Accidentally On Purpose

by J. M. Snyder

  Though he drives well under the posted speed limit and tries to hit every stop light he can, Alan finds that, before long, he’s pulling into an empty spot at the curb near Jim’s apartment. Even if a kiss is imminent, he isn’t ready for the evening to end. When he puts the car into neutral and cuts off the engine, Jim’s hand finds his in the darkness.

  “Hey,” Jim says, his voice barely audible over the quiet radio.

  Alan turns in his seat, or as much as he can with the steering wheel in his way. He matches Jim’s tone. “Right, well. Here we are.”

  Jim turns, too, leaning his head against the back of the seat. His hand pulls Alan’s over onto his side of the car. It’s on his upper thigh now, and Alan’s all too aware of how close Jim’s crotch is to their clasped fingers. Something wiggly flutters through his stomach.

  Christ, this again. A man my age doesn’t get nervous about a frigging kiss. It isn’t like it’s my first.

  But in a way, it is. In the faint light from a streetlamp halfway down the block, Alan studies the shadows falling into the lines on Jim’s face. He looks young in the daylight, barely out of his thirties, but here, in the darkness, Alan can see the toll life’s taken on him. All the late nights sitting in a patrol car, all the tense situations when he’s had to draw his weapon, all the things he’s seen in seedier parts of town Alan will never have reason to visit. Each line has a story, each wrinkle a tale to tell. Ambient light calls out Jim’s rugged features, and Alan wants nothing more than to sit here forever and hear the story behind every wrinkle, then press his lips to each one until they all smooth out beneath his lips.

  “You’re doing it again,” Jim murmurs.

  Alan starts, as if caught in the act. “Doing what?”

  “Staring off into space.”

  Jim’s smile creases his cheeks, and a small dimple appears just to the left of and below his bottom lip. Alan hasn’t noticed it before.

  The smile fades. “Am I boring you?” Jim wants to know.

  “What? No!” Alan hurries to assure him. “It’s just…I’ve never seen you like this before. In this light.”

  The smile returns. “Or lack thereof. Do I look that different?”

  “Older,” Alan suggests. “Wiser.”

  With a laugh, Jim says, “Looks can be deceiving. Come here.”

  He gives Alan’s hand a gentle tug; now it’s practically in his lap.

  Sweet Lord God, Alan thinks as his pulse beats in his temple, his throat, his groin. He wants to stretch out his fingers, accidentally on purpose see what he might be able to feel through the taut crotch of Jim’s dark chinos. Is he half as hard as Alan is himself?

  “You look scared,” Jim whispers.

  When did he get so close? “I’m terrified,” Alan admits. “It’s been years—”

  “You don’t forget.”

  Before Alan can argue, Jim leans closer still. His eyes slip shut a moment before his lips cover Alan’s.

  They’re softer than Alan thought they’d be, and warmer, and slightly damp. At this distance, he can count Jim’s eyelashes, if he wants to. When he breathes, he draws in Jim’s heady cologne and it sets his senses reeling. In the confines of his own khakis, his dick throbs, his balls ache.

  Then Jim’s lips part and his tongue licks out, probing Alan’s mouth gently. Alan closes his eyes as he gives in, opens up, lets Jim in.

  Turns out he’s right—Alan hasn’t forgotten a thing.

  To be completely honest, it isn’t the world’s longest kiss, but isn’t the shortest, either. It’s soft, and hesitant, and the best damn kiss Alan has had in…well, forever.

  Jim pulls back slightly, just enough to break the connection. When Alan opens his eyes, he feels like he’s coming up for air. Immediately he wants to dive in again, but when he leans forward, eager, Jim raises a finger to Alan’s lips, stopping him.

  “Want to come in?” Jim asks.

  Alan opens his mouth and covers Jim’s finger with his upper lip, catching the tip between his teeth. Then he sits back, letting Jim’s finger slip free, and kisses the damp tip. “If you don’t think it’s too late.”

  Jim assures him, “It isn’t.”

  “Then I’d love to.”

  Chapter 14

  Jim lives on the third floor. As he leads the way upstairs, Alan texts Brooks. Hope UR home & locked in. Going 2B late. Don’t wait up. As he hits SEND, Jim calls back, “Texting your nephew?”

  “Yeah.” Alan laughs. “He should be home by now but I know he isn’t in bed. Probably on the phone with his little chickie.”

  At the next landing, Jim grabs the railing and spins around to smile at Alan. “Hope he isn’t waiting for me to pick him up at the mall.”

  Alan returns the smile, but it feels false on his face. Don’t worry—there’s no need for him to be out there late tonight.

  Aloud, he says, “Well, they went to the cinema, but her mother drove so I’m sure she took him home straightaway. Cheeky bugger’s just ignoring me, not texting back.”

  From a few steps above, Jim calls down, “Means I have you all to myself, then.”

  “That sounds promising,” Alan admits.

  At the top of the staircase is a closed door. Jim fumbles his keys out of his pocket and unlocks it. “It isn’t exactly a palatial mansion—”

  “Come on, mate, mine isn’t either,” Alan says.

