Love Wins

by David C. Dawson

Unfortunately the readers of a certain short story would neither share nor appreciate his notion. So he had to come up with something both satisfyingly saccharine and lecherous as soon as possible. Never forget to make the sex scenes out of this world if you wanted to stay in business.

  Dean stared at the screen some more, deleted what he had written so far, and switched the laptop off. Douglas Adams, may he hitchhike in peace, had once mentioned how much he liked the whooshing sound of deadlines flying past. It was a sentiment he could definitely not share. For Dean, a deadline was something to be met at least two weeks early, just for his own peace of mind—and to stop Alice from moving in with him to “monitor his progress.” They had been there once, and as much as he loved his big sister, there was no way in hell he would ever go there again.

  When he went to the kitchen to get some coffee, the doorbell rang. Dean froze, frantically searching his mind for any appointments he might have forgotten. Usually only Alice, the postman, and the occasional craftsman would come here, and his sister was the only one he ever met face-to-face. Dean was not, to put it mildly, an amiable person. He had always been what psychologists called “socially inept,” and it had gotten worse after he found out he preferred men. After the accident he had alienated himself completely from other people. It was easier being all by himself than to bear the stares and pitying looks of strangers. Involuntarily his fingertips brushed over the four scars on his face that made him look as if he’d had a run-in with a large, angry cat. They weren’t that prominent anymore, since he had gotten them in his late teens, but he was still painfully aware of them, as if the accident had been only yesterday.

  The bell rang out again, this time more impatiently. Dean shrugged. Whoever it was, they would leave once they realized he wasn’t going to open the door. He just had to outwait them.

  “If you think I’m going to leave, I’ve got to disappoint you, man. I’ll stay right here until you open.”

  The voice was a deep, pleasant bass, with a hint of amusement tinging the syllables. Dean tried to even out his breath. He really could do without this kind of disturbance right now.

  “I’m serious, man. I’m not going to leave. Oh, by the way, your sister says hi. She was very definite about me doing some repairs around here.”

  “Damn you, Alice!”

  She had been threatening for months to do this, to send someone over to “shape the house up,” as she called it. Dean liked his home the way it was. Old and battered, with almost all the shutters loose, paint peeling off the walls inside and outside, wooden floors creaking and groaning under his steps like they were about to break—which they sometimes did—a jungle where once the garden had been, and dripping water taps that would spill an ugly brown swill every few days. Well, he could do without that particular problem, but getting the plumbing fixed would take days. Days he would have to spend with a stranger intruding into his private space, his sanctuary. The thought alone made his flesh crawl.

  The doorbell rang again, an urgent staccato he could no longer ignore.

  “Coming!”

  He would get rid of this nuisance right here and now. After that he was going to ring Alice to have a long chat about how being siblings didn’t mean there were no boundaries not to be crossed. But when he opened the door, something big and bulky squeezed past him so swiftly he had no chance to utter so much as a word of denial.

  “Finally! I really thought you’d make me wait out there the entire day!”

  Big and Bulky put down a box of tools with an ominous crash before he extended a hand the size of a soup plate. In the gloom of the corridor, Dean stared into an open, friendly face glistening slightly with sweat.

  “Hi, I’m Morgan.”

  Dean was still busy staring. Morgan was at least six foot four, with skin the color of polished ebony and muscles of the type you got when you did hard manual labor on a daily basis. His hair hung down to his elbows in a mass of dreads barely tamed by a washed-out red headband. Equally washed-out denims hung low on small hips accentuated by washboard abs that Dean could spot clearly, for his visitor wasn’t wearing a shirt. All in all, Morgan looked as if he had just jumped out of one of the naughtier fire-fighter calendars they used to sell for charity.

  Dean had to shake his head violently to snap out of his trance and accept the paw still hovering in front of his face. His own not too small hands had trouble spanning Morgan’s palm. Dean expected a death grip from the other man, partly as punishment for having kept him waiting and partly to demonstrate his dominance, but the handshake was surprisingly gentle. For once at a loss for words, Dean could only keep on glaring at the unexpected visitor.

