Just the Three of Us

by J. M. Snyder

  Next he unplugged the Christmas tree. Checked the front door to make sure it was locked—a habit that came from living in the city, since he hadn’t seen or heard anyone else outside their cabin all day. Then he returned to the kitchen to check the lock on the sliding glass door. There were vertical blinds for that door, as well, which had been opened and nestled in one corner. But the darkness outside was so complete, Lane didn’t like to think of anything out there looking in so he shut the blinds to block the view.

  One last look around, double-checking the fire and all the lights, and he headed for the bathroom. There he washed his hands and face, brushed his teeth, and emptied his bladder of the last of the wine. With any luck, Braden’s story was over with by now and Remy would be ready to return to the bed they shared for a little loving.

  Finally.

  When Lane passed Braden’s bedroom, the light was still on but it was quiet inside. No more reading, no more laughter. Lane paused to peek inside and saw Braden asleep in bed, a book stretched out across the covers in front of him. Beside him, Remy sat on the edge of the bed but had curled around his pillow, also asleep.

  Lane grinned. So much for loving tonight.

  Any other time, Lane might have let Remy stay in Braden’s room—the bed was large enough for both father and son—but his position on the edge of the bed was awkward. He’d wake up sore and grumpy, and Lane didn’t want to deal with that on Christmas Eve, of all nights. So Lane entered Braden’s room and touched his lover’s hand to release the book from it, then grasped Remy’s fingers in his own. “Hey, Rem,” he whispered.

  Remy drew in a breath that almost sounded like a ragged snore. “Wh…?”

  Easing an arm behind Remy’s shoulders, Lane pulled him up off the pillow. “Come on,” he whispered, keeping his voice down. “You’re in the wrong bed.”

  A little more awake now, Remy frowned down at Braden. “This isn’t it?”

  Lane tried not to laugh and helped Remy to his feet. “Come on,” he said again.

  Remy yawned as he stood, then wrapped his arms around Lane’s neck and shoulders, leaning heavily on his lover. “Hey, baby,” he mumbled. The wine had done its work.

  “Hey yourself.” With Remy in his arms, Lane somehow managed to remove the book from Braden’s covers and click off the lamp beside the bed. Then he half-dragged, half-carried Remy out of the bedroom, pulled the door shut behind them, and helped his lover to their own bed.

  Safe in their bedroom, their door locked for good measure, Lane laid Remy down across the covers and undressed him. He lingered a moment once the sweats were off, enjoying the golden light cast from the bedside lamp along Remy’s muscular thighs and taut belly. Then he eased down Remy’s underwear, savoring the sight of his lover’s limp cock cradled in a clutch of dark, kinked curls. Lane pulled the briefs down to Remy’s ankles and pressed his face to his lover’s crotch, breathing in deep the musky scent of the man he loved.

  When the briefs were on the floor, Lane stretched out above Remy and kissed the tip of his nose. “I want you so badly right now,” he whispered, sure his lover was too far gone to hear him.

  But Remy surprised him. Snorting awake, Remy wrapped his arms around Lane’s waist. In a sleepy voice, he murmured, “Then take me. I’m yours.”

  It was tempting. But Lane wasn’t interested in one-sided sex. He had his hand for that. If they both couldn’t enjoy making love, then Lane would wait until they could. In the morning, perhaps. It would be so much sweeter then.

  Remy clutched at Lane’s shirt, but his grip was slipping. He was already falling back asleep. Still, he mumbled, “You can do me. I don’t mind.”

  “But I do.” Lane kissed Remy again, firmly on the lips this time, then helped his lover beneath the covers. He undressed himself and slid between the cool sheets on the other side of the bed. Hugging Remy close, he too fell asleep.

  * * * *

  Morning came all too soon. Even before Lane opened his eyes, he felt the sunlight shining in them and burrowed deeper into the blankets. He stretched out an arm across Remy’s side of the bed but it was empty. With a groan, Lane rolled onto his stomach in the center of the mattress and pressed his face to the pillows.

  It was too damn early.

  His head ached from the wine. His stomach churned when he moved. His bladder throbbed, but for the moment Lane ignored it. All he wanted was to go back to sleep.

