Office Romance Box Set

by J. M. Snyder

  The grass grows right up to the edge of the fence, a wild mix of buffalo grass, switchgrass, and tall fescue, with some late blooming wild alfalfa sprouts purpling the field. It’s thigh high in most places, and as Davis and I move through it, a fine cloud of seeds and dust and insects rises up around us. After a dozen yards or so, the land slopes gently to a small ridge, then tumbles down into a gully thick with crabgrass and poison ivy. When Davis stops, kicking through the grass to find a good spot to sit, I look back to make sure I can still see Jolene. From here the front of my truck hides the booth, and I’m just about to say maybe we should move a little one way or the other so I can keep an eye on my sister when Davis falls back against the slope and pulls me down with him. “Here?” I ask, rolling onto my back. My stomach flutters as his hand tickles above the waistband of my jeans. The grass scratches my neck and arms, and rises around us to block out everything but the sky and Davis propped above me. The crowded fairgrounds sound like nothing more than wind rustling through fields a million miles away.

  “Here,” Davis breathes. He lays beside me, his stomach pressed against my side, and leans down to nuzzle my ear. When he speaks, his words fill me up inside as if they’re my own thoughts in his voice. “Where should we begin?”

  Gingerly I reach up and touch his face. He leans his cheek against my palm, then kisses my wrist. I guide him towards me, my mouth eager for his, my tongue licking along his upper lip before delving inside. He tastes sweet, sugary, like the soda he’s been drinking, and his tongue massages mine with an urgency that presses our lips together in a velvety crush. My hand fists in his short ponytail, pulling him towards me, and he pushes me to the ground with the strength of his kiss, his arms cradling me as he holds me down, his legs straddling my hips, his body covering mine.

  Through the double layer of our jeans, our cocks rub together, thrusting against each other as if locked in an ancient battle. His kiss becomes lustful, his hands rough in my hair, his body unyielding in its desire for mine. Somehow we break apart long enough to pull my shirt up over my head and I gasp as his teeth close over one hard nugget of a nipple, biting it erect. “God,” I sigh, holding his head in both hands as he nips his way down my stomach. His tongue licks into my navel, then he bites at the pliant skin, his fingers now at my waist and unzipping my jeans. My legs part as he moves lower, my knees rising on either side of him as he kisses the length of hair that leads into my crotch and then pulls down my pants and briefs. As if responding to the sudden sunlight and autumn air, my dick stands up from its patch of thick curls, pointing at Davis like an accusation. I raise my legs into the air, sure he’s going to tug the jeans off completely, but he only gets them down to my knees before he crawls into the space between, mouth open, tongue licking out to taste the head of my dick.

  With my legs on his shoulders, Davis kneels before me and traces the length of my shaft from tip to base with one long lick. As he takes my balls into his mouth, sucking the soft skin and rolling them around that maddening tongue of his, I arch my hips up to meet him. He releases my aching sac and moves lower, licking the smooth, tender skin before pressing against my tight hole. “God,” I gasp again, fists full of grass as he rims me, his tongue dancing between my buttocks. I work my muscles, trying to draw him in, but he stays just out of reach. Then he’s back at my cock again, rubbing the spongy tip against the roof of his mouth as his saliva cools down my length. Something’s building inside of me, something untamed, unfettered, and I want to scream out at the world all the frustration and anxiety he’s whipping up in me. I want him to take me, God please, just lay into me until I’m left raw and bared and exhausted. His touch is driving me to the brink of insanity, his kisses push me over the edge. “Fuck me,” I plead, please, please. “God, Davis, don’t make me beg. Just do it already, will you?”

  He laughs, laughs, I can’t believe it. “Don’t like this?” he asks, and one finger slips up my ass to bump my desire another notch or two higher. As he moves inside me I try to hold him in, I want more and my cock is throbbing for release but I won’t give in, not yet. His mouth is on me again, this time taking me in completely, until his lips kiss the base of my shaft and his mussed hair tickles my lower belly. He shoves deep inside me, sending bursts of pleasure tingling up my spine and down my legs, igniting every nerve ending I have. I raise one hand to my mouth and bite the fleshy pad below my thumb, bite down hard against the sensations flooding my body. I feel him everywhere, in my ass, my cock, my heart. When he pulls his finger out and lets my erection slip free from his lips, I bite down harder and barely manage to choke back a sob.

