“No sucking tonight. Just fucking.”
Having Dean whisper that into his ear while he lay trapped made it sound dirty, made him sizzle. The fight, and maybe the desire, to escape fled. Typical. The moment he made peace with the torment, Dean scooted back.
“Turn over.”
Translated to mean Jay would get a cock any minute. His attempt to hurry failed, limbs unresponsive. He flopped over more than turned.
A hand brushed over his neck to his nape, lifting his hair to the opposite side of where he twisted his face. Then Dean’s lips were there in that space, kissing from the bone that jutted out at the top of his spine.
The harsh scrape of wood fractured the softer sounds—the noise of the bedside cabinet drawer opening as Dean reached for lube. The thought spiralled away as Dean’s kisses grew more heated; searing touches one side of Jay’s spine, back up on the other.
Not the first time Dean did this. Next, he focused on Jay’s vertebrae, kissing, licking, sucking his slow way down. The action resulted in Jay twitching and jumping, the sensations confusing. Jay fought a battle of love versus loathing. This time, Jay lay compliant, choosing to enjoy the attention.
By the time Dean reached his coccyx, Jay grew weighty, glued to the bed, helpless, languid. His cock, trapped between his stomach and mattress, so engorged, beat in time with his pulse.
The way Dean kissed him changed. The man skimmed his lips over Jay’s skin, interspersed the touch with light licks first over one arse cheek and then the other. A delicate connection made Jay’s buttocks twitch and tighten. His anus clenched. After a last hard bite near his crack, Dean sat back. The snap of the lube bottle sounded—Jay had as good as waited for it while he let his thoughts wander—the noise both clinical and sexy as hell. Only a few more seconds passed before the slip and slide of Dean’s erection rode the crease of his arse.
Jay groaned, performing a half-hearted attempt to push up, and back. Instead of struggling, he might as well ask for what he wanted. “Hurry.”
“Slut.” Amusement laced Dean’s voice as the man kept up the slow back and forth, up and down.
Jay added a hopeful, “Please?”
All he received was Dean moving his cock to one side, and then a slick finger wriggling in…an improvement, at least. Not a tongue opening him but…
“Oh.” Jay bit his bottom lip as he sucked it into his mouth. A second finger joined the first, but Dean kept the penetration shallow, experimenting with the right nerve-endings, those able to make Jay tremble. He bore it as long as he could while fighting to keep his breathing even. Too soon, he reached the point where he might lose the battle, might hyperventilate.
“Dean?” Amazing how his lover’s name sounded like begging.
“If you want me inside, how about you scramble back and do the honours?”
Why the egotistical sod! Sometimes even Jay wanted to accuse Dean of arrogance, but could Jay class Dean as overbearing if the man understood what saying those things did to him?
Jay planted his hands on the bed after two failed tries. Pushing back took real effort, Dean’s attention having made him boneless. As he went to his knees, presenting on all fours, Dean kept his fingers in play, sliding deeper, finding the right spot. At the brush over his prostate, Jay gasped, and though Dean didn’t ask if he were okay, his fingers grew still. Having learned by experience, this was Dean waiting to find out if all was well. Unable to find his voice, Jay rocked on Dean’s fingers as a way to convey he was fine—a pleasant enough sensation, short lived. Something larger pressed into Jay. Perhaps Jay’s own wantonness proved too much for Dean.
Not into but against. Dean held still and Jay didn’t need to see to be aware Dean’s fingers wrapped around Dean’s cock offering it for Jay to fuck if he so chose. Hard to think of anything sexier. He rocked on, the pressure steady but intense, despite how often they did this. Emotions and sensations heightened by a cool and wet tactile stroke as Dean poured lube where their bodies met. Unwilling to wait longer, Jay pushed back…his way impeded by Dean’s hands spreading across his backside. As much as the press and stretch tugged on nerves, frustration washed in, as fast gone again. This wasn’t torment. Dean had known he’d be eager. He’d known Jay would pay the price.
