“Walk” Parrish said, nudging him with the toe of his work boot. “I’m walking you.”

Michael walked like a man to the gallows but in it all Parrish could sense his arousal, building like the storm that was rushing toward them.

At the house, Parrish said “Open up, little red.” He grinned.

Michael flinched. “You know I didn’t…I mean, I don’t know if I should have told you.”

“Open the door.”

Michael straightened, his heart pounding so hard his tee fluttered under his jacket. “No,” he managed to say, though to Parrish he sounded like he might choke on the word.

Parrish reached into his jacket—refusing to acknowledge that his hands shook just a bit—and took out the gun. He cocked it and pressed it to Michael’s lips. “Yes.”

Sterling silver rounds. Dead in an instant. They were both thinking it, no doubt.

Michael reached behind him and unlocked the door. He took a step back into the foyer and Parrish followed.

“Get on your knees.” Parrish kicked the door shut and shook off his jacket one arm at a time, keeping the gun trained on Michael.

Michael dropped to his knees, his eyes shining with fear but in there a touch of gratitude too. “Parrish.” That was all he said. One word.

Parrish slid the gun between Michael’s lips and thrust it like a metal cock. Michael’s eyes drifted shut, his hands shook there, dangling at his hips. But his cock was hard, Parrish could see the ridge of it in his jeans. His blood was high too, Parrish could smell that as surely as roses on the air or the ozone smell of a lightning strike.

Overhead thunder boomed and he thrust the gun barrel once more before taking it out and saying. “Now me.”