Author's note: "Changing Teams" takes place post-Gunther shooting.
Thanks to my great beta: Morgan Le Fey—from whom Rick's character was born . . . with a little help from QAF.
 To Flamingo—who will probably know what line she inspired . . . something to do with a party?!
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Hutch scanned the Pits idly as Starsky drummed his fingers on the table and drank his beer. They had placed their order—Hutch talking Starsky out of the French fries and into a salad to go with their T-bones.

"Man I hope he hurries," Starsky complained. "I'm hungry."

Catching sight of the establishment's proprietor, Hutch started to raise his hand. He stopped short, however, when he realized Huggy was engrossed in conversation with a shockingly beautiful white male, 25-30, who had a body that Hutch would have been envious of in younger days—and maybe in not so younger days.

The object of Huggy's attention had chestnut hair—mostly straight, but it curled up in the back, where it brushed the collar of his shirt. He had the plushest bottom lip Hutch had ever seen on a man. Speaking of plush, Hutch thought, completing his survey of the scene, the guy's ass was great—if you were into that sort of thing. It sure as hell filled out his black jeans and judging from the way he was standing, he knew it. From the smile curling Huggy's lips, and the general posture of the unknown male, Hutch suspected this was no ordinary Pit's patron.

"Hey, Starsk," he called lowly, discretely gesturing with his eyes. "Huggy swingin' again?"

"Huh?" his partner asked, then caught Hutch's glance. "Oh—hey, that's Rick."

Now Hutch turned his surprised gaze to his partner. "Rick?"

Their voices must have carried because before he knew it, 'Rick' was making his way over—slowly, sensually, working the room with his body, checking it out lazily with his beautiful bedroom eyes. He dripped sex, screamed invitation.

"Dave," Rick called, his intonation suggesting intimacy, his sexy smile now turned on Starsky.

Jesus, Hutch thought, his voice is as evocative as the rest of him.

Hutch felt his head snap back involuntarily as his partner slid over, making room for the newcomer. The guy had some sort of hypnotic quality, and Hutch watched as Starsky was reeled in and held captive by the magnetism. Hutch tried to keep his face neutral as he watched Rick lean over to kiss Starsky's cheekbone—high, up near his ear, his nose resting in Starsky's dark curls, which Hutch had recently noticed were beginning to lightly thread with silver.

"Where you been, beautiful?" Rick whispered, totally focused on Starsky. "I haven't seen you at Calypso's for a while. When are you going to come back by?"

Hutch watched in amazement as Rick continued, his voice dripping honey.

"You know I miss you." The young man pouted, prettily. "Come on, Dave, I need you to wear me out, and break my heart when you leave me," he paused, "like you always do."

To further Hutch's incredulity, Starsky grinned broadly. "Stop teasin' me, Rick. You'll give this ole man another heart attack."

Disconcerted that Starsky would banter about his heart attack with a stranger—Hutch suddenly wondered just how well Starsky knew this guy. Maybe he wasn't a stranger at all.

As if suddenly remembering that they weren't alone, Starsky pulled away from the younger man and gestured toward Hutch, "Hey, Rick—I want you to meet my partner. This is Ken Hutchinson. Hutch, this is Rick Carlisle."

Abruptly, Hutch found himself the target of the compelling, unwavering look. He felt trapped, pinned by the gaze. Hutch also felt his temperature shoot up several degrees as he blushed under the intense scrutiny. When Rick smiled at him, proffering a neatly manicured hand, Hutch's throat was dry. "It is great to meet you, Ken. Dave and Huggy talk about you constantly."

Wishing he could say the same, Hutch felt completely lost. "Nice-nice to meet you," he stumbled inanely, flushing even deeper, irritated with his stutter.

Before he could get his bearings, Rick was taking his leave. Once again, Rick touched Starsky with familiarity, leaning down to kiss the curve beneath Starsky's ear. "Now don't be a stranger, Dave. I expect to see you at the club—or anywhere else you'll see me—in the very near future."

Starsky smiled one of his 1,000-volt smiles. "Sure thing, babe."

Hutch jolted at the use of what he thought was Starsky's pet name for him.

His eyes narrowed when Starsky's voice dropped seductively. "I'll see you soon. Keep your dance card open for me?"

Rick's eyes smoldered, "Count on it." He turned to Hutch. "You should come with him some night."

Did everything this guy said have a double entendre?

Or is it your own over active imagination?