He’s being so careful with me.
Never once, during the time they’d lived together, had Jay felt unloved. He had never so understood the ways Dean expressed love, than here, tonight. Even after these years, Dean took his time, took care with him, and touched him in unexpected ways. The moment of lucidity abated as Dean sunk in the final two inches and went still while Jay struggled to accommodate the big man. Jay gasped and shuddered, oh so ready for the pounding to come, but Dean took several more infuriating slow strokes, making Jay tremble, itching to grab his own cock. Patience. Dean would grab his hand and stop him, in any case. So close, so close. How did Dean keep going?
Maybe he couldn’t because on the next push, Jay met Dean’s thrust. The joint shoves made him cry out, as pleasure and pain became perceptible companions. More strokes like those and he would…
Jay came without touching himself, crying out, wanting a grip denied to him; a refusal that intensified his release as Dean climaxed. The big man wrapped his arms around Jay and held him as he thrashed.
* * * *
Dean stared at the ceiling, ignoring the temptation to glance at the clock. No point knowing the hour. Home before midnight, then the shower, and the sex…Impossible to know how much time had passed between then and this minute. The knowledge wouldn’t help him sleep.
At least another sixty seconds passed while he continued to inspect the ceiling. Was that dark speck over to the right a trick of the light? A fly or a spider? He closed his stinging eyes, uncaring. If he didn’t silence his thoughts soon, he’d get no rest.
Damn Brian. Damn April. Oh she was vitriolic, spiteful in trying to hammer home her point, but…she did so for good reasons. Sometimes she was right. Not that Dean would cheat on Jay. He no more imagined that than he envisioned chewing off his own foot, but…he feared he might want to. One day.
Dean hated the fear. Such an emotion could become bitter, twisted, and cruel. While April was the hammer, she was unable to do anything without something to strike. His fear was a coffin nail. He needed to handle his fear.
Why hadn’t he binned the card Brian had given him? That told him something; a fact he didn’t like. He needed help, didn’t want to admit it. A large boy from a young age, feeling vulnerable didn’t sit well with Dean. A sense of unease kept him awake. If he didn’t deal with these emotions, these uncertainties, he might never sleep again. Dean disliked the thought that, not dealt with, his reservations might affect Jay even more. More than a few hours of shut-eye were at risk. For the sake of gaining personal peace, Dean needed to talk with someone. As much as he wanted the talk with Jay, it wouldn’t help. He needed another outlet. Anonymity, perhaps. An independent perspective. The ability to say whatever he wanted without the risk of his words hurting the man he loved.
Decision made, Dean awaited sweet dreams, but lay more awake than ever. If only he could leap out of the bed, and pace, without the risk of waking Jay. He glanced over. Jay’s motionless form screamed of a man heavily asleep after the welcome release of good sex. No way would Dean take the risk of waking Jay. Better to lie there frustrated awaiting the dawn.
Dean stared at the ceiling and scrunched the covers in his hands. Minutes passed before he came to understand the sense of longing keeping him awake. He yearned to see someone right away. The next day. Now. If able to knock on someone’s door in the middle of the night without the risk of police arrest, he’d have done so. He hadn’t known he was this screwed up. Damn April.
No, he didn’t mean that. If her concerns were invalid, he wouldn’t be lying in bed fretting. Better to accept a degree of truth had opened his eyes. What happened next was up to him.
Three and a half weeks until Christmas. What were the chances a therapist might se
e him before the New Year? He might go mad if given no choice but to wait.
Chapter 3
“What does the C stand for?” Dean asked after he shook Ms Hemingway’s hand. A four-letter word entered his mind, pushed out a moment later as he repented. The loathsome reaction was a form of deflecting. Many of his disagreeable actions were. He’d suspected as much before Jay ever called him on it, which led to an argument, and the accusation Jay tried to change him. Good thing he’d mastered his apologies. He didn’t need analysis to understand many tendencies needed to stop.