  MORGAN TRIED his hardest to hide his curiosity from the man who had just let him in so reluctantly. So this was the famous Dean Hollowitz, creator of the unbelievably successful Spy Martin series. When his aunt had phoned him about a new special client, he had been cautious, since “special” in her vocabulary could mean anything from a horny, bored housewife wanting to act out a bad porn film, to a slightly confused older man who needed somebody to rid him of his impressive collection of stray cats, to a young couple who had just purchased the house of their dreams and needed the resident ghost to leave. Out of the three, convincing the ghost to pass on had been the easiest.

  You just never knew with Aunt Bethany, and he had learned the hard way to ask some questions first. Of course, his wariness had evaporated the moment she mentioned his favorite author’s name, and he was still happy about having accepted the contract even though the man was nothing like he had imagined. For one thing, he was a lot younger than Morgan had anticipated, probably in his early thirties and therefore close to himself in age.

  Dean Hollowitz was the slender type, about five feet nine, with the subtly muscled body of a runner. He had soft chestnut-colored hair that framed his pale oval face in such an unruly way it made Morgan’s fingers itch to touch and trim it. Four scars ran diagonally across the writer’s handsome features, which were dominated by a proud nose, big, slightly slanted eyes the color of ripe hazelnuts, and a sensuous mouth with a full lower lip begging to be kissed. To top it off, Dean radiated animosity just tinged with enough vulnerability to make him irresistible and not pitiful. Getting to know this man intimately could be nothing but exciting, and Morgan felt as if he had just won the lottery.

  Since his reluctant host seemed at a loss for words, Morgan decided to take over.

  “Judging from the way you’re staring at me, neither my aunt nor your sister have informed you about me coming over. Am I right?”

  Dean blushed slightly. Whether it was because of the hidden reprimand in Morgan’s voice or because he hadn’t been informed was hard to tell. He was so gorgeous, Morgan had to concentrate not to drool.

  “If they had, I wouldn’t have been here. I don’t like strangers in my home.”

  Morgan fought hard not to show his genuine bliss at the rude answer. He had a soft spot for crass behavior, since there was nothing he abhorred more than people who tried to be polite when they were really pissed. In his opinion it was dishonest to gloss over any kind of emotion.

  “Well, man, shame on them. But since I’m already here, I might as well have a look around and tell you what needs fixing and how much it’s gonna cost you.”

  When he glimpsed the thunderous expression on his new client’s face, he used the only trump card he had.

  “Unless you want to phone your sister first and talk it over with her.”

  The thunder vanished abruptly from the handsome features and was replaced by an expression of defeat. Morgan grinned broadly. He knew the feeling.

  “Don’t fret it, man. My aunt, when she gets something into her head, you better comply without a fuss because she’ll get her way anyway. Strong-willed women are a pain in the ass, ain’t they?”

  This was met with the shadow of a smile, suggesting Dean was prepared to acknowledge a certain kinship between them. Of course, it was gone in an instant, but there could be no doubt
it had been there. Emboldened, Morgan touched Dean’s shoulder in an attempt to deepen the new bond.

  “Why don’t you show me around and tell me about this house’s little quirks? Then we can work out what you want me to fix first.”

  He didn’t have time to regret his boldness. Dean froze under his touch like a deer caught in the headlights. When he came to his senses again, he shrugged Morgan’s hand off as if it were something obnoxious he had found on the ground.

  “Suit yourself. I’ve got work to do.”

  THE NEXT morning Morgan was already waiting for Dean when he returned from his daily run.

  “What’re you doing here, for heaven’s sake? It’s six o’clock in the morning!”

  Morgan flashed his most charming grin, reveling in the sight of Dean’s slender body accentuated by the wet T-shirt clinging to his long, elegant limbs. He was wearing a baseball cap that hid his handsome face almost completely. Morgan also glimpsed a couple of long pink scars on the writer’s naked arms and legs and wondered how he might have gotten them.