  He heard the rustle of fabric and the rattle as a drawer was pulled out noisily from the dresser. He moaned, burying his head further into the pillow.

  From across the room, Remy laughed, an overly-bright sound that made Lane’s head hurt even more. “I know you’re up,” his lover teased. “You’re just in time to join me in the shower.”

  “Let me sleep,” Lane muttered.

  Footsteps approached, then the bed jostled as Remy sat down. With a heavy hand, he patted Lane’s shoulder through the covers. Then he found Lane’s neck and began to massage it gently. “Aww, poor baby,” he cooed. “Too much wine?”

  “Too much everything.” Lane’s mouth was dry, as if it had been stuffed with cotton. Sharing a shower with Remy sounded wonderful, but he wasn’t sure he could stand without throwing up. And how sexy would that be?

  Remy pulled down the covers just enough to brush the hair back from Lane’s ear. “You rest up,” he said, leaning down to kiss the top of Lane’s head. “I want you feeling better by tomorrow.”

  For a moment, Lane couldn’t figure out what Remy might mean. Then it hit him—today was Christmas Eve.

  Shit.

  “Just close the curtains, will you?” Lane asked.

  Remy walked around the bed and shut the drapes. Suddenly the room was blissfully dark again. Thank you, Jesus, Lane thought, rolling onto his side. He tucked the blankets under his neck and kept his eyes shut tight against a wave of nausea that hit him.

  “I don’t think it was just the wine,” he muttered as Remy stroked his hair. “I think it was those damn SpaghettiOs.”

  His lover laughed. “I ate them and I feel fine.”

  “Yeah, well.” Lane sighed. “I have a more refined palette than you do. When I burp, I can still taste those wieners.”

  Remy leaned down and rubbed his nose against Lane’s. “Are you sure it isn’t my wiener you’re tasting?”

  Lane opened one eye. “Babe, it’s been years since we did it last.”

  Frowning, Remy looked away and counted under his breath. When he looked back at Lane, he grinned. “It’s been four days. This is Sunday, and we had sex Thursday night. So it hasn’t been years.”

  “Sure feels like it,” Lane groused.

  Remy wriggled his brows in a leer. “My offer of sharing a shower still stands. Unless you’d rather share a bath.”

  “I’d rather go back to bed,” Lane told him. Even though he didn’t feel sexy, he felt compelled to ask, “Do you want to join me?”

  Remy rubbed Lane’s shoulder and back. “Somehow I don’t think that’ll make you feel better.”

  The idea of cuddling with his lover—nothing more than that—was appealing despite Lane’s hangover. “Well, maybe if we don’t do anything…”

  Remy laughed. “What’s the fun in that?”

  * * * *

  The next time Lane woke, it was almost one thirty in the afternoon, according to the clock on the bedside table. He pushed the blankets down to his waist and lay back against the pillows, trying to gauge how he felt. Better, he had to admit. And he had to pee something fierce.

  Kicking off the blankets completely, Lane carefully sat up. His head still hurt, but not much. What had felt like a pounding in his skull earlier in the day was down to a dull ache that twinged if he moved too fast. So he took it slow, one leg over the side of the bed at a time, left foot on the floor first, then the right. Both hands flat on the bed to push him upright…

  Boyish laughter erupted in the main room of the cabin. Lane glanced up and saw the bedroom door stood open wide. He couldn’t s
ee Braden or Remy—they were probably on the other side of the couch. He heard muted voices, then Braden laughed again.

  Holding a pillow to cover his crotch, Lane hunched over and scuttled to the door. As it swung shut, he heard the voices stop, and then Remy called out, “Lane? You up?”

  “Getting dressed,” he hollered.

  Much good it did. He was just stepping into a pair of briefs when he heard the door creak open. “Hey!” he cried, almost stumbling over the briefs that cuffed his ankles as he turned.

  It was only Remy, who peered around the door. “Are you feeling better?”

  Before Lane could respond, Braden’s head appeared behind his father’s leg. “Are you still sick?” the boy asked.

  “Remy!” Lane struggled to pull up his underwear, but his fingers seemed caught and he couldn’t untwist the briefs. “I’m half-naked here.”