"Sure," Hutch replied weakly, having no idea what or where they were talking about.

"It's been a pleasure, Ken." And he was gone.

"Starsky," Hutch began, his voice purposely pitched low. "Who was that?"

Hutch could have knocked his partner on his ass when Starsky looked around. "Who? Rick?"

"Yes, Rick. Don't play dumb," Hutch commented, pinioning Starsky with his eyes. "Who is he and where did you meet him?

"Cute, huh?" Starsky offered up, grinning ear to ear.

Hutch blinked. "Uh—uh, Starsk, did I miss something? When we walked into the Pits did we make a detour to the 'Twilight Zone'?"

"Whattdaya mean?" Starsky asked, his face a study of innocence.

Yeah, right.

Counting to five, Hutch swore he wouldn't lose his temper. "You know what I mean. Who is Rick, and where did you meet him? And since when were you and Huggy running together with a gay guy?"

And why didn't I know about it? And, better yet, why wasn't I invited?

"Rick and Huggy have known each other for a while. I met Rick a few months ago at the Calypso. It's a club. A gay dance club—you know," Starsky continued helpfully, "they used to call 'em discos?"

"Funny, pal, real funny." Hutch glanced back at the bar where two other men had joined Rick. "If you don't mind me asking, how did you find yourself in a 'gay dance club'? It's not your usual everyday thing," Hutch pointed out carefully, deliberately using the comment that Starsky had made about gays after John Blaine's death.

Starsky had the grace to blush. "I went there with Huggy and Peter Whitelaw."

Hutch spewed the beer he'd just swigged. It went everywhere. "Jesus, Starsky. Is there anything else? When the hell did you see Peter Whitelaw? And why?"

Starsky was saved from a reply when Huggy delivered their meals.

"Yo, Starsk," Huggy began innocently, "the boys at the bar been askin' when you're gonna shake your bootie over at Calypso's again. You up for it?"

"We were just discussing that," Hutch informed him tightly.

Huggy eyed him warily. "Uh-huh." He turned to Starsky. "Let me guess: you hadn't ever gotten around to telling your blond partner about your alternative dancing lifestyle, had you?"

"Huh-uh," Starsky confirmed, as he alternately picked the tomatoes out of his salad and inhaled half of the garlic toast Huggy had thrown in out of pity.

Huggy turned back to Hutch. "Calypso's is a happenin' place, my man. You should step out—take a walk on the wild side." With an exaggerated wink, he twirled like a professional, and headed back to the kitchen.

Eyeing Starsky speculatively, Hutch decided to let it rest for the moment. After several bites of steak, he put his knife and fork down. "So," he began carefully, calmer. "Wanna tell me about it, partner? Looking to change teams on me?" he asked, no heat in the question.

Starsky sighed, pushed his plate away. Catching Huggy's eye at the bar, he signaled for another round of beers. "And if I were?" he finally responded.

When Hutch hesitated, Starsky raised his eyebrow. "Do you have a problem with that, Hutchinson?"

The use of his full surname was enough to startle Hutch, never mind the question Starsky had just posed. Again he felt lost, like his world was shifting, and he was unable to get his footing. He didn't know what to say. No, he didn't have a "problem with it", at least not like Starsky thought.

He was just taken aback that he wouldn't have known. It was surprising enough to find out that Starsky had been dancing at a gay bar—several times, but to see him openly, and comfortably accepting sexual attention from a male, it was unthinkable—and damned erotic.

Where the hell had that come from?

Quit lyin' to yourself, Hutchinson, you know damn well where that came from.

How long had it been since Hutch had allowed himself to even consider a deeper relationship with Starsky? Too long to even guess. Crushing those long buried desires, Hutch finally answered, his voice soft, encouraging. "You know I wouldn't have a problem with it. So why don't you tell me what's going on?

Starsky talked and Hutch listened, alternating between surprise and a curious sense of wonder. Apparently, Peter Whitelaw, John Blaine's long-time lover, had visited Starsky in the hospital after the Gunther hit. During the months of his recovery, they had gotten together every few weeks for lunch and to talk about John.

Why didn't you tell me? Didn't you think I'd want to know?

"See Hutch, I wanted to know that part of John. I figured that if John and Peter were kinda—exclusive for a while, it must be an important part of his life. It was part of who he was, and I wanted to know what that was like for him."

Starsky looked over sheepishly. "I didn't tell you because I didn't think I could explain it. Dyin' changes ya, Hutch."