Maybe the therapy worked. Heh.
One of Ms Hemingway’s eyebrows rose; he still had hold of her hand. Her gaze flickered over his face. Did he wear a strange expression? A cynical smile? Mayo from lunch?
“Not important, but it’s Candice.”
Candice? Was she kidding? He blinked—slow, in surprise, and amusement. The way she stared told him she noticed. The woman was observant. Best keep his thoughts under control. Little hope when his mind settled on images of candy canes. The tall and slender Ms Hemingway wore a striped shirt, and the impression led to notions of sweet licking. Wouldn’t April say a lot about that?
Dean stepped back, casting his gaze around Candy Cane’s office pretending more than mild interest to gain time. What the fuck was he doing here? As much as his life was different, old habits, and all that were still a safe retreat, a cosy blanket. Would he never change? At least he wanted to find out.
Candice gave him a quirky smile, gestured to the chair on the other side of her desk, and sat in her own.
“No couch?” he asked, unable to resist.
“No. Though I do usually conduct sessions in more comfortable chairs.” She gave a nod to the other side of the large room with a sofa and coffee table arrangement.
More comfortable? The plush leather of the chair sighed under the substantial weight of his muscles. Hard to imagine any seat putting him more at ease and offering greater relaxation than this one.
“Alas…” Candice Hemingway—boy, what a name—winced as the irritating rattle of a pneumatic drill started up. “Roadworks. The noise is more muffled on this side of the room. It’s even worse over there as the window overlooks the dig.”
“Hardly the right atmosphere, I assume.”
She grimaced. “Goodness knows what they’re digging up this time, but they assured me they will finish soon. Doesn’t help I received little warning. What little notification I got…and I suppose I’m lucky to receive any, left it too late to reschedule many appointments, though a couple cancelled when I explained.”
“Hard on your timetable.” Not to mention pay packet no doubt, or did road demolition come with a no cancellation fee payback clause?
“Fortunate for you, though, as it is why I have time to speak with you today. Also, with Christmas looming, those with even demanding issues want to put off their problems. January is busy so I don’t take on new patients except I knew there might be reason to expect your call.”
So…Brian kept his word. Dean took note, gaze drifting over the room, taking more notice this time. He didn’t know what he’d expected—dark wood panelling, maybe lined with bookcases containing many volumes on things medical and mental. A proverbial couch and low lighting. The light and airy room with its soft colour, textures, and furnishing failed to match the psychiatrist’s consulting room of his imagination.
Bookcases stood dotted around, with more volumes than ornaments. Plants struck him as staged. There were no framed diplomas in here, only peaceful landscapes. She restricted qualifications to the walls of the waiting room, discreet, tucked between more pleasant paintings. He hadn’t read the official references too well, but there were several including the BACP—the British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy. He took it to be a good sign she had trained at all—one didn’t need as many qualifications as the public no doubt assumed to set up as a counsellor. Despite his initial resistance, Dean had investigated the subject the day after he took her card. Candice Hemingway had certificates and, if he were to believe her website, experience. She had diplomas, bachelor’s and master’s degrees, so he couldn’t fault her accreditation. She was C. Hemingway on her documentation and official sites, though. Seemed the psychiatrist knew her name might put off a few potential clients. Funny how people associated names with certain images; how some provided reassurance whereas others simply didn’t.
Was she old enough to possess sufficient experience? Hard to believe. Though attractive lines around her eyes were evident, Dean would have taken her to be the same age as he if not for those, and because he’d tracked her actual age on the net. Her being older provided comfort, and it took little for her to be wiser than Dean.
He allowed his body to loosen, only to straighten a second later, in case she noticed, afraid of what she read into any reaction. Her gaze never flinched, appeared steady. Her expression came across as serene but the lack of reaction on her part unnerved him. Could she tell? Dean resisted the urge to swallow; convinced she psychoanalysed every twitch. This had to be a mistake.