  “There’s so much to do in this ruin you call a home, I thought an early start was in order.”

  Dean frowned but didn’t take the bait.

  “Fine, come in. Do whatever you have to do and try not to make a big fuss. I’ll be working upstairs.”

  “What, you won’t even offer me some coffee? Your social skills really need an update, man.”

  A poisonous glare that made his heart skip a frantic beat was the only answer Morgan got. Humming happily, he’d started to sort his tools out when a scream from upstairs jolted him out of his preparations.

  “Morgan!”

  Dean was definitely freaked out by something, so Morgan hurried to get to him. In the bathroom he found the reason for Dean’s distress. There was a pungent smell in the air, one Morgan knew all too well, and the bottom of the bathtub was covered in a black, stinking smear. Dean shouted at him like a madman.

  “What the hell have you done to my house? What is this? I turned the water on and all I got was this obnoxious, appalling liquid! You haven’t been here for even an hour, and there’s a mess already!”

  Morgan had had enough. As much as he appreciated a certain temperament in his targets, he drew the line at irrational behavior.

  “This,” he said pointedly, “is what you get when you neglect to do necessary repairs on account of being a reclusive, foul-mouthed hermit who thinks reality will bend his way if only he wishes for it hard enough. To be frank, it’s a small miracle this hasn’t happened earlier. So shut your hole and let me do my work.”

  Dean’s mouth opened and closed a few times like a stranded fish. Then he pulled himself together. It seemed he wasn’t used to strangers talking to him in such an open manner, but Morgan sensed that he didn’t really dislike it. Quite the contrary, in fact.

  “I’m sorry. Really. Even though I’m a hermit, I usually have better manners. Please excuse my shouting.”

  Morgan was genuinely surprised about this sudden change of tone. Seeing Dean slightly contrite made his stomach do a few excited somersaults. It was sexy as hell.

  “Apology accepted. As you may have guessed, there won’t be any water today. I have to turn it off in the entire house to fix this mess.”

  Dean blanched. “How am I supposed to get clean? I’ve been running for an hour. I need a shower.”

  Morgan’s grin widened. Teasing the other man was just too much fun.

  “Well, you could go into the garden and use the hose. Luckily for you, it’s not connected to the house’s plumbing, so you should be safe. If you want, I’d be glad to give you a hand.”

  For reasons Morgan couldn’t grasp, Dean didn’t brush his double innuendo off immediately. In fact, he looked torn.

  Dean knew he had to choose between pest and cholera here. Getting outside and exposing himself to Morgan was completely out of the question, but spending the rest of the day with his own stench wafting up whenever he moved wasn’t an option either. He just didn’t know what to do.

  Morgan enjoyed the unexpected yet amusing squirming of his prey for a couple of minutes before he offered a way out.

  “If you feel uncomfortable, I promise to close my eyes. I swear I won’t peek.”

  “On your honor?”

  Dean sounded meek and close to panic. He knew it was beyond childish, but Morgan held up two fingers of his right hand, making a serious face while crossing the index and middle finger of his other hand behind his back.

  “On my honor as the best plumber in Orange County.”

  Dean eyed him suspiciously, but in the end he gave in. Showering after his morning round was part of the ritual that kept him going throughout the day. Not following it would throw him off balance, something he didn’t need right now.

  “I’ll just get some shampoo. Can you please prepare the hose?”

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  Morgan bowed in mockery to hide his surprise about Dean’s compliant behavior. Every time he thought he had the man figured out, he did something to prove him wrong.

  Since it was still early in the morning, the air felt chilly. Even though they were experiencing a rather warm winter—temperatures hadn’t dropped below sixty-eight for three weeks—the nights were uncomfortably cool. And the water from the hose would be freezing. Morgan couldn’t wait for Dean to come out.

  Just a few minutes later, Dean stepped onto the battered veranda facing the back of the garden. He had a towel slung around his hips and a bottle of shampoo in his hands. His upper body showed the same pattern of long pinkish scars, running from his shoulders down to his loins in a mad pattern of crisscrossing lines. When he felt Morgan’s prying stare, Dean froze.

