by Vivica Dorn
Sam was at his side in an instant. Less than an instant. Strong hands clutched him around his waist, righting him and helping him to find his footing against the bottom of the pool. Michel gasped and sucked in air, on the verge of hyperventilating. Tears stung at his eyes. This isn’t going to work. This is never going to work!
Without thinking, without taking the time to judge himself, and without speaking a single word, Michel turned and buried his face in Sam’s chest, sobs of fear and frustration racking his slim frame. Immediately Sam’s firm arms returned the embrace, clutching Michel to him tightly. His mouth pressed into Michel’s wet hair, and he murmured comforts to the trembling boy.
“Shh, shh, it’s ok, you’re ok, I’ve got you, I’ve got you now.”
Michel pressed tighter into Sam’s chest, revelling in the stability, the warmth, he found there, sniffing and gasping.
“Shh, it’s ok, I’ve got you now, my baby.”
My baby.
The words caught Michel so off-guard that he stopped crying. He could feel Sam stiffen against him, as if he had only just realized what he had said. Michel tipped his face up to look at the tall athlete, his trembling lips parted, his lashes glittering and wet with pool water and tears. Sam returned the look, only for a moment, before his arms tightened around Michel’s waist and his mouth fell upon the astonished boy. Michel gasped into Sam’s mouth, head reeling. Was this for real?
Sam groaned, and the sound absolutely fucking pierced Michel, sending a pulsing wave of heat into his groin. Sam’s tongue forced Michel’s mouth open wider, wider, searching every secret wet place, all the way back to Michel’s throat. And then Michel’s hands were in Sam’s hair. And then Sam’s hands were on his ass, pressing their pelvises together. Michel cried out as Sam trailed hot, aching kisses along his cheek, his jaw, and down his neck, sucking at his collarbone, then moving back up to claim those lips again. And Michel totally let go, releasing himself to the kiss, to the sensations of being opened up and taken. It felt incredible to just lean into this embrace, to accept and submit to the raging, demanding heat coming off the other boy.
Sam forced a muscled thigh between Michel’s legs and without even realizing what he was doing, Michel started rubbing his thickening cock against the taller boy’s hip. He clutched at Sam’s back, head tipped back, throat bared, mouth surrendering to Sam’s urgency. Sam’s hands tightened on Michel’s ass as he pulled that grinding pelvis against him even harder. Michel could feel Sam’s own huge hardness pressing against his abdomen, and he moaned into the taller boy’s mouth.
This... this is bad, Michel thought as he shamelessly rubbed himself against the firmness of Sam’s body. He was shocked by the wantonness of his actions, the way his hips seemed to move of their own accord. And he was even more shocked that he was having this kind of experience with another man, and one of his students to boot. But he couldn’t help it. Any of it. Desire slammed through him like a virus, claiming every muscle, every nerve, every breath. He needed more: more heat, more hardness, more Sam, more.
A familiar, honey-slick pleasure unfurled deep inside Michel. Sam groaned against him, his chest heaving, breath laboured, hands massaging his flesh. Michel froze, realizing that he was about to come. He was about to come, in his bathing suit, in his college’s pool... with one of his students.
With a cry, he yanked himself back, falling back into the water with a splash before quickly righting himself and standing, a few feet from Sam now, one hand clutching at his throbbing erection, desperately trying to keep himself from ejaculating, the other hand stretched out in front of him as if to say stay back.
Sam stared at him, his blue eyes as dark as a storm over water, panting.
“We... we have to stop,” Michel whispered.
Sam clenched his jaw, a pained look shadowing his sculpted face. Something about the sorrow and hunger there, the exquisite, sincere desire, almost sent Michel over the edge, and he sucked in a breath, squeezing his hand tighter around his cock. Dieu, help me. Please don’t let me come into the water my students have to swim in.
On the edge of losing control, Michel turned and clambered out of the pool, muttering, “I have to get out of here.”
He changed quickly, both wanting and not wanting to avoid further contact with Sam. He had to get his shit together, had to figure this all out. And having the tall, muscled, blue-eyed swimmer near him was not helping. When he took off his swim trunks, his sensitive red erection sprang out, and he scowled at it. He managed to tuck himself into his jeans uncomfortably and he yanked his sweater on, hurrying out the door, out into the night, before Sam could call him back.
