Killing them both would’ve been a mercy.
TWENTY-THREE
THE Riley who checked out of the motel on Thursday was a lot more relaxed than the Riley who’d checked in the day before. It helped that he knew about McClane now. It helped even more that McClane had given them another mind-blowing orgasm before they’d left. The little fucker was getting good at the sex thing. Of course, the fact that he seemed to experience Riley’s pleasure like it was his own was an excellent incentive.
Having sex with McClane wasn’t quite the same as skin-to-skin contact, but it was way better than making do with one’s own hand.
“Pretty good?” McClane grumbled as they walked across the lot to Riley’s truck. “Better than making do with your own hand?” We got off until you passed out, you ingrate.
Riley had been scanning their surroundings with a frown, his neck prickling with a diffuse feeling of being watched, but McClane’s disgruntled tone distracted him and made him chuckle.
“Sorry. You’re awesome. The earth moved.”
It’s a fucking planet, McClane observed dryly. Of course it moves. He paused and suddenly a trickle of warmth ran down Riley’s spine. Oh, McClane muttered, apparently having picked the meaning of the phrase from the depths of Riley’s brain. Got it. Now say it again without the sarcasm, okay?
“Yeah,” Riley scoffed, and slipped behind the wheel. He slammed the door shut and smirked at the rearview mirror. “’Cause that’s gonna happen.”
If you’re not gonna pay me compliments, I want compensation, McClane demanded. You promised me mancakes.
Riley did a mental double take. “Pan cakes,” he corrected, laughter bubbling up from his belly at his passenger’s slip. “I promised you—Let’s go get breakfast.”
Luckily, they didn’t have to go far to find a diner on Mesa Street because McClane spent the entire drive trying to convince Riley he’d misheard. Of course McClane had said “pancakes.” He was an extremely highly developed artificial intelligence. He didn’t fumble. He didn’t have a subconscious to fuck with his pronunciation, either, thank you very much, and who the hell was “Freud”?
He was still muttering darkly when Riley pulled to a stop in the crowded parking lot in front of a small business court and got out of the truck. Riley kept his mouth shut, partly because it was more fun to let McClane stew, partly because that damn tingly feeling was back. He could’ve sworn he’d sensed eyes on him ever since he’d left the motel, and it got stronger now that they weren’t moving anymore.
“Can you tell?” he whispered, head down so people wouldn’t realize he was talking to himself. He knew that he could think at McClane and McClane would get it, but it still felt weird to have an entire conversation with the voice in his head. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to it; it was too much like going crazy. If at least one of them spoke out loud, he could pretend he was on the phone and that his reality didn’t include aliens now.