Hutch blanched, hating the reminder of his friend's death, temporary though it may have been.

Starsky continued. "Things that used to be a big deal to me—they ain't no more. Beliefs I'd always had about two guys bein' together, it made me question why I had them. I mean, did I really believe all that stuff, or was it left over from growin' up in Brooklyn? I had a lot of time to think while I was getting better. And getting to know Peter and how he felt about John—well it made me reevaluate things."

What things? Finding that he was holding his breath, Hutch forced himself to breathe, slowly, in and out.

"The guys at the club . . . " Starsky began uncertainly.

The tone and the hesitation made Hutch sit up expectantly, waiting for whatever Starsky might say.

"They ain't no diff'rent than you and me. They're just people."

Raising an eyebrow, Hutch silently questioned whether Rick was really like the two of them. If Hutch had ever met a more sexual person, he couldn't remember.

Almost as if reading his thoughts, Starsky cocked his head toward the bar, grinning, "Rick—man he's somethin' else. I started hangin' out with him—you know, ending up at pancake places at three in the morning after the club closed, crashin' at his place later. We talked a lot, got to know each other." Starsky shrugged.

'Crashin' at his place'? What the hell was going on anyway?

But Starsky continued on, seemingly oblivious to Hutch's reaction to his revelations. "Rick's got the same problems you and me do: making ends meet, tryin' to find someone to spend his life with." Starsky caught and held Hutch's gaze, his face suddenly somber. "Tryin' to stay alive."

Wincing, Hutch knew to what Starsky was referring. The world was still a brutal place for gays. Hutch himself had always been open-minded, but he was ashamed to admit that even his own precinct had its bigots—cops who would go out of their way to harass the gay population.

"Rick has made me realize somethin' important, Hutch." Starsky leaned forward, his voice intense. "If the person I love most in the world . . . who I want to spend the rest of my life with . . . is a guy, should I deny myself that, just because he's a man?"

Hutch blinked, ice water suddenly running through his veins. Oh shit. If they'd had this conversation thirty minutes ago, Hutch would have assumed he was the man his partner was talking about spending the rest of his life with. But now, Hutch glanced nervously at the bar, with Rick still within spitting distance, he suddenly wasn't so sure. Hell, thirty minutes ago Hutch didn't even know Rick existed; now he was sorry he did.

Had Starsky found someone else to spend his life with . . . his entire life with?

Realizing that Starsky was waiting patiently for an answer to his question, Hutch found himself torn. He knew his own agenda to be suspect and a thick haze clouded his mind as he struggled with his answer. While he thought it was perfectly fine for Starsky to be with a man, he didn't want Starsky with another man. So, where did that leave him? 'It's okay Starsk, so long as it's me?' He decided veiled honesty was the best he could do.

"Starsk," he began, "to answer your question, no, I don't think you should deny yourself the love of your life—even if he were a guy. But to be honest with you, I'm havin' trouble keeping up here, buddy." Hutch found himself unable to meet Starsky's gaze, and looked away.

Their relationship had always been complicated. Early on they had cut through the typical macho crap that often occurred between male friends. They weren't afraid to cry in front of one another, or even to hold each other while they did it. They'd always been physically affectionate. It was just a part of who they were. Hutch always put their ease with one another down to the fact that they regularly depended upon the other for their very survival. Yet the thought that Starsky might be able to have that with someone else, some other man, was disturbing, to say the least.

Starsky shrugged, as Diane set the two new long necks down in front of them. "Hutch," he spoke softly, "Relax, Hutch. It's gonna be okay."

Would it? Just what the hell was going on between his partner and that young Adonis at the bar? Hutch looked up, grateful to meet Starsky's steady, reassuring gaze.

"I'm not tryin' to overwhelm you, babe," Starsky soothed. "In fact, I'd been tryin' to figure out how to talk to you about it." Starsky jerked his head toward the bar, towards Rick. "Sorry it came out the way it did."

Hutch watched Starsky's lips twitch with amusement at his unintended pun.

"It isn't that bigga deal, Hutch." Starsky repeated. "Me and Huggy go to the Calypso sometimes, sometimes with Peter. Me," he added, his eyes sparkling, "I go mostly just to dance."

Hutch nodded, grappling to understand, wanting to believe that Rick was his partner's friend, nothing else—at least nothing serious. "Mostly, huh? So, what's it like?"

