Crystal Blue Persuasion

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“Starsky,” Hutch muttered, “You think I’m eating in there?” Hutch looked out the window. …The neon sign spelling out Giovanni’s seemed dim...

“You haven’t eaten Italian food since it happened.” Starsky said. “…I’m the one who got shot, but… you’re the one who hasn’t healed.”

“You said,” Hutch argued, “we were gonna talk… Just you and me.” And I jumped to all the wrong conclusion…

Suddenly, Starsky reached out and clasped Hutch’s upper arm… “It’s who-do-you-trust time, Hutch.”

Inspired by Suzan Lovett’s art of the same name, posted below.

 

Special thanks to Keri T who uploaded all my stories from the old dot com archive to our new archive. If it weren’t for her, my stories would have been the last ones moved. And thanks to Keri also for all her behind-the-scenes efforts on behalf of the archive. She and all the other volunteers who upload stories are keeping our fiction alive through their labors. I am very grateful.
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Historical note: In 1996, Crystal Blue Persuasion was the first Starsky & Hutch story I ever wrote. The TNT cable station was showing S&H daily. It was all new to me, and I was falling hard. I’d come from another fandom and wasn’t used to what, at the time, seemed to this newbie fairly rigid rules for writing SH. You had to know canon. Their slash relationship usually started after Sweet Revenge. How else could you explain the women they chased right up to Targets Without a Badge?

It wasn’t customary then to write stories as if the series could deviate based on what had happened in your story. Canon was like the Bible. In my other fandom, no one really cared about that, so I was used to a more liberal environment. Zines were still the primary form of publication. Online fiction was just starting and most of us in SH, products of the zine culture, were hesitant to post stories online. Today, it’s anything goes online, so I look back on those years with a little nostalgia and a lot of amusement. After all, wasn’t it all just fiction?

When working on CBP, I hadn’t seen all the episodes, so I was never convinced that I had the characters down well enough. However, the story managed to win a Huggy Award at Zebracon in 1997 anyway. Asbestos Press had published the zine earlier that year. The beautiful illo, “Crystal Blue Persuasion”  by Suzan Lovett was my inspiration. I’d seen it at a friend’s house the year before, and asked Suzan where I could find the story that inspired the art. She told me there was no story…yet. She’d just felt like drawing it. After I wrote the story, Suzan gave us permission to use the illo for the cover of the zine of the same name that published my story.

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Look over yonder, what do you see
The sun is a’risin’ most definitely
A new day is coming; people are changing
Ain’t it good to find–Crystal Blue Persuasion?
                              Crystal Blue Persuasion–Tommy James and the Shondells

 

“Starsky, I don’t believe you,” Hutch muttered in a low, deadly tone. He turned away from the view outside the Torino window to glare at his partner. “I really don’t believe you. You think for one solid minute I’m eating in there?”

“Calm down, Hutch,” Starsky said quietly from the driver’s seat. “After a half hour argument, you finally agreed we’d have Italian food for dinner, so I thought–”

“You didn’t think,” Hutch snapped. “You couldn’t have and brought me here.” His temper climbed, especially when Starsky had to work to hide one of those “gotcha” smirks he always wore when he put one over on Hutch.

“That’s not true,” Starsky insisted, with that infuriating “let’s-calm-down-my-needlessly-overwrought-buddy” voice that was guaranteed to spiral Hutch’s blood pressure up another notch. “Actually, I’ve thought about it a lot. A whole lot. Tonight’s an important night. An anniversary, sorta. I picked this place special.”

Hutch bit back an angry reply and looked back out the window. Little had changed about the restaurant since they had last been here. It was a small, homey place. Inconspicuous, really. And at this hour–eleven thirty p.m.–it looked less flashy than it might during the day. Even the neon sign spelling out Giovanni’s seemed dim.

And it’s raining again, Hutch thought miserably. I can’t do this. Can’t even get out of the car. Starsky, why? He muttered softly, “Let’s get out of here, partner.” Then, as an afterthought, whispered, “Please?”

“Hutch,” his friend replied in a low tone, “it’s been three months. Three months to the day. We need to do this.”

He turned back to Starsky, eyes framing a question.

“You need to do it,” Starsky clarified. “I’ve been here without you two or three times. I tried to get you over here a month ago, but we had to deal with that robbery instead. So, we’re gonna eat here tonight.”

“I’m not hungry,” Hutch insisted, and that was the plain truth.

“You were starved a half hour ago,” Starsky reminded him. “Come on! We gotta do this. For you. I’m over it, been over it. Time to move on. Like a new start.”

Hutch stared at his knees and didn’t respond. I’m not going in there, he decided, but said nothing.

“You realize you haven’t even eaten Italian food since it happened?” Starsky asked gently. “That night I made spaghetti at my place, you stared at it like it landed from Mars and never touched a bite.”

“You’d promised me a steak. And I ate the salad,” Hutch grumbled, but even he heard how truculent he sounded.

“Without the dressing,” Starsky pointed out. “Which was Italian. You’re workin’ on a full-fledged phobia about this. It’s gettin’ weird. Time to get back on the horse, buddy. We’re eatin’ here. And you’re really gonna eat, too. Haven’t had a bite since breakfast, crazy as the day’s been. I’m the one who got shot, but you’re the one who’s lost weight–the one who hasn’t healed yet.”

“You said,” Hutch argued, then had to stop to swallow before his voice cracked, “you said we were gonna talk, that this was the start of a special weekend, just the two of us. You said it was time to resolve some issues. Just you and me.” And I jumped to all the wrong conclusions, he thought miserably.

“I meant that, too,” Starsky insisted. “This is the first one. Not the most important, but important enough.”

Suddenly, Starsky reached out and clasped Hutch’s upper arm, and he jumped as if that were something they never did. The hand resting on his brown leather jacket–the same one he’d been wearing that night, he realized with some chagrin–didn’t budge, just held on, firm, warm, strong. Hutch had to swallow a knot of tension.

“It’s who-do-you-trust time, Hutch.”

He stared wide-eyed as if they were about to face a whole town armed against them instead of just the front door of an innocuous restaurant. Starsky looked back at him intently, his dark-lashed cobalt eyes narrowed, slitted like a cat’s. It was the kind of expression he wore whenever they were about to go up against the bad guys, especially when they were outnumbered. It was a predator’s expression, cold, knowledgeable, deadly, and it rattled Hutch to have it turned on him.

You’re scary when you’re angry, Hutch had said to him that night, before it happened, while they were still at the precinct doing their good-cop-bad-cop tap dance on a suspect. He’d meant it, too, but he realized now that Starsky angry was not at his scariest. This was his scariest. This cool, premeditated hunter. Starsky had planned this, planned it to the minute, and the smug, calculated expression on his face made Hutch think there was a lot more planned for him this night. He wasn’t sure he would like the rest of it any better, either.

Hutch tried to turn his head away from the eyes pinning him in place, but Starsky’s hand slid up his arm, over his shoulder, across the nape of his neck and into his hair. Gently, but firmly, Starsky grabbed a handful of blond strands and forced Hutch to turn back to him. A pulse point throbbed in his groin, and he had to suppress a fight-or-flight response.

“It’s just a restaurant, Hutch,” Starsky murmured, nearly nose-to-nose with him. “Just a place that serves food to people. That’s all. Like the place my grandmother used to live over. An Italian restaurant. Nothing more.”

His vision wavered for a second; he didn’t dare blink for fear he’d shed a tear. “You almost died in there,” he hissed. “If the bullet that creased your head had hit one inch to the left–if the bullet that went through your shoulder hit a few inches to the right, or a little lower–”

“But they didn’t!” Starsky insisted, pulling his hair tighter.

Hutch’s balls tightened and his cock stirred like a snake uncoiling in his well-worn gray cords. He wanted to scream, bolt, punch Starsky in the mouth, no, not punch–

Stop that! He’s your partner. Your best friend. You can’t afford to fuck this up! Get a grip!

“I’m alive,” Starsky continued, as Hutch examined the face he knew so well. “Alive, healthy, all in one piece–and hungry as hell. So, we’re gonna eat. Here. You gotta do this, Hutch. Do it for me, if for no better reason.”

You bastard, Hutch thought at him, livid. You know just how to play me. It scared him that Starsky had that kind of leverage over him. It was worse since the shooting, too, and it had been bad enough before. Hutch wet his mouth, forced words out, whether they made sense or not. “Let’s go back to my place. I can make us eggs. You said I shouldn’t let you talk me out of making eggs for us the next time I wanted to.” Too late he realized he didn’t even have eggs at home.

The hand in his hair loosened, released him, then stroked the back of his head tenderly. “You gotta trust me, Hutch. We need to do this.”

And just like always, Hutch fell into those bottomless blue eyes and gave up. He heard his mouth say, “Okay, Starsk. If that’s what you want.”

What a sap! What a pushover! Hutch castigated himself. If he asked you to jump off a bridge, would you do it? He blinked, as Starsky favored him with a grin and realized, Probably. If he’d smile like that as I was going down.

Starsky reached into the Torino’s back seat, snagging something. “It’s pourin’ out, buddy. Wear your raincoat.” He tossed the garment into Hutch’s lap, making his stomach lurch.

His raincoat? He hadn’t seen this since that night. Didn’t care if he’d ever see it again. He’d used it to cover Starsky as his partner lay shivering and bleeding from the two gunshot wounds inflicted on him by hired killers waiting to assassinate a crime lord scheduled to eat at the restaurant. Now he looked at the thing as if were some kind of repellent slime creature from one of Starsky’s favorite horror movies. All cleaned and pressed. Not a trace of Starsky’s blood on it anywhere. Had he only imagined the lining smeared red, sticky with Starsky’s life essence? He’d had so much trouble getting the bleeding to stop–

“The owner of the restaurant gave it to me last time I was here,” Starsky explained matter-of-factly. “I had it cleaned. Thought you’d need it again sometime.”

I’ll give it to the Salvation Army. At least someone will get some use out of it. I’ll never wear it again. Throwing the coat in the back seat, he exited the car into the rain without a backward glance. Starsky pulled up the collar of his own worn bomber jacket, and was out of the car and at Hutch’s side in a second as they both dashed through the rain into the restaurant, much as they had that night.

Starsky’s right, Hutch told himself forcefully. It’s just a restaurant. Just a simple restaurant. But as they jogged through the front door and shook some of the rain from their hair and hands, he knew that wasn’t true.

He looked around the place as they stepped inside. It was late, but it was a Friday and there were still a handful of patrons working on half-eaten meals. The rustic wooden tables and chairs were exactly the same as when he last was here, as was the old-fashioned mahogany bar, the octagonal, gold-trimmed clock that he’d watch tick valuable seconds away that night, the blue paint on the walls, the tablecloths–

No, he thought in surprise, the tablecloths are different. They were classic red and white check patterns before, not blue like this. A dark indigo blue with blue napkins. A blue crystal votive candleholder sat on each table–replacing the red ones that’d been here before. They cast a romantic glow over the rich-colored cloth. He decided to focus on the differences; maybe that would get him through the evening.

Starsky took him by the elbow, cheerful, nearly bouncing in place, just like he had that night. “You’re gonna thank me for this, Hutch. You’ll see. A nice dinner, a quiet evening, just the two of us, it’ll make you forget all about that night. We’ll be able to put it behind us at last.” Without an ounce of subtlety, Starsky led Hutch to the same table they’d sat at that night, before everything went so horribly wrong.

Hutch just let him, his sense of foreboding screaming at him to grab his partner, get out, get out, get out! His feet felt like they were made of lead. He sank into the seat, glancing around warily, examining the face of the few diners who were paying them no mind at all. Then, remembering something, he turned too quickly and stared at the bar.

“She’s not here, Hutch, you know that,” Starsky murmured.

Hutch nodded. No, of course not. Teresa was part of the FBI’s witness protection program now. The waitress who had helped set up the gangland hit that had involved the two cops and the other innocent diners that night now had a new name, a new home, a new job. That night, she’d made amends for conspiring to commit murder with the help she’d given Hutch, both with the wounded Starsky, and with helping Hutch get a gun and some ammo. Distractedly, he wondered if the restaurant owner still kept a clip of bullets in the cash register and a pistol hidden in the napkins stored beneath it.

“Detective Starsky!” a mature woman’s voice exclaimed, making Hutch jump.

Will you stop being so damned twitchy! he scolded himself, as he turned to see a matronly woman hovering over his partner. She was short, a bit stout, with a wide, friendly face and smiling eyes. She leaned down and planted a kiss on Starsky’s cheek, and he grinned up at her happily, patting the plump hand that squeezed his shoulder.

“Maria, how are you?” Starsky said, clearly delighted to see her. “I want you to meet–”

“Oh, you don’t have to tell me,” Maria chided him. “This is your partner. Detective Hutchinson. I’m so pleased to meet you.” She moved between the two men, patting Hutch’s shoulder pleasantly. “No, don’t get up,” she insisted as he started to rise in greeting. “You’re our guest here, Detective Hutchinson. And we couldn’t be happier that Detective Starsky–”

“Maria, please,” Starsky insisted, “I told you. Call me Dave. And this is Hutch.”

“–finally brought you by to see us, Detective Hutchinson,” Maria continued, ignoring Starsky. “It’s an honor to have you here.”

To his surprise, he found he was touched by the woman’s short declaration. She won’t call us by anything but our honorifics, he realized. It wouldn’t be respectful in her opinion. And she feels it’s important to offer us that respect.

“Maria’s family owns this restaurant,” Starsky explained to his partner. “Her father is the cook. Normally, she leaves around nine p.m.”

Hutch nodded. That’s why she wasn’t here that night. That’s why they needed another waitress to handle the later hours.

“But I stayed late tonight when Detective Starsky called and said you’d be in. I just wanted the chance to meet you. To thank you.”

Hutch blinked stupidly, wondering what she was talking about.

“If you hadn’t been here that night,” Maria said to Hutch quietly, so her voice didn’t carry to the other patrons, “if you hadn’t been so quick thinking, they would’ve killed my father along with everyone else.”

Hutch realized with a start that he rarely thought about the other people whose lives he’d saved that night. It was incidental to him, really. He’d been so focused, so driven. It was his job to save those people; it wasn’t something he expected to be thanked for. And besides–his only true motivation was saving Starsky, and that was the reality of it.

“Whenever I think about it–” Maria suddenly blinked rapidly, drew in a harsh breath. “Well, let’s not talk about that awful night. Tonight we celebrate. Isn’t that right, Detective Starsky?”

“That’s right, Maria,” he agreed as she leaned down to kiss his cheek again like an indulgent aunt fussing over her favorite nephew. People got that way over Starsky, treated him so much more familiarly than they ever would with the more reserved Hutchinson. Part of Hutch envied Starsky that aura of warmth he could exude almost at will.

“And we’re ready to celebrate,” Starsky assured her. “We’re both starved. Look at Hutch’s eyes; they flasha beautiful blue when he’s hungry!“

“Wonderful!” Maria exclaimed, as Hutch shot his partner a warning glance. “You should know by now not to come here without your appetite! Just sit and enjoy yourselves.” She beamed at Hutch again. “We’re just so happy to be able to serve you, Detective.”

Before he could reply, she was gone, bustling her way back into the kitchen. Hutch raised an eyebrow in surprise. “She didn’t bring us a menu.”

“No menus tonight, buddy,” Starsky said, positively beaming at him. “Tonight’s special. They’ve been waitin’ to serve you for a long time. Hey–wanna play the juke box?”

“Are you kidding me?” Hutch glared at him. One of the hired hit men had gotten the drop on him while he stood over the juke box picking selections as Starsky had availed himself of the men’s room. “Look, I’m here, okay? And I’m dealing with it. But don’t expect me to recreate every special moment, partner.”

Starsky shrugged and glanced over his shoulder toward the rest rooms, but as he started to scoot his chair back, Hutch hissed, “No, you don’t. You used the men’s room just before we left the precinct, so just plant your ass in that chair and stay put. I’m gettin’ a little tired of all this amateur therapy!”

“Okay, fine,” Starsky said, grinning slyly, his eyes twinkling naughtily. “I’ll ask permission to use the potty next time. You wanna come hold it for me and cover my back when I go?”

Hutch felt himself blush violently from head to toe and his tongue suddenly felt like it belonged to someone else, someone who’d never learned to speak. Is he toying with me? Hutch thought wildly, then slapped himself mentally. Quit fantasizing, Hutchinson. This is your partner, Starsky. Macho, studly Starsky, slayer of hearts and lay-er of women.

Then Maria bustled back out of the kitchen with a huge tray, sparing him the need to respond. Expertly, she opened a tray platform and settled the tray beside them. “Your first course, gentlemen,” she announced, deftly delivering warm, fragrant bread, tidy salads of mixed greens with a light dressing, and a dish of crudités for them to share. She presented them with clear crystal wine glasses, then uncorked a dark bottle.

“This is our finest vina de casa,” she told the men. “It’s not usually available to our customers. We make it just for our family.”

She presented the cork to Hutch, and he sniffed it, surprised at its heady bouquet. Then she poured a sample into his glass. He took it, swirled it for a moment, then sniffed and tasted it. The flavor bloomed in his mouth, delighting his taste buds, making him salivate. For the first time since they’d pulled up in front of the restaurant, he felt truly hungry. Maria hovered over him, expectantly.

“This is wonderful!” he assured her honestly. He held his glass out and she filled it, beaming, then filled Starsky’s. His partner looked as pleased as if he’d stomped the grapes himself.

“My brothers make the wine,” she told them as they both drank some more. “The recipe has been in our family for generations. We’ll send a bottle home with you. As far as we’re concerned, you’re part of the family.”

Then she was gone, leaving them with their food and the fine wine.

“Good stuff, huh, partner?” Starsky prodded, nearly gloating.

Hutch nodded, smiling wryly. “Great stuff. And she’s a nice lady.”

“They’re good people, Hutch,” Starsky told him, tearing off a hunk of bread. “And they think you’re a saint for what you did that night. ‘Course, I tried to disavow them of that notion. I mean, you would’a never pulled it off without me throwin’ that water pitcher an’ stuff, but there’s no reasonin’ with ’em. Hutch, Hutch, Hutch. That’s all I ever hear.”

“Oh, shut up and eat, clown,” Hutch grumbled, but Starsky would know he was pleased. He found himself relaxing in spite of his misgivings, and started on his food.

“Glad to see you’ve got your appetite back,” Starsky muttered around a mouthful of salad.

“I couldn’t insult these people by not eating their food,” Hutch insisted, as if that were the only reason he was filling his face. “Not when it clearly means so much to them.”

“Yeah,” Starsky said, grinning. “My partner, the saint.”

The salad was followed by a small portion of the lightest, most delicately flavored fettuccine Alfredo Hutch had ever eaten. Then the main course came out–veal piccata for Hutch and linguine with clams for Starsky. The meals they’d ordered from Teresa that night that they’d never gotten to eat.

Maria was in and out of the kitchen to serve them, making sure there was nothing they might want that she didn’t provide, yet allowing them the time to interact privately. Hutch was amazed, but as the time slipped away with good food, good wine, and the good company of the one human being he trusted implicitly, he found himself really grateful that Starsky had insisted they come here.

The only thing that still galled him was that Starsky clearly knew it. He wore that damned smug expression all through the meal and kept up a constant commentary on how wonderful the food was, how great the atmosphere was, how sweet Maria and her family were and how nice they’d been to him when he’d come here without Hutch.

And any time Hutch’s attention would wander–like when his eyes would stray toward the door of the office where Starsky had lain, wounded, bleeding, possibly dying–Starsky would touch Hutch’s foot with his sneakered toe, or brush his hand against Hutch to remove some imaginary lint from his navy blue knit shirt, or deliberately mangle a word so Hutch would have to correct him. Almost as if he can’t stand to have me pay attention to anything but him.

At one point, when the meal was drawing to a close, and Hutch’s attention had once again wandered, Starsky recaptured it with the provocative statement, “You know your eyes really do flash.”

Hutch glanced back at him immediately, and then was annoyed that he had, since that was simply what his friend had wanted.

The toying Starsky smirk was firmly in place. “M’not kiddin’. When you’re pissed–‘specially at me–when you’re worried, stressed out–they flash like two blue crystals. Been flashing so much since we got in here, they look like two blue Mars lights. Or maybe the reflection of the tablecloth and the blue glass candle just makes them seem more sparkly. Or something.”

Hutch was dumbfounded. What was this–Starsky’s idea of romantic banter? Or was he mocking Hutch’s feelings? He was just about to snap back an irritable retort when Starsky cut him off.

“Uh-oh. I guess I really did it now. They’re flashin’ like pinwheels, partner. You really oughta wear shades more often.” Starsky sopped up tomato sauce with a piece of bread and watched Hutch struggle with a response that would not come. “I’m just razzing you for fun, Hutch. Don’t get mad. You really do have beautiful eyes.”

Hutch clamped his mouth shut then forced his mind back to reality, the reality of who Starsky was, what he was, how things really were. Detective Sergeant David Starsky. Who can bounce a bullet off his skull and still make jokes. Macho cop. Man’s man. Lay-er of beautiful women. Slayer of hearts. Including mine.

Hutch stared at his plate and the remains of his demolished food and tried to get a grip on his erratic emotions.

“Can I go to the bathroom now, Daddy?” Starsky said softly, so only Hutch could hear. “Or would you like to come with me and give me a helping hand?”

Hutch’s eyes snapped up guiltily and he flushed as if Starsky had read his mind. His indigo eyes twinkled with amusement as Hutch squirmed under the pressure of his own traitorous thoughts. He almost blurted that Starsky was a big boy and could handle himself without help, but then thought better of saying anything that could be taken more than one way.

“You’re on your own, Starsk,” he finally managed to say. “I’ve had the ‘pleasure’ of sharing bathrooms with you often enough to know it’s a delight better relished in the missing of it.”

“Is that a ‘no’?” Starsky asked, pretending, as he liked to do, that he didn’t understand the complicated sentence.

“That’s a no,” Hutch said simply, and smiled.

Starsky cocked his head to one side, looking almost flirtatious. “Gee, Hutch, I think I’m disappointed.” Then he was out of the chair and off to the rest room before Hutch could frame a thought.

He is toying with me, he thought, sweat breaking on his brow.

No, that was crazy. It was just Starsky’s usual banter. He’d always been like that with Hutch, making flirtatious remarks, like telling him how his eyes flashed beautifully when he was angry, or referring to his blondness, his good looks, calling him “big boy” in a Mae West imitation that was every bit as bad as his Bogart. He’d been doing it for years, ever since they met at the Academy. Hutch realized that Starsky had to be the most confident man he knew, making remarks to his good-looking partner that would appall most men–men not nearly as secure in their masculinity. After all these years, Hutch would have to be crazy to start attributing meanings to those remarks that had never been there before.

But, probably because of where he was right now, he couldn’t help but remember back to that terrible night when so much changed–at least for Hutch.

Starsky came out of the men’s room and realized instantly what was going down as Hutch stood helpless, already disarmed, with one hit man covering him, and the other ready to deal with Starsky. Hutch had hoped that Starsky could get the drop on the one facing him. He was fast enough with his gun and his reaction time was better than any cop Hutch knew. But at the one single moment that Starsky might’ve pulled his weapon and feinted to the side to get in a clear shot, Teresa had come out of the kitchen with food, and like the good cop he was, Starsky moved to get her out of the line of fire. Shoving her back into the kitchen, Starsky had been creased across the head by the hit man’s first shot, while the second bullet went through his left shoulder.

Hutch could still see him spinning as the shots slammed him around and tossed him onto an empty food tray; he could hear the clatter of the tray as it and Starsky landed hard on the floor. Hutch had moved instantly to go to Starsky’s side, as both hit men turned on him, ready to kill him if he budged. He hadn’t backed down, couldn’t back down, and argued them into letting him tend to his partner.

Thinking back on it, he realized now how lucky he was. They could’ve just killed him and tossed him out the back door instead of letting him help Starsky. Instead, they allowed him to carry his friend into the back office, where Hutch had settled his severely wounded friend on the couch and tried to take care of him. He could still feel Starsky’s nearly dead weight in his arms, the sickening panic he felt as he realized just how bad Starsky was hurt, how he had to keep his act together to get them out of the mess they were in. And he could still feel Starsky grabbing him, almost compulsively wanting to maintain a physical contact with him, as though by touching Hutch he could cling to life, to the now, and keep breathing, keep living. Hutch had found himself with the same craving to touch and hold and embrace this man who meant so much to him.

