by Allan, S. H.
“I’m glad you’re so confident.”
“In you? Always.” Kit’s hand closed over John’s. With his other hand, he reached up and carefully took away the spectacles and writhed over John for a second to put them on the nightstand. Which was exciting and led to several minutes of distraction, in which John reinforced his decision that remorse wasn’t necessary, and he could get to like kissing sweet, sticky mouths.
Kit pulled back, stretching out his long, still-lean body. “You didn’t answer me. Do you know what day this is?”
John considered the question. He looked it in the face, noting its innocent and inoffensive expression, and thought about it. He walked round behind it…. Mmn. There was a pattern here, he was sure of it.
A pattern that had so far ended in cuddling, exercise, and a really stellar date night. And indigestion. General Tso was best eaten fresh.
He let the smile start. The indigestion had faded, thanks to a benevolent deity and whoever invented Pepto-Bismol. “Sunday?”
Kit blew out a noisy sigh, blowing strands of hair away from his eyes. “Yeah, it’s Sunday. You know, for the best artistic designer in New York, you have no imagination. At all. Today is a very special day.”
“Okay,” said John. He waited.
“It’s the Day of the Union of Eastern Romalia with the Bulga. In Bulgaria.”
“Day of the Union of Eastern Romalia with the Bulga.”
“Yeah.”
“In Bulgaria.”
“John!” warned Kit.
“You’re talking about the assimilation of one bit of country by another, right? And you intend to celebrate this how, exactly?”
“Think of it as metaphorical.” Another writhe across John to reach the nightstand had Kit rubbing himself up against John like a cat, and John’s breath coming short. Very short. Kit grabbed the tube of lubricant. “I thought union might be in order here. You like being assimilated.”
John looked down at the tube, then up at Kit. He licked his lips. He could still taste the syrup. “Only the one union?”
“Oh my, no. I’ve a few future reunions in mind, as it happens. We have all day.”
John smiled and slid down the bed. “Do you want to be Eastern Romalia or the Bulga?” he asked.
Kit indicated his groin. “What do you think, Romy?”
“I don’t know why I asked.” John wriggled to get himself lined up with Kit, nose to nose.
Kit’s response was to push at John’s shoulder until John rolled onto his back, compliant and lazy and grinning. Kit sat up and looked John over a couple of times, gaze sweeping from head to foot to head again. It was so intense, John thought he should be able to feel it, like a ghost touch as it passed over him. It made him shiver. In a good way, but still a shiver.
Kit slithered over him, skin to skin, to give him a kiss that threatened to take John’s soul out through his lips and left him complaining when Kit shifted away to straddle John’s legs. Only then did Kit touch him properly, and only with his fingertips. He stroked careful little shapes over the outsides of John’s thighs, keeping everything symmetrical so John’s hips were cocooned between Kit’s hands. Kit’s fingertips moved up and across John’s thighs, skirting his balls and dick, and, as John parted his legs, kept up those precise little shapes as they moved round onto John’s inner thighs, up to the crease at the very top, and slowly, very slowly and featherlight, down to John’s knees.
The light touch was maddening. John wanted more, wanted harder, wanted to know what in hell it was Kit was drawing on his skin. Most of all, he wanted more and harder. Kit’s fingertips touched and smoothed while John twisted, arching his back and whining out a complaining “Kit!”
Kit moved quickly up to straddle the tops of John’s thighs and swooped down to smother the next whining complaint in John’s throat, stopping John’s mouth with his own. They were pressed chest to chest. John’s nipples peaked at the contact, rubbing against Kit’s chest, and heat pooled down between his legs. His hips heaved, and he let his mouth curve into a smile under Kit’s, letting Kit know how much he liked this. He lifted his hips and rotated them to rub his dick up against the sensitive area between Kit’s thighs. It was Kit’s turn to do a little whining.
John chuckled, tilting back his head to let Kit lick his throat in long sweeps of his tongue up over John’s chin. Another deep and dirty kiss. Very deep. Very dirty. John liked that. So Kit did it again. And again, before working his way back down John’s throat, using lips and tongue to feel and taste the skin before licking down John’s breastbone with broad, wet strokes. Kit was bent at an angle, bowing his back and shifting his ass down over John’s legs, his fingers painting invisible shapes…. Hearts. They were little hearts. Kit’s fingers painted invisible hearts over John’s skin as he went.