  Quickly Remy dropped his hand to cover Braden’s face. “Lane’s getting dressed,” he said, steering his son out of the room. Instead of following, though, Remy came into the bedroom and shut the door behind him. Turning, he gave Lane a seductive grin. “That’s not half-naked. That’s mostly naked. Why the rush? It’s only me.”

  “He’s right outside the door,” Lane pointed out.

  Crossing the bedroom, Remy caught Lane’s hands in his and pulled his lover up straight. “Let me,” he murmured, kissing Lane on the lips. Then he kissed Lane’s chin, then Lane’s neck, then the hollow in the middle of Lane’s collar bone. His hands hovered on Lane’s waist as his lips worked their way down the center of Lane’s chest.

  Leaning back against the dresser, Lane melted beneath Remy’s mouth and tongue. Gently, his lover kissed a path down his body, from lips to navel, then further. Remy’s tender little pecks left moist imprints on his skin. When he moved lower, down the length of Lane’s dick, his feathery breath and slight touch stirred Lane’s blood. Lane felt his balls grow heavy, and his cock began to swing up to bump the underside of Remy’s chin. The need to use the bathroom had passed, replaced with the urge to succumb to his lover. To give up, to give in.

  Remy’s lips closed over the head of Lane’s dick, suckled a moment, then moved on. Lower, down his left thigh now, to his knee where the briefs were tangled. With slow, measured movements, Remy straightened out Lane’s underwear and eased them up Lane’s legs. He chased after the briefs with more kisses, this time over the right knee, up the right thigh, back to Lane’s center and the stiffening erection jutting from his crotch.

  There Remy stopped.

  Lane lowered his gaze to find Remy staring up at him. His dick rested along Remy’s cheek. As Lane watched, Remy turned his head to the side and stuck out his tongue to lick the hardening length. “Want me to?” he murmured, his breath ticklish on Lane’s fevered skin. “I can be quick.”

  But Lane didn’t want quick. He didn’t want to know Braden stood on the other side of the door, probably listening in. He didn’t want to rush through something that should be relished and delighted in, something that should last.

  As much as he hated to, Lane asked, “How about tonight? Once you know who is in bed, and we can take our time.”

  Remy looked disappointed, but he nodded and pulled Lane’s briefs into place. Standing, he kissed Lane once more on the lips. “Tonight then,” he promised.

  As Lane finished getting dressed, Remy unlocked the bedroom door and stepped outside. Before he closed it behind him, Lane heard Braden ask, “Who’s you know who? Did he mean me?”

  And that’s why we have to wait, he thought with a grin.

  * * * *

  Braden was at the kitchen table, playing his video game. Remy stood at the sink, washing dishes. Lane came up behind his lover and wrapped his arms around Remy’s waist. “Guess you guys ate without me, huh?”

  “It was lunch time,” Braden said, as if that was answer enough.

  Over his shoulder, Remy blew Lane a kiss. “I can whip something up for you, if you want. I think there’s still another can of SpaghettiOs somewhere…”

  Braden’s Nintendo DS hit the kitchen table with a thud, and his chair scraped the floor as he pushed it back. “I can cook it for you!”

  “No, no,” Lane said quickly. Braden stopped in the middle of the kitchen and pouted. “Really, I’m fine.”

  “Why don’t you make him a sandwich instead?” Remy suggested.

  “I can’t cook a sandwich,” Braden huffed.

  Lane assured them, “It’s okay. I’ll make it myself.”

  There was sandwich meat still in the fridge, and Lane found a jar of Dijon mustard, a small tomato, and a bag of thick-shaved cheese Remy must have bought at the deli counter. He brought everything to the kitchen table, then retrieved the loaf of bread from where it sat atop the microwave. Remy handed him a clean plate, still warm from the dishwater. A knife from the cutlery drawer, a paper towel to use as a napkin, and Lane was set. By the time he sat down to make his late lunch, his stomach had begun to growl appreciatively.

  Once again Braden was glued to his video game. Remy ran water in the sink, cleaning up. Lane spread mustard on one slice of bread and started to construct a hearty sandwich when motion from the corner of his vision snagged his attention. He turned toward the sliding glass door, not really sure what it was he had seen. Late leaves finally falling? A bird, perhaps?

