by Amy Lane
Whiskey came up top in a clean pair of jeans—no holes—and a button-down Hawaiian shirt. His hair was combed neatly back, where it curled against his collar, and he’d shaved clean and bare as a supermodel’s bikini wax. Patrick just looked at him with big eyes as Whiskey walked forward, took his hand, and kissed him.
“We’re going to have a good time,” Whiskey murmured, and Patrick nodded dumbly. “Now let’s go get your prescription so we can do the fun shit later, okay?”
THE line at the pharmacy was short, so they got to the steakhouse right before things got crowded. Because they got their steak early, they got to see the early show at the movies, and the theatre was almost empty, even though it was a big money superhero action flick. They sat next to each other in the center of the theatre and cracked quiet jokes about the superhero’s six-pack abs and unspoken affection for his male sidekick. Whiskey was funny, and Patrick had success making him laugh in return, and basically, they had a good time.
The ride back to the houseboat was relaxed and happy and companionably silent.
“So,” Whiskey said into the darkening gray of summer night, “I grew up in Alaska, right? And my parents died in a car crash when I was an undergrad. And I almost just cashed it in, and then Fly Bait came and told me that if she was in the master’s program I’d damned well better be, so I did.”
“Yeah?” Patrick asked carefully, but inside, he could barely breathe. Unlike Patrick, who had sort of fallen from the sky spewing his personal life into Whiskey’s space, Whiskey had never really explained his personal life. His entire world seemed to be the houseboat and Fly Bait, and Patrick could deal with that.
“Yeah,” Whiskey confirmed. “See, the thing is, the houseboat, that’s the closest thing I’ve had to a home in… well, shit, fourteen or so years, and I want it to be a home. I want to make it not suck so when we give all the science equipment back, I can knock around in there. Maybe get a television or something. I like it. I can go upriver or downriver, and maybe it’s not the most exciting stretch of real estate on the planet, but… I think I could be happy here.”
Patrick blinked, trying to think of something he could say, because this was important, and he was excited, but he didn’t want to come across as, well, a big old spaz.
“Anyway,” Whiskey continued, and Patrick could tell he was fighting the strain of talking about important shit all by himself, “I have to go on this trip with Greenpeace in September. I signed up about two years ago, and it’s not something you just ditch out on. But I’m coming back. I’m coming back to this houseboat on this river, and, you know….”
Patrick pulled his focus from the overcast clouds over the horizon and looked at Whiskey, blinking slowly. “What?” he asked, feeling his hands grow clammy in his lap with the need to know.
Whiskey reached out a hand and grabbed one of Patrick’s clammy hands, wincing a little as he threaded his fingers through Patrick’s cold fingers. “I’m saying that if you and me work, Patrick, I’ll be back. March next year, I’ll be here, and I’ve got some job offers in the area, and I can stay. You’re probably thinking, ‘Yeah, I’ll sleep with this guy once, maybe for the summer, and then he’ll be gone.’ But I won’t. For a little while, yeah, but I’m coming back. However you want that to work, I’ll be coming back.”
Patrick flushed and tightened his hand in Whiskey’s even though he probably shouldn’t. “I’ve got a real short attention span,” he apologized. “You really trust a guy named Trix to be faithful for six months?”
“No,” Whiskey said, kissing the back of his hand. “But I trust a guy named Patrick to try if he thinks it’s worth it.”
Patrick wiped his hand across his eyes. “You know, I’ve spent, like… my whole adult life putting out to get a guy to come back. Here you are, promising to come back and I ain’t even put out yet. You’d think I could keep that fixed in my spastic little noggin, right?”
Whiskey kept his eyes on the road and turned Patrick’s hand over so he could kiss the center of his palm. Patrick made an “ungghhh!” sound and squirmed in his seat.
Whiskey pulled back and kissed it again before putting it—warm now and not clammy—back in his lap. “I think your brain is fine, Patrick, but it’s not what I’m worried about?”
“No?”
“No. I’m thinking before the night’s over, it’s going to be all about the heart.”
All about the heart? Patrick’s heart was going a mile a nanosecond, and it wasn’t slowing down. He tripped getting out of the car when they parked at the dock and knocked Whiskey in the solar plexus when he grabbed Patrick’s hand to try to steady him.