“Kit,” said John, again, as Kit knelt between his legs.
He lifted his legs up onto Kit’s shoulders, crossing his ankles to anchor himself. Kit, smiling, turned his head from side to side, kissing each knee. Sweet. As sweet as the hearts. Careful not to dislodge John, Kit leaned forward again, brushing his lips down the inside of John’s left leg from knee to thigh, stooping to get his tongue sweeping over the base of John’s balls. Kit hummed something in the back of his throat as he mouthed at them. One hand still traced little hearts on John’s skin, while the other worked into his ass, stretching him open.
This time, when John whined, he couldn’t even manage Kit’s name. Kit laughed. Somehow, Kit had found time to lube up his own dick. Happened every time they made love, and John could never work out how Kit did it, because Kit’s hands still appeared to be busy on his skin and getting him ready. John couldn’t recall an instant when he couldn’t feel the touch of both. But somehow Kit did it.
After fifteen years together, John’s body opened easily for Kit, used to him. It welcomed him. John let out a long shuddery moan, and Kit surged in, gasping. Kit’s hand was slick with lube. He closed it around John’s dick, fisting it to the same rhythm his own found inside John’s body. Their breath came hard and fast.
John pushed back against the dick in his ass, contracting the muscles when Kit surged forward and making the Kit-shaped channel in him tighter, relaxing when Kit pulled back. His legs slipped down to hook around Kit’s waist, giving him more purchase on every thrust Kit made—tightening and relaxing, tightening and relaxing. Kit wasn’t just rubbing up against John’s prostate then, but banging on it, every blow sending lightning sizzling through John’s veins. He couldn’t think anymore. Lightning and fire were all he was, heat and the sweet sort-of pain that had him yelling, and Kit yelling, and had Kit’s hips juddering as he slammed in one last time. Kit tightened his hand on John’s dick until John spurted over his fingers at the same time Kit’s dick spasmed.
Kit’s mouth was on his. Kit’s voice murmured against his lips. Kit loved him. Again and again, over and over, that was what Kit whispered as he kissed John’s lips and put little feather kisses along the line of John’s jaw, and slowly their heart rates slowed and John could breathe again.
They were chest to chest again, Kit still firmly lodged inside. John took his first real breath for several minutes, getting enough air into his lungs to speak. He carded his fingers through Kit’s hair.
“Do you reckon they have this much fun in Bulgaria?”
Kit grinned. “No way in hell. They only have the one union. Give me time to get my breath back, and we’ll have our first reunion. First of many.”
Once it would have taken only minutes for them to be ready for another bout, John observed. “We’re getting older. These days, we’re taking longer.”
“I sent for Viagra online, did I tell you?”
John snorted and shifted his ass, loving the burn and the fullness from Kit’s dick in there. “As if. I’m not going to be outdone by you, Kit Lewis. Ready to be assimilated again whenever you are.”
Kit grinned. “Resistance is futile,” he said. And pounced.
[09:55:07] Kit.L
ewis1: Do you know what day this is?
John pulled down the laptop lid, hiding the IM message that had just flashed on his screen. He didn’t close the laptop down completely. He couldn’t. In thirty minutes he’d need the presentation notes he’d labored over for the last couple of days. The little icon in the taskbar winked at him, defying his efforts to ignore it.
Michael Bowyer, CEO of Bowyer Industries, was still talking. The man had an economic vision to impart, it appeared, and was deaf and blind to everything else. The members of the BI board hung on his every word, staring at him like they were witnessing the Second Coming, or something.
Sycophants. Sycophants in sharp Tom Ford suits and handmade shoes.
John shifted uncomfortably. He’d made a gesture toward convention by wearing a suit jacket with his best, most designery jeans. Compared to this lot, he looked dangerously Bohemian. One or two glanced his way and smiled, the way sharks smiled while they eyed up lunch, before turning those intent gazes onto Bowyer again. They were all like puppies, waiting for the alpha dog’s permission to attack.
John inched open the laptop lid. The icon flashed at him cheerily.
[10:01:24] Kit.Lewis1: I know you’re there. Do you know what day this is?