  With a smile, Jim leans against the door as he opens it, letting Alan inside. “But it’s home. Come on in. Don’t mind the mess.”

  Alan doesn’t know what he’s talking about—the place is spotless. The door opens onto a small foyer with a coat closet on the right, a hallway on the left, and the living room dead ahead. Off the living room is a small dining area with a bistro-style table surrounded by a quartet of tall chairs, and from where he stands, Alan can see a pair of French doors leading to a small balcony.

  Closing the door behind them, Jim says, “It really isn’t much.”

  “You have a balcony.” Alan nods in that direction. “That’s more than me.”

  Jim laughs. “It looks out over the trash alley so yeah, it’s a selling point alright. You can’t sit out there when the wind shifts or the stench will drive you inside.”

  “There’s a pet door.” Alan is stating the obvious, but it might be bad form to just jump into…whatever it is they’re going to do. He should at least look around first, no? What exactly can he say or do to get them back to where they were when they parked?

  “Came with the place.” Jim shrugs out of his blazer and folds it over his arm. “Complete with cat. How it gets up this high, I don’t know, but there’s food and water in the kitchen in case it stops by. Let me take your jacket.”

  He helps Alan, holding one sleeve as Alan’s arm slips free and reeling it in when Alan turns to slide out of the other one. Then he opens the closet and tucks them away inside.

  Alan’s hands go to his trouser pockets as he stares down the hallway. The kitchen is the first room off to the right—Alan can see wooden cabinets in the doorway, and he suspects it goes through to the dining area. After that there’s a set of louvre doors, shut, and what’s obviously a bathroom at the end of the hall. To the right of it is an alcove Alan can’t see into from here. The bedroom, perhaps? Unless Jim sleeps on the couch, but how comfortable would that be?

  From behind him, Jim says softly, “And I’ve lost you again.”

  “Just looking around.” Alan turns on his heel to see Jim leaning back against the closed closet door. “Wondering where you sleep.”

  “In bed. You’ll see it soon enough.” A slow grin spreads across Jim’s face. “But first, come here.”

  Grinning as well, Alan takes a step towards him. “Aren’t you going to show me around?”

  “I said soon.” Jim stretches out an arm but Alan’s just beyond his reach. “Come closer.”

  “How close?” Alan shuffles forward half a step this time, grinning broadly now. He hadn’t realized he missed this, flirty banter
with an attractive man, a coy back and forth that promises to lead somewhere between them. He shuffles another half step. “Or this. How’s this, mate?”

  One of Jim’s brows arches up, and his smirk turns sardonic. He reaches out again, and this time his fingers catch the front of Alan’s shirt. With a tug, Jim pulls him in. Against Alan’s cheek, he purrs, “I said, come here.”

  “Like this?” Alan murmurs in Jim’s ear. “Am I close enough now?”

  “Just about.”

  Releasing Alan’s shirt, Jim wraps his arms around Alan’s waist. Suddenly Alan finds his body pressed against Jim’s, and something hard and urgent juts into his upper thigh. There’s no hiding his own stiffness, either. Jim hugs him close, and moans softly when Alan shifts against him.

  “Hmm?” Alan responds.

  Jim leans his head back against the closet door, his lips spread into a beatific smile. “That’s good. For now. Though…”

  Jim’s arms tighten around Alan’s waist, and Alan places his hands on the door, one on either side of his date. As Jim’s eyes slip shut, Alan draws in a slight breath, filling his lungs with Jim’s scent. Then he dips his head, and this time he’s the one who initiates the kiss. His lips cover Jim’s; when he opens them, Jim’s lips part, too. Then Alan’s licking into him, tasting him again, taking him in and wanting more, needing more.

  He shifts into a better position and dives in again, hungry for this man before him. Jim moves against him, stirring his loins, fanning his lust. Alan eases a knee between Jim’s legs, pressing his thigh up against the erection he feels in Jim’s pants. His kisses grow demanding, insatiate. He wants this, and this, and God, so much more—

  A musical chime breaks the moment.

  “Fuck,” Jim mutters.

  Alan rests his head on the door beside Jim’s and reaches for the phone in his back pocket. “I should’ve put this damn thing in my jacket.”

  Jim tucks his fingers into the waistband of Alan’s trousers. The touch is ticklish against Alan’s lower back. “We’ll put it there now. Who is it?”

  “Cock-blocking Brooks,” Alan guesses.

  That earns a snicker from Jim. He lets Alan stand back to read the text.

  K.

  Alan fights the urge to throw the damn phone across the hall. K? That’s it? That’s all it took to interrupt them? Just as we were finally getting somewhere, too.

  “Your nephew?” Jim asks. “Everything okay?”

  Alan shows him the screen. “Fine. Thanks, Brooks. Way to kill the mood.”

  Taking the phone from Alan, Jim silences it, then pushes away from the closet. Alan moves back as he opens the door and, without even looking, tosses the phone inside. “We’ll find it later,” Jim says, shutting the door again. “Now, where were we?”

