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else from coming out. Not that anyone does now with the crappy weather.” He unbuttoned and unzipped Lucky’s jeans and plunged his hand inside.
    Lucky bucked into Bo’s grip while fumbling with the front of Bo’s jeans and palmed his erection through a layer of denim. “Get these open.”
    Bo stepped back, unbuttoned, unzipped, and resumed his position against Lucky. Mouth to mouth, shoulder to shoulder, and hands on each other’s cocks, they stroked. Bo moaned into Lucky’s mouth.
    And somehow the prospect of an audience ramped up the lust factor. Bo liked public sex. Whether the possibility of getting caught or exhibitionist tendencies turned him on, at the moment nothing mattered but how good his hand felt on Lucky after them being apart for so long.
    In other circumstances, a few filthy words about getting caught might kick the heat factor up a notch, but given how things had gone lately, Bo might shut down.
    The center, the rain tapping out a steady rhythm on the roof, even the woman inside faded to nothing. The world narrowed down to Bo: the taste of green tea on his tongue, the comforting weight of his body pressed to Lucky’s, and his hand, his talented hand, stroking Lucky.
    Lucky closed his eyes, tilting his head farther back to rest against a rough brick wall.
    Bo moaned again.
    Oh, fuck! Oh fuck! Lucky lost control, shattering into tiny pieces. Somehow, he managed a faltering tempo.
    Bo shot, his come coating Lucky’s hand. They leaned against each other, panting despite the chill, foreheads pressed together. Bo let out a laugh. “I can’t believe we did that.”
    Lucky couldn’t either, but he was too busy trying to keep his knees from buckling to form words.
    “Stay still.” Bo messed around with his pants, producing a wad of tissue he used to clean them up—somewhat. Good that the “taking care of everybody” part of his personality hadn’t disappeared completely.
    Once they were respectable again—or as respectable as Lucky got—they lay together under a blanket on the chaise lounge.
    “How are you doing?” Lucky asked.
    Barely enough space existed between them for Bo to shrug. “I dunno. My counselor says I’m getting better at recognizing when Cyrus tries to take over, and can distinguish his reactions from my own.”
    He rested his head on Lucky’s chest. Good. At least he wasn’t running like he often did when he most needed a warm shoulder and comforting arm.
    “They’re both a part of you, but remember, you created Cyrus. You control him, he doesn’t control you.” Lucky never went undercover long enough to blur the lines between fantasy and reality, and had enough felon in him to not play a role, only tap into his darker side. And no one had shot drugs into him on a daily basis.
    “You sound like my counselor now.”
    Was that a good thing, or a bad thing? “But you’re able to figure out who’s at the wheel, right?” Cyrus had his advantages, like not suffering from Bo’s heavy conscience. He looked out for himself. The self-preservation instincts could stay as long as they didn’t interfere with who Bo was.
    Bo nodded but kept quiet.
    Rain patted on the patio beyond their awning. They nestled together with the tap, tap, tap, and sluicing of tires against wet pavement as background noise.
    After several moments, Bo broke the quiet. “My lease is up on my apartment. They called me today.”
    “What did they say?” Getting words out of Bo didn’t used to be so hard.
    “They want me to sign another year’s lease.”
    No. Please no. Not another year apart. “The offer to move into my place still holds. That is, if you want to.”
    “You’d never ask me to move in to be nice, but are you sure you want to give up your freedom and personal space to have me around all the time?” Bo raised his head and focused his deep brown eyes on Lucky.
    Lucky’s bank account. His car. Hell, everything he owned was Bo’s for the taking.
    His insides quivered. God, his man was