  Eyes shut, I try to steady my breathing. I’m close to release, God so close, but I hear the telltale sound of his zipper, hear him grunt as he tears open a condom, and I know this is it, here it comes, “Please.” My voice is a broken, tearful plea. “Davis...”

  “Coming right up,” he promises. I hear him shuck off his pants and then he’s back, hunching his shoulders to squeeze into the tight space between my knees. As he climbs over me, one hand on either side of my head, I rest my jean-sheathed lower legs on his narrow hips. The wet tip of his dick nudges against my quivering hole, pokes at me once or twice, then finally, finally plunges inside.

  He shoves in as far as he’ll go and stops. Above me his face eclipses the world, his eyes so clear it seems as if I’m looking through them to the sky beyond. He stares down at me, forcing me to look at him, holding my attention while he’s so deep inside and then, incredibly, he gives a little thrust and moves in just an inch or two more. Pressure builds inside me, a breathless wait—his gaze refuses to let me turn away. Another tiny thrust, and another, and another, and just when I think I can’t take any more, he’s in too deep and I’m going to explode if he goes in any further, he pulls out half an inch. An eternity passes; I hold my breath and wait for him to thrust in again with those little tiny fucks that wind me up tight inside. As he moves within me, his mouth closes over mine in a tender kiss.

  * * * *

  I feel shattered afterwards, a scarecrow torn into pieces and left scattered around the fields. Davis holds me close, kissing the back of my neck as he murmurs my name. My pants are still around my knees, my shirt somewhere in the grass nearby, and Davis is buck naked behind me, nothing on but that used condom still dangling from his limp member and lying wet between my thighs. I try to smooth out the grass imprints on his arms but the pink flesh stays indented. The fairgrounds still sound so far away, but the sun has begun to slant along the fields. I lace my fingers through his, hug his arms against my chest—I want to lie here forever, trapped in the circle of his embrace.

  But footsteps swishing through the grass near the fence remind us that we’re not alone. Reluctantly I sit up, dust the grass out of my hair, off my shoulders, my arms and legs and back. I don’t look at Davis as we dress, silent, each lost in his own thoughts. As he leads the way back to the fair, I reach out to brush the grass off his butt. His hand catches mine. “Copping a feel?” he asks, one eyebrow cocked salaciously. He raises my hand to his lips, kisses the tips of my fingers, then lets me go. “You here all week?”

  I thought he’d never ask. Not to seem too eager, though, I shrug like maybe and he punches me playfully in the arm. “Don’t be like that,” he says. “I got bite marks underneath my chin where you sank your teeth in, Jesse. You liked it.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t.” The next time he looks up, I duck down to see under his chin. Damned if there isn’t a faint red welt, and he’s got a hickey coming up along his jaw line. I point it out. “That’s gonna be pretty.”

  We’ve reached the fence. Davis leans back against it, grabs the belt loops on the front of my jeans and tugs me towards him. “Davis,” I warn. We’re behind my truck and mostly out of sight, but this is a small county and I surely don’t need this getting around. Still, his skin looks smooth and creamy, and I can’t stop myself from trailing a hand down his flat belly to hook in the front of his jeans. He’s watching me with an
unnerving stare, waiting for me to answer his previous question. “I’ll be here,” I tell him.

  He gives me a sunny smile. “Me too. I’m staying with Gary—”

  “Stay with me,” I say. It slips out before I can think to stop it, and the way his face lights up, I hate myself when I have to add, “Only I still live with my folks. Gary’s my half-uncle, so Momma’ll put you up, but Pa won’t cotton to us getting it on in his house.”

  Davis’s smile twists into a sly grin, and his eyes sparkle mischievously. With a tug on my jeans, he pulls me closer and I stumble into him, my nipples stiffening where they brush against his. In my ear he whispers, “Then we’ll just have to go outside.”

  And suddenly six days doesn’t seem long enough for this year’s fair.