Starsky's eyes lit up, and Hutch knew that he was going to deliberately misunderstand the question. "It's great, Hutch. You wouldn't believe it. It makes the Green Parrot look like a dive."

"The Green Parrot is a dive," Hutch commented dryly, giving in to Starsky's desire to skirt the issue.

Starsky laughed before he continued, his eagerness nearly causing him to bounce in the booth. "Neon lights, terrific dance floor, incredible music. Boy, do gay guys know how to dance . . . you should see it."

Hutch smiled. "So, what are we waiting for?"

"Really?" his partner asked. Hutch heard how much he wanted to.

"Sure." Hutch licked his lips. "I'm game to see how the other half lives."

Jesus Christ. Hutch had never seen so many gorgeous men. They had incredible physiques, most of which were displayed for everyone's viewing pleasure. Now he knew why Starsky had insisted on going back to his apartment to "spruce up".

After demanding that Hutch change into one of his own t-shirts that fit like a second skin, Starsky had disappeared into his bedroom.

While Starsky had chattered on incomprehensively, Hutch had found himself wondering what Starsky would choose to wear to Calypso's. What he'd had on was fine, they'd certainly been out dancing in similar clothing for years.

While Hutch was often self-conscious about his own looks—mostly because people had made such a big deal out of them—from where he was standing, Starsky had always been comfortable in his own skin, self-assured in his appearance and in his athletic body.

The shooting, however, had radically changed Starsky's appearance, the weight loss he had undergone had been alarming, and his inability to gain it back during his recovery had been frustrating. Nonetheless, between physical therapy, doctor-sanctioned cardio and weight training sessions, Starsky had rebuilt critical muscle mass as well as his physical endurance. Starsky had never had a weight-problem in his life, but now, Hutch didn't think his partner had a spare ounce of fat anywhere on him.

When Starsky reemerged, Hutch had choked. The half shirt his partner had donned managed to display the sexy hollows at Starsky's neck, covered the worst of the scar tissue, and left his rock solid stomach exposed. As Hutch's gaze wandered down, he inadvertently hissed as he took in the low riding jeans his partner was sporting. They had to be painted on. They showcased every 'asset' Starsky had . . . .and then some.

Starsky slowly turned, allowing Hutch a view of his backside. Shit. When had Starsky developed dimples in his ass?

Completing Starsky's look was a pair of black leather boots that Hutch had never seen before, and Hutch couldn't help but shake his head at the picture his partner made. He had swallowed hard just to keep his mouth from watering.

It was now Starsky's turn to give Hutch the once over. Grinning wolfishly, he had declared Hutch passable, and they had headed out to Calypso's.

Now, as Hutch looked around the packed club, he realized he was nowhere near passable—not compared to the rock hard bodies of this clientele.

The beat was pounding, and the dancers moved provocatively against one another, far more blatant than any dancing he'd seen in a straight club. It was like watching a porn movie . . . from the inside. The heady bouquet of masculinity was everywhere, overwhelming, exciting, intoxicating.

Behind him, he felt his partner start to move in time with the music, and heard his voice, seductive against his ear. "Wanna dance, Hutch?"

He turned, nodded, and, trying not to give it too much thought, allowed his body to flow in time with the rhythm of the music. He wasn't surprised that they would move so well together. After all, Starsky was a good dancer, and they generally moved in synch while they were working. Looking around, Hutch took in the fact that their bodies weren't melded at the hip like everyone else's on the floor.

Starsky smirked and, seemingly reading his mind, reached for him, fusing their bodies together.

Oh shit.

Starsky left his hands on Hutch's hips, preventing him from moving away.

Why would I want to?

And they danced.

With just a little imagination on his part, Hutch found a place where if he held Starsky just right, his partner's hipbones fit perfectly within his own. Then Starsky turned him, and ground against his ass mercilessly; the threat of Starsky's erection pushing up against him left Hutch breathless. His own body responded in kind.

Just as he decided to reverse their positions, Hutch heard an all too familiar voice.

"Dave, you came," Rick purred, his voice heavy with suggestion, "and you brought your partner. How nice." He nodded at Hutch, "Good to see you, again. Mind if I borrow this hunka, hunka burnin' love, Ken?"

And if I do?

Shaking his head, Hutch made his way to a nearby bar, keeping both men in clear sight. Watching them together, Hutch realized just how beautiful they were. In fact, much to his chagrin, it was one of the most glorious displays he had ever seen.