No paperwork on her desk—none unrelated to him—and only a small notebook, one, which, when she spotted him looking, prompted her to ask, “Do you mind me taking notes?”
“No. Though…are you not going to record the sessions?”
“Not unless one of us believes it necessary. This isn’t a session, yet. Consider it an interview. I don’t suggest recording our meetings at this stage…or any stage. It always depends on each case though I try to keep things as informal as possible. If the notebook bothers you, I’ll put it away. We can do whatever makes you more comfortable.”
If she intended the interview remark to calm him, it did anything but. Interviews, exams…anyone could get these things wrong. “Make notes after I’m gone?” he asked for want of something to say.
“I can do that.”
“Less exact I assume.”
“I’ve learned how. Mr Chapman, all I’m aware of so far is that you wish therapy for a private matter.” Her tone suggested every matter she discussed remained private.
“I’m unsure…about the counselling, I mean. Just…” How to finish? His sentence ran out of steam, turning to vapour before it begun.
“Considering it? Checking things out?”
He nodded.
“Wise.” She gave him a nod in reply, terse but not the least patronising. “And that means we’re interviewing each other.”
Had she picked up on his thoughts? He didn’t need time to get over his surprise before she continued.
“If you care to outline the issue you wish to discuss, I will tell you at once whether I believe I can help. If not, I’ll suggest a referral.”
“Referral?” That possibility hadn’t occurred to him. He’d used enough of his strength to come here and didn’t care for going to someone else. “Not sure I’m happy with that.”
“It may not be necessary. If I’m able to help, I will suggest an outline of appointments. I don’t take everyone who comes along, if they need a more specialised consultation.”
“I note you’re not saying help and treatment. You’re not using words to make me feel like a patient at all. Clever of you.”
Again, Ms Hemingway gave him that restrained smile of hers. “Well I know one thing about you so far. You’re astute.” She waited.
“I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”
“You’re a man. You’re being asked to talk about your feelings. Men don’t do that. I get it. And I could let you prevaricate but I’ve heard all the excuses before.”
My gearstick so to speak.
“I’m in a relationship…” A wave of…not embarrassment but akin to unease rolled over him. “With another man.” Her expression didn’t change. Her thought processes, her views, remained private, concealed behind her direct gaze. What was she thinking? Despite asking himself the question, Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Brian wouldn’t send me to someone with preju
dices.
Could he be certain of that? Yes. Knowing what Dean struggled with, sending him to a bigot made no sense. A strange realisation, but Dean trusted Brian. Armed with that revelation, Dean gained more courage. “I…I’m sure I love him, but…” He didn’t want to speak his mind; had to. For Jay’s sake. For his own. “I still like women.”
“Do you find that to be a problem?”
“No.” He hesitated. “Yes.” He watched her watching him. What did she read in his face? “I don’t know what I am. B-Bisexual, I guess.” A sense of stupidity caused him to trip over the word. “But I don’t know. I don’t understand, and I…”
Say it.
“I want to learn more about who I am.”
* * * *
April’s perfume and the smell of brewed coffee invaded Jay’s workspace, one fragrance more welcome than the other. April overdid the floral notes. Too much proximity would give him a headache. How did Brian cope? Jay thanked her for the dark brew with a nod, engrossed with the email he wrote. A few seconds passed. The heavy scent of flowers became cloying.
Jay froze, fingers on the keyboard. A dart of his gaze to the left brought her profile into view. He only saw her right eye, but it moved left to right as she scanned the screen. She read over his shoulder. What the hell?
He tilted back to stare at her, but she ignored him, still reading.
“You’re still in touch with François?”
Trust April to make that sound incredulous while making no apology for snooping.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.” A long time had passed since his parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary celebrations, but his mother’s poor try at what Jay took as matchmaking stayed with him. Her throwing François into his path turned out to be…something else; something that never sat right with Jay. Still…family. If people never forgave each other, the chances were so many more families would stop speaking.
Christmas Angel Page 4