Hutch stared at his plate, remembering.

And every time Starsky had touched him–stroking his face, rubbing his thigh, pulling him close, once even accidentally bumping his groin with a hand that couldn’t really feel anything–Hutch felt his body respond wildly, as if he were being hit with a cattle prod. He kept telling himself it was just the adrenaline rush of the moment, the pressure of combat conditions as Starsky sometimes referred to moments like that when they were facing down the heart of darkness together.

But finally, it was all over. Many hours later, Hutch sat in the dimly lit recovery room with his unconscious partner. The doctors had cleaned and debrided the bullet wound and inserted drains and who-knows-what-all into his partner’s shoulder. It was nearly dawn, and Dobey and the other cops had all finally gone home. All those hours after the shooting, when it was just the two of them, Hutch had walked silently to his friend’s bedside and let the relief crash over him like a tsunami of feeling. He touched Starsky’s face as gently as if caressing a sleeping baby, running fingertips over the bandaged head wound, then over his stubbled cheeks, his strong jaw, his chin, the familiar moles, and finally his full mouth partially opened in sleep. He felt as guilty about it as if he’d been touching him sexually, but he couldn’t stop. He talked softly to his sleeping partner, and finally just let his tears fall unheeded, confessing his terrible truth.

Life, work, it all would’ve meant nothing without you partner, he’d told the unconscious Starsky that night. Not a fucking thing. It would’ve been empty, just a big void, a giant, fat nothing without you. Without you. Oh, god, Starsky, don’t you ever dare die on me. Not now, not ever. I love you. I’m in love with you. I don’t know when it happened, or how, and I can’t believe it myself, but it’s true. I love you, partner.

And he’d leaned down and, as gently as he could, kissed Starsky’s parted lips, feeling his heart, his body drowning in a hunger, a passion the likes of which he’d never experienced before. Then he finally pulled himself together and sat beside the bed, holding onto Starsky’s right hand, since his left side was the injured one, and waited for his partner to wake up and tried to figure out how he would feign normalcy when he did.

About a half an hour later, Starsky had stirred, squeezed his hand, smiled, then muttered, half-drugged, “I love you, too, Hutch.” It had chilled the blood in his veins. Starsky went back to sleep almost instantly, while Hutch sat there staring, too terrified to move.

He’d asked one of the doctors later if people under anesthesia could hear people talking to them, and the doctor had been vague enough to rattle Hutch thoroughly. But finally, when Starsky really came around, he’d seemed his old self, and said nothing about Hutch’s open-hearted confession. And life went back to normal. As normal as it had ever been, or could ever be after what they’d been through.

Except it seemed to Hutch at times that Starsky’s flirtatious innuendoes had tripled in frequency and pointedness. That he touched him more often. That he wanted them to spend even more time together if that was even possible.

Unless the whole thing is in my imagination, that I’m seeing what I want to see. Unless all it’s been is Starsky’s version of “therapy”–his way of getting me over the trauma of the shooting. Unless–unless he really heard me that night. Unless he feels the same way–

He closed his eyes. Without intending to, he fell into the fantasy that haunted half of his waking hours and most of his sleeping ones. The fantasy of what it would be like between them–

–their touching as smooth, as coordinated, as their work on the street, each knowing what the other wanted, what the other needed, without having to speak, without having to negotiate. Hutch loving Starsky with gentleness and a man’s strength, and Starsky permitting it. And always, in the fantasy, was the tantalizing image of Starsky on his stomach, looking over his shoulder, his deep blue eyes liquid with wanting, with anticipation, as Hutch slid onto his back–

That was impossible. Impossible.

He repeated that word slowly to himself over and over. Until he sensed the presence of someone standing by his shoulder and looked up into the face of a man he recognized instantly and wished he didn’t.

The gangland boss Vic Monte stood silently beside Hutch, two huge men standing slightly beside and behind him, hands surreptitiously hovering close enough to their weapons to keep Hutch from going for his. Hutch realized with a sickening rush that the rest of the restaurant was empty.

Without moving his head, or revealing his own panicked inner state, Hutch spied the time on the octagonal clock. Midnight. When Vic Monte comes to dine. And then he glanced towards the rest room from where his partner would soon exit.

No, he thought desperately, this can’t be happening. Not again.

“Good evening, Detective Hutchinson,” Monte’s gravelly voice greeted him. “Please, don’t get up.” It was an order, not a request. The short, balding Italian man who was the head of one of the largest crime families in the country slid into an empty seat at the table for four. Hutch struggled to keep his face calm even as he counted the seconds to his partner’s entrance. A drop of sweat slid down his side creating an unbearable itch, but he didn’t dare react. “Try to relax, Detective. This is a business call. As they say on Star Trek, we come in peace.”

“It won’t look that way to my partner,” Hutch murmured.

“He’s your partner,” Monte said reasonably. “I expect you to reassure him. My men are here to protect me, nothing else.”

“Then tell them to back off,” Hutch insisted. “Starsky sees them hovering over me, especially in this place–”

He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Monte said something clipped in Italian and the two beeves moved away, sitting at a corner table, where they could still do their jobs, but didn’t appear nearly so threatening. Almost like normal diners, Hutch thought, fighting the urge to laugh hysterically. Normal diners topping six foot five, weighing in at two-sixty and packing enough heat to wage a small scale war.

No sooner had the two guardians been seated than Starsky entered the scene. He froze instantly, his hand moving imperceptibly towards his weapon.

Hutch stood, held up his hand, called, “It’s okay! Starsk, wait!” He knew everything about his face, his body would tell his partner nothing was all right, but he prayed Starsky would listen and not react instinctively.

“Detective Starsky,” Monte said clearly, “please come join us. I wish to discuss business with you and your partner.”

Hutch watched as Starsky’s body showed conflicting reactions–he clearly wanted to move to Hutch’s side at the same time he wanted to get into a position to draw his weapon and protect himself. Hutch knew the feeling. It was the same reaction he’d had as he’d watched Starsky get shot.

And for the second time I let them just walk right up to me, Hutch thought disgustedly.

Then Starsky’s body collected itself, as Hutch had watched it do countless times before. Holding his arms away from his sides so that no one could misinterpret his actions, Starsky moved toward them on the balls of his feet, using that same, tense, cat-like glide he always did when sneaking up on his prey. His eyes were narrowed. But this time he wasn’t smiling.

“Have a seat, Detective,” Monte bid graciously. “We need to talk.”

Starsky slid into his chair, keeping his hands in sight. As soon as he did, he pressed his sneakered foot over Hutch’s booted one. For Hutch, the contact was electric, and he suddenly felt transformed. It was as if Starsky had suddenly murmured to him, Take it easy, partner. We got work to do.

Their eyes met for the briefest contact, then slid back to the criminal sitting between them.

As they did, Maria exited the kitchen. Hutch tensed, remembering how disastrous Teresa’s appearance had been for Starsky. But Maria barely hesitated as she spied Monte at their table. Carrying a tray, she approached and with business-like efficiency began clearing away the dirty dishes.

“Mr. Monte,” she said, her voice disapproving, “you promised you wouldn’t do this.”

“Maria,” Monte said softly, clearly wanting to mollify the woman, which surprised Hutch, “I have always kept my word to you before. But the situation has changed since I discussed this with you last. I must speak to these men, tonight. I’m sorry to use your restaurant, but approaching them on the street seemed–unwise.”

She muttered something in Italian, and Hutch thought it involved something like “using a telephone,” but he wasn’t sure.

“We won’t be here long, Maria,” Monte assured her. “You can serve dessert after we’re gone.” He was dismissing her, and she took the hint and left, but not before glancing at both cops, her face full of apology. Hutch touched her hand lightly to reassure her, then she went back into the kitchen.

“So, what’s the business?” Starsky said in a low tone when the woman was gone.

“Three months ago,” Monte said without preamble, “you were both nearly killed in this restaurant by contract killers who had come to hit me. You saved my life that night.”

“That wasn’t our concern, Mr. Monte,” Hutch told him.

“I’m sure it wasn’t, Detective,” Monte agreed, “but still, that is what happened. It puts me in your debt. And I’m not comfortable being in debt to two cops.”

There was no point, Hutch knew, in telling the gangster that they didn’t recognize the debt. It was a point of honor with the man, who, like most of the underworld, followed his own exacting code of behavior. If Monte felt the debt, then so would his peers.

“So, I’ve come to make you an offer to even the ledger,” Monte offered.

“Maybe you ain’t heard about me and Hutch,” Starsky said quietly. “We don’t make deals.”

“Who don’t know that?” Monte said with a short laugh. “You two are notorious. No deals. No kickbacks. Two little choir boys. Yeah, I know all about you. The only pockets you’re in are each other’s.”

Hutch froze and didn’t dare look at his partner.

“It’s not a deal, Detective Starsky,” Monte assured him. “Not a payoff. It’s a trade. The little waitress you guys spirited out of here, that Teresa, the one my enemies used to set me up–her brother had been killed, remember?”

They nodded.

“They told Teresa I’d ordered that hit. That was why she was willing to set me up.”

“That,” Hutch agreed, “and the fact that they threatened to kill her mother if she didn’t.”

“Exactly,” Monte said. “Men like that, who would kill a young girl’s mother to force her hand, those men have no honor. Men who would do such a thing would not hesitate to kill someone working for me and put the blame on me.”

Yes, thought Hutch, that makes sense. The whole thing had been a huge power play anyway, to wrest Vic Monte’s kingdom away from him.

“In the old days,” Monte went on, “there would be war over what happened in this restaurant, but because you were here that night, because you saved my life, and I owe you a debt of honor, I have decided to handle this matter a different way.”

Then Monte looked Starsky in the eye and said, “I am unarmed, Detective. Allow me to reach for something in my pocket.”

Without blinking, Starsky nodded his head once. It surprised Hutch that Monte knew enough about them to know Starsky had the faster reaction time of the two. Monte reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small notebook. He opened the book and slid it in front of Hutch.

Okay. Monte’s decided Starsky’s the gun; I’m the brains. Hutch glanced over the book without touching it. It had names, dates, addresses, phone numbers, cryptic notes. Hutch blinked. It was valuable information, incredibly valuable, all about Monte’s enemies, the men who’d forced Teresa to do their bidding. There was information about illegal gambling operations, prostitution rings–but more importantly, there was information on contracted hits, murders that had been committed that were impossible to solve. Hutch felt his mouth water. Still, he didn’t touch the book. He looked up, caught Starsky’s glance, then sat back.

“By itself,” Monte went on, “the book has limited value. Therefore, I’m offering you the services of a translator.” He flipped the book to the back. In what Hutch assumed was Monte’s own scrawl was the name of a man, an address, and a phone number. “This is one of my lieutenants. He has been instructed to cooperate with you regarding the contents of this book. He will not answer any questions involving any aspect of my businesses, only in regards to this book. But the information he will give you will be sufficient. He will testify in court. He is a lawyer, and is a respected, reputable man.”

“Mr. Monte,” Hutch said, looking for the worm in the apple, “this is an interesting offer, but–a rather odd one. In the old days, what you are offering us would be considered a betrayal of your own honor system. It would have left you open to action by your peers. How can you violate your own code to offer us this?”

“The old days are dead,” Monte said, disgustedly. “Men today know nothing of honor, of respect, of hard work, of loyalty. You men know of these things. Honest cops whose loyalty to each other is known on the streets. The men I am giving you are parasites. I’ve consulted with other family members and have the support of my people. This will avoid war, yet dispose of these men, and pay off my debt to you. Once you accept the book, the slate is clean. And we can go back to our respective corners as honorable adversaries once more.”

“The balance will be restored,” Starsky said simply.

“Exactly,” Monte told him.

“If your lieutenant testifies for us,” Hutch said, wanting to be sure of every issue, “then he’ll become useless to you. He’ll have to go into protective custody.”

“I understand that,” Monte assured him. “He understands that as well. It is part of the price of the debt. My life is very valuable to me.”

They exchanged a glance. Starsky gave him a nearly imperceptible nod. “I’ll take the book,” Hutch agreed, placing his hand upon it finally, “but I won’t consider it as anything valuable until I talk to your lieutenant.”

“He’s waiting,” Monte told him. “He’s ready to go with you.” Monte stood, and his muscle stood with him. “Good luck to you, gentlemen. You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

They watched the gangster leave the restaurant with his escorts, and watched as he stepped into his limousine and was driven away. The minute the car was out of sight, the two partners scooted next to each other and started flipping through the book.

“So, who’d’ya think he bumped to get his hands on this book?” Starsky wondered, as they examined the pages.

“Probably the counterpart to the lieutenant who’s waiting for us,” Hutch decided as he scanned the wealth of information in their hand. “This stuff is incredible, Starsk. Look at the stuff on Joe Calabrisi. Names. Dates. Places.”

“I’m gettin’ a hard-on over it, Hutch,” Starsky muttered, grinning. Then he paused and stared at his partner.

“What?” Hutch asked, puzzled by his rapid change in expression.

“There goes our weekend,” Starsky said regretfully. “This thing’s gonna keep us busy for days.”

Hutch felt the same regret. When Monte had first walked in and Hutch had anticipated a horrible replay of their last shoot-out in this restaurant, he realized just how much he would lose if anything happened to either him or Starsky before he’d had a chance to discuss his chaotic feelings with his partner. It might be disastrous he knew, it risked their very partnership, but if anything had happened tonight to either of them, Hutch would’ve regretted his silence for the rest of his life–or eternity, if that were what he’d been left with.

“Or maybe not,” Starsky muttered suddenly.

“What?” Hutch asked, not following his partner’s often rambling thought processes.

“Look,” Starsky said, “It’s twelve-thirty. We could call Dobey from the car, give him the lowdown, then go pick up this guy. Dobey can call the feds, arrange to get the lieutenant transferred to a secure facility, and let them start the ball rolling. There gonna have to secure arrest and search warrants, get hold of judges and stuff–all of which is hard to do on weekends. Let them slog through the system. We can take a few days, come back fresh on Monday, and start workin’ on the busts.”

Hutch stared into his darkened eyes. This wasn’t like Starsky, willing to hand a coup like this over to the feds and other cops. Usually he preferred they do all the dirty work themselves. “You really wanna do that?”

“We need this time, Hutch, you and me,” Starsky said seriously. “We got some stuff to resolve. It’s important. It’s important that this book gets processed, that these scumbags get what’s comin’ to ’em. Still, this time for us is just as important. But you get a vote, too, partner. You wanna deal with this all the way through, I’ll go along with it. But I’d rather try and carve out a few hours for us, too.”

Hutch swallowed, suddenly feeling more panicky than he had when he realized that Vic Monte had taken him by surprise. Even though moments before he’d longed for just this kind on confrontation with Starsky, that was when he’d believed it would not come to pass. Now that Starsky had found the solution to their time crunch, the true import of what they might be preparing to discuss hit Hutch hard.

Then Starsky rattled his cage even more by asking, “Don’t get mad, Hutch, but you’ve been so jumpy all night–how the hell did Monte just come up on you like that?”

He felt the blood drain from his face and realized with sickening clarity that he was no where near ready to confront Starsky with his honest feelings, never mind the raw desire that ate at him. He came up on me when I was day-dreaming about an impossible dream–a future with you that can never be.

Before he could say anything, Maria came out of the kitchen. This time, her father was with her.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, placing a cannoli in front of both men. “My father is beside himself with worry. He’s afraid you will never return to our restaurant because of Vic Monte.”

Hutch remembered that the old man had limited English skills. “Tell your father not to worry about that. I promise we’ll return and soon. Tell him the food was the best I’ve ever had.”

She repeated the information to the old man in Italian and he beamed, grasping Hutch’s hand and pumping it furiously.

“Maria,” Starsky interjected, “your cannoli’s are to die for, but we gotta get back to work. Can you wrap them for us, and bring us the check?”

“What check?” she said sharply. “Don’t insult us! Of course, I’ll wrap the cannola–if you promise to eat them tonight. Cannola don’t keep. And I’ll bring you a bottle of wine.”

Starsky kissed her cheek as she scooped up the deserts to take away. “We’ll be back next week, Maria. Cross my heart.”

“Only the devil crosses his heart,” she chided playfully. “But I see him dancing in your eyes, Detective Starsky, so I’m not surprised.”

She and her father returned to the kitchen as the two detectives collected the book and prepared to leave. The waitress returned shortly with their food packaged, and the wine bottle wrapped in brown paper. She gave Starsky a hug and a kiss, then did the same for Hutch. He wondered briefly if he’d be seeing her again or if things would change so drastically between them that Starsky would be coming back alone.

As far as the book and Monte’s lieutenant, they got lucky–or un, depending on your point of view, Hutch thought.

Entire portions of the book were in code, and that would have to be broken with the FBI’s help. Once certain elements of the code were cracked, Monte’s lieutenant could fill in dates, names, places, witnesses. But cracking the code and working with the lieutenant, then arranging for warrants and judges was all stuff the two street cops didn’t need to really help with. If anything, Dobey found them underfoot with all the technical problems they were facing and shooed them out of the squad room with orders to “Get outta here and get some sleep. I’ll call you back in as soon as some action’s going down.”

Starsky told Dobey they’d both be crashing at his place, then grabbed Hutch by the elbow and they made their escape. Even the FBI guys were happy with them. It was almost too good to be true.

It was nearly two a.m. when they pulled up outside of Starsky’s apartment, finally at the end of their long, eventful work week. It bothered Hutch that they had ended up here without really discussing it, but it’s not like it was that unusual. While he often hosted Starsky at his place, his partner’s apartment was really closer to Metro than going all the way to Venice. Still, this meant that whatever was about to go down between them would happen on Starsky’s turf.

Home field advantage, Hutch thought glumly. He stared at the long wooden staircase and thought suddenly how much it looked like a hangman’s platform. He shook his head.

“You okay?” Starsky said softly.

He glanced at his partner. “Yeah. Just thinking that couch of yours is sure gonna feel good tonight.”

“Oh, yeah?” Starsky muttered cryptically, grinning. “Don’t tell me you’re tired, old man. Want me to carry you?”

Before Hutch could answer, Starsky was out of the car and jogging around to the passenger door, which he opened with a flourish. Hutch unfolded his long frame from the low-slung car and peered at his partner, wishing he could figure out where Starsky was coming from. He looked into blue eyes that were so darkened by the night sky as to seem almost black.

“Think you could?” Hutch asked. “Carry me? Up all those steps?”

Starsky shrugged. “You managed to carry me when I was shot. Had to feel like a mile for you, dead weight like I was.”

Hutch flinched when Starsky said the word “dead.” “You were pretty out of it at that point. I didn’t think you’d remember that.”

“Oh yeah, I remember,” Starsky assured him. “I heard Teresa’s boyfriend and one of the hit men offer to help haul me in there but you wouldn’t let ’em. Wouldn’t let anyone touch me but you.”

The sentence hung between them for a long moment, then Starsky looked back at his staircase. “‘Course, bein’ hauled up these steps in a fireman’s carry wouldn’t be nearly as comfortable as the way you carried me. But that’s the only way I could wrestle all that blondness up them stairs. You ready?” He moved as if to sling Hutch over his shoulder.

Hutch put a restraining hand on his chest. “Think I’ve still got enough energy to get up there on my own power, buddy. Thanks anyway.”

Starsky moved ahead of him, taking the steps two at a time with a reserve of energy Hutch envied. It didn’t bother him, either, to watch his partner’s graceful legs and ass move smoothly in jeans that were at least a size too tight. He pushed his mind away from forbidden topics and tried to blank his thoughts so he could be open for whatever Starsky might want to bring up tonight. Maybe he’d get lucky, Hutch hoped, and Starsky would just let him crash and deal with bigger issues in the morning.

Or tomorrow afternoon. Or the day after that. Yeah. Right.

Hutch took the steps one at a time and watched where he placed his feet to avoid stumbling. Falling upstairs always made him feel like a total klutz and he already felt at a disadvantage.

Starsky flipped on lights and bustled around the kitchen as if it were eight in the morning instead of two. “Thought I’d make some coffee. Okay with you? We still gotta eat those cannolies or Marie’s gonna be mad as hell.”

After the sumptuous meal in the restaurant Hutch had thought he’d never be hungry again, but the lightly sweet cannoli with some coffee would be nice right now, he decided. “Sounds good, partner,” he said, slipping his brown leather jacket off and slinging it over a kitchen chair. He ran a hand over his dark shirt, spotting some crumbs left over from dinner.

He’d have to be careful, he realized as he undid his holster and placed it also over the chair. The familiar, friendly ambiance of Starsky’s place could be dangerous, making him relax, say things, think things, be too optimistic. He watched his friend moving around his kitchen as he pulled down clean plates, took the cannolies out of the bag, unwrapped the wine.

It was good to see all the stiffness from the gunshot wound gone, to see the liquid grace back in Starsky’s well-defined arms, his long torso and muscular back. Hutch felt a pang of longing that was so strong it shook him. He wanted suddenly to slide his hands around Starsky’s narrow waist, press his front against his ripe, solid butt, enfold his masculine chest in his arms, bury his face in the mass of curls framing Starsky’s head. He forced himself to close his eyes to block the image of himself doing just that and more. He scrubbed his face with his hands, as if he could wash away the fantasy.

“I thought maybe, if we wanted, we could open the wine while we talked,” Starsky said too casually. “Wha’d’ya think, Hutch?”

“You really want to get into this tonight?” Hutch asked wearily as he sank onto a kitchen chair.

Starsky handed him his cannoli and coffee as he parked himself in a chair directly opposite. “S’funny thing about getting shot,” he said around a healthy mouthful of Italian desert.

Hutch wondered what could ever be funny about getting shot.

“Makes everything kinda immediate. An’ I figure we been putting this off long enough, y’know? When I came out of the john tonight and spied Vic Monte sitting with you, I figured we waited too long as it was, like maybe we’d lost the chance for good.” He paused, spying Hutch’s troubled expression. “Hey, stop lookin’ so worried, Blintz! S’just me, Starsky! You don’t look this rattled when Dobey’s yellin’ for our blood!”

Hutch struggled to form a wan smile. Starsky was right. What was the worst that could happen? Starsky would acknowledge Hutch’s sincere–if weird–feelings, and let him down easy. That would be like Starsky. Kind to a fault. Gentle. Funny. And the door would be ever so tenderly but firmly closed. They’d still be partners. Still be friends. Wouldn’t they? The cannoli tasted like dust in his mouth. He pushed it away.

“You gonna finish that?” Starsky asked, scraping his plate of crumbs. Hutch shook his head, and Starsky snagged the remains and devoured them in two forkfuls.

Hutch toyed with his coffee. “How about letting me off the hook about this tonight, Starsk?” He avoided meeting his eyes as he asked. He’d spent entirely too much time falling into those dark blue orbs to risk it now.

“Why should I?” Starsky asked quietly and, despite his misgivings, Hutch glanced up to see his partner’s eyes narrowed in concentration. He was in the predator’s lair now, Hutch realized, as Starsky’s expression took on that same calculating look it had earlier.

“‘Cause I asked?”

Starsky licked the last of the cannoli cream from his fork and Hutch felt a rush as he watched his tongue curl around the tines. He is toying with me, Hutch thought again, grinding his teeth. He had the sudden urge to knock his best friend out of the chair onto the floor and show him what Hutch could do with that tongue. As if he could read Hutch’s thoughts exactly, Starsky smirked that same infuriating smirk he wore earlier.

“That’s no reason,” Starsky murmured. “You act like talking to me is the toughest thing you’ve ever faced. Me. Your best friend. Biggest crime lord in LA, maybe in the country, sits his ass at your table, and you’re Mr. Cool. You can chat him up all the live-long night. I wanna work something out with you and you can’t even finish the finest cannoli in the city. I don’t understand you, Hutch.”

Join the club, Hutch thought miserably. I don’t understand myself. Don’t understand why I feel this way, how this happened, why it happened. Why I’m gonna have to live with this ache in my gut for who knows how long. You got me over a heroin addiction in less than a week, Starsk. Think you can get me over my addiction to you in the same amount of time? How? By putting me to bed, holding me, stroking my hair, rocking me, loving me? He had to bite his lower lip to keep from bursting into laughter.