  THE END

  Order Up

  I see the red Help Wanted sign in the window of Hoagie Joe’s and just have to stop. The deli’s a few blocks from campus and I’ve been there before with some of my friends, but I never noticed the sign until now. Shit, I need a job if I hope to pay for my books in the fall, and who’d see me in one of those silly white aprons anyway? All my friends have left State for the summer—it’s just me and the empty apartment I managed to find above the music store down the street. I could walk to this place if I got hired…and truth be told, how hard can it be working here, anyway? Making sandwiches isn’t exactly brain surgery. I’m not Emeril but I think I can manage to toast bread.

  Maybe they just want someone to sweep the place at night or wash dishes. Take out the trash. I can do that. I can answer the phone, maybe take orders when the customers come in, something. The sign doesn’t necessarily say they’re looking for a cook.

  What’ll it hurt? I pull open the heavy glass door and duck inside. A tiny chime rings through the deli, and I already know I’ll grow to hate that sound if I’m hired. I don’t think I can listen to it all night long, every time someone walks in to place an order. It’ll drive me insane.

  Inside, the deli is small—no chairs or tables or anything like that. Just a long counter with an ancient cash register hulking on one end, a heated glass-enclosed display case housing fried chicken on the other. Along one wall there’s a refrigerated case half-filled with bottles of soda. A pair of swinging doors behind the counter lead back to the kitchen, and that’s it.

  In front of the drink case, holding it open, is a guy about my age. He has an unruly beard that’s mostly stubble and shaggy brown hair brushing his collar. If he’s on the grill, I don’t think I want to order. The apron tied around his waist is smeared with mustard and ketchup and grease, and his jeans don’t look much better.

  He looks up as I enter, an easy grin already on his face. Grabbing a bottle of soda, he twists off the cap and takes a long swig. “Hey,” he says with a nod. “You call in an order?”

  I shake my head.

  Another swallow of soda, his throat working as he drinks. With a refreshed sigh, he asks, “You know what you want?”

  I admit, “I’m not really here to eat…”

  But he’s already leaning on the counter, pen in hand and reaching for a tablet to write on. “What’ll it be, dude?”

  I shake my head again. “I was wondering about the job.” I point at the sign in the window. “It says help wanted?” As if he can’t read it.

  For a moment he frowns like he hasn’t noticed the sign before, then he turns and looks down behind the counter. “We hiring, Deon?” I didn’t realize anyone else was here.

  From below the counter a deep voice responds, hidden from sight. “Your dad put that up this morning, Joe. We’re looking for someone else at night.”

  Two strong, dark hands appear on the counter by Joe’s elbow, and Deon hoists himself up from behind the register. As he stands, I see tight black curls shaved back off a smooth brow, the sides faded in lines over the ears. Dark eyes like shadows glance my way. A wide nose above full, sensuous lips…damn, but he’s a sexy man. I have a thing for black guys, I admit, and this one has skin like rich caramel. I stare at his waist, where his apron is cinched tight, then my gaze travels up, my imagination erasing his clothes to expose a taut belly and firm chest. His arms are thin but muscular—what I wouldn’t give to feel them wrapped around me. Then I meet his eyes again, those eyes, and I can’t remember what I’m here for. Did someone say order up?

  With a hint of a smile, he asks, “You looking for a job?”

  Is he talking to me? Before I can stop myself, I ask, “What do you need me to do?”

  My voice cracks at the faint innuendo that runs like an electric current beneath my words. Joe laughs and looks at me critically, and my hand strays to the do-rag I tied over my hair this morning instead of washing it. I know he’s thinking I’m a thug, with this bandanna and these diamond stud earrings and this torn T-shirt, these baggy pants. I can see it in his eyes—wigger.

  I feel so childish all of a sudden, so out of place in this cozy daddy-owned deli, just a college kid from out of town looking for a place to work, and you know what? I don’t want the job anymore. I just want to walk out and go back to my tiny little two-room flat, stare at the walls and remember those melted chocolate eyes, his eyes…I’ll never be able to forget them, or the way he smacks Joe and smiles at me when he says, “You ever worked in a deli before?”

