ass. “Just thought of another place I missed, babe.” The fingers reached provocatively deeper.

Starsky was aghast. “Hutch! It’s enough you did my feet already…” At another time, the activity might have been more desirable. Now all he really wanted was to go to sleep.

“And you liked that.” Hutch was persistent.

“‘M all sweaty and stinky.”

Hutch dismissed his protest. “You smell of musk, passionate man.” The mouth brushed sensitive flesh as fingers delved.

“Damnit, Hutch! It scratches!” When Starsky yelled, Hutch halted abruptly, letting him go. “In fact, it scratches a lot more than it feels good. Especially in certain places.” He rolled over, facing the dumbfounded man who sat up to regard him. Starsky warmed to his subject. “It’s rough. And prickly. And I’m probably chafed all over. That damn caterpillar of yours feels more like a porcupine!”

The wide mouth turned down in an expressive pout. “You break into my apartment, threaten me with a gun, demand I make love to you, insist you want me to use my moustache all over your body and nowyou have the nerve to tell me it scratches?!” After sputtering in consternation a few moments, a crafty look came into the crystal blue eyes. Belatedly, Starsky remembered Hutch possessed a never-totally-concealed mean-streak.

“Well…it didn’t scratch everywhere…”

Hutch wasn’t listening. His hands took hold of Starsky’s arms, pinning him to the bed. He bent over, finding a vulnerable area of his partner’s side, just below the ribs. He brushed lightly with his moustache, tickling. Still worn out from the love-making, Starsky struggled ineffectually, gasping as giggles were forced out of him.

“Hu-utch, please!” The tormenting mouth grazed his stomach. Starsky wriggled, but could not evade the bristly attack.

“So you don’t like my lip warmer, huh?” The skin over his hip bone received the tickling treatment.

“Hutch, cut…it…out!” Starsky managed between gasps and giggles.

Hutch’s mouth returned to his ribcage, poised threateningly, descended. “You don’t like it?”

“No-yes!” Starsky was doubled with laughter, helplessly contorted.

“What?” The mouth was hovering over his side, cookie-duster twitching ominously, and Starsky tried to flinch away.

“Yes-yes, I love it!”

Hutch held his position. “Tell me again…”

“I love it.” Starsky hoped his tone was convincing enough.

The blue eyes gleamed. “Be specific. Just exactly what do you love about my moustache?”

Starsky sighed, wishing he had a thesaurus handy. He wasn’t good with the compliment stuff, but there was no way he could get off without being absolutely glowing now. He took a deep breath.

“It’s handsome. Sets off your face. Adds maturity. Looks masculine. Gives you character…”

His voice trailed off. Hutch’s face wore an expression that combined dubious belief and blushing acceptance of the praise. “You don’t think it looks…wrong? Minnie says it hides my mouth too much.”

“Damn, Hutchinson, you’re vain!” Starsky shook his head, then gave consideration to Hutch’s question. The blond fuzz did cover a portion of that beautiful mouth Hutch possessed. It hid the sensitivity of his face, made him look tough, hard. Sometimes Starsky missed the angelic appearance of his countenance, the vulnerability. Yet he knew that was one reason Hutch had adopted the different look. He needed something to hide behind on the street. The moustache was as much a mask to conceal the hurts he had suffered as a function of the toughening he had undergone after so many years as a cop.

Starsky looked at him closely, smiled reassurance at the waiting, serious eyes. “Yeah. You look different with it. It hides some of that perfectly gorgeous mouth. But it adds mystery, ya know? Makes me want to kiss you every time I look at you. To see if I can feel the softness underneath all that fuzz.” He tugged his left hand loose from Hutch’s clasp, stroked a fingertip along the soft bottom lip visible beneath the moustache. “I know about the softness inside you, too, Hutch.” His partner leaned forward at the gentle words and their kiss was warm and sweet. Yet Starsky couldn’t help teasing in retaliation for the tickling spree when they broke apart.

“Yeah, that’s my Hutch. Fuzzy on the outside, soft in the head.”

This time, instead of tickling, Hutch’s fingers pinched hard at Starsky’s bare ass.

“Okay! Cut it out!” Starsky rubbed his sore behind. “I said I loved your lip warmer, didn’t I? Maybe I’ll grow one myself to keep yours company.”

“Oh, no.” Hutch was emphatic. “You’ve got enough hair up here-” He ran his hand through the mass of curls on his partner’s head, “-and all over here…” he stroked seductively down the dense line that bisected Starsky’s torso.

“Yeah, I’ve got more on m’chest and plenty more on my head than you, old buddy.” Starsky couldn’t help deviling Hutch; the man made it so easy despite his predilection to get back at Starsky for every little comment.

“And down here, too.” Hutch’s fingers tugged at the tight curls lower down on Starsky’s body, yanking threateningly.

“Ow! Okay, you win. As long as you don’t spend a week teasing me again, you’ll be the only one with a moustache in this partnership.”

Hutch bent to rub his be-whiskered mouth over Starsky’s cock one more time. He looked up, pleased with himself. “And the only one with a moustache in this bed, too, lover.” His hand pumped but Starsky’s exhausted sex showed no sign of reviving interest. “Ready for me yet?” A wet tongue licked his concealed upper lip, producing a moist, hungry sound.

The game was Hutch’s now and Starsky realized they would be playing for a long, long time.