“It’s late,” Hutch reminded him. “It’s been a long day, longer week. We’re both beat. It’ll keep.”

“It’s been kept unsaid for three months now, Hutch. That’s long enough.” Starsky asked quietly, his narrowed eyes and somber face an unreadable mask.

“What’s one more night?” Hutch asked, trying not to plead.

“It’s an anniversary night,” Starsky reminded him, getting out of the chair. “A celebration. Three months since I got shot and lived through it–thanks to you.” He went to the wine bottle, took a corkscrew and started opening the bottle. “You just need to relax a little, buddy.”

He is mocking me, Hutch decided and took refuge in his anger. Just what is so damned funny about my loving you, you bastard? “Okay!” Hutch said too loudly. “You wanna talk, talk already.”

“Hey, calm down,” Starsky chided gently. “You know when you get angry your–?”

Hutch pointed a finger at him. “One more word about my flashing eyes, and I’ll make one of yours a lot bluer.” The finger turned into a warning fist.

Starsky just chuckled and put a wine glass in front of him, filling it half way. Then, standing beside his chair, Starsky poured himself a glass. Putting the bottle back on the table, he picked up his glass and clinked it against Hutch’s before taking a swallow. “I ever thank you for saving my life?” he asked, licking the wine from his lips.

“Couple of times,” Hutch said wearily, and downed most of the glass. The rich bouquet filled his senses, while the alcohol thrummed through his veins. “Come on, Starsky. You’re playin’ me like a salmon, and I’m getting tired of it.”

Starsky refilled his glass.

His nearness was suddenly unbearable to Hutch. The muscular chest tantalizingly outlined by Starsky’s faded brown tee shirt, the round, ripe ass made even more desirable by the soft, threadbare tight jeans, and the heavy genitals that seemed to be more than the aged zipper could reliably contain, all screamed for Hutch’s touch, his kiss, his ardent attentions. He tried to figure out how his partner’s body had suddenly become such an incredible object of desire to him and couldn’t. It just was. The scent of him–a combination of sandalwood, leather, and male sweat–was like raw pheromones wafting into his brain.

I’m just tired, Hutch told himself. A little stressed. I’ll get over it.

Starsky gripped Hutch’s shoulder to pull his attention back, and pushed the wine glass against Hutch’s hand. Obediently, Hutch drank, then put the glass back on the table. Starsky’s warm palm was burning through his shirt.

“I had the weirdest dream in the hospital, Hutch,” Starsky murmured, his voice low, meaningful.

Hutch wouldn’t look at him. He was too afraid of what he’d see. He stared into the wine glass, at the rich burgundy liquid, then realized he could see Starsky reflected in its surface. Those indigo eyes were boring right through him. He swallowed.

All the years together. My partner. My best friend. How could I fuck this up so bad?

“I dreamt you were with me, by my bed,” Starsky went on, maintaining the physical contact. “I dreamt that after they put in the drains and sewed me up, after everybody went home, you stayed there with me. And I felt good in my dream, even though I was dopey and hurtin’, but still, you were there, and I felt good about that.”

Starsky took another sip of his wine. “So, in my dream, I’m just laying there, driftin’ sort of on the high, trying to ignore the pain. It was quiet and kinda dark. Then you came over, walked right up to my bed and watched me for a long time. And that was okay, only I was wishing I could talk to you and tell you thanks for what you did, and tell you not to worry ’bout me, cause I could see how freaked out you were. You’d been scared all night I was gonna die on you, even though it was just a shoulder wound. But the docs did tell me the exit wound was pretty nasty, that your first aid had stopped the bleeding. So, I guess I coulda died. Anyway. In my dream, I couldn’t say anything, and that was frustrating as hell, but I was glad we were still together, that you didn’t leave me there alone, after all we’d been through, to wake up by myself.”

Starsky squeezed his shoulder briefly and Hutch felt a corresponding sensation in his crotch.

“And then–in my dream–you touched me,” Starsky murmured. “Touched my face. The bandage on my head. My eyes. My cheek. My lips. Your hand was so gentle, so careful, the way it moved over me made me wanna cry. No one had ever touched me like that. At least not in a dream.”

Okay, Hutch thought, feeling oddly relieved. It’s out now. We can deal with it. He took another swallow of the wine.

“So, that was weird enough,” Starsky went on, “but then it really took a twist when, in my dream, you kissed me.”

“I’m sorry,” Hutch whispered, barely able to get the words out. Irrationally, it angered him to apologize for the purest, finest feelings he’d ever held for anyone. “It was wrong. I was wrong. I know I violated your trust. Our friendship. If you can forgive it, I can promise you it’ll never happen again.”

“When you kissed me,” Starsky continued, ignoring Hutch’s apology, “my eyes fluttered open just a slit. As you pulled out of the kiss, I could look through my lashes and see your eyes, those beautiful crystal blue eyes swimming behind big tears. You were really crying over me, and that hurt me so much, that you were that worried about me. But I still thought it was a dream. ‘Cause your crying didn’t make any sense–I mean, I was gonna be all right and everything was over all ready. And your touching me and kissing me didn’t make much sense either. Not in my dream. But your eyes were real, I think I knew that much.

“And then you started talking and nothin’ you said made much sense. I couldn’t follow it. I was alive, was gonna be fine, and you were goin’ on about my dying and how you couldn’t live without me, which I thought was the dumbest thing I’d ever heard from such a smart guy like you. The only thing I could make any sense of was that you loved me. Which, of course, dream or not, I already knew. I didn’t understand your going on about bein’ in love with me, but you were so upset, and it was such a crazy dream anyway, I didn’t worry about it. Later, when I woke up, really woke up, and felt you holding my hand, and thought that had all been a drugged dream, I still felt compelled to respond to the man in my dream who thought he was in love with me. As soon as I could move my mouth I told you I loved you. ‘Cause I couldn’t bear the thought that you were so alone with all that love.”

Hutch swallowed. This had to be the gentlest let down of his entire life. Funny, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.

“It must’ve been three or four days later before I accepted the fact that I hadn’t had a dream,” Starsky said. “That you really had touched me like that. Kissed me. Cried over me. Loved me. I realized it all at once, like a big revelation. And I been sitting with it ever since. Waiting for you to make your move.”

Hutch tipped his empty glass and Starsky cooperatively refilled it. “You thought that’s the way it would go? That one of these nights I was gonna jump your bones over Monopoly? Slide an arm around you during the Creature Feature? Corner you on the couch?” He snorted a sarcastic laugh.

“Actually,” Starsky said in that same soft murmur, “I was kinda countin’ on it.”

“What?” Hutch said, baffled by the response, his glass halfway to his mouth.

“Hell, it’s been years since anyone seduced me, Hutch,” Starsky said matter-of-factly. “I was lookin’ forward to it.”

The statement rattled Hutch so much he poured half the wine over his shirt, then dropped the glass in surprise and leapt out the chair from the shock of the cold liquid on his skin. Calmly, Starsky picked up the unbroken glass from where it rolled across the floor and got a dishcloth from the sink.

As Starsky mopped up the table and floor, Hutch pulled the cold, wet material away from his chest. “That’s funny, Starsk,” he muttered, hearing bitterness in his voice. He moved away from the table, tugging at the sticky shirt. Starsky’s nearness was too distracting. “Very funny. I don’t know why I’m not laughing.”

“Hutch,” Starsky said softly as he rinsed out the glass and the washcloth, “try and relax.” He snagged a clean glass, and wrung out the cloth.

Refilling the fresh glass, Starsky approached Hutch and handed it to him. Hutch successfully avoided contact with his friend even as he took the offered wine. When Starsky attempted to blot some of the wine off his wet shirt, Hutch backed up too quickly into the living room and nearly knocked over a lamp.

“Why don’t you just take that off,” Starsky said seriously, indicating the blue shirt. “It’s a mess. I’ll get you something else.”

“Sure. Okay. Whatever,” Hutch stammered, and handed Starsky the glass, then stripped off the shirt, happy to get the wet stickiness off him. Starsky tossed him the washcloth and Hutch wiped the remnants of wine off his bare chest. Snagging a kitchen towel, Starsky offered that next so he could dry off. When Hutch was finally clean, Starsky immediately handed him back his wine, almost as if he wanted to distract Hutch from the fact that he was standing bare-chested in the border between Starsky’s kitchen and living room. For some reason, his shirtlessness suddenly made Hutch feel oddly exposed and vulnerable. It was crazy, considering how often Starsky had seen him stark nude over the years.

Wanting to squelch the uncomfortable feeling, Hutch moved further into the living room as he gulped down another big swallow of wine. Then something occurred to him. He spun on Starsky, staring accusingly. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Actually,” Starsky admitted shamelessly, following Hutch into the living room and herding him into a grouping of furniture he couldn’t get past, “I thought it might help.”

He turned around, absently looking for an escape route, and realized he’d have to clamber over an armchair to get away. Feeling cornered, his nerves frayed, his tongue lubricated by alcohol, he faced Starsky squarely and demanded, “What the hell is the game plan here, partner? What are you after? What do you want? And–are you gonna get me another shirt or what?”

“I want you to talk to me,” Starsky said simply, and added more wine to the half full glass. “I’ll get you a shirt in a minute.”

Hutch looked at it as if he couldn’t figure out how the burgundy liquid kept appearing in his glass. Even though he would’ve liked to swallow the whole thing in one gulp, he wisely put it down on an end table. “What do you want me to say?” Hutch murmured.

“I want you to tell me how you feel,” Starsky insisted in that same quiet, reasonable tone.

Hutch felt like belting him. “I told you how I felt in the hospital. You heard me. The only possible reason you could have to make me repeat it is to twist the knife.”

“That was three months ago, Hutch,” Starsky reminded him. “You haven’t said a word to me about this since. People can change their minds about all kinds of things in three months.”

Hutch nodded, finally understanding. Starsky was giving him a chance to take it back, wipe the slate clean, start over. For some reason that notion didn’t fill him with relief as he’d thought it might. He opened his mouth, looking for the words he needed to set the world back on its correct axis. He floundered, moved his hands in the air. Nothing came out.

“Don’t lie to me, Hutch,” Starsky insisted. “You’re miserable at it.”

He wet his mouth, let his anger surge forth. It was the only emotion he could use that would let him keep some dignity. “What do you want me to say, Starsky? Nothing’s changed. Believe me, I wish it had. But it’s still there. I’m in love with you, okay? It’s pointless, I know. But there it is. I love you. Are you happy now?”

“Not yet,” Starsky muttered. “Was it so hard to say?”

“Yeah, it was,” Hutch said, feeling his face heat up. “But, so help me, if you say ‘I’m sorry,’ even once–”

“Why should I? I’m not.”

Hutch was too wound up for Starsky’s words to register right away. “–I’ll flatten you. I don’t need your damned pity. It’s just one of those things that happens sometimes, just something that I’ll have to– What did you say?”

“I said I’m not sorry about it,” Starsky told him. “Why should I be? You’re the closest person in the world to me. Why should I be sorry that you love me? I’m flattered. More than that–I’m intrigued.”

Hutch could only stare, speechless.

Starsky’s voice was still soft, soothing. His expression still held that confident, inscrutable look. “You can’t imagine what your touch felt like that night, Hutch. It blew my mind. I never thought anyone’s hand–never mind a man’s–could make me feel like that. Not over something so simple. I kept tellin’ myself it had to be the anesthesia or something–but for the last three months, every time you’ve touched me–” Starsky stepped closer, reached out, and it was everything Hutch could do to hold his place as his partner grazed his fingers ever so lightly over Hutch’s jaw, “–every time I’ve touched you, something’s been there, some little tantalizing, teasing feeling. Like the hum you get around a power source. Or that perfect rumble I feel in my butt when the Torino’s tuned just right. It scared me at first. But I liked it, so–I kept waiting, hoping you’d make a move–” He sighed, sounding frustrated, as if he’d run out of words before he wanted to. “Dammit, Hutch, you haven’t been very cooperative about this.”

The tips of Starsky’s fingers burned a path over his skin, and Hutch could feel a flush spread over his entire body. His nipples went rigid and he watched Starsky’s eyes drop, blatantly watching the physical manifestation of his desire.

Hutch grabbed Starsky’s hand too roughly, yanking it away from his face, which drew his indigo eyes back to his. “Vic Monte got the drop on me tonight because I was lost in a fantasy about you. That’s the raw truth, partner. You’re driving me crazy, you’ve been doing it–deliberately–for the last three months. I thought I was losing my mind while you’ve been just toying with my feelings for you.”

Starsky shook his head, but that narrow-eyed hunter’s gaze looked back at Hutch. “Not toying, Hutch. You mean too much to me for that. I haven’t been toying with you. I’ve been as serious as a heart attack. Just–didn’t know how to play it.”

For some reason, Hutch couldn’t make himself release Starsky’s hand, even though he knew he was holding it too tight. “This is too dangerous, Starsk. It’ll change everything. We could have gotten killed tonight because I wasn’t paying attention. What’ll happen on the street? What’ll happen to us, what we are, how we work–?” It was like releasing a flood, every fear and insecurity, every doubt Hutch had harbored all these months were rushing forward into a logjam of confusion.

“I almost died,” Starsky said to him simply, cutting through all of that.

Hutch realized it was the first time Starsky had really admitted that out loud. He’d always downplayed or denied the seriousness of the gunshot injury before, claiming Hutch had overreacted to a mere shoulder wound.

“I kept fading in and fading out,” Starsky continued. “You were being held at gun point in another room. I couldn’t see you, couldn’t hear you, couldn’t do a damned thing to help you. How do you think that made me feel? Don’t you think maybe that focused things for me just a little? Don’t you think I made my own bargains with God on that couch? Then I come outta the john tonight and there you are again in the spider’s web. How was I supposed to react? All I could think was that they could’ve killed you while I was in there, could’ve killed you while you were alone–just like that night–and I’d just spent three months pussy-footin’ around all this like a thirteen year old on his first date. So, don’t talk to me about stupid shit like what’s gonna happen to our work.”

“If–if you, uh, you felt that way,” Hutch stammered, amazed he could speak at all, “why didn’t you make a move? It’s not like you to just wait.”

Starsky shook his head. “Look at you. You’re as jumpy as a rabbit. Every time I’ve laid a hand on you since the shooting you twitched. You’re so freaked out about what you’re feeling you can barely handle being in the same room with me. I knew if I tried to push you, you’d just deny everything, and bury it all so deep we’d never dig it up again. Then I thought maybe if we went back to the restaurant, that might be the key. I hated pushin’ you like that, but I was desperate.”

“Desperate?” Hutch whispered, unable to understand Starsky using that word about himself when Hutch thought he had exclusive rights to it.

“Look,” Starsky said softly, “I know it might not work out. It might be a mistake. But we were always the guys who jumped feet first into whatever it was everyone else avoided. This ain’t the time to start playin’ it safe. Unless–unless you’ve changed your mind, Hutch. About the way you feel.”

Hutch shook his head, staring hard into the bottomless blue eyes looking so fiercely into his.

“You ever gonna make that move, Hutchinson?” Starsky asked, sounding almost irritable. “You ever gonna touch me again?”

Hutch wet his lips, trying to think of something, anything to say but couldn’t. Then he realized the sapphire eyes had lowered slightly just for a second, that Starsky was distracted by Hutch’s touching his own lips with his tongue. For some reason that galvanized him. Without releasing the hand he still clutched so tightly, Hutch brought his left hand up and ever so gently touched Starsky’s face. His fingertips grazed his strong jaw, ran over his cheek, brushed his mole, then gently stroked his dark eyebrow. Pushing back the curls tumbling over his furrowed brow, Hutch’s hand slid lightly over Starsky’s proud nose, then tenderly touched his partially opened full mouth.

Starsky exhaled in a rush, then closed his lips to lay a gentle kiss on those fingertips. Hutch felt his stomach flip when Starsky performed that simple action. If he’d reached down and grabbed his crotch, Hutch couldn’t have been more startled.

Slowly, as if Starsky were the skittish one, Hutch slid his hand around the back of his neck under his dense, dark mane, and anchored him in place. Bending his head, he moved in cautiously for their first kiss, the action suddenly as natural as breathing. Tipping his chin, Starsky met him willingly, his mouth already partially open and Hutch couldn’t suppress a gasp when their lips brushed. Their tongues met midway, tentatively, hesitantly, and the tender dalliance of warm, wet probes was gentle, sweet, and shockingly electric.

Starsky’s breath rushed against Hutch’s nose and upper lip, and Hutch inhaled warm air that reminded him to breathe. The dance of tongues was slow, languid, and more erotic than Hutch ever remembered kissing to be. Instinctively, Hutch took a half step closer, and–finally remembering to release Starsky’s hand–slid that arm around his slender back. When he towed his strong body closer yet, Starsky surprised him by exhaling a soft moan into his mouth. Fearing it was a protest, Hutch pulled out of the kiss, amazed when Starsky’s mouth tried to follow him to prolong the contact.

“Hutch,” Starsky murmured, pressing his dark forehead to Hutch’s pale one as his arms encircled Hutch’s neck and shoulders. His voice was husky; it thrilled and worried Hutch all at the same time.

“You okay?” Hutch asked, his own voice ragged. He blinked, trying to gather his wits. It was just a kiss.

“No,” Starsky admitted, then grinned. “Don’t wanna be.” He swallowed, as if pulling himself together. His midnight blue eyes captured Hutch’s worried ones. “Come on, Hutch. Seduce me. Entice me. Persuade me. Your eyes are flashin’ like two blue crystals hanging in the sun. Remember that old song? Crystal Blue Persuasion? They must’ve been singing ’bout your eyes, Hutch. You could get me to do anything with those eyes.”

“Stop it!” Hutch ordered roughly, trying to adjust to Starsky’s shocking seductiveness. “You don’t know–! This can’t–! What are we–?” But he couldn’t complete a sentence, an entire thought, as those predator’s eyes held his, ready to grant his every wish, his every fantasy–ready to steal his heart.

His body overrode his sense, the alcohol racing through him like an erotic antifreeze, heightening everything. His pulse pounded in his head, his fingertips, his cock. Burying both hands in thick, lustrous curls, Hutch once more found the lips that pulled him like a lodestone. He invaded Starsky’s mouth roughly, but this time his friend’s moan could not be misinterpreted. Starsky’s tongue battled back happily, twining around his, tasting him, slipping into his mouth eagerly as they shared air and made soft wet sounds of desire.

Starsky’s hands slid up and down Hutch’s broad back, electrifying his skin, leaving trails of heat and need that Hutch thought could never be fulfilled. Hungrily, Hutch tightened his hands in his satiny hair, his kiss growing more urgent. Their teeth clicked as they each nipped at tongues and lips, working in perfect concert, just as they did at everything.

Needing to pause, to breathe, to think, Hutch forced himself to pull back for a moment. Starsky must’ve needed the break, too, because he let him.

Who’s seducing who here? Hutch wondered suddenly.

This was so typical. Whenever Hutch introduced Starsky to some new interest, his agile, quick-witted, competitive partner always ended up besting Hutch at it. Hutch wasn’t sure he was ready to face that in bed. A little late to worry about that now, Hutchinson!

As he pondered that, Starsky was busy sliding his hands around Hutch’s waist, his fingertips lightly skimming his belt and waistband until they came to the front closure. Deftly, Starsky undid the belt buckle one-handed, then nimbly opened the button of the corduroy pants.

Unwilling to let Starsky take control of a situation Hutch could barely handle now, he moved quickly to distract him. Unsnapping Starsky’s jeans, Hutch yanked the zipper apart, then slid his hands down inside the back of his denim jeans. Grasping a double handful of lush rear, Hutch pulled Starsky’s groin tightly against his own. Starsky grunted in surprise, grabbing Hutch’s shoulders for balance as Hutch pressed his mouth against Starsky’s dark, lean throat. Stroking his beautiful round ass, Hutch marveled at his warm, smooth, pliant skin that moved sensuously against his palms. Slowly, he rubbed his swollen groin against its turgid mate. They strained against each other as their hips danced languorously, rhythmically.

Hutch kissed his way up along Starsky’s taut throat, until he found his ear buried under all those curls. His voice reduced to a rough growl, he murmured against the shell, “Sergeant Starsky, just where is your underwear?”

His answer was a rich, low chuckle that only excited him more. He bit his earlobe, making Starsky jump and hiss and rub harder against him. He snaked his tongue around the curved rim of that ear, and Starsky’s nails dug into his bare back as he arched against Hutch helplessly. Thrilled by that reaction, Hutch attacked his ear, drilling his tongue deeply, wetly into his canal, suggesting something he didn’t even know if he had the nerve to do. Starsky leaned into his mouth, breathing harshly, erratically, the motion of his hips slick, urgent.

Hutch’s hands moved as if someone else were in control of them, stroking Starsky’s incredible ass as if he owned it. He examined the foreign territory of his friend’s rump by touch, finding his round cheeks even more erotic to handle than to watch. Beneath his hands, the strong muscles in Starsky’s ass flexed and relaxed over and over, the action making Hutch dizzy with wanting.

Starsky’s head had tipped back as Hutch continued laving his ear, and he was groaning small, low sounds of animal need. Finally, he gasped, “Jeez, Hutch, you’re makin’ me nuts like this! Your mouth, your hands–ah, babe. We ever going to bed?”

No, Hutch thought, pulling away from the delicious ear. No, not yet. Was it just because Starsky had suggested it? Was it just his need to be competitive, to maintain some shred of control? He didn’t know.

Swallowing, Hutch struggled to find his voice. “My party,” he whispered, but his tone brooked no discussion.

For a second, Starsky looked as if he might argue, but then, as he stared at Hutch’s eyes, he yielded, nodding slightly as if he couldn’t find words to answer.

Then, as their gazes locked, Hutch reluctantly released his ass. Pulling his hands free from the jeans, Hutch dropped to his knees. There was no surprise on Starsky’s face as he did this, and somehow Hutch thought there ought to be. Starsky just watched him, calmly, expectantly, his eyes narrowed. They weren’t just a predator’s eyes anymore–they were hungry now. Full of wanting. Just like Hutch’s. Only Starsky’s weren’t shadowed with worry, with fear of the future. All that smug confidence in his friend’s expression rattled the hell out of Hutch. In defense, he lowered his gaze, rubbing his forehead against Starsky’s softly furred abdomen, trying to collect himself, get his head together. What was he doing on his knees before another man–before this man? What was he thinking? What was he starting?

Then he remembered. He’d started it months ago by playing Prince Charming to a dark-haired sleeping beauty. His kissing an unconscious man had awakened something in both of them, something they couldn’t deny anymore. He couldn’t stop now. He didn’t want to, anyway.

Starsky lifted his own worn brown tee shirt, slowly dragging it off his abdomen to allow Hutch better access to his body. His gesture touched Starsky, made him realize Starsky wanted this, wanted him.

Starsky wanted him.

It was still too new a thought to be accepted, to be fathomed. Hutch rubbed his forehead against Starsky’s tight belly, brushed his nose through the line of dark hair that ran into his nearly flat navel, then lightly kissed his strong abs, barely touching the skin that reacted so sensitively to him. Starsky’s body grew taut under his mouth, expectant. That pleased Hutch.

Sliding his hands up over the back of Starsky’s strong thighs then over the denim-covered rear, Hutch grasped the waistband of Starsky’s pants and pulled them halfway down his round rump. It was just enough to free the tip of Starsky’s cock from the confines of its blue-jean prison. The vibrations of a soft pleasure-song rippled through his sun-bronzed body and Hutch sighed, even as the hot, velvety crown of Starsky’s manhood brushed lightly against his chest. He glanced down, seeing it, examining it as if it were something new he’d discovered, instead of just another part of Starsky he’d been exposed to a thousand times.

For Hutch, it was a conflicting moment of fear, anxiety, and raw desire. All at once, everything was right here in front of him, all that he’d fantasized about–Starsky’s body, warm, alive, trembling with desire, desire for Hutch–and all that he’d feared–the terror of tomorrow, their future, the risk to their friendship, their work. He felt as if he were standing on a yawning chasm leading to discovery and disaster with one foot hanging over the edge. Could the exhilaration of the plunge and the unique beauty of the view on the way down compensate for the unknown landing? Hutch poised on the brink, thinking too hard as he stared at Starsky’s cock and realized it was pulsing in time with his own heartbeat.