Starsky and Rick moved together effortlessly, choreographically and sensually attuned with one another with a perfection almost too painful to witness. It was like watching two people have sex. And unlike before, when he'd thought the entire bar was like watching porn, watching Starsky and Rick was more personal. The erotica being played out before his eyes was more private, staggering.

Ordering a drink, Hutch marveled again at Rick and Starsky. It had been a long time since Hutch had allowed himself the luxury of wanting his partner. He had always considered it an impossible dream. But tonight, after watching Starsky respond sensually to another man, after experiencing the rush of dancing with him, and feeling Starsky's heavy sex burrowing against his ass—he felt the stirring of fragile hope. Let it be me.

When the beat altered, Rick led Starsky over to Hutch. Again, the younger man's eyes filled with smoke, knowledge, and his smile revealed his understanding. "I'm returning him to you, Ken. None the worse for wear."

"Maybe better," Hutch returned lightly, his own eyes shrewd, acknowledging the truth that hung between them.

Rick kissed Starsky lingeringly, and when he saw his partner deepen the kiss . . . though only for a moment . . . Hutch felt his first real pang of jealousy,

"Catch you later, lover," Rick commented, as he pulled away.

"Maybe not," Hutch volleyed back. "Thanks for everything, Rick. It's been a pleasure."

"Not yet. But it probably will be. Ciao, boys."

Starsky had remained quiet. After taking a pull of Hutch's drink, he asked quietly, "Seen enough?"

They barely made it inside the door of Starsky's apartment before their mouths converged. Plunging his tongue inside the inviting cavern of Starsky's mouth, Hutch was determined to wipe away the vestiges of Rick. When Starsky's mouth opened up so sweetly, Hutch heard a whimper, and found himself unable to place to whom it belonged.

Starsky's body didn't automatically give and sway like he expected it to and Hutch got his first hint of what loving a man would be like. While significantly smaller than Hutch, Starsky was strong, stronger than any of Hutch's dates had ever been. Hutch thrilled at the feel of long sinewy musculature against his hands. Starsky was lean, where a woman was soft. His chest and abdomen, hard, softly furred. His ass. Jesus. Hutch grabbed two hands full of that sexy ass—hauling Starsky up against him, making his own desire known.

"Hutch," Starsky whispered breathily, his hands pulling Hutch's t-shirt from his jeans. He barely skimmed Hutch's chest as he pulled it up and off. "One thing I learned at the club." Starsky ate a path down Hutch's neck.

Hutch quivered in reaction. Had anyone's mouth ever felt so hot on his skin?

"Men have curves, too." Starsky continued, his tongue and fingers working in concert. "Not as obvious as a woman's . . ." he breathed, lips nuzzling hyper-sensitized skin at Hutch's ear.

Hutch shuddered, the unbelievable pleasure causing his heart to pound, as Starsky lazily ran a gently sloping line from nipple to the waistband of his jeans.

". . . but curves, nonetheless." Starsky ended his statement with a hot tonguing of Hutch's ear, causing Hutch to moan his desire.

This is gonna kill me.

Starsky moved one of his hands to capture Hutch's, encouraging him to continue his exploration of the plush derriere beneath them. "Curves, Hutch," he moaned breathily.

"Bedroom," Hutch responded, recapturing Starsky's mouth, only to break contact when Starsky launched himself, wrapping his legs suggestively around Hutch's waist. Hutch felt the answering pulse of Starsky's arousal as their groins met. Feeling the heat that shimmered between them, Hutch adjusted his hold to better accommodate Starsky's weight. "Shit, Starsk—what else did you learn at the club?"

"Take me to bed and I'll show you."

Blue eyes locked with blue eyes. "You're scaring me." Yeah, right.

"You ain't seen nothin' yet."

I'm counting on it.

Hutch should have been the one in control, however, when they reached the edge of Starsky's bed, the dark-haired devil deliberately swayed, toppling them. Hutch found himself flat of his back, Starsky straddling his hips.

"Let's slow this party down," Starsky soothed, his hands lightly caressing Hutch's smooth chest.

Denim crotch to denim crotch, Hutch moaned, drowning in the answering heat of the undulating man above him.

Unable to tear his eyes away, Hutch watched and enjoyed as Starsky danced atop him, sensually moving his arms above his head, maintaining his balance as he continued the slow, sexual teasing. After a few moments, Hutch caught the rhythm and indulged his own desire to thrust and parry.

