Disclaimers:  Poltergeist the Legacy concept and characters belong to Trilogy et al.   Original characters and story belong to the author.   No copyright infringement is meant.

Warning -- I was in a Bad Mood when I finished most of this, so Nick gets a little roughed up, and Derek gets to play . . . My thanks to Bay Area Traffic Report which started this whole idea to begin with and Little Red Mustang just finished it off.  Though this has nothing to do with those lovely pieces of fiction, the inspiration (not to mention imagery) was greatly appreciated . . .  Feedback is the sustenance of writers everywhere -- so feed me!  <g>

Busted
(or "Felonious Desire")

© 2000, Samantha Agee

"Nick, slow down . . ."

Another curve loomed and was taken at 60 per.

"Aw, c'mon, Derek.  Where's your sense of adventure?"

"Probably scattered around that last curve with the last of my lunch."  The muttered words sent the ex-SEAL to snickering.  "Slow down!"

It had been the perfect day, sunny, warm, and better yet, no unfinished Legacy business to attend to.  No evil to defeat, no threats to confront, no otherworldly hassles to deal with.  The resulting leisure time, a rarity in their line of work.

However, instead of catching up on unread medical, anthropological and various other scientific journals like he had planned, his younger colleague had somehow managed to talk Derek Rayne into getting off the island and enjoying some down time along the Wharf.  The others had all seized the chance, and so should he.  And he had to admit, the walk along the pier and lunch at Bodine's had brightened his mood, while a lazy day spent in Golden Gate park doing nothing more strenuous than browsing the shops and galleries had topped it off quite nicely.

Enough so that he had begrudgingly agreed to let Nick drive home.

Mistake.

Nick was a superb driver, practiced and very experienced in the ways of kamikaze driving, but, be that as it may, Derek never noticed the remainder of the bright, sunny day, nor the sun setting in reds to his left; his attention was too caught up on the road, his fingers digging little niches into the upholstery.

There was another, sharper curve coming up ahead.

"Nick . . ."  And again, "Nick!"

"Alright . . . jeez, Derek.  You'd think I'd been jumping the hills on Lombard . . ."

Slowing down, the ex-SEAL pulled over along the curving shoulder to allow Derek to trade places.  They were almost to the bridge now, and starting to run into traffic anyway.  Nick knew the precept wasn't really angry, just as he knew his driving could be a little reckless -- at the best of times.  And today had been one of those days when the sun was so warm, the wind was so cool, and the road  so tempting . . .

"You mean you haven't?"

Safely ensconced in the driver's seat, Derek favored him with a look, pulling back onto the road.

"Well . . . I didn't say that, exactly . . ."

The precept's teasing look turned to one of disbelief at the rueful admission.  Just as a siren sounded behind them.

"Uh oh."

Favoring the man responsible with an exasperated glare, the Rover was once again pulled to the side, the older man turning off the engine and digging into his wallet for his ID and papers.

"I am so dead."

"Yes," Rayne hissed as the officer approached along his side.  "You are.  Just sit there and behave.  Before you get us into worse trouble."

Making his way gingerly up to the driver's window, the officer peered inside, asking Derek for his license and registration, which Derek gave him, offering a friendly smile.  Unfortunately, the hulking brute, all muscle, blocking the door only nodded in response, giving the Chairman's ID and vehicle registration a cursory glance before handing them back.

"And you, sir."  Glancing past Dr.  Rayne, the cop spoke to his passenger, the tone making it clear that he was well aware it hadn't been the older man driving as such a breakneck speed.  Must have seen them pull over, and he and Derek switching places.  "The vehicle belongs to Dr.  Rayne so I just need your license."

Handing the plastic square over, Nick couldn't help but notice the snug fit of the uniform as the man stretched to meet him part of the way.  He was suddenly very glad Derek was with him.  Something beneath the brisk, no-nonsense demeanor . . .or maybe it was the authoritative tone that made every hackle in his body stand on end, and not entirely in a bad way, either.  He could feel his heart hammering and the blood as it rushed to his cheeks in purely physical attraction.

He was in way over his head, here.

Spotting the special notation that declared the younger man's active motorcycle status, the officer spoke calmly, "I see your not on your bike today, so what was the rush, Mr.  Boyle?  Must have been something urgent to have you barreling down my road at almost 90 per."

"Just drivin'."  Hoping to wriggle off by appealing to a fellow cyclist's sympathy, Nick smiled what was meant to be an encouraging smile all the while trying to wrestle his libido back under control.

Dark brown eyes raised to look at him from over mirrored sunglasses and he swallowed nervously.  "That's all?  Just driving?"

Nodding rather than trusting himself to speak, Nick tried to look away but found himself caught in that stare.

"I love a good . . . ride as much as anyone, Mr.  Boyle."  The voice was low and hypnotic, the cop's body silhouetted in the intense light, all planes, as he reached in to give Nick back his license.  "Just, next time, make sure you come prepared for . . . consequences."

Nick was stunned to feel the covered hand suggestively cupping his chin, thumb brushing the bones of his left cheek.

"I only give out one warning, kid; after that, I catch you speeding down my highway again," the air seem to still and grow heavy, and the ex-Navyman couldn't quite draw in enough air to draw a full breath.  "And your ass is mine.  Understood?"