Slowly, as if he still feared startling Hutch with a quick action, Starsky finished pulling off his tee shirt and dropped it to the floor. Once freed of the shirt, he slid his hands over Hutch’s hair, caressing his cheek gently with his thumb. Hutch leaned into the soft gesture, then risked looking back up. Starsky’s mouth held an enigmatic smile, his eyes dark and heavy lidded. Tenderly, he brushed his thumb against Hutch’s lower lip. Hutch opened his mouth, pulled the thumb in and bit it gently. Starsky trembled and bit his own lower lip, and that snapped Hutch out of his hesitancy. Releasing his thumb, Hutch towed the denim pants lower down Starsky’s thighs, making sure he had all the access he wanted, then slid one hand up to cup Starsky’s heavy genitals.

No, Hutch realized with a start, as he moved his other hand to capture his swollen phallus, not just my friend. Not anymore. My lover now. Lifting Starsky’s thick, dark organ, Hutch kissed the dusky crown with the utmost reverence. My lover. My beautiful lover.

Above him, Starsky released a quiet sound. Wanting to hear it again, Hutch opened his mouth, bringing the crown to his lips, touching his tongue to that warm, clean-tasting flesh. Marveling that at his age there was still something he was virginal in, he slowly licked Starsky’s glans, making him wet, tasting his heat. It didn’t matter that this was the first time he’d done this; it had been done to him countless times, on occasion, when he was undercover, by experts. He had learned by example, if no other way. He knew what would please a man. Learning what would please this one would be part of the joy.

“Oh, dammit, Hutch,” Starsky swore softly, frozen in place as Hutch licked him slowly, wickedly, “oh, God! I love you, babe, I swear I do!”

As if that were what he’d been waiting for, Hutch murmured, “And I love you,” to Starsky’s furred stomach, then slid his mouth over his pulsing organ, pulling it deeply inside him, sheltering it, comforting it with his tongue.

Starsky cried out, a strangled sound, and the hands in Hutch’s hair tightened, but that only encouraged him. He could do this. He could give this to Starsky, this pleasure. It was good, tasted good, felt good in his mouth. He could do this. He could even love it.

As Hutch went down on his new lover with the utmost care, he felt Starsky’s hands wage a battle with his need, as he alternately pulled then petted Hutch’s hair. It was a battle his self-control would definitely lose, Hutch decided, as he worked his mouth on Starsky’s hot, heavy shaft, licking, sucking, kissing and pleasuring it so slowly, he could barely stand it himself. Little by little, he swallowed more of his lover, working his jaw, opening his throat, until Starsky was completely inside him, until Hutch had to swallow convulsively to handle it, until he couldn’t help whimpering around the heavy mass.

That was when Starsky started losing it, clinging to Hutch’s hair, his head, pulling him harder and harder onto his cock, needing more and more. Hutch felt Starsky’s knees buckle, felt him struggle to remain standing upright under the driving force of Hutch’s demanding, loving mouth. And Hutch adored that.

Starsky was moaning, humping, flexing his thighs, trying to climb down Hutch’s throat, until he had to grip the denim pants to control the nearly frantic motions. Hutch glanced up and nearly lost himself in Starsky’s intense expression of lust and need and incredible delight. All from Hutch, from Hutch’s mouth. His own cock, trapped hard in his pants, leaked a bubble of pre-come in reaction. For a moment Hutch thought he’d come himself, just like this, in his pants, before Starsky ever had a chance to touch him, just from giving Starsky head. He shivered and hummed his own song of pleasure around the cock taking his mouth.

“Hutch, oh, jeezus, Hutch, you gotta stop,” Starsky whispered, his breathing ragged, his body shaking, sagging, weakening. Hutch thought happily that his words sounded like a prayer. “It’s too good, Hutch. Way too good. You gotta stop.” But one hand still clutched Hutch’s hair, and fingers dug roughly into the back of Hutch’s neck, holding him in place, putting the lie to Starsky’s words.

Hutch’s tongue moved delicately, tracing teasing patterns on the overloaded nerve endings along Starsky’s shaft, tickling the ridge, toying with the slit, finding the thick honey that was all salt and bitterness and leaking just for him. Hutch wanted this to be perfect for Starsky, he wanted it to be the best, the finest act of love Starsky had ever experienced. Hutch couldn’t offer the sweet, moist beauty a woman could, but he could, and would, give this man all that he was, all that he had. He would do anything for Starsky, and that rattled him more than a little.

“Can’t!” Starsky gasped and nearly staggered. “Can’t stand anymore, Hutch!”

He fondled Starsky’s heavy sac, felt his testicles retreat from the intense stimulation even as Starsky’s legs went rigid from the added sensation.

“Damn you, Hutch!” Starsky hissed. “Wait! Don’t. Stop! Please!” But it was all nonsense and Hutch knew it. Starsky’s hands tightened convulsively around the back of Hutch’s neck and pulled his hair as Hutch felt the force of Starsky’s passion gathering in his trembling legs, his spine, his balls. And Hutch wanted it, wanted it inside him.

“Hutch!” Starsky barked in warning, tensing all over, “I’m gonna come. Oh, shit, babe, don’t!” And finally, he tried to pull away.

Hutch dug the fingers of one hand roughly into Starsky’s smooth ass as he gently, but firmly, tightened his other hand around Starsky’s sac. His mouth never stopped, never eased off, as he buried his face in his lover’s groin, rubbing his nose against the coarse, clean curls nesting there. His mouth watered hungrily.

Impossibly, Starsky grew harder in his mouth, swelling even more, cutting off Hutch’s air for a critical moment. Hutch saw spangles dance behind his eyes and nearly panicked, even as his own neglected cock throbbed in his pants, aching to participate.

With a tortured moan that thrilled Hutch to his soul, Starsky’s body released itself. The pumping rush filled Hutch’s mouth and throat so quickly he barely managed to swallow in time. He gasped and almost gagged, but held Starsky tight and took it, wanting it this way, wanting it all. It was hot, searing, and more bitter than he could’ve imagined, but it was Starsky’s, and that excited him so much he shivered, and leaked more pre-come in response. It was wonderful. It was terrible. He never wanted it to end.

“Hutch!” Starsky gasped, sounding amazed as he swallowed him alive. “Oh, Hutch!” The reverence in his voice startled Hutch, making him shiver.

But finally it did end, and as it did, Starsky’s fingertips gently touched Hutch’s lips as he pulled his glistening, spent cock out of his devouring mouth. Hutch flinched as his jaw protested its abuse. Gingerly, he closed it as Starsky slipped his other hand under Hutch’s arm and urged him to his feet. Before Hutch could gather his wits and think about what he’d done, or what his partner might think of him for it, Starsky’s mouth found his and kissed him ferociously, his tongue plunging deeply past his slack, swollen lips. The inside of Hutch’s mouth was raw as Starsky’s tongue plundered it, but that sweet, searching tongue felt like a balm, and Hutch returned the kiss feebly. He sighed happily.

Starsky pulled back finally and gazed at him; there was surprise in his face, true amazement. “I can taste myself in your mouth,” he murmured, as if he didn’t expect that. He sounded as if he couldn’t believe in the reality of what Hutch had done until this minute. “It’s so strong, so sharp–”

“Tastes like it belongs there,” Hutch rasped huskily.

“You and your way with words,” Starsky complained, and took his mouth again just as urgently.

Hutch yielded to the kiss, too tired, too shaky to fight back. A part of Starsky’s inside me now. That makes him part of me for always. It was a heady thought, and made him shiver.

“I don’t believe you,” Starsky groused with a dazed grin when he released Hutch’s mouth again. “You got me standing here with my pants around my thighs while you’re givin’ me head in the damned living room. Hutch, we never even closed the curtains! I been mooning the neighbors ever since we started.”

“They’re lucky then,” Hutch decided, meaning it.

“Come on,” Starsky urged, yanking his pants up so he could walk. It pleased Hutch to see him unsteady on his legs, knowing he was the cause. “Grab your wine. We’re goin’ to bed.”

Hutch shook his head, moving away slightly. He tried to control his breathing while waiting for his heart to slow, but it wouldn’t.

Starsky frowned, took the wine glass, pressed it into his hand. “Don’t you want this? To get that taste out of your mouth?”

Hutch shook his head. “Your taste? No. I don’t want the wine, especially not for that.”

Starsky’s expression went all soft on him. “You know just what to say to me, don’t’cha? Come on, Hutch, let’s go to bed.”

He shook his head and stepped back again. “I can’t.”

“You can’t? Hutch, what are you talkin’ about?” Starsky reached out, took one of his hands, tugging him towards the bedroom. “Look at you, you’re hard as a rock. Your whole body’s quivering. I wanna love you so bad, wanna please you, Hutch. But my legs are shot, you made sure of that. Come to bed with me.”

Hutch shook his head. “Your bed? The mirrors and all? I can’t, Starsk. There’ve been a hundred women in that bed. I’ll get lost in there; I’ll just be another conquest, another warm body. Let’s use the couch. That’s almost mine, as much as I sleep on it.”

Starsky seemed stunned. “The two of us on that couch? We’ll need a chiropractor in the morning–or a block and tackle to untangle us. And if you think that couch has never seen any action, you’re nuts. Hutch, you can’t think that getting in my bed is gonna make me forget who you are. You’re my partner, for cryin’ out loud. I mean, if it makes you feel any better, you’re the only man I’ve ever had in it.”

Hutch hesitated, thinking that through. Starsky saw the pause in his body, and moved closer.

“I want to feel you lying next to me,” he murmured, sliding his arm around Hutch’s waist, pulling him near. “Want to hold you in my arms, love you all over.” He pressed his lips gently against Hutch’s collarbone. “Come on, babe,” he wheedled. “You haven’t even finished seducing me yet. I want to give you so much. And I want to sleep with you tonight, wake up with you in my arms tomorrow. Don’t–don’t you want that, too?”

Suddenly, Hutch didn’t know. He searched Starsky’s eyes, looking for the predator who had lain in wait for him so long. That predator wanted to devour his heart, maybe his whole soul. But would that be bad?

Reading his confused expression, Starsky honed right in on it. “Hutch? It’s who-do-you-trust time.”

It was the one statement that was guaranteed to break down any barrier between them. Who do you trust? When this man asked, there was only one possible answer.

Hutch smiled at his partner, his lover. “Who do I trust? You. With my life,” he said, unequivocally.

“Then trust me now,” Starsky asked, and tugged him toward his room.

To follow was to surrender, Hutch thought, but that was not the way he’d ever seen himself in his fantasies of loving Starsky. Even so, Hutch yielded to Starsky and let himself be led. If it meant he was about to lose himself, give himself over, then that’s what would happen. He could still make sure it would be the best loving of Starsky’s life. He could still give Starsky everything he had.

“I love you,” Hutch murmured impulsively as they entered Starsky’s room.

Starsky kissed him on the mouth, lightly, carefully, as if trying to reassure him. “That makes me happy, Hutch.” Then Starsky left him for a moment standing ill at ease in his room, as he moved around the dimly lit space.

The whole room looked, smelled, felt like Starsky, and that warm familiarity helped Hutch relax. The bed seemed inviting, just as it must have to all its other guests. It was neatly made up with one corner turned down, the colorful patchwork and velvet quilt smoothed over clean blue sheets and plumped pillows. Had Starsky made up the bed in anticipation of Hutch’s presence? Or did he always keep the place ready, just to be prepared, like a good boy scout?

Starsky had placed a collection of candles all around the room, small votive candles in blue glass lamps, dozens of them clustered in little groupings. They were lined up on the dresser and around the bed, on the headboard and the night table. Quickly, efficiently, Starsky went about lighting the wicks. The scattering of little flames glowed blue in the blue room, darkening the rich color of the sheets. Then Starsky turned off the bedside lamp so that only the candles provided any light. They gave off a soft, warm illumination in the dark room, an easy glow that was homey and comforting.

“How’s that?” Starsky asked, sounding concerned. His eyes were etched in worry. “A little less scary?”

Hutch smiled to see his friend work so hard to reassure him. Hutch had thought that was his responsibility, to make sure their lovemaking went perfectly. He didn’t know why he felt that way when Starsky always tried to please him, always tried to make him feel comfortable, be happy. It was just one of the many reasons he loved him.

“That’s nice, Starsk,” Hutch assured him.

Starsky moved up to him, brushed his fingertips against Hutch’s cheek. “You make me feel like a virgin, Hutch. Like I’ve never done this before. Like it’s all new again. As far as I’m concerned, no one’s ever been here before you. My partner. My best friend in the whole world. My lover.” He leaned in for a chaste, soft kiss, and Hutch felt his knees go weak.

“You and your way with words,” Hutch parroted back at him.

Starsky kissed him again, mouth closed, and Hutch sighed, enjoying this quiet moment as his fever cooled.

“Got big plans for you,” Starsky murmured. “Wanna give you so much, but I hardly know where to start. Hutch?”

He heard the hesitation in his friend’s voice, and opened his eyes onto Starsky’s worried expression. What had happened to his confident predator? “What is it, Starsk?”

“How–? When–? That is, I mean–” He swallowed and looked uncomfortable.

“Just spit it out,” Hutch told him, wondering, after what they’d just done, what his partner could find so uncomfortable to talk about.

Starsky’s voice was barely above a whisper. “How’d you learn that stuff, Hutch? What you did to me? That was–incredible. I mean, nobody ever did me like that.” He kissed Hutch quickly and hugged him close as if to take the sting out of his question.

“If you’re asking me if I’ve ever had a man before,” Hutch said patiently, amused by his sudden bout of insecurity, “the answer is no.”

“I didn’t mean it to come out like that,” Starsky insisted, but Hutch knew him well enough to know when he was embarrassed. “I just never expected, never thought–you just surprised me, is all. You were so good to me.” He rubbed his thumb over Hutch’s lips so gently, Hutch wanted to do it all over again. “It’s–a hard act to follow, babe.”

“I just remembered what felt good to me. I just used my own experiences. I wanted to give you that. The best I could do.” Hutch shook his head. “But, if all you wanted to do was hold me till we fell asleep, that would be fine with me. Just knowing you want me, that you’d let me touch you, let me please you, even if it was only once– That’s more than I ever expected.”

“‘Let you’ please me? Ah, Hutch. I’ve dreamed about it. Dreamed about your hands on me, at least. Tried not to let myself dream too much–” He moved against Hutch then, laying gentle kisses on his cheeks, his eyes, his nose. “Will you ‘let me’ please you now? Or let me try?”

Hutch swallowed a dense lump that had just grown in his throat and nodded, no longer trusting his voice.

“Good,” Starsky whispered, running his hands up Hutch’s bare back, leaving a trail of goose bumps in their wake. “My party now.”

And Hutch remembered where he was–in the predator’s lair–and rejoiced to finally be captured.

Starsky’s mouth kept moving lightly, teasingly, leaving soft closed-mouth kisses all over Hutch’s face before those gentle lips moved lower over his jaw, finally kissing their way down Hutch’s long throat. Hutch suddenly became aware of how painful his cock had become, trapped forever, it seemed, in corduroy pants that felt as if they’d shrunk two sizes.

Everywhere those strong, full lips pressed, Hutch’s nerves ignited, until he stood trembling under that soft mouth moving so lightly, so tentatively over him. Did Starsky have no idea of the effect he was having? Or was this torture deliberate, calculated?

His gentle lips moved carefully, kissing their way over Hutch’s bare shoulders, his collarbone, the hollow of his throat.

Hutch couldn’t take it, it was too gentle, too sweet, too agonizingly slow. He couldn’t believe this was Starsky doing this, his rapid-fire, drives-too-fast, firecracker of a partner, loving him as if they had centuries to get to where they were going. Hutch felt as if he’d left all his patience in the living room.

He reached out, touched his bronzed shoulders, stroked his graceful arms. Starsky’s hands settled on his waist, tightening slightly in reaction. Hutch stroked Starsky’s back gently, then slid his broad hands to his fur-covered chest, carding his fingers through the soft whorls of hair scattered over the well-defined pectorals. Discovering the tiny nubs of Starsky’s nipples, Hutch played with them carefully, stroking them with his thumbs, then pinched them lightly between his fingers.

Starsky stiffened, and with a gasp, nipped Hutch’s throat, making him jump. Smiling, Hutch pinched the nipples again, a bit harder this time, pulling a low growl from his lover. But before he could do it yet again, his hands were captured in a tight grip.

Pinning Hutch’s wrists in the small of his back, Starsky murmured, “Just can’t behave yourself, can you, not even for a minute? Told you, this was my party. Am I gonna have to cuff you to get you to hold still?”

“I want to touch you,” Hutch complained, his head tipped back, leaning into Starsky’s mouth, the warm breath blowing in his ear making him wild. “Want to love you.”

“You already did,” Starsky reminded him, “in spades. You trying to kill me? Now, c’mon, Hutch, fair’s fair. My turn. Keep your hands to yourself, or I’m gonna have to get tough with you.”

Hutch grinned at his playfulness, and grasped his own wrist in an attempt to comply. “Oh, yes, sir! Whatever you say, sir! I never imagined this masterful side of you, Starsk.”

His partner just chuckled, and it was a low, wicked sound. “You don’t know the half of it, partner.”

The subtle threat sent another shiver up Hutch’s spine, as Starsky’s hands moved to his waistband. Just having him that near his groin made Hutch’s cock pulse, and the sound of his descending zipper nearly pushed him over the edge. Hutch’s grip on his own wrist grew painful.

“Starsk, be careful,” he whispered. “I’m right on the edge.”

“Thought you might be,” Starsky told him. “S’okay. We’re gonna slow this down a little. Just catch your breath, babe. And relax.”

As soon as he said that, Starsky slipped his hands into Hutch’s pants, moving to slide the cords down his legs. He groaned as he watched his partner strip him. Helpfully, Starsky pulled shoes and socks off as well, then deposited the whole bundle of clothes off to the side. As soon as he had Hutch nude, he shed his own jeans and footwear, then took a moment to really look at Hutch.

The piercing gaze was almost enough to undo him as his indigo eyes raked over him unashamed, blatantly examining his nearly hairless body, his jutting, furious cock. Hutch stood rigid with need and expectation.

“It’s like I’ve never seen you before,” Starsky said simply. “Like I just met you, yet still know you as well as I do.” Cautiously, he reached out a burnished hand, grazed Hutch’s arms, leaving goose bumps and hunger behind. Hutch’s cock bobbed, beckoning, imploring, even though Hutch knew that right now he couldn’t endure Starsky’s touch.

“You feel so good in my hands,” Starsky murmured throatily. “So different from a woman, but so good to touch.”

Starsky’s other hand came up to examine him by feel, even as his deep blue eyes watched and catalogued and appreciated every part of him. The tender scrutiny was more than Hutch could take. He’d never felt so naked, so open, and so at risk. His heart hammered wildly and his body was suddenly covered in a slick sheen of sweat that glimmered in the candlelight.

It didn’t help that Starsky stood totally bare and completely beautiful before him. Compulsively, he released his wrist and reached out toward his well-formed body, only to have Starsky admonish, “Uh, uh, uh!” and wag a scolding finger. “Cuffs are still a possibility.” Obediently, Hutch pulled his hands to his back, even though the self-imposed restraint was excruciating.

Starsky’s hands moved gently over him, sliding over his chest, touching his nipples tenderly, stroking his waist, his hips, his thighs. Starsky rubbed his back, his abdomen, petted his ass. His hands roved willingly, lovingly, touching everywhere but the place Hutch ached for him to touch the most, even though that touch might be the last thing he could endure.

By now Hutch was quivering, strung bow-string tight. He was breathing open-mouthed, almost gasping, his head tipped back, his eyes shut once more. This wasn’t love-making, it was torture, nothing less–the most exquisite he’d ever known. He knew he couldn’t last much longer, that if Starsky didn’t do something serious soon, Hutch was apt to lose all restraint and pounce on him.

Then suddenly Starsky encased one of his nipples in warm wetness, and Hutch’s cock reacted so strongly, it nearly slapped his belly. He cried out, and his hands flew up to cup Starsky’s dark head until the sharp nip of teeth reminded him of his promise. He pulled his hands back as his knees sagged. Starsky sucked his other nipple next and Hutch thought he’d collapse under the sensuous pleasure, and wondered how Starsky had ever managed to stand upright while Hutch had taken his cock.

His tormenting hands were still at work, making everything that much more intense, playing with him, teasing him, moving willfully wherever they wanted to.

Hutch started shaking his head. This had to stop, it had to. “Starsk! Please!” His voice was a helpless rasp as he struggled for needed air.

“Ready to go to bed with me now?” Starsky asked softly, as if he were bargaining with a reluctant lover.

Hutch opened his eyes, forced himself to look into the fathomless eyes of his tormentor. Starsky’s eyes were endless, impossible to fill, and Hutch fell headlong into them. Could he deny his anything? “Yes! Yes! Just, please–!”

“Easy,” Starsky murmured. “Easy, babe. Come to bed with me? Be mine, now?”

The questions seemed so simple, but Hutch knew they weren’t. To agree would be to capitulate, he knew Starsky well enough for that. But he couldn’t stop his mouth. “Oh, yeah. Yours. Always.” He was lost now.

Starsky made a soft purring noise in his throat. “That’s nice, Hutch. Mine. Always. That makes me happy.” He reached behind Hutch, took one of his hands, freeing the invisible restraint he’d placed on them. Pushing the covers back from the blue sheets, Starsky climbed into the center of his own bed. Kneeling on the mattress, legs slightly spread, his sex lolling at half-mast against his thigh, he tugged at Hutch’s hand, urging him to join him.

Hutch suddenly had the sensation that he was about to cross some invisible border and enter a territory where the rules were foreign to him. He wished he knew what Starsky had in mind–but then again, maybe it was better that he didn’t. He placed a knee on the bed, and slowly clambered onto the comfortable expanse.

“Gotcha now,” Starsky whispered, smiling triumphantly.

Hutch felt as if Starsky had just tightened a fist around his heart. It was so very true; Starsky had him now.

“Lay down,” Starsky ordered gently, one hand on Hutch’s shoulder to guide him onto his back.

Trembling uncontrollably, Hutch obeyed. But he was seconds away from explosion. The tension in his body, in his cock, was unendurable. He tried to tell Starsky, to warn him, but he seemed to already know.

“Take it easy,” Starsky soothed. “We’re gonna slow this down till I can catch up. You’ve got to trust me. I’ve got too much to share with you to let you go off on me now.”

Hutch could only groan in response.

Starsky was leaning over Hutch as he lay diagonally in the bed, stretched corner to corner. Starsky was bowed over his body; his halo of brunette hair made him blend into the room, and nearly disappear in the dim candle light.

Hutch could barely see his outline in the mirror over the bed, but he could see his own paler skin clearly enough. His blond hair was like a beacon where it splashed over the dark blue pillow, and his eyes had this half-dazed, half-shocked expression that surprised him. He wondered if he’d looked like that all night. Hadn’t this originally been his idea? Wasn’t he supposed to be the seducer here? In the mirror, he looked completely taken by surprise, and worried about it, too.

In spite of that, the images were exciting to him. He could see the curve of Starsky’s spine, the knobs of his backbone, his muscular back, the curve of his beautiful ass. Glancing back to the man himself, he could see his handsome, furred chest, his heavy, dark phallus half-erect and growing, his strong thighs. Realizing that the mirror would allow him to see almost all of Starsky at once, he relaxed a little. The contrast of his coloring against his partner was really quite beautiful.

Starsky noticed his fascination with the mirror and glanced up. “Hey, handsome, you’re not gonna get lost staring at your own gorgeous bod and forget about me, are ya?”

Hutch had to smile into those bright, indigo eyes. He slid a hand into Starsky’s dark curls and became fascinated by their texture as they twisted around his fingers. “Wasn’t my bod I was looking at, hotshot.”

“No? Then who’s?” Starsky chided, his smile as warm and companionable as it always was.

