by Amy Lane
“Gotcha. My blood test was clear. I bought lube. We can fuck now.”
Whiskey laughed a little, surprised when his cock gave a vicious, wholly awake and still horny kind of throb. “You think?” he taunted. “I’m an old man. I might need some encouragemmff—”
Because Patrick had dodged under the fluffy comforter and taken his cock into that sweet, wide, swollen mouth. He was enthusiastic about this now—he hadn’t been when they’d started, but now, he rolled Whiskey’s cock around on his palate and swallowed the head when it was in the back of his throat and tickled the length with the fine edge of careful teeth until Whiskey’s vision went a little dark.
“Patrick—I’m not gonna last!” he begged, and Patrick came up from under the covers, his lips glazed with spit and pre-come, a wicked, joyous smile on his face.
“I thought being old gave you stamina!”
“Says who? Being old means if you don’t get your ass stretched and sit on me, I’ll come early and we’ll be watching TV when your old man gets home!”
Patrick grabbed the lube from the dresser, snicked open the lid, and dumped some on his hand. His hand disappeared behind him, and he started wriggling, making “mm-mm” sounds as he squirmed against Whiskey’s body. “’S’long as it’s porn,” he moaned, and Whiskey scooted away and took charge.
“Here.” He took Patrick’s hand, glistening and stretching his asshole without gentleness, and pulled it away. “My turn.”
There was more than enough lube there for him to use his own fingers, and he moved slowly. Patrick was on his hands and knees in front of him, whimpering shamelessly into the pillow, his body dilated, his cock and balls hanging heavily below him, and Whiskey thought it was a good thing he’d climaxed once already, because if he’d seen a picture of that on the ship, he would have creamed in his pants, no touching required.
“God, I hope you’re ready,” he rasped, and Patrick wiggled his ass and whimpered some more, and Whiskey watched in wonder as his cock slid slowly inside that warm, slick, hot orifice and then pounded home.
Patrick grunted and then started issuing orders. “Fast, hard, now!”
And Whiskey was helpless, like he’d always been helpless, and he complied, letting out a battle cry and plunging into the melee with all the formidable force at his command.
Patrick pulled three times on his slender, graceful cock and surrendered, groaning loudly enough to shake the bed, and Whiskey wasn’t far behind. He collapsed on top, mashing Patrick flat, and then stayed there, burying his face in the back of Patrick’s neck and shuddering, trying to keep the brightness in his eyes from spilling over.
“God, I love you. It’s like fever. This isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough. Jesus, tell me you’ll move into my shitty little houseboat and never leave.”
Patrick made a helpless grunt. “It’s a rock awesome houseboat, and you’ll have to kick me out. Now go hit the shower, I have to call in sick for work.”
Whiskey should have argued. He should have insisted that Patrick go to work like a good little boy, but he didn’t. Patrick was grown, and his work loved him, and if he was going to take a little Whiskey time off, well then it was no worse than Whiskey running the fuck away from his dream job with three days’ notice.
The hot water in the big-assed white shower felt good on his skin, but it felt even better when Patrick stepped in the beige-tiled space with soap and a cloth and spent a giddying ten or so minutes soaping him up and then letting him soap Patrick up and then turning off the water and sinking to his knees in the shower and worshipping Whiskey’s body until he came one more damned time.
“God,” Whiskey panted, rubbing Patrick’s sopping wet, blond-brown-in-the-winter-too hair. “They’re gonna need to give me an IV when I’m asleep, just to keep up.”
He offered his hand and helped Patrick up, and Patrick plastered himself against Whiskey’s front, ignoring the clamminess of their bodies in the cooling shower. “I came while I was blowing you. Take five. You’re off the hook.”
They laughed for a few minutes and then found big, fluffy white towels and wrapped up and dried off, and Patrick gave him some sweats that didn’t fit and one of his dad’s T-shirts that sort of fit, and then ran downstairs and came up with some pizza that had miraculously been dropped off.
“My dad’s downstairs,” Patrick explained while Whiskey took a too-big bite of rich-people’s-delivery pizza. Whiskey tried not to choke on the bite, and Patrick explained without guile, “He saw the rental, and I guess just figured we’d want to be left alone. He said come out when you’re ready, and we can spend the weekend finishing up the boat.” Patrick took a bite and chewed and swallowed. “But I think it’ll take longer than that, even with the three of us.” He looked up anxiously. “You up for that?”
Whiskey didn’t even need to think about it. Patrick may have been a lot of things—insatiable, rabbit-minded, perfectly odd and oddly perfect, but he was not, as far as Whiskey could see, broken. Not this time.
“Yeah. I think me and your old man could co-exist for a while. I gotta find a job anyway—easier to do when you’re not tripping over the home improvements. You sure he’s crazy about having your boyfriend living in your bedroom?”
Patrick smiled, obviously relieved. “He likes you. It sort of freaks me out, but, yanno, I’ll take what I can get. But….” He hesitated, took another bite of pizza, looked nervous.
“But what?”
“You think we could, you know. Visit him? On weekends? He’s turned into sort of a human being lately, because he came home and did shit with me after work. I’d hate to think that would go away.”
Whiskey nodded, and then smiled, and then laughed.
“What?”
He shook his head. “I’m just home, that’s all.”
And it was true. The houseboat would come; their place on a small berth would come. He’d get a chance to see Patrick’s improvements, the uneven places in the paint where Patrick had gotten distracted and moved onto another task and then come back with another shade of ecru. He’d help install the heater, the three different (and somehow complimentary) shades of blue, green, and gold carpet, and the bed that was almost bigger than the berth, and the other berth that was almost all clothes and things they’d need. He’d see the honest-to-God couch (again, those bright, surprisingly complimentary colors) and the raw wood paneling and the kitchen with the nice counters and matching plates and the crisp coat of paint and brushed brass fittings. He’d see the fanciful name panted on the stern, the “American Bullfrog,” and he’d laugh.
But the boat was the least of the things that he was talking about that first day on Patrick’s bed. What he was talking about was all of it—Fly Bait and Loretta for Christmas, someone’s father to visit and make feel better—people. People, and a place, and belonging.
And, most of all, Patrick, who made a home in Whiskey’s heart wherever they ended up together, as long as it really was them, together. Home.
About the Author
AMY LANE is a mother of four and a compulsive knitter who writes because she can’t silence the voices in her head. She adores cats, knitting socks, and hawt menz, and she dislikes moths, cat boxes, and knuckle-headed macspazzmatrons. She is rarely found cooking, cleaning, or doing domestic chores, but she has been known to knit up an emergency hat/blanket/pair of socks for any occasion whatsoever or sometimes for no reason at all. She writes in the shower, while commuting, while taxiing children to soccer/dance/karate/oh my! and has learned from necessity to type like the wind. She lives in a spider-infested, crumbling house in a shoddy suburb and counts on her beloved Mate, Mack, to keep her tethered to reality—which he does while keeping her cell phone charged as a bonus. She’s been married for twenty-plus years and still believes in Twu Wuv, with a capital Twu and a capital Wuv, and she doesn’t see any reason at all for that to change.
Visit Amy’s web site at
http://www.greenshill.com.
You can e-mail her at<
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[email protected].
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