  The knife froze mid-slice in the tomato. “Remy,” Lane called out. “Is it snowing?”

  Braden’s head snapped up. “Snow? Where?”

  The spigot cut off, silencing the water. “Snow?” Remy asked.

  “Snow,” Lane said. He nodded at the window. As he watched, the snow started falling harder, pounding down on their back porch with a torrential ferocity. If it had been rain, they would’ve heard droplets striking the wood and ceiling, beating down around them. The snow was eerily silent, and beautiful to watch.

  The quiet lasted only long enough for the sight of the snowfall to trigger a response from Braden. “Snow!” he cried, scrambling to change chairs so he could get closer to the sliding door. When he pressed his nose against the glass, his breath fogged his view and he had to wipe away the condensation with his sleeve.

  His eyes were saucers in his face when he looked at Lane. Then his gaze shifted past Lane to his father. “Can I go out in it, Daddy? Please, please?”

  “It’s cold,” Remy warned.

  Braden sighed, exasperated. “I know that. It’s snow. It’s supposed to be cold.”

  “Well, you have to dress warm,” Remy told him.

  That was all he had to say. Braden launched away from the table and skidded across the hardwood floor to his bedroom to bundle up.

  Remy leaned on the back of Lane’s chair, his chin on the top of Lane’s head. “It’s so pretty,” he whispered.

  Craning his neck, Lane looked up at his lover. “Good thing you stocked up at Wal-Mart.”

  “Tell me about it,” Remy said with a laugh. “I should probably bring in some more firewood too, don’t you think?”

  “Only if we get to snuggle in front of the fireplace tonight without interruptions,” Lane countered.

  That earned him another laugh. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

  Chapter 13

  At first, the snow melted as it landed, but Lane warned, “Flakes that fat are going to stick.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Remy assured him, watching the snow fall. It came down in a furious flurry, swirling into little twisters of flakes that, at times, completely obliterated the view beyond the porch. The lake was a steely gray like molten lead, its surface rippling from the snow landing on the water.

  It stayed on the porch first, and the branches of the tall pines surrounding the cabin. By the time Braden trooped outside to play, there was enough snow on the ground to leave footprints behind. From their dry and warm spot at the kitchen table, Remy and Lane watched the boy stomp off the porch steps into a pile of windblown leaves just beginning to turn white. Braden turned and waved. When Remy waved back, Brade
n motioned for him to come out.

  Remy shook his head and grinned. “Oh no,” he said, reaching across the table to cover Lane’s hand with his. “I’m fine right where I’m at.”

  But as the snow started to stick, Remy soon realized he would have to brave the weather, if only to make sure they wouldn’t have more work to do once the snow stopped. He left Lane to finish eating and changed into something warmer—longjohns under his jeans, a thermal shirt under a sweatshirt under a flannel button-down, three pairs of thick socks—then laced up his Timberland boots, pulled on his gloves and coat, and grabbed the broom from the cabinet in the bathroom.

  “Just going to clear off the steps,” he told Lane on his way out.

  “Yeah, right,” his lover called after him. “You’re going out to play, too. Don’t try to deny it.”

  With a laugh, Remy headed out the front door. The porch out there had a roof, so he only had to clean off the snow from the last couple steps down to the ground. The snow was powdered and soft, and he swept it away without difficulty. Next he brushed off the Jeep’s hood and top. With the rate the snow was coming down, he’d probably have to go out every hour or so and sweep behind himself to make sure everything stayed clear. But he didn’t think the snow would linger—they didn’t get much snowfall in Virginia because generally the weather was just too warm, and once the storm stopped, the temperatures would rise and melt what little might have accumulated. Remy wasn’t too worried about it. They had a backup generator, and wood for the fireplace.

  Following Braden’s footsteps around the cabin, he found his son trying to round up the snow into loose balls. When Braden spotted Remy, he threw the snowball he held at his father with a shriek of joy. “Dad! Duck!”

  Remy didn’t have to—the snowball fell apart well before it came anywhere near him. “I’m just cleaning off the porch,” he told his son. “Don’t—hey!”