Hutch felt like he was drowning, his senses overloaded—the feel of Starsky atop him, the scent of his partner's arousal mixing with his own tantalized his taste buds, making his mouth water. Sliding his hands up Starsky's corded thighs, Hutch felt heat spreading through his veins as Starsky moaned his approval. The sound only ratcheted up the desire, and his hands convulsively closed over Starsky's hipbones.

Slow this party down, huh? Not this time.

Hutch stilled his partner's erotic dancing, and then slid his right hand to the straining fly, applying enough pressure so that he felt Starsky's trapped erection surge. "So, Starsk—tell me, what exactly did you learn at the club?" And how did you learn it?

Starsky arched, a low moan coming from his throat, and Hutch steadied him with his left hand. "Easy, Starsk," he murmured. "Easy, come on babe, what did you learn?" His attention was diverted however when he deftly unsnapped and unzipped the straining denim. Hutch hissed with pleasure to see Starsky's bare flesh. "You sexy son-of-a-bitch. I knew you couldn't possibly have on underwear in those jeans."

"This and that," Starsky replied. "I learned this and that—at the club."

"I just bet you did," Hutch commented throatily, his own trapped arousal jumping as he carefully pulled Starsky's free from the confining fabric. Starsky tried to move, moaning, but Hutch held him still. "You're so hot, babe," Hutch murmured, shocked at the heat coming off his friend's throbbing organ. It felt good in his hand, vibrant, alive, needy. He stroked the heated flesh, drawn by the rich burgundy color. Starsky's cock was beautiful aroused. Hutch automatically caught the pearlescent tear at the head, using it to lubricate the wanton shaft in his hand.

Above him, Starsky groaned his appreciation, suddenly content to be held in place, leaning down to whisper, "I am hot, aren't I, Blondie?"

When Hutch blinked, trying to make sense of Starsky's question, Starsky pressed his advantage and leaned down, stilling Hutch's ministrations, claiming his mouth for a breath-taking kiss. Starsky kissed like a demon, sucking, licking, plundering, teasing—making Hutch's pulse jump even higher.

"Do you want me, Hutch?" Starsky breathed into his mouth. "I want you, all of you, all of me." Then he pulled away, breaking the connection, and Hutch felt lost.

Starsky placed his hand on the snap of Hutch's jeans, opening it; Hutch closed his eyes as the zipper slid down. He sighed when he felt Starsky's hand on the turgid erection still trapped in his briefs. "Watch me, babe. Watch me touch you for the first time—for the first time as lovers."

Hutch's eyes snapped open. How could he not? Mesmerized, he watched as Starsky's hand toyed with him, fingers slipping into and out of the suddenly confining cotton. "Come on, Starsk," he wheedled.

Chuckling, Starsky complied. "Your wish is my command." His hands moved down, capturing Hutch's aching cock.

Hutch cried out, his hips automatically thrusting up, nearly bucking Starsky off him. Oh, those beautiful hands.

"Hold on, cowboy," Starsky teased, as he withdrew Hutch's length from the briefs. "Damn Hutch," he whistled appreciatively. "Everyone who thought you were compensating with the Magnum didn't know what they were talkin' about did they, big boy?"

Desperate for more, Hutch grabbed Starsky's neck, pulling him down for another brutalizing kiss. In the process, Starsky slid off him, settling along side, belly-to-belly, legs intertwined.

Hutch stropped against Starsky, badly needing release. Using one hand to lock their groins together, reminiscent of how they had danced at Calypso's, Hutch used his other hand to catch in Starsky's hair, gently pulling at those thick curls that had fascinated him from day one. "Starsk—" he muttered, "soon, Starsk, soon."

Starsky's eyes darkened, and Hutch was surprised when Starsky pulled back. "So much for 'slowin' it down', 'eh Hutch? That's okay, there'll be plenty of time for that later," Starsky continued, his voice full of sweet promise. "Give me your hand, babe."

Hutch allowed Starsky to move his hand from his hip to their erections.

"You've got big hands, babe. Use them on us."

Groaning, Hutch eagerly captured their twin erections, and stroked them fervently. "Do you like this?"

"Oh yeah," Starsky encouraged.

The feeling was sublime—how could something so simple feel so good? He was ridiculously pleased when Starsky gripped his shoulders, pumping up and down in time with Hutch's stroking.

Hutch felt the fire building, knew that it wouldn't be long, wondered if it was possible for them to come together—wanting that very badly. "Starsk," he rasped out, "you close?"