“Who else is here with me?” Hutch asked, and pulled a lock of hair. “I was staring at you. You’re beautiful, and you know it. So can the coy act. But more than that–we’re beautiful together, Starsk. Like we were made to be here this way.”

Starsky looked back up at the mirror. “I think you’re right, Hutch. How come it took us so long to figure it out?”

“I think it’s cause you’re kind of dense,” Hutch said solemnly, then waited for him to react.

It took a beat. “I’m dense? You’re the one who, after figuring’ it out, wouldn’t do anything about it for three months. So, who’s denser, huh?”

Hutch’s laughter felt liberating, and when Starsky rolled against him, pressing his nude body against his, their shared humor rumbled between them.

“We’ll be okay if we can laugh in bed,” Starsky promised him seriously. “Tomorrow, and the next day, and all the tomorrows comin’. If we can just keep laughing in bed, we’ll be fine.”

“You’re the wisest man I’ve ever known,” Hutch said, meaning it. “Even if you are a little dense.”

“Well, wha’d’ya say we find out how hot this dense, wise man can make his lover?” Starsky murmured, nosing his way under a shock of blond hair until he found Hutch’s ear. He blew into it gently and murmured, “How hot can you get a Hutchinson before he loses it completely?”

“I can’t take it when you do that!” Hutch complained, leaning into Starsky’s mouth.

“When I do what?” Starsky asked, feigning coyness, then ran the wet tip of his tongue all around his ear rim.

Hutch shuddered violently and dripped pre-come onto his own belly. “Starsk–please!” It was a strangled plea as Hutch struggled not to beg.

“Please what?” Starsky teased, sliding his tongue deep into Hutch’s ear.

“I can’t believe you!” he complained, wracked with delightful shudders. “It’s bad enough at work, in the car, playing chess–but you’re even aggravating in bed!”

Starsky chuckled warmly. “I’m gonna aggravate you to death, Hutchinson! Wait and see!” Then he drilled his tongue wetly into Hutch’s ear again, just to watch goose bumps lift all over his fair skin.

“Damn you!” Hutch hissed, rolling against his lover and grabbing a fistful of dark hair. Hutch’s mouth found Starsky’s and plundered it roughly, making Starsky groan in surprise. Shaking, Hutch rubbed his turgid phallus against Starsky’s hip, desperate for skin-to-skin contact, and seconds away from meltdown.

But Starsky had to know that, because he slid away from the contact, even as he grabbed Hutch’s wrist and dug a thumb into it to get him to release his hair. Starsky pulled out of the kiss, leaving Hutch gasping, trembling, aching for him.

Starsky looked entirely too amused. “Sorry, Hutch, but I only like to speed in the Torino. I told you, we gotta slow this down.”

“Too late for that,” Hutch insisted, reaching for him. Starsky was pushing his luck if he thought he could successfully play hard-to-get now.

Starsky placed a palm on the center of Hutch’s chest and pushed him down onto his back. “Come on, easy, Hutch, easy. You always this quick to fire?”

“Quick?” Hutch sputtered, outraged. “How much time do you think we spent in the living room–? Don’t you think that had any effect on me? Never mind the living room! What about all that flirting by-play of yours in the car, in the restaurant? You can just forget that innocent look, partner, I know what you were up to. And it worked! I’ve been standing at attention for so long I feel like I’m in a parade!”

Starsky was really laughing now, and Hutch couldn’t help but join him. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you. All that’s well and good, but it’s still my turn, ain’t it?”

“Keep this up, Starsky, and you’re gonna forfeit!” Hutch threatened.

“Not yet, though,” Starsky insisted. “Just let me have my way a little longer. You won’t regret it. Come on now, Hutch. Settle down. Take it easy.” He leaned over his supine form and kissed Hutch’s mouth as gently as he had when they were standing. It made him weak, made him want to give Starsky everything he could possibly want. “Still my turn?” he murmured against Hutch’s mouth.

“Yeah,” Hutch breathed. “Your turn. Just–have mercy, will you?”

Starsky only smiled. “About as much as you had for me.”

Hutch swallowed and closed his eyes. He was in big trouble.

Starsky eased onto his knees beside Hutch’s hip and started using his hands again, making Hutch sigh. Those fingers touched his arms, his chest so delicately, as if he were something fragile or precious to be examined with care. Hutch watched his partner’s hands, those same hands that could knock a man senseless, or fire a gun with pinpoint accuracy, or steer a speeding car through heavy traffic. They were surprisingly small, those hands, and finely shaped, not heavy or coarse, and not nearly as big as Hutch’s hands. They were like sculptor’s hands, smooth and well-groomed, and now they were shaping Hutch, molding him, turning him into whatever Starsky wanted him to be, making him feel whatever Starsky wanted him to feel. Hutch trembled under those beautiful hands.

“That’s right,” Starsky crooned, “just take it easy. Everything’s gonna be fine.” He turned away, and Hutch heard him pull open a drawer in his night stand, then he turned back. “You can shut your eyes if you want.”

Hutch shook his head, his eyes moving between Starsky’s face and the mirror overhead. “Want to see you. Want to watch you.”

“Okay,” Starsky agreed, smiling, as he manipulated something in his hands. He rubbed them together for a moment, then moved back to Hutch’s body to stroke his chest.

His palms had warm lubricant on them, a thin film of something sensuous and fragrant. As Starsky’s oiled thumbs stroked Hutch’s nipples, he groaned, his back arching up responsively. Starsky grinned then, that wonderful, toothy smile that made Hutch’s heart swell, made him grin in return. Slick fingers rolled his small, brown nipples, pinched them, stroked them liquidly until Hutch was thrashing, gripping the blankets. Then Starsky’s mouth lowered, taking one of the nubs between his lips, flicking it lightly with his tongue. Hutch’s whole body clenched, his need to orgasm boiling in his balls, at the base of his cock.

Starsky’s mouth moved to the other nipple, licking it, teasing it, nipping it lightly as he continued to stroke and pinch the first one. His oiled hand slid down Hutch’s flank, and his hips bucked up, searching, pleading for that precious touch. But nothing could rush Starsky, not even the whimpers Hutch couldn’t keep from escaping.

His torturing mouth moved lower, kissing its way down Hutch’s sternum, over his ribs, down his flat stomach, until the slick, hot tongue discovered Hutch’s navel and licked it slowly. Starsky nipped his way around the navel, each gentle bite making Hutch lurch uncontrollably.

“Starsk, dammit, I can’t take this!” Hutch complained. “Oh, god, please, just do it, make me come, get it over with. You’re driving me insane!”

Starsky chuckled, clearly enjoying having Hutch at his mercy. “Easy, babe, easy. It’s gonna happen. You just gotta give it time.”

“You’re pushing your luck, Starsk,” Hutch threatened. “Remember, I’m no ninety-eight pound defenseless woman!”

Starsky’s eyes roved appreciatively over Hutch’s body. “Oh, I’m not about to forget that, partner. Not for a minute.” His eyes moved back to Hutch’s face. “I’m gonna start to touch you, Hutch. So hang on. Take a deep breath. You’re not gonna come.”

“I’m not?” Hutch said doubtfully, sucking in air like a bellows.

“No. Not yet. Hold onto it.”

Hutch shook his head. Starsky was asking the impossible.

As Starsky’s dark, curly-haired head moved over Hutch’s groin, he groaned and bit his lip, feeling like he was watching a slow-motion car accident.

“Hey, Hutch,” Starsky said suddenly, his voice sounding weirdly normal, “wha’d’ya think the Dodgers are gonna do this year? Think they got a hope for the pennant?”

The question threw Hutch completely, forcing his brain to examine the words, interpret them into some kind of logic, and then fit them into this intimate situation. He couldn’t. “Wha–What?” he stammered, just as Starsky blew a cooling stream of air over Hutch’s cockhead. He gasped sharply at the subtle sensation washing over his sensitized flesh. The delicate pleasure soothed him yet delighted him at the same time, and for the briefest moment, eased his terrible ache.

“So, wha’d’ya think, Hutch?” Starsky insisted, then blew on Hutch’s cock again. “Think they can do it? Come on. Answer me.”

Hutch shook his head, his mind bouncing wildly around the improbable question, when all it wanted to do was examine the incredible delight in his groin. “How the hell should I know what the Dodgers will do? And frankly, I don’t really care! Why are you asking me this anyway?”

“To distract you,” Starsky told him patiently. “Why else? Hutch, I’m gonna touch you now. And you’re not gonna come.”

“Oh, no?” Hutch said dubiously. As far as he was concerned, it was completely out of their hands. Hutch’s body was on automatic pilot and, baseball questions be damned, it had one objective only.

“No, babe,” Starsky insisted. “You’re not gonna come. I’m not gonna let you.” Dimly, Hutch was aware of Starsky re-lubricating his hands, then watched, fascinated and terrified both, as Starsky’s left hand moved towards his throbbing shaft.

Hutch bit his lip hard to keep from pleading, and finally–finally–that warm, smooth, sculptor’s hand enclosed his agonized flesh. He fell back onto the bed, his eyes rolling up as the reality of Starsky’s touch crashed through his nerve endings. “Oh, god!” he gasped, and closed his eyes as that warm, slippery palm surrounded him. He felt the surge rumbling in his balls, felt it rushing through his canals, gathering in his cock.

All this, just from one touch of his partner’s hand.

“Easy, Hutch,” Starsky ordered, tightening his hand just below his crown. But the words were meaningless, Hutch’s reaction unstoppable.

Then Starsky’s fingers moved up under the ridge, and tightened, tightened hard, squeezing the top of the shaft. The sensation was unique in Hutch’s experience, and electric. It felt like someone had touched a cattle prod to his glans. He lurched and shouted, as Starsky’s ruthless fingers clamped down harder and held firm for a long moment. And then they released.

Hutch blinked, trembling. He was still hard, still terribly excited, but the irresistible urge to come was gone. Subsided. For now.

“How–?” Hutch croaked, his voice shattered. “How did you do that? What did you do? And where did you learn that?” He propped himself up on his elbows and looked at his friend accusingly. “And don’t even think about giving me a song and dance about Gene Autry and the westerns you saw when you were a kid!”

Starsky’s eyes twinkled mischievously and he looked impossibly pleased with himself. “No, Gene Autry never did nothin’ like that in the movies! Least not the movies I got to see.” His expression softened and his voice grew serious. “All I did was stop you from comin’. It isn’t hard to do. You’d be surprised what a guy can learn in Vietnam.”

Hutch looked into blue eyes that suddenly looked older than they were and entirely too wise. But it was a cunning intelligence, that predator’s intelligence that rattled Hutch so much. Rattled him and lured him all at once.

“You’re scaring me, Starsk,” Hutch whispered.

That made Starsky smile. “You can handle it now, though, can’t you? Whatever we want to do? You’re not gonna lose it on me, are you?”

“No,” Hutch assured him. “I’m okay now.”

“Good,” Starsky said, smiling slyly. “Now I can do what I really want.”

Hutch felt ice settle in his gut at the same time fire ignited in his groin.

Starsky collected more lubricant from a small tidy tube he had spirited by his leg, and rubbed his hands together to warm it. “Now I’m gonna really touch you, Hutch, please you so good–like no one else ever has.”

He said it like a challenge, like he felt he had to live up to some impossible objective. Hutch suddenly realized how much pressure Starsky was feeling as his new lover. He wondered if his partner saw himself inadequate to this task because he wasn’t a woman–feelings Hutch had entertained himself. Hutch’s women were usually beautiful, radiant creatures, somewhat ethereal. He came by them easily, went through them just as easily, and now Hutch realized Starsky must be comparing his dark masculinity with their grace and feminine sexuality only to see himself coming up short. Starsky couldn’t help competing, it was part of his nature. But this playing field was completely uneven.

Before Starsky could reach for him, Hutch cupped his face in his hand and said softly, “You already have, Starsk. You’ve already pleased me more than anyone else ever has. Just by wanting me–and giving yourself to me.”

Starsky froze, his eyes meeting Hutch’s in tenuous surprise.

“I wouldn’t lie to my partner,” Hutch promised.

“Okay,” Starsky said dubiously. “That’s nice to hear. Don’t mean I can’t make it even better, though. ‘Sides–I want to. Wanna rock you to your soul, Hutch.”

Hutch nodded, releasing the handsome face. “Sure, partner. It’s your turn.”

Using that same gentle, exploratory touch, Starsky grasped Hutch’s manhood tenderly in his left hand as his right one carefully eased around his sac. Hutch couldn’t help the shudder that racked his frame as Starsky slowly, methodically stroked him, rolling his balls gently at the same time. It was exquisite, and Hutch allowed himself the pleasure of just enjoying Starsky’s touch. He sighed delightedly, gasping his lover’s name softly over and over, as Starsky stroked him smoothly, teasingly. It was the best he’d ever had, as Starsky used his own knowledge of what felt good to him to please Hutch now.

Starsky watched as Hutch’s excitement built tantalizingly, delightfully. But soon, he could see Starsky’s body tense with excitement and need. It seemed as if he were gathering himself, coiling for the spring. Hutch couldn’t help but respond when his indigo eyes trapped him where he lay.

“I need more from you, Hutch,” Starsky murmured. He wasn’t exactly asking, but he wasn’t demanding either.

How much more? Hutch almost blurted. All of me? Everything I am? Everything I have? Aloud, all he could say was, “It’s yours.”

Starsky swallowed hard. “I love you, Hutch,” he whispered, then his head dropped down.

Hutch watched, open-mouthed in amazement, as his macho partner kissed his crown tenderly, then licked the bubble of pre-come from his slit. The sensation was so shocking, so intense, Hutch actually drew away, his legs shaking. Starsky only moved closer as his hands kept up their amazingly silken stroke along his shaft and around his balls. When Starsky hesitantly slid his mouth around Hutch’s wide glans, enveloping it in wet heat, he had to strangle a shout even as his hips lurched up helplessly. Automatically, Hutch’s hands moved to Starsky’s head, his fingers tangling desperately in his long curls as he tried to manipulate his beautiful lover.

But Starsky only grabbed his wrists as he had before and pulled them away, pinning them to the bed. Pulling his mouth off Hutch, he ordered, “Don’t rush me!” Then, holding Hutch’s hands down, he took his angry cock back in his mouth again, moving, if possible, even more slowly.

Hutch had never had anyone love him so painstakingly before, nor had he ever seen Starsky exhibit this much patience for anything. It was the most sublime agony, the sweetest suffering he’d ever endured, as Starsky mouthed his cock, licked his shaft, toyed with his slit, and sucked the crown. Starsky made him wet, hard, hot; his cock throbbed with bone-shaking pleasure. He’d never imagined Starsky could be like this, not like this, this tender-mouthed, lingering lover worshipping his cock like it was all he ever wanted.

But, of course, Hutch knew it wasn’t all he wanted.

Finally, when Starsky had him shaken to his core, had turned him into a shivering, whimpering wreck, only then did he release Hutch’s wrists. His legs had spread wide as Starsky loved his cock, and Starsky climbed in between them now. Hutch’s brain was a maelstrom of desire and need, and he took little note of Starsky’s change in position, of his manipulating the lubricant he still kept nearby. Hutch was beyond noticing details that didn’t center directly on his body.

But he definitely noticed when Starsky slid his hand under his rear. When Starsky slipped a lubed finger around the ring of his anus, Hutch jerked away in surprise. But his hand was as relentless as it was gentle, and his loving mouth so seductive, Hutch soon couldn’t resist his forbidden touch. Amazingly, he found himself spreading his legs wider, anticipating the next silken contact with a terrifying delight. And then it was there, tentative, light, careful. Just a touch, oiled and warm, and so slick, so sweet. Hutch was amazed when his body responded, shocked when he felt his hidden port relax against his teasing fingers. He groaned. Starsky’s mouth moved lower over him even as his hand learned Hutch’s secrets.

Starsky’s fingers stroked his clenched ring, toyed with him, tantalized and trained him to this delight. He’d always liked it when women played with him there, but that had just been a tease, with women. He’d never been in jeopardy with women, never had to fear what their playful touch might presage. Not like now, with Starsky.

Without warning, Starsky’s small slippery finger slid inside him, just the tip, and Hutch nearly rocketed off the bed. He gasped Starsky’s name and tried to shove his cock completely down his throat. Starsky just rode him, maintaining his control, both fore and aft. Hutch couldn’t believe how good it all felt. Didn’t want to believe how good it felt. And he sure didn’t want Starsky to know how good it felt–but it was too late for that already.

Starsky knew. Starsky knew everything. Starsky knew Hutch. He couldn’t imagine how he’d come by such intimate knowledge, but he knew Hutch. He knew just how to move his hand, just how to use his mouth, he knew just how to make Hutch crazed with desire for him. And Hutch was suddenly afraid that Starsky knew just how to make him want this.

His finger moved slowly, insidiously, piercing him, teaching him things about himself he didn’t think he wanted to know. He moved deeper, stroking slowly in and out, taking Hutch, shaping him, changing his desires, his needs. And all the while his mouth was on him, never letting him forget who was loving him, who wanted him.

“Starsk! Starsky!” Hutch called desperately.

He released Hutch’s cock with a tantalizing lick, then searched his face. Starsky was panting. “Is it good, babe? Come on, tell me Hutch. Is it?”

But Hutch was suddenly speechless. Was it good? What a feeble word to describe what Starsky was doing to him. Fumblingly, Hutch touched the wet, swollen lips with his blunt fingers. “Oh, god, Starsk–!” He shook his head, struggling for air, for something eloquent to say. Wasn’t he the verbal one of the two of them? The poet? The songwriter? He couldn’t utter a single thing.

Starsky smiled. “That good, huh? Never saw you speechless before.” His smile faded, and his blue eyes darkened, narrowed. “Time to get serious now, Hutch. I’m wantin’ you bad.”

He felt a snake uncoil in his gut. Oh, shit. He’s gonna get serious? What does he think he’s been all along? Hutch glanced at the mirror, saw that same worried expression on his face.

“Wanna make it so good for you,” Starsky promised. “Want you to love it, and love me doin’ it.”

He had to close his eyes. If it was going to happen–if his life, and his image of himself were about to change irrevocably–he wished Starsky would just get on with it, and not include him in the planning of it. He’d never be the same after this. He didn’t know who he’d be or what he’d be, or how he’d feel about what he was, but he knew he’d never be the same.

Starsky lowered his mouth to Hutch’s pulsing flesh again as his probing finger moved deeper into Hutch’s core. Hutch clutched the sheets with frantic strength as fierce sensations exploded in his brain and behind his eyes that he couldn’t even catalog. When Starsky suddenly slid a second finger inside him, Hutch’s body revealed the depth of its training as it opened willingly for the secondary invader. All Hutch could do was groan low.

Starsky had always been a man of his word, and he was keeping it now. He was making Hutch love this. He was panting, sweating, riding Starsky’s hand that kept taking him over and over. He couldn’t remember ever being this hot, this excited, this needy for more and more stimulation. Desperate to communicate with the man turning his world upside down, Hutch released the sheets and gripped his sun-bronzed shoulders, his hands clutching desperately. It must’ve told Starsky what he needed to know, because he changed the rhythm of his hand, twisting it wickedly, pumping it harder into Hutch’s body as Starsky’s mouth took him deeper down his throat.

His third finger changed everything, bringing Hutch’s new reality into such sharp focus he couldn’t bear it. He tried to move away, but Starsky was too powerful a force to evade. Finally, there was nothing to do but choke back a cry and accept. And why shouldn’t he accept it? It was wonderful.

He moaned softly, wanting to spread wider so Starsky could open him better, move deeper into him, love him more intensely. He sucked in air and managed to gasp, “God, Starsk–love you!”

Starsky purred around his cock, and slowly drew off. “Love hearing you say that,” he murmured, his own voice ragged. Leaving his left hand buried inside Hutch, Starsky edged closer and fumbled, one handed, with the tube of lubricant. Hutch watched him in the mirror, unable to blink, unwilling to pull his eyes away for an instant.

Starsky was so hard now, so incredibly hard.

“You want me, Hutch?” he asked softly, almost hesitantly. “You gotta want me, Hutch, gotta want this from me.”

Hutch stared at him, startled. Starsky was asking his permission? He was almost too far gone to think, to make decisions. He wasn’t even sure what Starsky wanted him to say. And he wasn’t at all sure what he wanted for himself, his own pleasure.

“Hutch? You want me?” Starsky asked humbly, his eyes wide, full of doubt and hunger.

How could he resist those eyes? Hutch smiled, suddenly sure. “Of course I want you. Who else could I want, could I trust, but my partner, my best friend in the whole world? It really is who-do-you-trust time. And I trust you.”

Starsky grinned, looking almost relieved. Then he slipped his hand under Hutch’s knee, and lifted it carefully. Placing it over his shoulder, Starsky rubbed his bristly cheek against it tenderly and that gentle gesture went straight to Hutch’s heart.

I’m about to get royally fucked by my male partner, Hutch realized in a moment of instant clarity, and I’m being a total romantic sap about it. Yes. That was the truth, he knew. Then he went all soft inside and all he could think was, God, I really do love him!

Starsky had turned back to the task at hand. Hutch watched as he fumbled again with the lubricant and realized that Starsky’s hand was shaking, that he was more nervous than Hutch. In spite of the pressure of the fingers still slowly working him, of his vulnerable, open position–one leg slung over Starsky’s shoulder, the other spread wide–Hutch had to smile. Starsky still needed his partner’s help, even here, even now.

“Hey,” Hutch murmured, catching his attention. He held out a hand. “Let me do that.”

Starsky blinked, then sighed and gave Hutch a dazzling smile. He held the tube out so Hutch could unscrew the lid, then squeezed a healthy dollop onto Hutch’s fingers. Gently, almost reverently, Hutch spread the gel over Starsky’s cock, greasing him liberally. Starsky trembled as Hutch touched him, and their eyes locked.

Then Starsky squeezed more lube onto the hand still working inside Hutch. He felt the cool gel being pushed up inside him and shivered from the sensation. Finally, Starsky squeezed some over Hutch’s cock, and used his free hand to coat his angry red flesh. That surprised him a little, but then, he hadn’t planned any of this.

Moving forward on his knees, Starsky told Hutch, “I love you,” in a tone that told him just how much.

“I love you, too,” Hutch assured him.

Hutch felt his hand withdraw, felt something wet and blunt and warm replace it. That first contact of Starsky’s flesh against his was like a gentle kiss, followed by a slow push. Then Hutch felt the pressure, felt himself being opened wider, felt the pressure increasing as Starsky’s crown slid into him. It felt good, surprisingly good, and Hutch wondered why he’d worried so much–until his body rebelled.

Every muscle in his ass clamped down behind Starsky’s ridge and fought, totally against Hutch’s will, to expel the invader who wanted nothing more than to pleasure him. Hutch gasped and his whole body went rigid.

“Oh, no!” he cried out, having no idea what to do, how to deal with the shocking pain, the complete rejection of what he thought he wanted. On those rare occasion when he’d indulged himself with women, it had been at their initiative. Their experience in the act had made it seem easy. None of them had ever reacted like this. He wouldn’t have thought it would’ve made a difference, but maybe this was easier for women–they were accustomed to being penetrated.

“Easy, babe, easy,” Starsky soothed, stroking his legs. His voice was strained.

This had to be hurting him too, Hutch thought dimly, when he could think at all. The pain was incredible, intimate, scary, overpowering.

“You gotta breathe, Hutch!” Starsky ordered him, but right now that was impossible. Then Starsky placed a palm on Hutch’s diaphragm as if reminding him how to breathe. Hutch focused on that palm and sucked in a shaky breath. “It’ll only last a few moments, Hutch. Breathe deep. Try to relax. Oh, damn, you’re tight!”

Hutch shook his head even as he fought for air. It was no good. This was agony. It couldn’t possibly work. His eyes filled and a tear slid down his face. “Starsk!” he gasped, wanting to beg him to stop, to pull out.

“Hutch, please!” Starsky pleaded. “You gotta relax, babe!” He wrapped his hand carefully around Hutch’s greased erection and stroked slowly.

The added sensation completely overwhelmed him, the pleasure lighting him up inside. He trembled, and suddenly his body opened.

