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“All right,” Sam declared, closing the pile of filed that lay between them with a decisive sigh. “You can either apologize to the guy or try and sue him, but as far as I know everything you just showed me is completely legal.”

Mills’ unsteady hand shook as he grasped the jelly jar of whiskey Sam had just poured him. “LEGAL!?” he sucked in a deep breath and said, “he tried. To turn me in. To The Feds.”

Sam chuckles. “And you tried to dodge your taxes.” Sam flipped through the final pile of files Mills had frantically sent him and flopped down in the seat across the table. After taking a contemplative beer, he said, “your best chance would be to come clean. Maybe you’ll spend a couple of years in the brig, but you’ll have done the right thing. Next time, don’t literally screw your employees.”

“I don’t do the right thing!” He blotted his head. “I’m an agent! I sell percentages and grosses, not suitcase nukes!””

Sam stared at him. “What’m I going to have to do to make you calm down?”


Sam rolled his eyes. “Okay, time for the direct approach.” He grabbed Mills’ arm and dragged him forward, spilling enormous puddles of whiskey across the table as he yanked him into his embrace.

Mills had apparently been kissed by many men before, because his tongue curled right around Sam’s and he sucked, strongly, warmly, gently, crawling over the table to deposit himself into Sam’s lap. Sam ran his hand over Mills’ chest and shoulders possessively, molding his skin to his calloused hands.

“Calming down?”

He gulped and gave Sam a grin. “I think I need a massage.”

“Mmm.” Sam’s grin was lazy, his wide palm siding under Mills’ tan-colored suitcoat, rubbing against the silken material of his shirt. “I’m not a geisha.”

“I can...” he paused to shift against the erection Sam had recently developed so that it rubbed against the small of Mills’ back. “…tell.”

Sam’s breath hissed out – his hand grew busy against Mills’ fly, unsnapping everything he needed to unsnap before drawing forth his length. “Damn,” he remarked lightly, running the tip of his thumb from the head of his cock to the base. “I couldn’t tell how much you were packing.

“Squeeze it tight and it’s yours.”

Sam laughed. “You know,” he said, stroking Mills in a long, continuous motion, “I usually don’t help out the bad guys.” He unhelpfully cupped his finger around Mills’ cock, lubing the tips before stroking them gently up and down.

“Maybe you can turn me…Good….Christ!” Mills blurted out when Sam squeezed him.

Sam released his throbbing prick and gave him a playful slap on the hip. “Okay, hands on the table, pants down. “

Mills obeyed his request, leaning on his elbows and eyeing him curiously as he got up to search for something. “Whatt’re you planning on doing?”

Sam was lubricating himself with a tube of Vaseline he’d fished out of the kitchen cabinet – Mills didn’t question its presence there after finding fishing wire and detonators in the same place earlier. His eyes glowed. “What do you think?”

Mills shrugged. “Thanks for not riding dirty on me, bro.”

“Whatever,” Sam groaned, slicking himself quickly and returning . “Braced?”

Mills slapped the table and nodded his head. “Jesus!” he blurted out as Sam entered him full-bore, full length.

“Too much, baby?” he teased.

“No, no…Gimmie more – make it a blockbuster!” Mills rose up on his palms and slammed his ass back into Sam’s lap.

“All right!” Sam snickered, clearly feeling entirely in control of the situation. Mill groaned and rocked back and forth upon Sam’s invading prick, the strange sensation of all of the Vaseline not detracting from the friction a bit, leaving him feeling raw, wanted. He growled and worked and worked himself toward orgasm, feeling it just out of reach, taunting him.

Sam reached down to help him to his fate accompli, and two moments before he baptized the table Sam grunted and jetted into his soft, warm hole.

Collapsing onto the counter, he recovered when Sam poured him more whiskey. He was nervous enough to drink it while he pulled his pants up.

“Was it a blockbuster?” Sam wondered, his behavior suggesting that he had a well-developed love of casual sex.

“Right-o.” Mills gingerly sat down, cringing at the wetness he felt. Finishing the booze, he grabbed a cigar and lit it. Eyeing Sam thoughtfully, he said, “you look like a guy I used to see. He was a small-time movie star, y’know. I got him his best gig.”

Sam sucked pensively on his beer, prying his eyes briefly from the bottle to meet Mills’ face. “Has he got a name?”

Mills took a deep drag from his cigar. “He calls himself Bruce Campbell.”

Sam shrugged and sipped down the rest of his beer. “Never heard of him.”