Whiskey caught his breath and laughed and put those big hands on Patrick’s shoulder blades and pulled him close. “Patrick,” he whispered, “are you nervous because this feels important, or because you don’t want to do it?”
Patrick swallowed and rested his head on Whiskey’s shoulder. It fit so well there—Whiskey was six foot something, and Patrick wasn’t tall. It was nice and safe, and it just felt so wonderful… he was safe there. “It’s important,” he murmured. “It’s so important.”
“Then we’re on the same page. Don’t be nervous.”
With that, Whiskey captured his chin and kissed him, there in the final orange rays of the solstice sunset, and Patrick’s heart both sped up and became steadier. It was no longer a question of can I do this? It very quickly became a question of can I even wait for it?
Patrick groaned, opened his mouth, pulled Whiskey in. He took that dear, lean face (but not stubbled, not tonight,) between his hands and responded with everything in him, and in return, Whiskey’s hands tightened on his shoulders roughly, and Patrick was dragged against a hardened body. He wasted no time wiggling his hips up against Whiskey’s, trying hard to get them both closer, and Whiskey, to his intense frustration, pulled back.
“It’s too cold to swim,” he panted, and Patrick actually followed that idea.
“So let’s go back to the cabin and… and….”
“Yeah.”
This time, Whiskey held tight to Patrick’s hand and Patrick didn’t spaz out. He managed to follow Whiskey at a trot, as quick as they could go without just sprinting through the parking lot and pounding across the quay.
They pattered below deck, and there they were—no lights except the running lights from the boat next door, just shadows from the familiar interior of the little island of calm in the middle of Patrick’s fucked-up life.
“You’re really going to live here?” Patrick murmured as Whiskey took the keys out of his pocket and threw them on the table. “It’ll get cold in the winter.”
“Oil heaters, big sleeping bags, it can be done.” And for a minute, Patrick could see a little bit of hurt. Oh my God—this was a dream of Whiskey’s. This was the dream. He’d staked his entire plan for the future on this battered little houseboat that smelled like frog water. He needed something more.
Patrick looked around and thought, I could make this a home. It was a totally random thought, but that didn’t stop it from setting up shop in his heart, and what was in his heart went directly out his mouth.
“You should let me fix the carpet,” he blurted. “I could work on the paneling too. You know. When you and Fly Bait are gone. I could paint the inside walls. And a larger mattress would fit in that bed. And….” He trailed off, because Whiskey had turned around and was advancing on him, his depthless eyes gleaming in the dark.
“Patrick?”
“Yeah?”
“Fuck the houseboat.”
Whiskey’s mouth was just as warm now as it had been in the parking lot, and his hands… oh, God. They were wide, long-fingered, hard, and possessive. They held his shoulders, his waist, the small of his back. They moved down, tentatively, to Patrick’s ass, and pulled him close, and Patrick made a sound like “gurck!” and grabbed Whiskey’s surprisingly broad shoulders, because suddenly, his erection was in contact with Whiskey’s erection, even if it was through t
heir pants, and Patrick was… oh, God, no one had ever kissed him like this… or made him want so badly… or taken the time to kiss him until he was silly. Patrick’s whole body was shaking, and he was a breath away from creaming in his jeans like some high school kid, and he wanted… he wanted….
Whiskey pulled back and rubbed his cheek against Patrick’s, whispering, “Shhhh, it’s okay. We’ve got time.”
Patrick thrust his hips forward, grinding because he couldn’t help it. “I’m going to—” he whined. “I don’t have time—”
“Sh… then don’t wait. We’ve got all night.”
Whiskey barely rubbed Patrick’s lips with his own, just a little, and he fumbled with the belt at Patrick’s waist. “I’m gonna….” Oh God, just the thought that Whiskey was… even now he was… the belt was off and his fly was open and his cock was bare in Whiskey’s hard hand, slick with pre-come and as hard as Patrick had ever been. Suddenly Whiskey’s hand gripped his base and traveled upward, and Patrick clutched Whiskey’s arms with shaking fingers and buried his face into the sweet little hollow between Whiskey’s neck and shoulder.
