There was some grunting, and Russ made the mistake of looking into Milt’s eyes. He would never figure out which one of them closed the final distance, but suddenly there were lips pressed against his, and the tension in his chest fluttered into something entirely unrecognizable. His hands came up and clasped the agent’s neck. His tongue probed and when Milt’s mouth softened, Russ licked his way inside. He tasted like toothpaste. Russ had a momentary qualm that his mouth must taste like stale alcohol before Milt moaned, his hands dug into Russ’s hips, and the sensation chased everything else away. Russ’s hands trailed down Milt’s neck and fisted in his tee shirt.