  I shake my head. “I can learn.” Damn, that sounds just a little too eager. My cheeks heat up and I pick at the cracked countertop with one bitten nail. “I mean, I’m sure it’s not too hard.”

  Joe laughs again. “Hard compared to what?” he asks, winking at me.

  I know my face is flushed now, I can feel my cheeks blaze. I don’t need to stay here and take this. I don’t need this job that badly—I can find something at the mall, maybe somewhere on campus, on the bus route…

  “Don’t mind him,” Deon says, pushing Joe’s arm off the counter. “You want to order or are you just inquiring about the position?”

  Inquiring about the position. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask what position he prefers, but then I realize he’s not thinking what I’m thinking. He’s talking about the Help Wanted sign, not the sordid press of flesh on flesh that invades my mind. James, stop it, I warn myself.

  Joe laughs again. He looks at me with that shit-eating grin, his eyes crimped into half-mooned secrets, and damn him, but he knows what I’m thinking, I just know he does. Is it that obvious?

  “I was wondering about that job,” I say softly. This was a bad idea, I know that now. I will never be able to sleep again. Every time I close my eyes I’ll see Deon’s behind mine, keeping me awake forever.

  “Can you work nights?” Deon asks,

  I nod numbly. As long as I spend them with you, I think, and I drop my gaze from his demanding stare because I know he’ll read my thoughts in my eyes. I don’t dare speak; if I do, I’ll say the words out loud, they’ll take flight and I’ll lose whatever chance I might have with him. At least now I have something, you know? I have this moment, and the memory of his smile and his eyes, and I’m hoping I’ll have this job, too. Then I can see him every night, and we’ll become the best of friends, I just know it, and I can invite him over and learn if the things I see hidden behind his dark eyes are the same things I’m thinking right now…

  Damn, James. You’re already picking out curtains with the boy and you don’t know if you have the job or not. I need to stop, for sure, but it’s been a while since I’ve seen a brother so fly.

  Watching me closely, Deon asks, “You go to State?”

  “Yeah.” I dare to look up. Joe has retreated back into the kitchen and now leans over the top of the swinging doors, watching me with that stupid grin on his face, like I’m the funniest thing he’s seen in ages. “I’m a psych major.”

  “Really?” Deon raises his eyebrows like he’s impressed. “That’s cool.”

  I shrug. I don’t know if that’s what he’s thinking or if he’s just trying to be nice, but I catch his eye and smile disarmingly. “I’m James. What
’s Deon stand for?”

  “Don’t laugh. Romeo,” he says, shaking my hand.

  My fingers linger in his palm a second too long, I know, but I can’t help it. “I’m not laughing. I like that.”

  From behind him, Joe mutters, “I knew it.”

  Deon rolls his eyes. With a jerk of his thumb, he says, “That’s Joe. Junior, I might add. Joe Senior’s his dad and he’s the one who owns the place, though baby Joe here tends to forget that sometimes.”

  “Hey!” Joe cries, indignant. I laugh, relieved I’m not the only one being picked on any more.

  Deon tells me, “Senior’s the one who’s hiring, really, if you want to stick around. He should be back in, like, five minutes or so.”

  “Okay,” I say, nodding. I look around the place, trying to think of something else to say, anything to keep him near me and talking. I love the sound of his voice, so deep, so new, so unexpected. I wonder what he sounds like in bed—James, don’t go there—his whimpers of pleasure, the moans that would escape his throat, sighs and grunts and my name on his lips, me doing that to him, making him come. Right now I am so glad there’s a counter between us and my shirt is untucked and hanging out of my pants, covering what exactly it is he’s done to me in the few minutes I’ve been here. And to imagine him in my arms? I would die.

  The phone rings and I jump at the shrill sound. With a fluid movement, Deon reaches out and answers it. He hooks the receiver off the wall and wedges it between his ear and shoulder, reaching for a nearby tablet. He scribbles on the top piece of paper, ready to take an order. “Hoagie Joe’s,” he says, then he grins at me. “Hey, sugar, what’s shaking?”

  Sugar. A term of endearment, saved for someone special. Someone like a lover or a girlfriend, someone who is not me. Fuck.