And if he stopped, just for a moment, to look over his shoulder with the slightest bit of hope that Sam had followed, well, nobody knew that but him.
CHAPTER 8
“Are you ok?”
The words surprised Michel and he dropped his house keys, cursing. He grabbed them from the concrete surface of the porch where they had fallen and looked up, meeting the serious grey eyes of his downstairs neighbour, Lance Gallagher. Michel shifted under Lance’s penetrating gaze.
“Yes, of course, why?” His eyes flicked down quickly to his crotch, worried his earlier arousal was the cause for the taller boy’s question. Luckily his erection had softened since then. Dieu merci, thank God.
Lance was silent for a moment, his eyes probing, then said, “you look flushed.”
Michel sighed. He didn’t know much about his quiet downstairs neighbour. He seemed okay enough; he had helped Michel take some of his furniture upstairs into his apartment when he had moved in during the summer, something for which Michel had been extremely grateful. Michel was naturally slender and didn’t make it a priority to work out, so having a tall, strong athlete around to help had turned out to be extremely useful. Lance didn’t talk much, though, and Michel found himself trying to figure out what the silent copper-haired boy was thinking.
“Ah, yes, well, it’s been... an odd day.”
Lance regarded him again without speaking. Just when Michel was starting to feel the silence get awkward, Lance suddenly motioned to the door around the side of the house that led to his apartment.
“Want a drink?”
Michel paused. He kind of wanted to be alone to process everything that had just happened. But, then again, being alone would mean he actually would have to process what had happened. He didn’t think he was quite ready for that yet.
“Actually, yes, thanks,” he replied, grateful to his neighbour for the second time. He tucked his keys back into his pocket and followed Lance around the side of the house.
Lance’s apartment was gorgeous. The house itself, including Michel’s apartment upstairs, was lovely, a century home with large rooms and high, arching ceilings, but Lance’s furnishings were beyond beautiful. A buttery-smooth brown leather couch and ottoman gleamed in the centre of the living room area, facing a TV that was at least 60 inches and mounted on the wall above a crackling fireplace. Michel noted that Lance had one of every major game console and a shelf of games and DVDs. He also had shelves upon shelves of books. He nodded approvingly.
“Quite the collection,” he said appreciatively, admiring the many spines along the wall.
Lance walked into the open concept kitchen and opened the stainless steel fridge, taking out two beers.
“I read a lot,” he said simply, holding up the bottles.
“Do you drink beer?”
Michel frowned a little. He had never liked beer.
“Actually, no, I don’t, but that’s ok, thank you for the offer.”
Lance put both the bottles back into the fridge and opened a huge, floor to ceiling pantry door, revealing a fantastically crisscrossed wooden shelving system stacked with wine bottles. Michel’s mouth fell open, his eyebrows shooting up.
“Wow, that’s amazing! I’m so jealous!”
Lance smiled slightly.
“Red or white?”
“Red, please.”
Lance selected a bottle, a California vintage, and uncorked it, aerating the rich, red liquid into two graceful wine glasses.
Handing a glass to Michel, he led them back towards the living room. Lance sat in the ottoman, swirling his drink, and Michel settled carefully onto the couch. It was as comfortable, or maybe even more comfortable, than it had looked. Michel thought wistfully of his own bare apartment, furnished on his meagre international student budget. He wiggled happily, determined to take advantage of this lovely space for as long as he was welcome.
Michel took a sip from his glass and gasped. It was one of the loveliest wines he had ever tasted, dry and rich with notes of dark chocolate and tart berries.
“This is great,” he said, then, with a mock frown, “but a European would never admit that about and American wine.”
Lance laughed, the first time Michel had seen him laugh, actually.
“We get a bad rap,” he said, taking a sip from his own glass and nodding.
They drank a little more, quietly. Michel looked down at his jeans, unsure what to say. He didn’t know much of anything about the other boy and wasn’t sure how to make conversation. He searched his mind for something, anything, to discuss.
“Ah! I saw your name on the swim team list, congratulations! Have you been a swimmer long?”