He gasped, pulling air into his lungs, his spine and rear relaxing all at once. The pain was gone. There was a dull ache remaining, but it was tolerable, a mere shadow of the lancing agony that had centered in his ass. He could handle this. He’d be okay now. He reached for Starsky, gripped his shoulder.

“Oh, yeah,” Starsky breathed, as if vastly relieved. “Oh yeah, that’s better. I’m gonna move now. Tell me if it gets bad again.”

He nodded, too wiped to speak, to think, to reason. He focused on the words, “…gonna move now….” and wondered dimly, move where? As Starsky shifted his hips, and adjusted the leg slung over his shoulder, Hutch realized, Oh–into me.

The pressure inside him increased exponentially as Starsky slowly entered him little by little, pushing in a bit, then pulling out. It was slow and difficult, but the intense pleasure Hutch felt at each slight withdrawal was brain-numbing. Starsky was sucking in air desperately, struggling to control himself, and sweating like a stud bull. Hutch couldn’t believe how cautious he was being, how much time he was taking, how important it was to him to make this good for Hutch. And it was good. Impossibly, wonderfully, frighteningly good. Starsky was inside him, inside him, and just as he promised, he was making Hutch love it.

Suddenly, he felt the odd sensation of Starsky’s sac brushing against his rear. He looked up, caught the nearly glazed expression on his partner’s face. “You in me? All the way?” Hutch rasped in wonder.

Starsky nodded. “All the way. You okay? Feel all right?”

“All right?” Hutch giggled, fighting hysteria. “All right? Damn, Starsk.” He swallowed hard. “No one ever made me feel like this.”

Starsky closed his eyes as the words washed over him. “Same here, Hutch. You’re–you’re so tight, so hot. It’s unbelievable.” He closed his eyes, clearly struggling to maintain his self-control.

Hutch reached up, grazed his fingertips over Starsky’s passion-glazed face. “Hey. Come on now. You’re in. Let’s see how hot you can make a Hutchinson.”

Starsky shook his head just slightly. “I’m scared of hurting you.”

“I’ll let you know if it hurts,” Hutch promised. “Come on now. We both want this.” Only then did he know that was true. He really did want this. It surprised and pleased him.

Starsky opened his eyes, and they stared at one another for a moment. Then Starsky turned his head, kissed Hutch’s fingertips, and then rubbed his cheek against Hutch’s palm. “You’re really mine now, Hutch. All mine.”

Hutch smiled, hearing the slight insecurity in his voice. He’d been afraid of the ghosts of Starsky’s women when he’d come in here, never realizing how the shadow of Hutch’s women rattled Starsky. He could hear it in his voice, and knew it fueled his demand for Hutch’s body. And he understood it better than Starsky would ever believe.

Hutch held Starsky’s rough cheek and whispered, “I’m all yours. Only yours.”

Starsky’s smile lit up the room. Wrapping his right arm around the leg slung over his shoulder, he leaned forward on his knees and started to move.

He took it slow at first, careful, the way Hutch knew he would, and that was wonderful for Hutch. The pressure of his heavy manhood sliding inside him was an amazing erotic discovery, and instinctively he found himself tightening around him. They both groaned when he did that, it was that good.

Cautiously, Starsky shifted a bit, changed his angle, but maintained his steady, gentle pace. Hutch felt himself falling into the intense pleasure, marveling at the strange sensation of being penetrated, taken, and overwhelmed by another man’s strength and passion. It was as addicting as heroin, but so much sweeter. He moaned his lover’s name, his head thrashing on the pillow, his body blooming with love and need as he drowned in raw sensation. Starsky was fucking him. His Starsky. His partner. His best friend in the whole world. His incredible, wonderful lover.

Starsky shifted again, sighing as he did, and Hutch felt him pick up the pace. As he did, he started stroking Hutch’s cock again, and the combination of being fucked and stroked was almost too much. He cried out in sheer delight, tightening hard around Starsky’s cock even as he humped up into his hand.

Starsky’s expression was pure concentration as he worked. Sweat dripped off his nose, down his chin, as his abdomen tightened with his pumping. In the mirror, Hutch could see the muscles in Starsky’s back ripple with the effort of loving him. Starsky looked so beautiful as he fucked it made Hutch want to weep.

Starsky shifted again, and Hutch anticipated a quickening of his stroke. He tensed, but this time, the shift really changed something. On Starsky’s next impaling push he struck something deep inside Hutch, something that shocked him with an electric charge of pleasure.

Hutch shouted Starsky’s name, and his indigo eyes latched onto his. A small smiled crept over Starsky’s face. He hit it again, then again, and Hutch realized he’d been looking for it, deliberately trying to find it, whatever it was.

“What the hell is that?” Hutch sputtered weakly. “What are you doing? Damn it, Starsk–I can’t take that!”

“Sure you can, babe. It’s your prostate. It’s real sensitive. Feel good?”

Hutch’s head thrashed “no” on the pillow, but he was lying, and Starsky knew it. It was too good, too powerful, as that heady sensation washed over him, flooding his senses, making him wild. He moaned uncontrollably with each stroke, tightening rhythmically around the heavy flesh inside him as he gripped the sheets, clutched the pillow, and clawed at Starsky’s shoulders.

Starsky lifted Hutch’s other knee up so he could lean closer, and suddenly he was kissing Hutch roughly, so hungry for his mouth he just took it, plundered it, and all Hutch could do was yield. Starsky owned him now, was taking him any way he wanted and Hutch felt helpless under his driving need. It was a new sensation for Hutch, to feel helpless in bed, and the scariest thing about it was how much he liked it.

Starsky pulled out of the kiss and the two men stared at each other as if they’d never seen one another before. “I didn’t know it could be like this, Hutch,” Starsky whispered, sounding totally amazed. “Not like this. Between us. I mean–”

Hutch stroked his cheek with the back of his hand. “Me, neither. Starsk. It’s too good. I–I don’t know how much longer I can hold out.”

“You close? You almost ready?” Starsky sounded strangely expectant.

“Yeah. Please, babe, don’t hold me off again. I couldn’t handle that a second time.”

Starsky shook his head. “You kiddin’? I been reciting batting averages for the last five minutes, trying to keep it together, waiting for you to catch up.”

Hutch gripped Starsky’s arm. “Can we–can we do this together?” It seemed too improbable to him that they could be that well synchronized.

Starsky’s eyes glittered. “Let’s try. Hang on for just another minute.”

He sat back on his heels and lifted Hutch’s other leg and slipped it over his shoulder. Gripping Hutch’s hip in one hand, and taking firm command of his cock with the other, Starsky gritted his teeth. He moved in hard now, and Hutch clung to the sheets, his eyes widening at the shocking impact.

“Hang on, babe,” Starsky muttered, as he started stroking harder, faster, really pounding into him. Only then did Hutch realize how much he had been holding back.

“Oh, god, Starsk!” Hutch cried out, the intense sensation overwhelming him.

Again, again, again Starsky nailed him, while still stroking his erection hard and tight. Everything Hutch endured suddenly seemed to gather inside him like a typhoon, making him want, need, more and more. His body tightened down around Starsky’s plundering shaft until it all coalesced into one magnificent raw sensation. Finally, it burst, rushing through his body, paralyzing his legs, tightening his balls, hardening his cock and the cock inside him into steel shafts. Every bit of their heat and passion poured out of his body and into his body at the same moment in an intense, rushing torrent. He heard Starsky cry out his name as he groaned low in shocked surprise. Molten seed flooded him as he released his own, spattering them both with hot fluid that escaped in jagged bursts that were so pleasurable they were almost painful.

Finally, the last spasms shook him, and his body sagged, every muscle complaining, every bone unhinged. Starsky sagged over him, holding himself up against Hutch’s knees. He shook violently, trembling, just as Hutch’s legs were. Starsky rubbed his face against Hutch’s knee, then gently eased them off his shoulders. Then he rubbed his face with his hand, his shoulders shaking.

Hutch grabbed that hand and pulled it away from his face. Starsky’s cheek was wet as he turned away, but Hutch touched the tear track, wiping it dry. “What’s wrong, babe? Why are you sad?” Did he regret what they’d done already? Hutch’s heart lurched.

Starsky wiped his face with the back of his hand and sniffled. “Not sad, Hutch. Just–never felt so much before. Look at me! I’m turning into a total sap for you! I’m the one who hates soapy scenes, and just look at me.” He sniffled again, then struggled to smile. “Just can’t believe you let me do that. Can’t believe how you made me feel. Can’t believe you’d give me so much of yourself. It was beautiful. Really, really beautiful.”

“For me, too, Starsk,” Hutch murmured.

Starsky nodded, then looked a little sheepish. “Hope you feel that way in about ten minutes, partner.” Cautiously, he edged back, then withdrew from Hutch’s body.

His eyes widened at the shocking sensation and the sudden stab of pain. He bit his lip to keep from exclaiming.

“Hang on, babe,” Starsky told him, clambering out of the bed. “I’ll be right back.”

“Hey,” Hutch complained, shifting uncomfortably. Suddenly every nerve ending in his rear was complaining–the same ones that, moments before, had been singing Starsky’s praises! “Don’t we get to lay around and hug during the afterglow? Where are you going?” Damn, but his ass was killing him!

He heard Starsky enter the bathroom, heard water running. Was he taking a shower already?

Finally, his partner returned, looking worried. “How ya doin’, babe?”

“I’d be doin’ a lot better if you’d come back to bed,” Hutch complained. He shifted and winced, and Starsky saw it.

“Not yet, Hutch. Come on. You’re hurtin’; don’t lie about it. You gotta come with me, and we’ll take care of it.”

Starsky tugged at his arm impatiently. In the distance, Hutch could still hear water running. “And when did you get your mail-order proctology license, Dr. Starsky?” He tried to force his legs to move, but they were still trembling and he wasn’t entirely sure they would support him. “Can’t we do this in the morning?”

“Uh-uh. Come on, buddy.” Starsky smiled at him tentatively. “Want me to carry you?”

“A fireman’s carry? No thanks.” He winced again as his feet hit the floor.

Starsky slid an arm around Hutch’s back. “Not a fireman’s carry. It’s just to the bathroom. I could manage.”

Hutch smiled at Starsky’s solicitousness in spite of his aches. “Just give me a shoulder, partner. We’ll get there together.”

Starsky slung one of Hutch’s arms over his shoulder and held him securely around the waist. It was a good thing, too, because as soon as his weight was on his legs, his ass, back, and thighs all sent urgent messages of abuse to his brain. He groaned as they made their way to the bathroom.

Starsky had piled thick blue towels onto the toilet lid. The tub was nearly full, and fragrant steam curled above the filmy, soapy water. It suddenly looked very inviting.

“So, is this what the doctor orders?” Hutch asked as he carefully placed one foot in the tub.

In a terrible German accent that was as least as bad as his Bogart, Starsky said, “Jess, dis is mine own prescription for all my patients. A nize, hot herbal bath, mit un salts, and udder stuff. Now, sit yer tender ass down there, Blondie.” Starsky didn’t release his grip on Hutch until he’d eased into the water and settled back.

Hutch sighed at the relief he felt from the warm water gently bathing his tender tissues. “Oh, that’s good, Starsk, that’s really great.” Then he cast a sideways glance at his partner. “And just how many ‘patients’ have you had to treat this way?”

Starsky was still wearing that sheepish expression, the one he always gave Dobey when he got caught in something. “Oh, I’ve had the occasional one, here and there, now and then. Never had one so tall before. Or so big. Or so male.” He batted his long lashes and worked at looking endearing. Hutch thought he didn’t have to labor nearly so hard. “You gonna tell me you never did it with a lady before?”

“No–I just never thought I needed to give them ‘medical treatment’ afterwards. We just usually–fell asleep! Of course, it was usually their idea, so they undoubtedly had more experience than I did. And I think it’s fair to say I wasn’t quite so–enthusiastic in my performance.” He cast a baleful eye at his friend.

Starsky grinned, and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You bring out the best in me, partner. Y’always have. And, it’s supposed to get easier once you get used to it.”

Hutch stared at him. Once he got used to it? What kind of plans did Starsky have for his future?

Starsky must’ve realized what that sounded like. He looked away from Hutch and muttered, “This should help a lot, though. You’ll see. You’ll be your old self in the morning.”

Hutch shook his head. “I don’t think so, partner. I’ll never be my ‘old self’ again.”

Starsky looked pained. “You’re not sorry, are you, Hutch? I don’t think I could take that, if you regretted this. You’re still all man, Hutch. Still the second-toughest cop in LA. And I meant what I said to you in bed. I don’t do pillow talk. I love you, buddy. I mean that.”

Hutch smiled warmly, in spite of the remark about the “second-toughest cop.” Touching Starsky’s cheek with a wet hand, he murmured, “No, I’m not sorry. Hey, everything we go through in life changes us. The shooting changed us, changed us forever. And this changed us, too. It certainly has changed the way I saw myself, what I thought I was, who I was. It’s not a bad change, Starsk, it’s just–different. Just like our making love–it might take some getting used to. But I meant what I said, too. I’m yours now. Only yours.”

Starsky sighed, and grinned. “We’re doing it again.”

“Soapy scene number twelve, huh?” Hutch asked. “Sorry. We’ll get over it.”

Starsky took a big sponge from the shelf over the toilet and dipped it in the warm water, and began washing Hutch’s shoulders. “You feeling better?”

Hutch exhaled in a rush and sank lower in the tub. “Yep. This is great.”

“Think you could soak here for a few minutes while I hit the shower in the other bathroom?”

Hutch nodded.

“Now, don’t fall asleep!” Starsky warned as he grabbed a towel and moved toward the door. “I don’t wanna come back here and find you under water.”

“Then make it quick,” Hutch warned, as he lathered the sponge and washed his groin. “I think I’ve only got about fifteen minutes of alertness left.” He shifted in the tub and realized a lot of his pain had subsided into a dull throbbing–almost pleasant–memory. Now, if they could only manage to stay off day-long stake-outs for the next couple of days–

Starsky grinned and jogged out the door, giving Hutch one beautiful flash of his tight ass as he left. Mmmm, he thought. His own persistent fantasies resurfaced even as his exhausted body tingled in the soothing water.

He wondered how Starsky would feel if Hutch attempted to reverse their roles, or did Starsky entertain notions that tonight’s scenario would be their established pattern? Hutch wasn’t sure his image of himself could support permanent submissiveness to Starsky’s hyper-masculinity. His partner had been overbearingly macho enough before they’d gone to bed. Starsky’s ability to overwhelm him in bed could seriously unbalance their partnership, if Hutch wasn’t careful. He pondered the situation only as much as his fatigued mind would let him.

By the time Starsky returned for him–clean, dry and smelling great, his dark hair in damp ringlets–Hutch had dozed off twice in the tub. With gentle coaxing, Starsky managed to get him rinsed and dried. He towed Hutch back into the remade bad–Hutch was too sleepy to figure out when Starsky had managed to do that–and tucked him in, then managed to blow all the little candles out before climbing in beside him. The last semi-conscious sensation Hutch had was of Starsky’s warm body pressing against his spine as he gathered Hutch in a protective and possessive embrace. He felt a soft kiss placed at the base of his neck, and cuddled back into Starsky’s arms, feeling more at peace and happier than he could remember.

He decided to worry about his self-image tomorrow.

When Hutch woke up the next day, it took him a minute to figure out where he was and who he was with. He lay still, unsure of his surroundings, slowly remembering the information he needed to resolve his confusion.

Where: Starsky’s place. Specifically: Starsky’s room. More specifically: Starsky’s bed. Okay.

The warm, nude body curled up against him, one leg and half a torso sprawled across his chest and thighs:

Starsky?

He blinked, pushed a tangle of unruly brunette curls away from his chin, and gazed half-asleep at the overhead mirror. The bare, perfect ass mooning him was unmistakable. Starsky. He shifted, and his own tender rear brought last night’s athletic endeavors in all too sharp a focus. He sighed in memory, everything coming back in a rush. Hugging the warm body surrounding him, he buried his nose in the clean-scented hair. He considered rousing his new lover in a sensuous way, but his bladder had other ideas.

Deciding Starsky probably needed more rest than he did–Hutch, after all, had only come once last night to Starsky’s double release–he managed to inch his way out from under the unconscious prone body, giving him a pillow to embrace when Starsky grumbled an incoherent complaint. That seemed to satisfy him, as Starsky lapsed immediately back to sleep, softly snoring around Hutch’s pillow, his arms tight around it, his face buried in the blue pillowcase.

You look so harmless in your sleep, Hutch thought, with a wry smile.

Taking the top sheet, he shook it out to cover Starsky’s bare body. Two small items tumbled from its folds and landed on the floor near his feet. After covering Starsky, Hutch retrieved them. It was the tube of lubricant and its cap. The tube must’ve been new when they started, Hutch realized, since there was still plenty in it. He screwed on the top and went around the bed to Starsky’s night stand to put it back in the drawer Starsky had pulled it from in the first place.

As Hutch quietly opened the drawer, he spied a stack of books. The top one caught his eye, the title startling him as much as if he’d found a hooker plying her trade in church.

How To Make Love To A Man, he read, reaching for the book. A comprehensive guide to the pleasures of gay sex.

He couldn’t see the title of the book beneath it, so turned it just as Starsky shifted in the bed, making soft sounds in his sleep. His bladder was really insistent now, so Hutch grabbed the whole stack of books, closed the drawer silently, and padded into the bathroom.

He relieved himself quickly, then put the lid down on the toilet. Cushioning it with a clean towel in deference to his sensitive rear, he sat to read.

It was an impressive pile of reference material. In addition to the first book–a large manual with beautiful illustrations–there was The Gay Kama Sutra. That had some nice line drawings–some of which Hutch suspected were largely impossible for anyone who wasn’t an advanced yoga master. There was also a practical book titled The Law and The Homosexual, and a small book called, Maintaining A Healthy Anus.

Hutch didn’t know whether to burst into laughter or pound Starsky into the mattress with the two heaviest volumes. He leafed through the books as he contemplated his devious partner. Well, it was his own fault. Hutch’s avoidance of the topic had given Starsky three months to decide how he felt about the situation and what he wanted to do about it. And when Starsky was unsure of something, he hit the books.

In spite of his maintaining a “dumb cop,” façade, Starsky was a sponge for knowledge, the more arcane the better. Over the years, Hutch had learned not to waste his time researching historical information on their cases, since Starsky would do that for them, better and more thoroughly. It left Hutch time to collect information that was more immediate and pertinent to the specifics of the case. As he did, Starsky would invariably show up with a stack of dog-eared books in which every obscure reference had been cataloged and digested. Together, they would dovetail the information into a complete picture. It had always been a good system before, only this time Hutch hadn’t held up his end, so to speak.

The receipt for the books had been left as a bookmark in the Kama Sutra. Starsky had actually ventured to a gay bookstore to get these. Hutch was impressed. Of course, there was little that intimidated Starsky, but he couldn’t help but wonder what the clerks had thought of his butch partner perusing the stacks, or if anyone had made a pass at him while he was there. Hutch laughed softly to himself, and hoped he’d get to hear the story.

The Healthy Anus book had at least four recipes for herbal soaks for virgin lovers. There were also some medicinal and chemical remedies noted as well. Starsk had to go to some trouble to get the herbs, Hutch thought. That was for my benefit. He knew I’d prefer something natural. Hutch considered his partner’s cool, pre-meditated planning. Confident little stud, isn’t he?

Hutch flipped through the books, letting them fall open to passages that Starsky had obviously read multiple times. His partner was a complicated man. It appeared that he could not bear the thought of going into this unprepared. Hutch suspected Starsky also needed to maintain a certain level of control in such an unknown situation. From the beginning of their friendship, even in the Academy, Starsky had a tendency to feel as though Hutch were always two steps ahead of him because of his college background.

Hutch shook his head. He’d been willing to jump into a sexual relationship with his male partner with nothing more than open arms, an active imagination, and his honest heart. But Starsky didn’t have that confidence. Hutch thought about that. With women, his partner vacillated between being aggressively cocksure to being fumblingly nervous. The more attractive the woman, the more interested Starsky was, the more inept he acted. Under all of last night’s bravado, had he really been insecure approaching Hutch? Had the books helped shore up his confidence? He’d seemed so sure of himself last night, much more assured than Hutch.

If he lived to be a hundred, Hutch thought he’d never quite figure Starsky out. Deciding Starsky now had way too much advantage over him, Hutch brushed his teeth, then collected the books and went out to the kitchen, still nude, to make coffee. At the kitchen table, he continued to flip pages while waiting for the brew, and was completely engrossed in the lyrical description of a sex act he’d never even imagined when the phone rang, startling him so much he thought he’d have a heart attack. He dived for the phone before it could ring a second time and wake Starsky up. He wasn’t quite ready yet to have his partner catch him in the act of doing his own research.

“Hello?” he said softly into the phone.

“Hope I didn’t wake you, Hutch,” Dobey’s voice said.

“No, Captain, you didn’t.” He peered at a nearby clock and was surprised to find it was almost noon. They’d actually gotten a good night’s sleep!

“Your partner still asleep?” Dobey asked.

For the first time in all the years they’d worked for him, Hutch found himself feeling odd that Dobey would just assume they’d be together. But of course, Starsky had told him they’d be spending the night at his place. And the truth was, they spent more nights together than they did apart. Not exactly normal practice for most police partners. But at least their long-time habits would give them a good cover now that they had embarked on this new facet of their partnership. Hutch pulled his mind away from things he didn’t need to worry about now.

“Yeah, Cap, he is,” Hutch said. “You need us in?”

“No, that’s why I called. Things are moving slower than I’d like, but that’s what happens when you involve the Feds on a weekend. Doubt if we’ll need you two till Monday. Wanted to let you know before you came in on your own. Once everything’s in place, though, it’ll be pretty busy, so catch up on your beauty rest.”

“Thanks for letting us know, Cap’n,” Hutch said, meaning it. “We’ll be in bright and early on Monday.”

“You and Starsky have a good weekend, Hutch,” Dobey bid. “You did a helluva job this week.”

“Oh, yes, sir!” Hutch assured him with the greatest sincerity. “I’m sure we’ll have a fine weekend. Thank you, sir.” His Captain hung up, just as the coffee finished perking.

Hutch considered their good fortune as he poured two cups of coffee, flavoring them as they each preferred. Deciding he was ready to beard the lion in his den, Hutch put the coffee pot, sugar bowl, and both cups on a tray, tucked the stack of books under his arm, and carried everything into the bedroom. Putting the tray on his night stand and the books in the bed, he carried Starsky’s mug around to his partner’s night stand, then walked back to his side. Plumping the remaining pillow against the headboard, he cautiously eased himself down on the bed. He put the stack of books on his lap, making sure the spines were facing Starsky, then proceeded to read and sip. The books were far more interesting than the Sunday paper.

It took two minutes for the smell of fresh coffee to stir his partner. Following his nose, Starsky turned to his nightstand like a bloodhound. Snaking an arm out from under the sheet, he groped for the cup, pulled it to his mouth, took a swallow, then returned it, pulling the sheet back up over his head.

Hutch continued to drink and flip pages, occasionally shifting his weight to find a more comfortable position. After a while, Starsky’s arm emerged to gather another gulp of coffee. It was only after the third drink that his prone body shifted in the bed towards Hutch, and his curly head partially emerged from under the blue sheet.

Hutch glanced over the top of How To Make Love To A Man to find one bleary sapphire eye peering over the bunched-up pillow. It widened slowly as it scanned the book title. Then the eye roved around to take in the stack of books on Hutch’s lap. Finally, the lone blue orb traveled hesitantly back to Hutch’s face, its expression now wary.

Hutch smiled brightly. “Mornin’ Starsk! Lovely day. Dobey called. We don’t have to be in till Monday. There’s more coffee when you’re ready.” He indicated the pot by his elbow. Pausing a moment, he added, as if it were an afterthought, “Oh, by the way,” he patted the books, “nice library! Some interesting stuff here!” He grinned cheerily.

The eyelid closed slowly then sank back into the pillow as the sheet was pulled up over Starsky’s curly head. That was fine with Hutch. He had a lot of catching up to do.

Moments later, a muffled voice mumbled something into the mattress.

“What was that?” Hutch wondered, lifting the sheet to enable him to hear. “There’s no transmitter in that pillow, Starsk.”

