Julian’s eyes are only half open, his cheeks flushed pink. “Just do it, Fletcher,” he orders.
“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Fletcher replies, cheerful, and sheaths himself inside Ogden in one long, smooth stroke. Ogden’s body arches underneath him, half a moan escaping his throat, smothered by Julian’s cock.
“Mm,” Julian praises as the force of Fletcher’s first staggering thrusts jolts Ogden’s body, knocking that saliva-slick mouth deeper over his cock. “You like that, don’t you?” he asks, his pupils flickering quickly to make eye contact with Fletcher and back again. He grabs a fistful of Ogden’s hair, slowly drives his hips forward, deeper. “How much you think he can take, Fletcher?”
Fletcher groans, pushing forward and feeling the stretch and resistance of the muscles in Ogden’s thighs as he leans into them. He can’t find his voice to answer, and it doesn’t really matter anyway; all he can think about is the smell of Ogden’s fresh sweat, damp on the underside of his knee, and the way Julian’s dark head bends in abandon and Ogden moves underneath him, to meet him, to encourage him deeper, and there’s no finesse in it, but that doesn’t matter either.
He bites the side of Ogden’s knee, tugging at the skin with his teeth, runs his hands down his long thighs and up again, watches Julian’s mouth as he pants and chews his lip red. Drool is running down Ogden’s chin, his jaw straining desperately for more, Julian’s balls slapping his chin to the rhythm of his thrusting.
Julian plants one foot on the couch for leverage.
Fletcher reaches down to Ogden’s sides, finds his arms, and pins them. The feeling of those small, bony wrists twisting under his palms, the heat of being deep inside him—
“Doesn’t he feel so good inside you?” Julian taunts, “Does it hurt?”
Convulsing, Fletcher comes, moaning out “Oh God” in surrender.
As Fletcher’s twitching through his aftershocks, nuzzling Ogden’s calf lazily, Julian pulls back and rests the tip of his cock against the cushion of Ogden’s lips as his mouth opens and closes under it, gasping for air. He pumps himself frantically until he comes, spurting in a streak across Ogden’s mouth and cheek with an imperious groan.
“Swallow,” he directs, stroking himself one last time, and when Ogden does, gulping wide-eyed, he drops to his knees beside the couch abruptly and kisses and licks away the come spattered across Ogden’s skin with that deliberate tenderness of his. Fletcher watches, allowing himself an easy, exhausted smile.
WHEN they’ve all caught their breaths, Julian offers Ogden use of his shower. Ogden smiles and shakes his head: “I think I’m clean enough to get home anyway, thanks.”
Julian looks mildly suspicious, but shrugs with a cheerful “Suit yourself!” and breezes out to use it himself.
When Fletcher hears the water running, he stoops to collect his wallet from his trousers, balled up on the floor. Returning to his seat next to an already half-dressed Ogden, he passes over a few crumpled notes. “Should cover cab fare home,” he explains.
“Thanks,” Ogden replies, pocketing them, and bends to tie his sneakers. It gives Fletcher a very nice flashback of Julian’s hands meticulously untying his laces, stroking his ankles. “So maybe you two’ll give me a call sometime?”
Fletcher blinks, looks to Ogden like he’s surprised he’s still there.
“My number,” Ogden says, smiling patiently, and holds out an orange ticket stub, scrawled over with black ballpoint.
Fletcher’s hands, resting on his bare knees, curl and tighten, but he reaches for the stub anyway. “Yeah,” he says, a little distracted, “thanks.” And then, more sincerely, “For everything, I mean.”
Ogden smiles wistfully a moment and then stands. He strides across the living room, scooping up his scarf and draping it around his shoulders in a large, grand movement. “You two,” he starts, arranging the ends, “Julian said you’re his boss, that you’re fucking, but it’s more than that, isn’t it?”
Fletcher tilts his head to the ceiling in an expression of thoughtfulness. “Who knows,” he replies, at length. “Maybe. It’s never really been up to me.”
“DID he leave his number?” Julian asks as Fletcher hands him a fresh pair of socks the next morning. His hair is mussed, a healthy glow warm across his cheeks.
Fletcher turns to the closet and flicks through the hangers to find a shirt. “Yeah,” he replies, selecting one. “Wrote it down in your organizer for you. You know, if you want.”
“Ugh,” Julian complains, but he’s smiling indulgently. “I wish you wouldn’t do that. Messes with my system. Also, your handwriting’s shit.”
“Last time I do you a favor, then,” Fletcher sniffs, but he’s smiling too.
There’s a moment of silence as he shrugs the shirt over his shoulders. He starts on his buttons.
“You called me ‘baby’,” Julian says.
About the Author
HEIDI BELLEAU was born and raised in small town New Brunswick, Canada. She now lives in the rugged oil-patch frontier of Northern BC with her husband, an Irish ex-pat whose long work hours in the trades leave her plenty of quiet time to write. She has a degree in history from Simon Fraser University with a concentration in British and Irish studies; much of her work centered on popular culture, oral folklore, and sexuality, but she was known to perplex her professors with nonironic papers on the historical roots of modern romance novel tropes. (Ask her about Highlanders!) Her writing reflects everything she loves: diverse casts of characters, a sense of history and place, equal parts witty and filthy dialogue, the occasional mythological twist, and most of all, love—in all its weird and wonderful forms.
When not writing, you might catch her trying to explain British television to her newborn daughter or standing in line at the local coffee shop, waiting on her caramel macchiato.
You can find her tweeting as @HeidiBelleau, add her on Facebook or G+, email her at [email protected], or visit her blog: http://heidi-below-zero.blogspot.com.
Copyright
Bookended ©Copyright Heidi Belleau, 2012
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
382 NE 191st Street #88329
Miami, FL 33179-3899 USA
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art by Anne Cain [email protected]
Cover Design by Mara McKennen
This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 382 NE 191st Street #88329 Miami, FL 33179-3899 USA http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
Released in the United States of America
April 2012
eBook Edition
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-415-6
Bookended Page 3