“Whiskeeeeyyy!” he whined. “Oh Jesus… oh shit… I’m gonna—” The pressure was so intense, so sudden, it hurt, and it hurt to try not to, and he actually bit Whiskey’s shoulder, hard, as Whiskey’s hand sped up and gripped harder at the same time. “I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” Whiskey hissed in his ear. “Do it… come on, Patrick… come!”
“Gawd!” His skin was cool in the air from the riverfront, and the come, spurting over his cock and Whiskey’s already warm hand, was scalding, possibly more arousing, and Patrick moaned and burrowed into Whiskey’s shoulder even more.
Whiskey ignored the mess on his hand and wrapped his arms even tighter around Patrick’s shoulders, holding him so tight Patrick hardly had room to shake. So tight he hardly had room to doubt.
After a few moments, when the shudders had subsided, Whiskey walked backward to the bed and turned around and sat Patrick down on it. Very carefully, he pulled off Patrick’s slacks (they were the ones he’d been wearing when he’d been fished out of the river, actually) and took off his deck shoes. He stood up then and bent down and grabbed the hem of Patrick’s T-shirt, pulling it up over his head like he would with a child’s.
“I’ll be right back,” he murmured. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Patrick watched him go in bemusement and then watched again as he came back with a damp cloth and a dry towel and had Patrick lean back while Whiskey washed him off. When he was done, he set both towels down on a corner of the bed and fumbled under the pedestal for a minute. He came up with a handful of condoms and a really big bottle of lubricant, which he put in the space between the pedestal and the mattress. He stood, stopping for a moment to nuzzle Patrick’s temple, and very quickly undressed. Neither of them spoke, but Patrick felt compelled to touch him, random touches of his own, with hands that he’d often thought were like a frog’s because they were so long in the joints and they spread out with such thoroughness in an effort to touch everything at once.
“Scoot over,” Whiskey mumbled now, though. “Or get up so I can have the inside.”
Patrick got up, and Whiskey lay down, and Patrick followed. This time, instead of backing up against Whiskey’s front, Patrick faced him, coming close enough to put random kisses on Whiskey’s darkly furred chest.
“I’m sorry I shot early,” he mumbled, and Whiskey’s laughter rumbled through that wonderful chest. Patrick stroked his chest hair with amazement—it was soft. It didn’t look soft, but each strand was smooth and whole and not split or fuzzy.
“I’m not,” Whiskey confessed, and Patrick looked at him in bemusement, feeling like everything he’d ever known about sex was wrong.
“No?”
“Now we really do have all night. If you think that’s the only time you’re getting off tonight, Patrick, you’re sadly mistaken.”
Patrick’s smile was shy—and a little excited. “Not sadly,” he murmured. “Not sad at all.”
He kissed Whiskey’s chest because Whiskey let him. There were no hands on his head and no “C’mon, baby, suck my dick, wontcha?” It was just Whiskey rubbing his neck, his shoulders, cupping his cheek, letting him explore. Patrick spent a moment suckling on Whiskey’s nipple, getting excited as hell when Whiskey moaned and arched his back.
“That’s good?” he asked, and Whiskey mumbled, “Amazing!” and Patrick went after the other one. Whiskey arched his hips again, and Patrick kissed his way down that tight, stringy-muscled abdomen and reveled in how smooth the skin of Whiskey’s stomach was and how it shuddered when Patrick breathed softly on it and nibbled the skin.
Patrick moved down his furry little happy trail and stopped and gasped when he got a good look at Whiskey’s cock.
He looked up and caught Whiskey’s eyes, half laughing, half despairing, and bit his lip.
“What’s wrong?” Whiskey reached down and rubbed his cheek, and Patrick leaned into the touch.
“That’s not gonna make it,” Patrick said helplessly. “Jesus, Whiskey, you’re hung like a fucking bear!”
Whiskey grinned at him. “Well, it’s not going to bite like one, Patrick. Touch it, lick it, if I get close, I’ll give you a condom, okay? Don’t chew on it—that could be painful, but, you know. What feels right to you?”