“I said,” Starsky grumbled, hoisting himself up on his elbows so that the sheet tented over his head like a veil, “wha’d’ja do, toss the place lookin’ for evidence of my other lovers?”

“Not hardly,” Hutch assured him mildly. “I already know who your other lovers are. I introduced you to most of them. No, I had a rare moment of neatness. I was putting the lubricant away–after you left it in bed–to keep you from bitching about my sloppy habits. Imagine my surprise to discover the hidden library of Alexandria. It was just a bit of serendipity.”

“What’s seren-den-ity?” Starsky groaned. “Seren-pip-ity?”

“Seren-dip-ity,” Hutch said carefully.

“What the hell kinda word izzat?”

“It means finding something you didn’t know you needed to find without even looking for it.”

“Seren-get-ti to you, too,” Starsky mumbled, collapsing back into the pillow. “Weird words before breakfast. I need more coffee.”

“Hold out your cup,” Hutch said, offering the pot, and Starsky obliged, then buried his nose in the refilled mug. But Hutch spied him peering surreptitiously at him over the rim. He continued to flip pages.

Starsky shifted around a moment, then slid out of bed and trundled off to the john. After a few moments of liquid sounds and tooth brushing noises, he emerged, still nude. Scratching his head, then his furry belly, he asked tentatively, “How you feelin’?”

Hutch tried not to react to his hirsute lover’s innocent nudity. “A little stiff,” he said honestly. “A little achy. But overall, I feel good. How about you?”

“Me?” Starsky said, as if surprised to be asked, “oh, hey, I feel great.”

Watching Hutch for a few minutes with a slightly chagrined, slightly amused, slightly intrigued look on his face, Starsky finally clambered back into bed, covered himself modestly with the sheet, then tentatively snuggled his head against Hutch’s bare thigh. Hutch glanced over the top of the book at him.

“When I asked how you were feeling,” Starsky began softly, with a winsome expression that Hutch felt was too calculated to be accidental, “I wasn’t just checking on your, uh, physical condition. I was wondering–how are you feeling? If you know what I mean.”

“As in–how am I feeling–for you?” Hutch laid the open book across his groin, hoping it would hide the interest stirring there.

“As in,” Starsky asked.

Hutch looked at his partner seriously. “What would you like to hear, Starsk?”

“What I always wanna hear from you. The truth.”

Hutch yielded to temptation and stroked the dark head resting on his thigh. “I feel the same way I felt three months ago in that hospital room, only now–I also feel happy. I feel satisfied.” Starsky’s color darkened a bit, but his eyes told Hutch how pleased that made him. Hutch brushed his thumb over the mole on Starsky’s cheek, then slid his fingers into his tangled mop of curls. “To be completely honest, Starsk, I feel complete–maybe for the first time in my life.” He watched an enigmatic expression cloud those darkening indigo eyes. “Does that scare you?”

“No,” Starsky said, his voice low but assured. “Why should it? That’s a nice way of putting it, Hutch. Complete. I couldn’t find the words to say it, but I knew you would. That’s the way I feel–complete, like I’d been missing something but I didn’t know what. Looking for somethin’ I might’ve never found ’cause I never really knew what it was till now. We’re complete. Yeah.” Starsky smiled warmly, and that satisfied expression warmed Hutch thoroughly, knowing he was responsible for it. “Mornin’ after sometimes changes things. If I was scared at all, it was that things might’ve changed between us. I can’t afford to get shot every couple of months just to keep things right with my partner.”

Hutch pulled his long curls playfully until Starsky winced.

“So, uh,” Starsky muttered, surprisingly subdued, “now that I brushed my teeth, any chance I can get a good morning kiss–or, uh,” he tapped the book sitting over Hutch’s groin, “am I totally in the dog house?”

Hutch closed the book and put it aside, then moved the stack onto the floor. Shifting his weight onto his hip, he said, “A morning kiss would be nice.”

Starsky pushed himself up on his arms to meet Hutch’s mouth. The kiss was gentle, sweet, friendly and brief. A partner’s kiss more than a lover’s.

“Mmmm,” Hutch sighed. “Good morning.”

Starsky smiled and Hutch saw that telltale glitter in his eye. He moved in for another kiss, and Hutch didn’t resist. This one had some tension behind it, a bit of hunger. Their tongues grew more serious in their slow dance. Hutch’s arms slid around Starsky’s chest and drew him close.

They separated for air. “Good morning to you, too!” Starsky murmured huskily.

Hutch chuckled and went after his lover’s mouth, taking Starsky by surprise. He gasped and responded, slinging an arm around Hutch’s neck. As Hutch moved aggressively into the parted lips, he lifted Starsky slightly and shifted his weight, moving smoothly onto his knees, Turning, he manipulated Starsky, bearing him onto his back so that as they settled onto the bed, Hutch hovered over him. When he pulled his mouth away this time, Starsky looked up dazed from the mattress, his eyes glazing with that lovely, lusty look that Hutch was already addicted to.

“Wow!” Starsky muttered, licking his lips. “You must’ve gotten a real good night’s sleep!”

Hutch kissed him again, lightly this time. “That, and your reading material has been very inspiring. You know, I never did finish seducing you last night. Somewhere along the line, something distracted me. But that’s all right.” He kissed Starsky again, softly but surely, taking his mouth and feeling it respond. “I’ve been making plans for you while you slept, Detective Starsky.”

He grinned devilishly. “Wished I’d put the cookbooks in that drawer. Then maybe those plans might include breakfast. Any chance of my getting breakfast in bed?”

Hutch’s smile was positively wolfish. “The way I see it, Detective Starsky, you are breakfast in bed.”

Starsky saucy smile faded as he laughed nervously then swallowed. “Me?”

“You!” Hutch pounced, taking Starsky’s mouth without mercy, swallowing his startled groan as his lips smothered that soft, full mouth. Hutch’s long arms enveloped Starsky’s slender body, even as his bigger body blanketed Starsky’s entire form. Insinuating a knee between Starsky’s legs, Hutch forced them apart, making Starsky squirm beneath him. He rubbed his knee up and down the smooth skin of Starsky’s inner leg, which caused the Hutch’s thigh to brush against Starsky’s velvety pendulous sac. Starsky’s cock responded rapidly, growing, swelling, nudging Hutch’s hip. He shifted cooperatively so that Starsky’s stiffening organ could slide comfortably into its natural position. As soon as it did, he pinned it again with his body, so that both rigid cocks could nestle together warmly, erotically. Starsky moaned again as they rubbed together.

“Hutch! Hutch!” Starsky whispered into his mouth as they continued kissing, tongue-wrestling, rediscovering the taste and texture of each other’s warm, wet, sweet-tasting mouths.

Hutch slid his hands into the dense tangle of Starsky’s wild hair and anchored his lover’s head in place. Sliding his lips over his partner’s cheek, he buried his tongue in Starsky’s ear, lapping it, drilling into it wetly, biting the lobe sporadically. Starsky responded frantically, bucking his hips hard against Hutch’s rod.

“How do you do that?” Starsky murmured. “Make me so hot so fast? You get me crazy with just your mouth.”

Isn’t he always like this in bed? Hutch wondered, suspecting Starsky was just making the kind of love talk that he thought would excite him. Starsky’s instincts were on the mark; everything he said cranked Hutch’s blood pressure up notch by notch. “Bet you say that to all your blonds,” he whispered back, smiling.

Starsky shook his head. “Only the ones over six foot,” he insisted, then giggled.

Hutch moved his mouth lower, down Starsky’s long throat, tasting his way along his tanned skin. He licked and kissed his way over sharp collarbones, over the hollows there, then nosed his way through the soft fur scattered over Starsky’s pectorals. Starsky writhed beneath him, grinding against Hutch, making sparks between them, building the fire.

Starsky’s elegant hands threaded through Hutch’s hair. “So soft,” he purred. He combed the fine strands with his fingers, and Hutch glanced up to find his sapphire eyes gone dark with love and need.

Unable to resist the loving caress, Hutch rubbed his head against those palms like a cat being stropped, making Starsky smile. One of his elegant hands slid over Hutch’s ear, then the back of his neck, pulling a low sound of approval from his throat. Not wanting to be distracted from his own goals, Hutch rubbed his cheek against Starsky’s furred chest until his mouth uncovered the tiny nub of a dark nipple. As his tongue encircled it, Starsky went boneless and sighed, “Yeah, oh yeah, babe.”

Yes, indeed, Hutch thought, as the nub turned hard beneath his lips and tongue. He took it between his teeth carefully, gently biting. Starsky stiffened, his hands gripping Hutch’s hair as he bucked up, his erection throbbing hard, rubbing insistently against Hutch’s own. He eased the small pain with his tongue until Starsky relaxed again then bit down once more, slowly increasing the pressure until Starsky’s head thrashed on his pillow, until his body bucked helplessly. Then Hutch went back to softly licking again. He moved to the other nipple and repeated the teasing with small nips and gentle sucking until Starsky was wild, panting harshly, leaking pre-come between them, gripping the back of Hutch’s neck roughly, calling his name frantically.

Finally, Hutch decided Starsky had hit his limit. It felt odd for him to be able to evaluate that about his partner, but all their years of working together lent him an intimate knowledge of Starsky’s reactions that was far more familiar than his usual experience with first time lovers. It lent an odd comfort to their lovemaking that Hutch really enjoyed. This was Starsky, after all. His Starsky. He had to chuckle as he kissed his way down the long sternum.

“You know me too damned well, Hutchinson,” Starsky complained, as if he’d read his mind.

“Guess I do,” Hutch admitted, encircling Starsky’s naval with the tip of his tongue. “Don’t know everything yet. Not yet.”

“Now, you are scarin’ me, Hutch,” Starsky blurted.

He shook his head. “What a sweet liar. I lived in terror of this for three months while you went out and did research. Don’t give me that ‘I’m scared’ stuff. Nothing scares you, Starsky. Not even shopping in a gay book store! Something I don’t think I would’ve had the nerve to do.”

“You’re wrong, Hutch,” Starsky insisted seriously. “The way you make me feel when you’re loving me scares me. No one ever made me feel like this, all out of control, all crazed like this. You make me think I’d let you do anything to me. That scares me a helluva lot more than wanderin’ through a book store!” Starsky gave Hutch one of his irrepressible grins. “‘Sides, the guys in there were real nice to me–even if they did spot me for a virgin right off.”

“I’ll bet! It’s a wonder you got out of there alive. How many phone numbers did you end up collecting out of politeness?”

Starsky had the grace to blush. “Never mind. And who says I took ’em outta politeness?”

“It better have been politeness,” Hutch warned. “Your lover’s over six foot, packs a gun, has a temper, and is very jealous.”

“You know, jealousy is a sign of immaturity–OUCH!”

Hutch had clamped his teeth on a patch of hair trailing over Starsky’s stomach and pulled.

“I already threw the numbers away!” Starsky swore, rubbing the patch of tender skin. “Easy!”

They both laughed lightly, and Starsky reminded him, “See? I told you we’d be okay if we could just keep laughing in bed.”

He kissed Starsky’s abdomen, wanting to get back on track. Still, he couldn’t help smiling, his heart felt so full. “Tell me what you want, Starsk. Tell me how to please you. All I want to do is please you, love.”

Starsky smiled, all his joy in it. “I don’t have to tell you, you already know. I had to read those books over and over. I stayed awake nights, scared that if it ever happened I wouldn’t have the slightest idea what to do for you, that I wouldn’t be able to please you. I was so worried I couldn’t go through with it even if I wanted to. But not you. No, you already knew everything, just like you always do. You just touched me, and all the magic happened.”

Hutch shook his head. “Come on, I want to know. I want you to tell me–tell me what you want from me.”

Starsky swallowed as if suddenly overcome with a bout of shyness. He reached down, traced Hutch’s wide mouth with his fingertips. “Take me in your mouth, babe. It’s so good when you do me that way.”

Hutch couldn’t help but wonder. “That simple thing? How many women have done that for you? Women with a lot more skill than I have.”

Starsky shook his head. “Doesn’t matter how many. When you did it, it was all new again and there was nothing simple about it. It was different. So incredible. You knew just how to make it perfect. You knew just how I’d like it. Go down on me, Hutch. Do that for me.”

“My pleasure, lover,” Hutch said softly, and descended over Starsky’s groin.

He took hold of the heavy organ, grasping it firmly in his big hand. He felt Starsky tense in anticipation, felt the cobalt eyes watching him, waiting for that first delicious shock of pleasure. Hutch wouldn’t disappoint him. He kissed the tip softly, wetly, lapping the bead of honey there. Starsky was impossibly hard, hot to the touch. He smelled of male musk and soap and tasted clean. He tasted like Starsky, a taste Hutch’s mouth had already fallen in love with. His tongue encircled the wide glans, toyed with the ridge, and then slid down the shaft, tracing the outline of the prominent veins that snaked over his rigid flesh.

Starsky groaned and exhaled Hutch’s name as he melted into the bed. “Oh, god, stop teasing! You’re driving me crazy. Take me in your mouth. Make it good.”

Hutch grinned, loving the desperate tone in Starsky’s voice. Obligingly, he parted his lips and slid his solid cock into his mouth. As Starsky gasped in surprise and delight, Hutch enclosed him. The ease with which he did it amazed him considering that it was an act that, a few months ago, he could’ve only imagined being done to him. Now, the feel of Starsky, the taste, the scent of him filled Hutch up, made his mouth water, made him hunger for this. He took more of Starsky inside.

Starsky shuddered, went lax and gasped. His hands came up, latched onto Hutch’s head, but did not push, just held, petted, touched with a trembling grip. He was loving this, Hutch knew, absolutely loving this.

Hutch rose up on his knees, bowed over Starsky’s groin as if praying. He slid his hands under Starsky’s ass, digging his fingers into the lush, soft flesh as if he wanted to pull Starsky completely inside him. He moved his head, slid his mouth up and down his sweet-tasting flesh, relishing the feel of it against his palate and tongue, loving the act, the pleasure it gave Starsky. In his hands the round ass flexed, as his hips bucked, Starsky’s body desperately needing to hump. Hutch moaned softly around the mass in his mouth, singing his pleasure.

Starsky could only pant, breathe his name and clutch his head, his desire white hot, all right there for Hutch to see and enjoy.

He worked his tongue around and around the weeping glans, sucked hard, then gently, then not at all, just licking, licking, until Starsky thrashed beneath him, wild with pleasure, his need climbing higher and higher. Starsky’s chest heaved as he pulled in air in great, gasping gulps, but it was never enough. Gently, carefully, Hutch touched his teeth to the tip of Starsky’s glans.

“Oh dammit, Hutch!” Starsky shouted. “Enough! Enough! Can’t take it. Can’t take that. Make me come, babe, you gotta make me come!” Starsky bucked wildly, as he begged for release. But Hutch had plans for him and orgasm was not included in them, at least, not yet.

Losing control, Starsky grabbed Hutch’s head roughly, trying to force him down farther on his cock. His need for completion was his only master now. Hutch would have to get hold of the situation quickly before Starsky found a way to get off, leaving Hutch behind.

Releasing his ass, Hutch grabbed Starsky’s wrists and pulled the frantic hands off his head. He kept working the cock slowly, trying to cool his lover down from his frenetic peak. Capturing both slender wrists in one of his large hands, Hutch held Starsky’s grasping fingers against his own furred abdomen. Pulling away from the dusky, pulsing cock reluctantly, Hutch moved lower over Starsky’s twisting body to run his tongue over the sac which had pulled up hard against Starsky’s body, as if to hide from him. He tongued the sensitive orbs as Starsky struggled weakly in his grip.

“Hutch, come on, don’t! You’re makin’ me nuts! You’re doing it on purpose! Oh, please, stop teasing me.”

“Why should I,” Hutch taunted, “when it’s so much fun? You’re delicious to tease, Starsk, absolutely delicious.”

He mouthed the tight sac, then pulled one of the testes into his mouth. Starsky cried out incoherently, flailing beneath him. Carefully, Hutch pulled the sac gently, making him freeze in place.

“Easy! Easy!” Starsky begged, his back arched, every muscle tensed against the shock of pleasure/pain that Hutch knew was running through every nerve.

Hutch released the testicle and Starsky sagged in relief.

“Why?” he gasped. “Why you doin’ this to me?”

Hutch licked his mouth and met Starsky’s questioning eyes. “I want something from you. I want you so crazed you’ll just give it to me. Want you so hot you won’t be able to do anything but beg me to take it.”

“Oh, shit,” Starsky breathed, knowing instantly what Hutch meant. “You wanna fuck me?”

He said it like it was the most alien concept. Hutch blinked, surprised. He released Starsky’s hands and sat back on his heels. “Didn’t you think I’d ever want you that way?”

“Hutch, I–I guess I never really thought about it at all,” Starsky confessed, rolling onto one hip, and pushing up on his elbow.

He looked away. He wasn’t sure what to do now.

Starsky spoke softly. “Hey, wait a minute, partner. Try and understand. See, when I realized where things might be going with us, after I got out of the hospital, I went and bought those books. And I went through ’em over and over, not knowing when you might make a move on me. I was scared I wouldn’t be ready for you. Scared I wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

Starsky touched Hutch’s cheek to draw his attention. Hutch could see the sincerity in his fathomless blue eyes. “The last thing in the world I wanted was to turn you off, or get in the clinches and go all cold ’cause I couldn’t deliver. But I had to get used to the idea. Most of the time, the only way I could do that was if, when I was reading the books, I thought–well, that is, if I imagined–” Starsky swallowed, suddenly embarrassed, “if I saw me doin’ those things to you. It was all too new, too strange. Anytime I thought about you doing stuff to me–it’d be too weird and I’d just turn it off in my head. I never let myself think about what I’d do if–when–you wanted me that way. I mean, you’re all man, Hutch. I knew it was bound to happen, but–I just couldn’t imagine it. I still can’t. I guess it just scares me too much.”

Hutch wet his lips. He was grateful Starsky had been honest with him, but he was unsure of how to proceed. He’d never forced himself on any lover in his life; he wasn’t about to start with the most important one he ever had. He struggled to keep his voice even. “Then just tell me ‘no’ Starsky, and that’s the end of it. I’d never ask you for anything you didn’t want to give me freely.”

“How the hell can I say ‘no’ to you, when you do the things you do to me?” Starsky asked, mystified. “How can I say ‘no’ to you when you give me so much, all of yourself. You’d never turn me down.”

“We’re different people, Starsk,” Hutch said quietly. “Just cause I might do something or want something doesn’t mean you have to. Maybe you’ll feel different in the future, when it’s not so new. But if you don’t, if you never want that, I’ll still love you. I’ll still want you, however you want me.”

Starsky shook his head, his eyes all soft. “That’s just like you, Hutch, ready to settle for so little. You do the same thing with your women, let them set all the limits, taking whatever scraps they can spare for you. You think that’s the way I wanna be? When you deserve so much?”

Hutch felt the color rise in his face and realized there could be a disadvantage in making love to someone who knew you so well. “Starsky, you can’t do things in bed out of obligation. It doesn’t work that way.”

“You’re right about that, Hutch,” Starsky agreed. “You can only do things desire makes you want. So, that’s it. You’ve got to make me want it. Just like you said.”

Hutch blinked, confused. “What?”

“Just like you told me. You’ve got to make me want you, Hutch. Make me so crazed I can’t say no. Make me want you that way. Seduce me. Make me get lost in those gorgeous blue eyes, in the feel of your hands, your mouth. Make me want it, the way I know you can.”

Hutch’s mouth suddenly went dry. “You–you trust me that much?”

Starsky looked dismayed. “You kiddin’? I trust you with my life. You think my ass is worth more to me than that? Sometimes you amaze me, blintz!”

Hutch smiled gamely, even though he was suddenly a mass of nerves. “Okay, Starsk. If that’s what you want. But you got to promise me you’ll let me know if it’s not working out for you. I want it to be as good for you as it was for me.”

Starsky’s eyes bore into him, piercing, seeing everything. “Seems to me, Hutch, there were moments for you that weren’t so terrific. But you got through it anyway.”

“That’s what’s scaring you? The pain?”

“Hell, no!” Starsky said defensively. “You handled it; I can, too! No, that isn’t it at all.” Then he looked sheepish again. “It’s funny how fuckin’ always seems like such a great idea when you’re wantin’ to do it to somebody else, but suddenly, when it’s something someone wants to do to you–it’s a whole other thing.”

Enough talk, Hutch decided, and leaned closer to his lover. Gently, he kissed Starsky, feeling him respond instantly. Their kiss was warm and wet, soft with love. Their urgency had abated while they’d worried out their problem. Hutch wanted to find that urgency again, but he couldn’t force it. He wanted Starsky fever-hot; that would take time. Hutch decided they would take all the time in the world.

They kissed for long moments, as Hutch eased Starsky down onto his back again, pressing his long form against him. Their hands roamed as they kissed, enjoying the feel of each other’s different skin, the contrast in texture, color, softness. Finally, their arms entwined around their bodies and they hugged, the kissing bringing them together in love and anticipation. Finally, Hutch pulled away.

“It’s who-do-you-trust time, Starsk,” he murmured.

Starsky gulped audibly, his eyes dark, the color almost violet. “I trust you,” he whispered.

Hutch took his mouth again, rolled over him, blanketing him, covering him, letting him know who wanted him, who would have him. He felt the body beneath him tremble.

Hutch used his mouth as skillfully as he knew how, and kissed his way slowly down Starsky’s lean, furred body, tasting, nipping, licking, mouthing every inch of him he could reach. And Starsky responded, his head tossed back, his body taut with delight, his hands grasping, guiding, urging. When Hutch captured his cock and swallowed it, Starsky surged up uncontrollably, crying out his love. Hutch used his mouth tenderly, bringing long moments of pleasure to his straining organ, but refusing to give it everything it wanted. Finally, he left it, too, and trailed his tongue wetly over the strong, sun-bronzed thighs, over the knees, down the calves. Kissing his lover’s ankles, he worked his way back up again, bathing each testicle as delicately as a cat would its paws.

Starsky was panting, tossing his head, clenching the sheets, whispering soft words of desperation and desire. Slowly, Hutch licked and kissed his way back up his dark form until Starsky was whimpering in helpless need.

Hovering over the twisting body, Hutch took hold of his lover’s chin. “Who do you trust, Starsk? Who?”

“You,” he gasped, eyes fastening on Hutch’s. “Trust you. Only you. Love you, Hutch, so much.”

Hutch smiled. “Love you, too. I want you. Want you to want me.”

“I do!” Starsky insisted. “I swear I do!”

Hutch smiled knowingly. “Want me in you?” he asked softly.

Starsky froze, his eyes widening. “Hutch–?”

“Sssh,” Hutch soothed, feeling the tremor beneath him. “It’s okay. Who do you trust?”

“You.” Starsky wet his mouth. “You.”

“Good. Trust me. Roll over, Starsk.”

He hesitated a beat, then finally complied. Starsky’s spine went rigid as he settled on his stomach, clutching his pillow as if it were a shield. Violet blue eyes darted back and forth nervously as he looked back at Hutch. That was not the expression Hutch had imagined Starsky having for him in his fantasies. And he wanted that fantasy expression, wanted to see those blue eyes full of lust, full of love, full of wanting–all for him.

Gently, Hutch pushed dark curls away from Starsky’s hidden ear, and slipped his tongue around the rim. Starsky’s lids lowered as he leaned into the wet, toying kiss, and he sighed in spite of his fears. As he tongued the ear slowly, Hutch slid a hand over the nape of Starsky’s neck, and watched his dark head droop forward, giving him access. He rubbed his lover’s neck slowly, smoothly, knowing Starsky loved that touch from him, had always loved it, long before they were lovers. It was a comforting, familiar touch, and Hutch used it to do that now, to comfort his friend. He watched as Starsky’s taut shoulders slowly began to relax, watched as the tense body began to ease against the mattress.

“Trust me, Starsk,” Hutch whispered into his friend’s ear. “Trust me to love you. Trust me to please you.”

“I trust you,” Starsky murmured back.