Bowyer droned on. “And before we go any further, I’d better introduce John Hogarth, of Hogarth Lewis, our new design and branding contractors….”
[10:03:01] John Hogarth5: Working here!
He sat through the introductions, committing the names to memory.
[10:03:32] Kit.Lewis1: It’ll be a breeze.
“I invited John to listen to our meeting today so he could get a real feel for our mission and values. John and his team at Hogarth Lewis will be working on the full expression of our new brand—I think that’s what you call it, John? The brand expression?”
“Yes, Mike. Everything from your e-mail signatures to stationery, from every possible public relations and publicity tool to your website. And, of course, your internal communications too. We have plans for your company intranet and how to brand all staff communications.” John tapped the laptop. “I have examples here.”
They would get on to the detail in a moment or two, apparently, although Mike Bowyer said clearly that he’d seen the designs and loved them. Despite Kit’s prediction, he didn’t express any matrimonial intentions toward them or their creator, but he liked them. One or two of the suits looked disappointed. They’d been balked of their prey with that public endorsement and wouldn’t dare treat John like so much chum in the water waiting to be eaten. In the meantime, Bowyer had more wisdom to impart on his company’s vision and mission. Feeling safer, John opened the laptop lid a little farther.
[10:07:51] Kit.Lewis1: C’mon, John. Do you know what day this is?
John didn’t jump this time. He considered Kit’s question and looked it in the face, noting its innocent and inoffensive expression and answering it with an innocent and inoffensive expression of his own.
[10:08:17] John.Hogarth5: It’s Thursday.
[10:08:46] John Hogarth5: This is where I start getting out of my clothes, right?
[10:09:15] Kit.Lewis1: In a meeting with a *client*?
[10:10:05] Kit.Lewis1: Do you think that’ll seal the deal with Bowyer? Not my type. And I don’t like sharing.
[10:10:31] Kit.Lewis1: I mean, I was just asking what day this is.
John let his mouth tighten and looked away from the screen. Bowyer had moved on to a review of the general economic situation, analyzing global economic trends solely in relation to how they affected Bowyer Industries’ bottom line.
[10:12:43] Kit.Lewis1: John?
[10:15:13] Kit.Lewis1: Okay. I lied. It is a special day.
[10:15:56] Kit.Lewis1: It’s Motherhood and Beauty Day in Armenia.”
John hoped he looked like he was taking notes while apparently listening to Bowyer as intently as any BI employee. He smiled and nodded whenever Bowyer glanced at him.
[10:16:48] John.Hogarth5: Motherhood and Beauty Day.
[10:17:11] Kit.Lewis1: You’ve got it.
[10:17:50] John.Hogarth5: In Armenia.
[10:18:39] Kit.Lewis1: Stop that!
[10:20:14] John.Hogarth5: No. I don’t see how you can celebrate that one.
“I’ll ask John to take us through the designs in a moment, but first I wanted to add a word or two about my expectations of—”
[10:22:02] Kit.Lewis1: We’ll strike a blow for men’s liberation and pretend it’s Manhood and Beauty Day. We’re both men.
[10:22:47] Kit.Lewis1: And I’m beautiful.
[10:23:24] John.Hogarth5: You’re on your own, Kit. Signing out.
[10:25:18] Kit.Lewis1: Hey!
[10:26:06] Kit.Lewis1: Just kidding.
[10:30:31] Kit.Lewis1: John?
[10:31:19] Kit.Lewis1: If you don’t like that one, we could celebrate another one. How about the Landing Day of the Thirty-Three Orientales in Uruguay?
[10:33:24] John.Hogarth5: Landing Day of the Thirty-Three Orientales.
[10:35:08] Kit.Lewis1: Sigh. Yes.
[10:35:49] John.Hogarth5: In Uruguay.
[10:37:12] Kit.Lewis1: I’m going to kill you.
“And now over to John.” Mike Bowyer nodded in John’s direction.
John sighed, flicked out of IM and into his presentation notes. The IM icon flashed at him, but he had a job to do.
Anyway, he knew his Kit. He wasn’t really in danger of death, although injury was another matter. The least he could expect would be that Kit would make pretty damn certain both of them walked around pretty carefully for a couple of days.