"Y-yessir."

It was like being caught in the impossible gaze of a deadly cobra; or a deer, frozen in the headlights of an upcoming car.  He couldn't move, couldn't breathe until those gloved fingers caressingly left his face.  He heart pounded, his skin tingled; was sure the cop felt the heat of his flustered state from the blush through the leather of his gloves.  He caught his own eyes, wide and a little frightened in the mirrored image of the reflective sunglasses.  He looked . . . tasty.  A fair and legal target -- and a needy one at that.

"Good."

But an eternity too soon, the cop smiled, drawing the fingers almost lovingly away, taking the heady, masculine smell of leather with them.  Beside him, Nick vaguely recognized Derek's voice, coming through a fog, assuring the officer that yes, the older man could and would take care of getting him home.

Oh shit.  ". . . fuck . . ."

The mumbled curse (or was it plea?) angled the precept's head towards him once more as he pulled back onto the road and into the traffic that had finally caught up with them, snaking slowly over the bridge and ultimately for them, the ferry docks on the other side.

"Derek . . . I . . ."  But flustered and confused, he couldn't look at him, couldn't find the courage or the will to meet the bewildered -- or worse yet -- horrified or angry gaze of the man he'd come to respect and look up to, not to mention love, in the last few years.  What would he find there?  Condemnation?  Or even worse still, betrayal?  The precept thought he knew his young colleague.

But Nick still had some secrets he'd hoped would stay buried.

"Not a word, Nick."

"But -- Derek . . ."  Horrified at not even being given the chance to explain, the words accomplished what sheer willpower couldn't; they brought the ex-SEAL's eyes up to meet those of his boss.  "I --"

"Not one word until we get home."

Nick nodded in silent misery.

"Did you enjoy that?" Nick began to speak but Derek cut him off, his attention firmly focused on the traffic ahead.  "Just nod if you did; you certainly seemed to."

At Nick's bob, the older man nodded himself.  "I thought so.  Well.  It seems it's a good thing we have the House to ourselves tonight."

"What . . ."  But he fell silent again at a sharp glance from his lover.

"Take care of that."  Indicating the solid erection housed snuggly in the front of the now tight blue jeans, the older man barely smiled at the confused and shocked expression flitting across the expressive features.

"Wha . . ."  The short laugh was cynical.  "Now?"

"Yes, now," Derek answered firmly.  "But don't come.  You no longer have that right until I say so, is that clear?"

"Derek . . ."

"I'd hate to have to gag you before we get to the House."  The older man warned.  "Not only do I not want to miss the lovely sounds you make -- and you will make them -- but I'd hate to have deal with the inconvenient attention a gag in broad daylight, rush-hour traffic would attract.  Wouldn't you agree?"

His mouth opened but he shut it and merely nodded instead.  It was clear, even as that cultured voice rose over him, that Derek meant every word he said.

"Good.  Now, if you please."

What was natural and erotic in the safety and security of their own home, turned out to be awkward and uncomfortable in the very public confines of the Rover, surrounded by strangers as they now zipped along, vehicles on either side.  But Nick knew he'd slipped with his reaction to the cop; knew also that Derek had caught that lapse and intended to call him on it, whatever that meant.  One look at the stern, unfazed profile and Nick swallowed nervously and slowly did as he was told.

His hand moved first, slowly moving lower until it hovered just above the half-hard confines of his jeans.  A tentative glance at his lover showed no reprieve, only a slight shifting, letting Nick know he was, indeed, being watched.  That being the case, he forced the palm to rest, lightly along the bulge, no pressure until another hand reached out suddenly, grabbing his wrist tightly, catching him by surprise.  The grip softened until Derek gently squeezed Nick's wrist, mutely offering comfort and support before moving away, returning to the wheel.

Closing his eyes, Nick allowed his own touch to harden, to firm along the crotch, slowly giving in to the unaccustomed thrill of performing in full view of prying eyes.  Even Derek's voyeurism was different here, and the sudden thrill of the forbidden caused him to bite back a moan.

The chuckle from the other side of the cab brought out another flush but did nothing to stop his fingers from moving, lightly at first, his legs falling open a little more in an involuntary effort to increase the effect his own actions were having.

Soon, the touches turned into strokes, growing bolder, harder; the moans increased, becoming sharp gasps and soft cries and the younger man threw his head back against the headrest, his eyes opening and closing as his hands rubbed rapidly.  Pleasure was zapping along his nerves, building rapidly, his breath was coming now in hard gasps, his hips rising and lifting in an effort to gain more contact . . . just a little more pressure . . .

"You will  not come."

The barked, authoritative tone broke the haze that surrounded his brain, immediately bringing him back into the truck and his hands' harsh rubbing against his covered cock.  "God . . ."

He panted, gasping for breath.  How he refrained from begging, he wasn't sure, but somehow he reined in the almost overwhelming pressure, denying himself the pleasure and slowly, slowly, he managed to wrestle himself back from the brink.

For a moment he could only sit, breathing heavily and shaking in the confines of his seat.  He was so hard he hurt, and so aroused he wasn't sure he could think straight, let alone deal with the fact that, somehow, while he had been wantonly feeling himself up, Derek had driven through the city, down to the pier and along the docks.

They were next in line to board the ferry.

Continued

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