  “You promised not to look!”

  He sounded so desperate, Morgan refrained from teasing him and turned his back.

  “There you go, man. I’m facing the other way, so it’s safe for you to come down. Mind the steps, by the way, especially the last one. It’s just waiting to break.”

  After a few hesitant heartbeats, Dean took off his towel and carefully went down into the high grass. Morgan was holding the hose high in the air, the small opening pointing at Dean.

  “You can turn the water on.”

  The rusty spigot groaned in protest before it released a gush of cold, cold water. It must have been frigidly cold, because Morgan could hear Dean gasp when it hit his skin, and the sounds from behind him indicated he was washing as quickly as he could.

  Morgan was praying for this moment to last forever. He could see Dean clearly in the window of the little tool shed where he had found the hose. Dean was even more alluring than he had dared to imagine from the glimpses he had caught of him so far. The long, finely tuned muscles moved smoothly under the white, white skin and made Morgan fantasize about what it would be like to feel them under the tips of his fingers. Oh, how he would make them tremble and shiver under his ministrations! And those plush lips, they would beg him for more; pleas and cries of rapture would spill from them while he prepared this delicious body to accept his lust and hunger. When he imagined what it would feel like to thrust his cock between those tight cheeks, what it would look like when his dark hands spanned those white hips, he almost came in his pants. Turning around, pushing Dean down, and ravishing him in the high grass seemed like the most natural thing to do.

  Just when he had made up his mind to give in to his urges, Dean’s voice called out from the top of the veranda.

  “I said you can turn the water off now. I’m done. Thank you very much!”

  Morgan spun around quickly, but it was too late. Dean had already gone back into the house. Alone with his raging hard-on, Morgan turned the water off and sat down heavily on the wooden stairs. He couldn’t believe how close he had been to doing something unforgivable. His only excuse was that Dean made his blood boil like nobody ever had before. The man made him feel as if his skin were on fire, while his heart didn’t know whether to explode or stand still when looking
at him. The mere thought of possessing him was enough to tip Morgan over the edge as if he were a thirteen-year-old schoolboy and not a mature man in his thirties.

  Just when he thought things couldn’t get more messed up, the plank he was sitting on broke.

  IT TOOK Morgan an entire day to get the plumbing fixed enough to enable Dean to use the bathroom, and another two days to replace all the damaged and broken pipes. When he was finally done, the taps only spilled the cleanest water, without so much as a hint of the swill they had produced before. During those three days, Morgan had started to bring coffee in the morning, which Dean first accepted grumpily but then with growing fondness. They’d sit on the front porch, looking at the rising sun while sipping the hot beverages. The first day, the only words they shared were a polite “Thank you” and “You’re welcome.” By the third day, thanks to Morgan’s efforts, Dean participated in some small talk about the weather and the repairs that still needed to be done.

  Dean would never admit it, but he was actually looking forward to meeting Morgan every day. The huge man was surprisingly good at making him feel comfortable, even though he was nosy and forward. Even Dean’s work had made considerable progress. The story itself was already done. The only thing missing was the sex scene, and Dean intended to tackle that problem right after his shower.

  Two hours later Dean smashed his hands on the keyboard in frustration. From the first floor, he heard the rhythmic hammering of Morgan, who had started to repair the wooden floor planks. He found the sound oddly soothing, and it didn’t interfere with his work as he had feared in the beginning. No, the problem was he just couldn’t come up with a mind-blowing sex scene. All he had written for this story until now were run of the mill encounters that would do but were missing that special spark that made the readers drool. And he had been quite inventive, letting his main characters go through a couple of athletic and highly unlikely poses to find their relief. Basically, writing a good sex scene had a lot to do with porn. You knew what the couple was doing would never feel good in real life, but the fantasy of something outrageous turned the audience on. Only he didn’t seem to be able to produce outrageous right now.