Lance nodded.
“My whole life. For a while I considered going pro, aiming for the Olympics. But I decided to pursue my education instead.”
Michel smiled, taking another sip.
“That makes sense. Good for you, it’s great you can swim here.” He blushed a little, then added quickly, the words tumbling out in a jumble, “one of your teammates is teaching me how to swim.”
“Oh yeah?” Lance asked, his grey eyes dark and curious. “Who?”
“Sam Hendrick.” Michel’s voice faded towards the end of the name, his face burning. Oh, God, he really was in trouble if he couldn’t even say Sam’s name. He cleared his throat.
“He’s a strong swimmer, very energetic but good form, too. How is it going?” Lance asked.
Michel wasn’t sure how to answer that. He thought of the way both of their first two lessons had gone, each ending with one of them practically running away from the other. He peered down into the jewel-red depths of his wine.
“Ah, ok, I’m not sure. It’s a bit weird. I’m not very good. And, in all honesty, I think perhaps we don’t work well together.”
He could feel Lance’s questioning eyes on him as he continued to stare down into his drink. He knew that he was blushing hard, now. He breathed deeply but slowly, hoping Lance hadn’t noticed, though he was sure he had. One thing he had learned about the silent red-head was that he was exceptionally intelligent and observant. He just often seemed to keep those observations to himself.
“Well, if it isn’t going well, I can help. I could teach you sometime.”
Michel’s head whipped up. Lance, teaching him?
Lance looked sincere enough, if somewhat distant and polite. It represented a total contrast to Sam’s eagerness, his confident assurances, his... affection. Michel tried to picture what a swimming lesson with Lance would be like. He bet it would be very technical and rigorous. He tried to imagine what Lance’s reaction would be to him coming close to having a panic attack like he had had today, and he honestly couldn’t. The thought made him want to vomit. Somehow, he had become comfortable only with Sam, and he wasn’t willing to let anyone else see such vulnerability.
Michel smiled weakly.
“I appreciate it. I will keep that in mind, thank you.”
Lance nodded, finishing his wine. Michel did the same.
“Another?”
Michel considered saying no, but then thought, why the hell not? He hadn’t made any close friends here yet, and he had had one hell of a day.
“S’il vous plaît,” he said, handing Lance his empty glass.
When Michel finally made it upstairs to his own apartment he was thoroughly tipsy. Lance had been an excellent host, keeping his glass filled with that truly divine vintage, and Michel had imbibed more than he had meant to. Funnily enough, though Lance drank at least as much if not more, he showed no signs of intoxication besides a slight flush high on his cheekbones. Big guys really can hold their liquor, he grumbled.
Despite having drunk too much, Michel had enjoyed his conversation with Lance. It felt good to have made a friend, to have a conversation with someone other than a professor or a student who needed his help. Or Sam. Lance, it turned out, had a lot in common with Michel, including an interest in literature, good wine, and politics.
“You should sit in on my Politics and Governance class!” Michel had slurred, sitting up quickly and gesturing excitedly with his glass, coming close to spilling the wine.
“I’ve heard it’s an excellent course,” Lance had replied, looking thoughtful.
“Yes,” Michel gushed. “Dr Adams is brilliant, you’ll love him! Oh! And some other swimmers are there too! Yeah, they’re in that class! Sam and the other one, the one with the big dolly eyes, Finn.”
Even through his drunken haze, Michel had noticed a muscle jump in Lance’s jaw when he said Finn’s name.
“Oh really,” the tall boy said, voice low, swirling his glass. Suddenly he looked up, his gaze so serious that it almost sobered Michel up. Almost.
“I still have one elective to take. I’ll join the course.”
Michel had been surprised by the quick decision.
“Don’t you want to sit in on a lecture first? It’s not your major, after all, since you’re in engineering,’ he said, perplexed.
But Lance had just set his jaw and stared into the flickering light of the fireplace, murmuring,
“That won’t be necessary.”
Michel stumbled and almost fell up the stairs to his apartment before catching himself and unlocking his door. As he turned on the lights, he was reminded of the huge difference between his apartment and Lance’s. He had a very small rickety table with two chairs in the kitchen and a few sad-looking, deflated pillows in the corners on the floor of his living room. No giant leather couches or cinematic TV. No warm, jolly fireplace to light up the room and keep him warm.
