Chapter 12

Within a matter of passing seconds we shoot our loads together. I blow my wad into the condom that separates us and he sprays my chest and face with his sap. Together we become spent, still boyfriends, blended by our heated lust and sensual play.

Sticky against his chest, both of us heaving for oxygen, a post-sex moment is discovered, and I say, out of breath, “I’m being hunted.”

He runs one of his titanic-size palms through my hair, dots my forehead with a kiss, and asks, “Hunted? What do you mean by that?”

“It’s a game some of the city gay couples play. One partner hunts for a hot guy, takes him home, and shares him with his other partner.”

He dots another kiss to my forehead, stinks of sex between men, which is a turn-on for me, and says, “Being a cop, I should know this, but don’t.”

“It’s why you have me, Rook. I’m just a vat of knowledge regarding gay life in the city.”

“Who’s hunting you?”

“A guy by the name of Parker Novorski.”