Patrick looked at it again, and given the freedom to touch it, he did. He touched it gently, with two fingers, petting it like he’d pet a feral cat. It popped a couple of times, jumping off of Whiskey’s abdomen, and that gave Patrick the courage to wrap his hand around it and squeeze.
Whiskey made the sexiest sound when he did that. It was a pant and a whimper and a groan all rolled into one, and Patrick felt like his own cock filled completely with blood all in that one moment. He looked at Whiskey’s face and squeezed again, this time from the base all the way up to the slick crown. Whiskey made that sound, except more intense, and Patrick whimpered because, oh God, he wanted more. The foreskin thing… that was something to play with. It was just, well, looser at the crown. He pulled at the skin with his fist, feeling it slide over Whiskey’s slick cockhead, and Whiskey grumbled low in his chest as the foreskin added to his arousal. He was close… oh God, Whiskey was close, and Patrick was still interested in doing the foreskin thing, and Patrick’s own erection was making him crazy, and he kept humping up against the mattress, trying to make that ache ease up. He lost focus for a moment, and his movements became rougher, jerkier, and Whiskey hissed and Patrick let go of him with a little thump and a splat on his abdomen.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he said, and Whiskey pulled him up then, physically putting those big, hard hands under Patrick’s armpits and hauling him up by force, until Patrick was sprawled across Whiskey’s more massive body, looking bemused.
“Patrick?”
“Yeah?”
“Please don’t ever be sorry about something you do because you’re trying to please me.”
Patrick swallowed. “Okay.”
“And please don’t feel like this is sort of a race. You don’t have to make me come, okay?”
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t make eye contact anymore. He put his face down, resting his cheek on that silky chest hair. “Okay,” he murmured.
Whiskey’s hand came up to ruffle Patrick’s hair, and his hips arched almost reflexively. Patrick arched against them, their cocks rubbing together as they both groaned in tandem, and Whiskey reached down between them.
“Here,” he murmured. “Raise up a little, put your knee on the mattress, and—”
“Oh? Ohhhh….”
Whiskey wrapped that big capable hand around both of them, Patrick’s slender, white-skinned circumcised erection and Whiskey’s massive uncut cock. Patrick found himself once again burying his face in Whiskey’s chest and arching his hips into Whiskey’s hand.
“Oh God… Whiskey?” Because it felt so good. Whiskey’s cock was so smooth-skinned, and t
he pre-come was hot and slick, and Patrick just wanted to be closer to him, so much closer, and… oh, God. He was closer. They were naked and they were touching, and Patrick lowered his mouth to Whiskey’s nipple and suckled, and Whiskey made that sexy sound again, the one that was a thousand sounds at once, and spurted up over both of them, scalding hot, and Patrick groaned too.
“Oh, God… oh, God… oh God, oh God, ohgod, ohgod, ohgod, ohgodohgodohgodohgod… Whiskey!”
His balls practically drew up into his throat, he was so tight with orgasm, and when Whiskey blew, his come hot between their sweating stomachs and chests, Patrick had no choice… and then Whiskey’s thumb came up and rubbed Patrick’s head, and Patrick groaned and buried his face in Whiskey’s chest and screamed and then came.
He perched there on Whiskey’s chest, and the two of them shuddered, gulping in air like frogs gulped in the water.
“Patrick?” Whiskey sounded reluctant, and Patrick knew what he probably wanted.
“Yeah, I got it.”
Patrick slid carefully—oh so carefully—to the side, resting his head on Whiskey’s shoulder at the same time he fumbled for the damp come cloth to clean them off.
He rubbed at Whiskey’s skin until Whiskey wrapped his hand over Patrick’s and took over with a little more efficiency.
“I’m sorry,” Patrick panted, and Whiskey scooted down a little until their mouths were even and kissed him.
The kiss was short, and Whiskey pulled back a little before saying, “Don’t be. God, Patrick, that was awesome for starters.”
Patrick looked at him unhappily. “But… I’m sort of falling asleep.”
“Me too.” Whiskey quickly wiped off Patrick’s stomach and then placed the come rag in a corner of the bed where he could get it again.
“But….”
“It’s only nine o’clock, Patrick. We’ll doze off. First one who wakes up gives the other a poke. No worries. After round two, we’ll have ice cream.”