Instead of answering, Starsky disengaged his hand and slid his fingers into his own mouth, keeping his eyes locked with Hutch's all the while.

What the . . . ?

"Trust me, Hutch," Starsky murmured. Slowly he removed the wet fingers, and Hutch sighed as Starsky's mouth latched onto his own again.

Starsky's hands roamed down his back, hit the rise of his ass, and when Starsky touched the cleft between his cheeks, Hutch froze, unbridled anticipation running wildly up and down his spine.

"Trust me, Hutch," Starsky repeated, speaking into Hutch's mouth. "I'd never hurt you, babe."

Starsky's roving hand moved deeper, separating, probing, his fingers slick with saliva.

Hutch hung on; his hands now closed around Starsky's hips, no longer trusting himself to hold Starsky's erection. When he felt Starsky touch the tight portal, he groaned his desire into his partner's mouth. He felt his balls tighten up, felt the almost untenable tension building in his gut, his groin. "Starsky!"

Moving his mouth to Hutch's ear, Starsky whispered, "Hold on, babe. Hold on."

The hand that promised infinite danger, sweet absolution, was suddenly gone, and Hutch whimpered his loss.

"Soon, babe," Starsky soothed, wrapping his free hand around Hutch's turgid flesh, pumping methodicallybut not enough to send him over.

Hutch watched as Starsky brought his other hand back up to his mouth, re-wetting the questing digit. Hutch shuddered, cried out, knew he was almost out of control.

Starsky knew, too.

The finger was back, this time not hesitating, going directly to Hutch's tight opening. Hutch made a sound of desperation, pleading for he knew not what—but needing more, wanting to give all.

"Hutch—" Starsky began, sweat forming on his body. The sound of his voice told Hutch that his partner, too, was right on the edge. "I'm gonna touch you now."

What the hell had he been doing?

"Hutch, listen to me."

He blinked. This was Starsky's street voice; he snapped to attention.

Starsky grinned. "Tha's better. I love you. This ain't just a one night stand for me, understand?"

And then Hutch was surrounded, overwhelmed, turned inside out as Starsky's mouth came down hard on his own. The teasing digit slipped deep inside, stroking, sending shockwaves of pleasure throughout Hutch's body, in consummate counterpoint to the hand wrapped around his cock. His hips rotated frantically against Starsky, the unbelievable intimacy of his partner's hands sending him flying out of control. Hutch cried out as he came—was vaguely aware of Starsky tensing, moaning out his own pleasure, shuddering against him as another stream of warm viscous liquid shot across his chest, binding them together as Starsky collapsed on top of him.

Hutch came awake when something wet and warm moved across his belly. It was a washcloth, wielded by Starsky, intent on cleaning him up.

"Hey," he commented groggily, reaching out to touch the incredible man before him.

Starsky grinned. "So, you're back."

"Yeah," Hutch returned, unable to formulate more than one syllable responses.

After a time, Hutch forced himself to alertness. "Starsk? What else did you learn at Calypso's?"

Settling down beside him, Starsky nuzzled Hutch's neck. "Learned to dance like I was makin' love."

"You always danced like you were making love—always."

Starsky blushed.

"What else, babe?" Hutch pushed, turning the tables, using his breath to tantalize his lover. My lover. Oh my God. How incredible.

"Just some stuff to make sure I'd know how to treat you right," Starsky murmured, arching his neck up against Hutch's mouth. "I didn't want to risk screwing this up."

Hutch drew in a breath, forced himself to not overreact. "Rick?" he asked, pleased that he managed to keep his voice light.

Nevertheless, Starsky obviously saw right through him, grinned brightly, and then teased, "Yeah, Rick agreed to tutor me."

Having half expected it, Hutch found that the whole idea of Starsky being with someone else—especially Rick, made him see red. "Just how far did this 'tutelage' go, buddy? In case you've never noticed, my eyes really aren't blue." He paused, gratified to see Starsky's puzzlement. "They are green," he finished pointedly.

"Ah Hutch, don't get all upset. He didn't teach me too much more. I figured some of it we'd learn by ourselves."

"Really?" Hutch returned, no longer bothering to hide his feelings. "Whatever it was you did with him, you better have 'learned it good'. I don't want you doing any 'make up work.' Comprendé, partner?"

Starsky only laughed. "I'll let you be the judge of whether or not I need any additional 'one-on-one', babe." And the dark head went south.