His bedroom was somewhat more decently furnished with a double bed, a bedside table, and a small bookshelf crammed full of novels, essay collections, poetry anthologies, and memoirs in both French and English. Michel thought of the ample bookshelves lining the walls downstairs and his mouth practically watered.
In his bedroom he stripped down, putting his clothing into the laundry basket in his closet. His skin felt dry and tight, and he realized that he hadn’t rinsed the chlorine from the pool off of his skin yet. His skin was unusually sensitive, it had been since childhood, and he knew that if he didn’t shower before bed he’d probably wake up red and itchy all over. Sighing, he walked naked to his bathroom and turned on the shower, waiting for the water to get warm before he got in. As he dipped his hand into the stream to check the temperature, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror.
His green eyes looked hooded and dazed, his mouth stained a darker red than usual, his cheeks wantonly rosy. And, he noticed, his stomach plummeting, his neck was red and marked by Sam’s kisses. He groaned out loud, reaching up to brush those marks gently. Lance must have seen them. There was no way to miss them. And his expression! He couldn’t tell if his face looked so aroused and strange from all the wine or from something else, something earlier. Something that came in the shape of a Greek god-like swimming teacher with hands like firm fire and a mouth that made him positively ache.
He wrenched his eyes away from his own unrecognizable, sultry expression and clambered into the shower, sighing as the warm water gushed over his skin, soothing and relaxing him. He lathered his hair slowly, trying to use as little product as possible. He was using a special marzipan-scented shampoo from Belgium that his aunt had sent him and it was close to running out. He felt bad asking her to send more –
it was expensive for her to ship – so he was trying to make it last as long as possible. The scent made him think of home, of the Christmas markets in Brussels and all their almond candies flavoured with vanilla and cinnamon. He closed his eyes, breathing deep and massaging his scalp.
After rinsing his hair he washed his body, slowly and carefully, taking care to clean all traces of chlorine off of him. When he washed between his legs he was surprised by an immediate, scorching reaction. He brushed his soapy hand over his cock and it twitched and stirred, becoming engorged with almost no stimulation. Michel’s eyebrows shot up. How on earth was he suddenly so turned on? Perhaps he hadn’t been as relaxed as he had thought, perhaps the arousal form earlier in the evening was just waiting, biding its time, until it could be satisfied.
Burning with sudden need, Michel wrapped a slippery hand around his soaped-up cock. Without making any effort to think about anything whatsoever, an image of Sam emerged from his mind, clear as day, the tall boy looking pained and full of desire, aching for Michel, reaching for him...
Michel gasped as he hardened completely in his unmoving grasp. He knew he should feel terrible about thinking about Sam while he started to stroke himself, but he was too drunk and brutally aroused to care. Each stroke of his hand sent exquisite pulsing waves throughout his pelvis and abdomen, his dark pink head already slick with precum. He moaned a little, moving his hand faster.
Is this what you want the American to do? A foreign and unkind voice asked from the back of his mind. Michel’s hand stopped, his cock throbbing in the steam.
No! Of course not...
But suddenly Michel wasn’t so sure. He thought about how brazenly he had rubbed himself against Sam, how he had almost come without even being touched. What would it feel like to have that large, warm hand wrapped around his cock, pumping, pumping hard and fast while Sam breathed into his ear, kissed his neck, pressed his own erection into Michel’s hip, oh, yes, just like that, so beautifully hard and fast and sure, and -
Michel came without warning, spurting hot and creamy into the stream of the shower. His knees went weak and he sat down heavily in his bathtub, barely supporting himself with his left hand as he went down, his right hand still clutched between his legs, the showering raining down on him with quiet condemnation. He stayed there for a very long time, so long that the hot water ran out and turned painfully cold on his skin. And even then he did not move. If he didn’t move, he could pretend that what had just happened hadn’t happened. As soon as he got up and stepped back out into the real world he would have to acknowledge that things were getting very, very bad. He wasn’t ready for that yet. It was better here, for now, though it was cold, and it was wet.