He pointed the laser at the projector and launched into the presentation, and all the time he was smiling so much his audience of suits probably thought he was a typical artist, out of his head on something trippy composed of illegal chemicals.
But then, none of them was going home that night to celebrate the Landing of the Thirty-Three Orientales with Kit Lewis.
Poor suckers.
“DO YOU know what day this is?” Kit was lounging on the sofa, smiling.
John considered his answer. “It’s the Day of the Autonomous Community in Spain.”
Kit’s jaw dropped. “The Day of the Autonomous Community?”
“Yes.”
“In Spain.”
“That’s the one.”
Kit frowned. “Which autonomous community? La Rioja? Castile?”
“Dunno. Does it matter?”
“Oh,” said Kit. “No. Guess not. I didn’t mean that one anyway.”
John joined him on the sofa. “Ah, then you have to be referring to Upswing of the Revolution Day in the Congo.”
“Upswing of the Revolution Day.”
“Yup.”
“In the Congo.”
John had a sudden realization about why Kit had threatened to kill him. It was a damn annoying reaction. His mouth tightened. “Yes,” he said coldly.
Kit shook his head. “No, it wasn’t that one either.”
“Okay. How about the Day of Accord and Reconciliation in Russia? The Day of the Nationalization of the Oil Industry in Ecuador? National Salvation Revolution Day in Antigua? Tomb Sweeping Day in Korea?”
“People like celebrating revolutions,” noted Kit. He added, sadly, “You’ve found the website.”
“Google is our friend.” John nodded. “You were pretty casual about which ones you chose, weren’t you? Did we celebrate any of them on the right date?”
Kit shrugged. “I just liked the names. Didn’t matter about the dates.”
“Ah. Makes sense in Kit-land, I guess. So which one were you going for this time?”
“Svetitskhovloba in Georgia.”
“Sevetits-what?”
“Svetitskhovloba. In Georgia. Not our Georgia, mind. The one over beside Russia somewhere.”
“Svetitskhovloba.” John shook his head. Trust Kit to choose the exotic-sounding one.
“You’ve got it.”
“In Georgia.”
“I swear I’ll kill you,” said Kit, glowering. “They will never find the body. And if they did, no one would blame me. I’d get off.”
“What the hell does it mean?”
“I dunno. I just thought it made a brilliant excuse to have sex with you.”
John grinned at him. “Kit, why in hell do you need an excuse?”
Kit looked suddenly very shy. “I know. But I never want it to be just ordinary for you, John. I know we’ve been together… huh, fifteen years. Can you believe that? Longer than any straight couples we know have been married. Since we were in college.”
“Fifteen years,” John said and smiled. Almost of its own volition, his hand lifted to play with Kit’s thick brown hair. He loved Kit’s hair.
“Fifteen great years.” Kit nodded. “I just want it always to be fun and exciting and wonderful for you. Not just the same old, same old. Not just boring and everyday.”
“Oh, it is, Kit. It is. It always is.” John smiled and leaned forward to kiss Kit. When he pulled back, Kit no longer looked shy but disgustingly complacent. John didn’t care. “It’s all the boring, everyday things that make it real. It’s always fun and exciting and wonderful. You’re always wonderful for me.”
Kit pretended to blush. “Aw shucks.” He grinned. “Don’t say the L word. I’ll just get all mushy.”
“Mushy won’t do. I need you hard-edged. We have a lot to celebrate. Fifteen years and a lot of revolutions. You on for a little—what was it? Svetits-something-or-other? Peace and Accord? National Revolution Day?”
“You bet!” said Kit with unfeigned enthusiasm. “All of them.” He gestured to his groin. “I tell you, Johnny, I’ve got quite the revolutionary upswing going on here!”
John grinned. He’d take any sucker’s money on that. What’s more, he knew just the man to take care of the upswing.
And he did.
ANNA BUTLER learned early that life is wonderful if you live it always drunk on words. As a child she preferred books to toys, disdaining dolls for Enid Blyton and the Famous Five. She started scribbling stories almost as soon as she first learned to write; first to amuse her little sister, later to savor the richness and flavor of the words for herself. After years of working as a communications specialist for the UK civil service, she’s now living with her husband and Molly the cockerpoo in London’s East End, writing full time and combining her love of m/m romance with her love of science fiction.