Hutch pressed his lips against Starsky’s cheek, then slowly kissed his way over the nape of his neck. Starsky buried his face in the pillow, giving Hutch all the access he needed. Cautiously, as Hutch pressed gentle kisses over Starsky’s neck and shoulders, he lowered himself over his prone body until he nestled completely against the seductive curve of Starsky’s spine. His hardened cock fell naturally between his lush cheeks, and as it did, Starsky’s lithe body tensed all over again. He felt Starsky’s breath catch and release in a jerky rhythm that spoke of stress, even fear.

“Who do you trust, babe?” he murmured in Starsky’s ear. He felt his lover swallow. “Come on, answer me, Starsk. Who do you trust?”

There was a breathy gasp, then finally Starsky whispered, “You, Hutch. I trust you.” But there was a question in his voice. Hutch felt his lover tremble beneath him.

Hutch used his hands to soothe Starsky’s nerves, petting him with long smooth strokes down his sides, over his flanks, over the side of his ass. In spite of his fears, Starsky responded to Hutch’s touch, and his tense body shivered under Hutch’s palms. He continued kissing his warm, smooth back, touching his lover slowly, petting him, wanting him to feel loved, cherished.

In the bright afternoon sun, Hutch noticed the puckered scar on Starsky’s left shoulder. He’d never noticed it last night in the candle light, but today it was prominent, the skin pink and new. Gently, Hutch pressed his lips to it, kissing it almost reverently. This moment–their new found love–might never have happened to them but for that. Hutch didn’t want to feel grateful that his friend had been shot, had nearly died. His reaction to the blemish on that otherwise flawless back confused him.

Suddenly Starsky murmured without coaxing, “That’s nice, Hutch. So nice.”

That snapped Hutch out of his perplexed reverie and told him his mouth was the key to Starsky’s pleasure. Pulling his eyes away from the terrible memento of a terrible evening, he decided to be grateful for the moment, and not question how it had come about. Instead, he kissed Starsky’s long spine gently, his shoulder blades, his narrow, muscular back.

Slowly, Starsky’s breathing evened out, and the tension in his body eased. Hutch’s tongue licked a wet trail over Starsky’s neck, between his shoulder blades, then blazed a trail that ended just above the crevasse of his ass. Hutch kissed the dimples above Starsky’s smooth, beautiful rump. He was rewarded with a pleased sigh from his nervous lover.

“You know that road sign we always see when we go up in the hills?” Hutch murmured.

Starsky looked back at him, brows furrowed.

“The one that says, ‘Caution: Curves Ahead’?”

Starsky gave a brief nod, but his expression was still confused.

Hutch pressed his lips in the small of his slender back, just above his rear. “I think we should tattoo that sign right here, as a warning to the unsuspecting.”

Starsky snorted a laugh and shook his head. “You’re crazy, blondie. You know that?”

“Crazy about you,” Hutch said. Gently, he slid his palm over one cheek of his lover’s smooth ass. “‘Caution: Curves Ahead.’ Seems only fair to warn people.”

Starsky’s lids lowered as he cuddled into his pillow. “Now who’s lyin’? That isn’t the sign you want to tattoo there.”

Hutch grinned at the man who knew him too well. “Caught. The only thing I really want to tattoo is–”

“‘Private Property of Sergeant Hutchinson–No Trespassing,'” Starsky finished for him.

“Don’t forget, ‘Violators Will Be Shot On Sight!'” Hutch reminded him.

“You’d need both cheeks for all of that, Hutch!” Starsky said, and giggled.

Hutch slapped his buttock lightly. “Looks like plenty of canvas to me, gordo!”

Starsky grinned, then said quietly, “You don’t need signs, Hutch. Don’t have to mark what belongs to you. I love you, babe.”

A flush of heat burst through Hutch’s body and his balls tightened up hard. He wondered if Starsky could get him off just by talking. Maybe someday he’d find out. “Love you, too, Starsk,” he murmured, and stroked his smooth ass again. Then, remembering finally what they were about, he leaned over to Starsky’s night table and retrieved the lubricant from the drawer.

As if that brought reality into too great a focus, Starsky turned away from him and buried his face in his pillow again. Hutch parked the lubricant under his right leg where he could reach it conveniently, then once again began kissing Starsky’s back. The tension was there again, but not as severe.

Hutch used his mouth, letting his warm lips and tongue write love messages along Starsky’s fragrant skin. His lover’s texture was intoxicating, his taste so sweet to Hutch’s tongue he couldn’t get enough. He was doing this for his own pleasure, he realized, and was grateful that it pleased Starsky as well. He trailed his mouth over one round, smooth cheek, and heard Starsky gasp. His buttocks tightened, only now, Hutch knew, it was a pleasure reaction. He continued kissing and licking the impressive mounds of Starsky’s ass, feeling them clench and relax over and over in reaction to his attention. He stroked with his hands as he kissed, fondling the smooth skin, grasping the malleable flesh, enjoying himself incredibly. For months, he’d watched that taunting rear being flaunted in front of him in clothing much too tight to house it decently. Now, finally, he could touch and kiss and love it to his heart’s content.

Soon, Starsky was panting again and making small, encouraging sounds. Hutch realized his partner was slowly humping the bedclothes, and that pleased him inordinately. Teasingly, he nipped the underside of his tender rump, and felt a rush of pleasure when Starsky jumped.

He nipped him again, and Starsky hissed his name, his back going taut. Hutch rubbed both hands boldly over the plush flesh and Starsky moaned, muttering a protest.

“You said it was mine,” Hutch reminded him, nipping him again on the other cheek. “Is it? Is it mine? Or is that just part of the patented Starsky come-on?”

His lover’s head shook too rapidly. “No, babe, I swear. I meant it. It’s yours. Just, please, Hutch–?”

“No, ‘please, Hutch,'” he said ominously. “No bargains. No compromise. Is it mine, or isn’t it?”

He could hear Starsky swallow, then he looked back at Hutch. The expression now was all apprehension; still not what Hutch wanted to see. But his partner answered him. “It’s yours. Only yours, just like I said. So, do what you want.”

Hutch nodded, wetting his suddenly dry mouth. “I intend to.”

Starsky went back to gripping his pillow.

Hutch took hold of that delectable ass, grasping one cheek in each hand as he bent to lay a gentle kiss at the top of the deep divide. A bead of sweat traveled down Starsky’s spine to pool in the small of his back, and Hutch licked it up, tasting his lover’s essence in it. Carefully, deliberately, he touched his tongue tip to the top of the split between Starsky’s cheeks. His lover went rigid, but he ignored that as he parted the cheeks gently and let his tongue travel that dark valley.

Starsky gasped in shock and froze, muttering Hutch’s name in surprise.

Hutch licked his way through this new territory carefully, feeling Starsky’s body reacting strongly, shaking, trembling. Sweat broke out under Hutch’s palms but he wasn’t sure if it was Starsky’s sweat or his own. His tongue traveled lower, finally finding the secret port, the hidden entrance to Starsky’s body.

“No, Hutch, no, don’t!” Starsky whispered a plea, but when his body didn’t try to escape, Hutch ignored him. This was his, he owned it, Starsky had said so, and he was ready to take possession of what he owned. Hutch moved his tongue strongly against the resisting bud of flesh.

“Oh, god!” Starsky gasped, moving his hips from side to side in a voluptuous slide. Hutch moved with him easily, holding him open, licking him, taking him with his mouth, finally penetrating him gently with his tongue. His lover’s musk was strong here; Hutch felt as if he were tasting pure distilled Starsky, and it was making him drunk with need.

“Oh, babe! Oh, jeez!” Starsky was whimpering helplessly under Hutch’s mouth, and he thought he’d never heard anything so erotic. Soon, his rigid buttocks relaxed under Hutch’s hands, and Starsky’s body followed, growing lax with desire as Hutch rimmed him wetly.

“Oh yeah, Hutch, yeah, that’s so good,” Starsky whispered finally, humping gently into the sheets, arching his back to press insistently against Hutch’s ever-loving mouth. “I can’t believe you. Can’t believe the way you make me feel.”

Hutch continued his oral loving, unable to get enough of the exotic taste of his lover. It excited him as much as he hoped it was exciting Starsky, and by the way he was moving, by the sweet sounds he made, Hutch knew it was. He reached for the lubricant with one hand. Without pulling his mouth away from Starsky’s sweet ass, he uncapped the tube and captured a small amount on his index finger.

He was gasping himself now, breathing hard, and struggled to get a grip on his rampaging desire. He remembered how hard it had been for Starsky to keep a handle on his own needs when he was taking Hutch, but Starsk had managed to do it. He could do no less for his love.

Reluctantly, he pulled his mouth away, kissing a warm cheek wetly as he circled the relaxed anus with his slick finger. Starsky looked back at him, eyes wide, full of anticipation and raw fear. But there was hunger there, too, Hutch could see it. He concentrated on slowing his own breathing and ignoring the demands of his aching cock which wanted nothing less than to simply invade that tight port in one sharp, strong move. But that was impossible, Hutch reminded himself. He could not afford to lose it now, not for one selfish–if glorious–moment. Starsky was trusting him to make it right, make it good. For the first time he realized how much that effort had to have cost Starsky and he admired his control all the more.

When Hutch’s teasing touch caused Starsky’s body to relax, he slipped the tip of his finger gently inside his tight port. Starsky groaned loud and spread his legs, which made a shudder run wild through Hutch’s frame. He began to seriously wonder if he could keep it together the way he needed to, and began wishing he had a storehouse of baseball statistics to review at critical moments.

He moved his finger carefully, taking his time, biting his lower lip to hold his concentration. Starsky was writhing under his hand as Hutch moved the finger deeper inside him. Starsky’s body was like a banked furnace, so hot to the touch it surprised him.

“You’re doin’ it, Hutch!” Starsky gasped. “Damn you, you’re doing it! Just like I knew you would!”

“Ssssh,” Hutch soothed his agitated lover. “Doing what, babe?” Was he hurting him, Hutch worried?

“Makin’ me love it!” Starsky cried, clutching the pillow as if it were a lifesaver. “Making me want it from you.” He choked off a sob.

Not enough yet, Hutch thought, even as Starsky’s words thrilled him. Fumbling one-handed with the tube of lubricant, Hutch managed to squeeze a quantity into the palm of his left hand. Carefully, he slid that hand, palm up, under his lover’s body. Nestling Starsky’s rigid rod against that slippery palm, he let his lover strop his cock against his hand.

Starsky growled and moved hard against the offered palm. Hutch took advantage of his excitement to slide a second finger into his body. His partner cried out sharply, making Hutch fear he’d hurt him, but then he spread his legs wider and drew up one knee to give Hutch better access to him. Hutch knew then it was pure pleasure for Starsky. He kissed a tight cheek, and rubbed his face against that smooth, satiny skin.

“Love you, Starsk,” he swore breathlessly. “Love you so much. Want you so bad.” His eyes were shut as one hand invaded his lover’s tight heat and the other stroked his stone-hard cock. Starsky was still so incredibly tight. Hutch feared he might be too small for him. He feared so many things.

“Hutch!” Starsky called, and Hutch opened his eyes.

Cobalt eyes looked over Starsky’s shoulder at him; they were full of longing, liquid with wanting, with anticipation, with need. Just the way Hutch had always imagined they’d be. Wanting him. Wanting Hutch. He shivered.

“Jeezus, Hutch,” Starsky said huskily, “you gonna make me beg for it?”

Hutch just stared, unable to get enough of Starsky’s beautiful face, the raw desire there.

“Okay, I’ll beg,” Starsky said. “This ain’t no time to be proud. Please, Hutch, it’s all yours. You made me want it, so do it. Fuck me, babe. Fuck me good. I never wanted anything the way I want you now.”

Hutch shook his head, realizing if he wasn’t careful, Starsky would take over again and run roughshod right over him. He had to maintain his control, for Starsky’s sake if no other. “You’re still too tight, Starsk,” Hutch insisted. “We’ll get there. We’ve got to go slow.”

“Hutch, come on!” Starsky insisted, pushing back against his hand.

He remembered Starsky’s incredible patience last night, and suspected this hot-to-trot lover was more the real thing. But he still couldn’t let him decide the course of action here. Cautiously, Hutch slid a third finger inside.

Starsky’s eyes widened as he was filled and stretched. He groaned, his body freezing in place and Hutch felt his dusky erection falter slightly. Hutch moved his hand carefully, sliding in slowly, pulling out with just as much care. He kissed Starsky’s spine, urging him to relax, to remember to breathe. Starsky instantly obeyed, trusting Hutch to lead him, and soon his body was back to the state of heightened excitement it had been moments before.

“Now, Hutch?” Starsky gasped. “Now?”

“Okay,” he finally agreed, still concerned about Starsky’s tension. “Lift your knee higher.”

Hutch thought Starsky would never be more beautiful to him than he was at that moment, totally willing, totally vulnerable. Hutch slid over his smooth back, fitting himself to his lover like perfect puzzle pieces. Starsky sighed when Hutch blanketed him as if it this were all he ever wanted or would ever want. As Hutch shifted his hips to bring his cock in contact with the hand still inside Starsky, he was amazed to feel Starsky suddenly relax under him.

“Come on, babe,” Starsky urged softly. “I want you in me so bad.”

Hutch closed his eyes as the enticing words washed over him, shocking him, thrilling him. This was so much more exciting than any fantasy. No fantasy could bring him Starsky’s heat, his scent, his very real, tangible desire.

“Hutch?” Starsky gasped, as he shifted, and the crown of his cock slid against Starsky’s anus in the most intimate kiss.

“I’m here,” Hutch reminded him. “I’m here for you. Just let me know. We can stop anytime. I love you, Starsky.”

“Love you, Hutch,” Starsky breathed. “Trust you. Only you.”

Slowly, Hutch slid his fingers out as his crown eased inside the partially opened portal. The heat that had enveloped his fingers seemed as nothing compared to the searing fire that swallowed his hyper-sensitive glans. He pushed in gently, hesitantly, but Starsky, already beyond his limited patience, arched up, tried to swallow Hutch in one move. His body fought his heart’s desire and clamped down viciously. Starsky grunted in pain.

“Easy! Easy!” Hutch warned, gripping Starsky’s hips with both hands. “You can’t rush this, wild man. Gotta take it slow or you’ll only hurt yourself. Now calm down. Breathe. Relax.”

Starsky moaned, his back going rigid with pain. Hutch’s heart twisted in anguish, in spite of the fire-hot desire coursing through him.

Stroking his lover’s body, he murmured, “Is it too much? Want me to pull out?”

Starsky managed to shake his head. “No! No! Just–oh, damn, Hutch! How’d you handle it?”

“Hang on, babe, just hang on. You gotta breathe. Deep breaths.” Hutch found the lube by his side and recoated his left hand, then slid it back under his lover. He rubbed the gel slowly over Starsky’s crown and the sensations caused a ripple to run through his body. A moment later, his anus yielded and freed Hutch from its torturous grip. Both men sighed in relief and held perfectly still.

“You okay now?” Hutch asked.

Starsky nodded. “Yeah. I think. You all right?”

Hutch laughed lightly. “Oh, I’m fine. You might need to talk to me about the Dodgers in a minute, though.”

Starsky managed a weak chuckle. “Enough comin’ attractions. I’m ready for the main feature now.”

“You’re still so tight,” Hutch told him, as he gently eased into Starsky’s body little by little.

“Feel good?” Starsky gasped, struggling to accept his shaft.

“Oh, God, yes!” Hutch breathed. “Want it to be good for you, though.”

As Hutch drew back this time, Starsky moaned, “It is, babe. Believe it. It’s unreal.”

“So hot inside you,” Hutch murmured, marveling at the molten, silken furnace he kept plunging into. “Tight. Hot. Loving me so good.”

“All yours,” Starsky reminded him, moving with him now. “You all the way in yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Damn! There’s so much of you, Hutch. You’re filling me up so full you’ll be in my mouth!”

“Sweet talker,” Hutch murmured, and kissed his cheek. It was happening, Hutch realized, just like he’d imagined, the two of them working in concert to bring them both so much pleasure. Starsky moved under him like the dancer he was, his hips humping smoothly up and down and side to side, fucking Hutch’s hand, even as Hutch fucked his ass.

With his free hand, Hutch gripped Starsky’s fist, entwining their fingers. Starsky held on powerfully, as if for dear life. Beneath them, Starsky’s cock surged strong and hard, rubbing smoothly against Hutch’s slick palm.

Hutch felt dizzy from the powerful sensations flooding him and wondered how much longer he could resist. “I can feel your heart beating,” he murmured against Starsky’s ear. “Pounding like a drum.”

“Guess so,” Starsky gasped. “Feels like you could just reach up with your cock and grab hold of it, you’re so deep in me.”

“Still hurt, babe?” Hutch asked, worried.

“A little,” Starsky said honestly. “But it feels good, too. Incredible. Like you’re turning me inside out and making me love it all at the same time. Good for you?”

Hutch pressed his lips against the nape of Starsky’s neck. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect. God, how I love loving you.”

“Oh yeah?” Starsky breathed, sounding weary. “Then how ’bout lettin’ me have it, huh?”

“What?” Hutch asked, confused. It was too hard to interpret Starsky-ese and fuck at the same time.

“When are you gonna let me really have it? You been holding back the whole time. Goin’ so slow, so careful. Like I’m gonna shatter if you move too hard. I can take it, Hutch. And I want it.”

Hutch kissed his neck again as his heart twisted inside his chest. “Don’t want to hurt you. I’d die before I’d hurt you.”

“You can’t hurt me, babe,” Starsky promised him. “And I can’t hold out much longer.”

“Wanna talk about the Dodgers?” Hutch asked warily.

“Who’re the Dodgers?” Starsky argued. “Come on, Hutch. Take us to paradise, lover. I can’t wait no more.”

Hutch shuddered violently, telegraphing his need.

“Hutch,” Starsky whispered, his voice hazy with lust. “Fuck me, babe, really fuck me.”

“Starsk, don’t!” Hutch warned, even as his body took over and plunged into the welcoming warmth that reached up to meet him.

Starsky groaned, and pulled his knees under him, spreading his legs wide for his lover.

“No!” Hutch protested, fearful of his own blinding need.

“Yes!” Starsky insisted, and Hutch could do nothing but obey. He moved into the haven of his lover with strong, sure thrusts that increased in speed and power. As he did, he felt something small and round ride under the ridge of his glans.

Starsky lurched in surprise as he hit it and called out his name loudly. Hutch rode his lover’s back, keeping his place so he could find the spot again and began pumping really hard.

“That’s it! Oh, shit, Hutch, that’s it!” Starsky told him, taking the punishment Hutch meted out with joy, eagerly meeting every driving stroke.

Hutch was losing it completely, losing touch with his surroundings, his grip on the now, everything but the sensation of taking Starsky’s body and making it his.

“You’re mine now,” he said, “really mine!”

“Yeah. Always. Always yours, Hutch. Oh, jeezus!”

Hutch pounded into the willing body, forgetting everything but his most immediate need and his possession of this precious man. His teeth found the back of Starsky’s neck and he bit down hard. Beneath him the supple body bucked frantically as Starsky cried out, his voice rough with desire. Then suddenly the rigid shaft in Hutch’s hand stiffened even more, and hot jets scorched his palm as his lover humped wildly, shouting his name. Hutch pounded into Starsky once, twice, then a third powerful stroke before everything went incandescent. He sighed and felt a rush of sensation as he ejaculated hard into the depths of Starsky’s body. He pumped semen deep into his lover, again and again, and felt his eyes fill as it happened, felt tears splash onto Starsky’s hair. He didn’t know why he was crying, but he felt so overwhelmed that was the only way he could release it all. Coming just wasn’t enough. So he wept, pressing his forehead against Starsky’s temple.

Dimly he could hear his lover murmuring his name, trying to soothe his incredible emotional response. “It’s okay, Hutch. It’s okay. I’m here. I love you. It’s okay.”

That seemed too weird to Hutch–wasn’t he supposed to be comforting Starsky? He was the one who just got fucked through the floor. Hutch drew in a ragged breath and blinked back his tears.

Slowly, the two of them eased onto the mattress, settling down, Hutch nestling easily between Starsky’s spread legs. They were still joined. Hutch released Starsky’s softening organ and wrapped that arm around his lover protectively, possessively.

“Mmmmm,” Starsky purred, still gripping Hutch’s hand. “Don’t move. Don’t get up.”

“I’m too heavy, Starsk,” Hutch protested half-heartedly. “You make a great mattress, though.” He shifted them carefully so they wouldn’t separate, and pulled them over onto their sides, taking the pressure off Starsky. “How’s that, better? Still, you need a bath, like the one you gave me. I need to take care of you.” Hutch wondered where Starsky had gotten the energy to do all that for him. He felt like he had lead weights attached to his eyelids.

“Yeah, okay,” Starsky agreed, closing his eyes. “We’ll do all that in a minute. Just hold me right now. Stay with me.”

Hutch kissed the side of his face. “What’d you think I was gonna do? Roll over, put on my shoes, leave you a ten and then split?”

“Hey, I’m worth at least twenty!” Starsky muttered wearily. “It’d be just like you to forget your pants.”

“Very funny,” Hutch grumbled, kissing his jaw. “You okay, Starsk?”

“I’m lots better’n okay,” Starsky assured him. “That’s why I don’t want you to move. It’s gonna hurt like hell when you pull out, so you’ll understand if I’m not rushing things. This is nice, Hutch. You make love so beautifully.”

Hutch felt his heart swell. “You were beautiful to me. You gave me the most precious gift. I love you, Starsk.”

“Love you, too.” The two lay quiet for several moments until finally Starsky said, “This is the way lovers are supposed to be, Hutch. You know, with give and take. Uh, like–receptacle!”

Hutch blinked. Receptacle?

“No,” Starsky corrected himself, “not receptacle. Respectable? No, that ain’t right–”

“Reciprocal?” Hutch guessed.

“Yeah! That’s it. Lovers should be reciprocal. Like partners!” Starsky sighed, obviously pleased with his choice of words.

Hutch shook his head and smiled at his friend’s hunt-and-peck vocabulary techniques. “Are you feeling all reciprocal now, Starsky?”

“Uh-huh,” he agreed as Hutch snuggled against him. “Feel like I found something I didn’t even know I needed to find without even looking for it.” He grinned. “Seren-zippity-do-dah!”

Hutch laughed quietly and hugged his lover.

“But I still haven’t had breakfast, y’know,” Starsky reminded him,”–in bed, or otherwise. I think I deserve breakfast in bed–after my bath. I figure I earned it, don’t you?”

“How’s that?” Hutch asked, only half paying attention. His body was positively humming and he was trying to figure out how he was ever going to have the energy, or the willpower, to leave his delectable perch.

“You kiddin’?” Starsky asked, in mock annoyance. “I worked my ass off for it!”

Hutch’s eyes narrowed as he looked down into his partner’s teasing expression.

“Uh-oh,” Starsky murmured. “Now I’m really in trouble. Your eyes are flashing, Hutch!”

“For once, you’re right, Starsk,” the blond warned, and grabbing hold of a soft bit of ass, pinched hard.

Starsky yelped, but Hutch held him tight, keeping them together.

“My eyes are flashing,” Hutch muttered. “I want five minutes to bask in the afterglow with my lover. I didn’t get it last night, so I’d better get it now! You will hold still for five minutes and be quiet.”

Starsky lasted two. “I think we should eat dinner at Giovanni’s tonight, Hutch. Don’t you? Y’know, to celebrate.”

“Celebrate your getting shot?” Hutch teased. “I thought we did that last night.”

Starsky smiled. “Yesterday you couldn’t’ve made that joke. No, to celebrate us.”

“You’re a hopeless romantic, Starsky,” Hutch said, kissing his cheek. “Yeah. Let’s have dinner at Giovanni’s tonight. But let’s go early. This way, we can avoid the late-night Mafia crowd–”

“Yeah,” Starsky agreed, “they’re so rowdy.”

“And,” Hutch continued quietly, “we’ll have time later–for dessert.” He kissed his lover’s ear and felt the body in his arms shiver delightedly as Starsky chuckled and snuggled into Hutch’s embrace.

 

Better get ready, gonna see the light
Love is the answer, and that’s all right
So don’t you give up, it’s so easy to find
Just look to your soul, and open your mind
Crystal Blue Persuasion, Ooooh, it’s a new vibration
Crystal Blue Persuasion–Tommy James and the Shondells