  Alan leans into him, pinning him against the door. His lips brush Jim’s as he whispers, “Right about here.”

  Each kiss is sweeter than the last.

  * * * *

  Before long Jim pushes away from the closet, apologizing. “If we stand here like this all night, my back’ll be killing me tomorrow. How about that tour I promised you?”

  Alan doesn’t let him get far, taking Jim’s hand as he passes. “Hold up, where do you think you’re going?”

  “Didn’t you say you wanted to see my bed?” Jim teases with a tug on Alan’s hand.

  He has to admit he likes the way that sounds.

  Stepping into the living room, Jim gestures around them as if he’s a real estate agent showing Alan a prime piece of property. “Living room, obviously.”

  Alan snickers.

  With a smirk, Jim continues. “Dining room. Balcony, as you pointed out earlier. Great view but bad stench.”

  He stops in front of the French doors and looks outside. Coming up beside him, Alan eases an arm around his shoulders. “It is a nice view. That your cat?”

  A bundle of white fur sleeps curled up on a wicker chair out on the balcony. Jim shrugs, settling closer against Alan. “That’s the cat,” he clarifies. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call him mine.”

  “What’s it’s name?”

  “Hey You.” Jim laughs. “Sometimes You Bastard. Depends on whether or not he’s trying to piss me off. On with the tour.”

  He spins out of Alan’s embrace and heads around the dining table, catching Alan’s wrist on the way. The kitchen is next, a small pass-through room that brings to mind a ship’s galley. One wall is lined with appliances—stove top, oven, fridge. The other has counters taken over by a sink, dish drainer, and microwave. As they step out into the hallway at the other end of the kitchen, Jim admits, “It’s small.”

  Alan laughs. “So I see.”

  “Yeah, well, I eat out a lot.”

  “You know,” Alan tells him, “I’m a pretty good cook, if I do say so myself.”

  Jim gives him a warm smile. “You mentioned that earlier. Careful, or I’ll be coming by your place for every meal.”

  Amused, Alan says, “I see nothing wrong with that. You’re welcome any time.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Jim heads down the hall and points at the louvre doors as he passes them. “Washer and dryer in there, in case you ever need to use them. Bathroom—” He shoves open the door at the end of the hall, displaying a toilet and sink inside a cramped room. “Which you’re more likely to need at some point tonight.”

  Alan ducks his head into the small space. “No shower? No tub? What do you do, wash up in the sink?” He gives Jim an arched look. “You can always come over to my place for that, too.”

  With a laugh, Jim nods at another door inside the bathroom, which Alan first thought was a linen closet. “Through there. It connects to the master bathroom, which is off the bedroom, which is…”

  They move to the alcove off the hallway, which leads to the bedroom as promised. There is no door to the room, something Alan finds odd, but as Jim lives alone, it probably doesn’t matter. A large bed takes up most of the area, but once Alan steps into the room, he sees a pair of sliding closet doors on the right and another bathroom door open on the left. A small lamp on a nightstand casts a golden glow onto the bed, plunging the rest of the room into shadow. Alan’s stomach does its little nervous wiggle again, and he gives Jim’s hand a quick squeeze.

  “So you do have a bed,” he says softly.

  “I do. Come see it.” Turning, Jim takes Alan’s hand in both of his and backs into the room.

  Alan takes a seat on the foot of the bed. “Comfy. Have a seat.” He pats the spot beside him.

  But Jim steps up to him and eases a knee between Alan’s, spreading his legs. Then he steps into the space he created and, hands on Alan’s shoulders, he leans against Alan, who lies back against the mattress. Then Jim is climbing onto him, pinning him down, kissing him hungrily. “How’s this?” he murmurs against Alan’s lips.

  Quickly Alan nods. “This is good.”

  Jim’s mouth covers his again.

  Chapter 15

  The world around them slows until all Alan knows is the feel of Jim’s hands on his face, their lips pressed together, their breaths and heartbeats falling into synchronicity. Jim’s body is a welcome weight above him, and suddenly it feels as if they’re wearing too many clothes; there’s too much fabric between them. Pulling Jim’s shirt out of the waistband of his pants, Alan begins unbuttoning it from the bottom up. Jim does the same to Alan’s shirt, starting from the neckline and heading down.

  About halfway, Jim eases his hands into the front of Alan’s shirt and grins against Alan’s lips. “An old school undershirt. I love it.”

  Alan pulls back, confused. “What do you mean by that?”

  With a shrug, Jim kisses the tip of his nose. “The younger generations don’t wear them anymore.”

  “And you know this how?” Alan asks.

  “You see all kinds of stuff when making arrests and booking perps.” Jim’s next kiss lands in the corner of Alan’s mouth.

  Alan runs his hands up underneat
h Jim’s shirt and feels only bare skin. “You don’t wear one.”

  “I do.” Jim sits back on Alan’s thighs and tugs up the hem of his shirt while holding down the white shirt underneath. Alan hadn’t felt it because it was stuck to the button-down with static electricity. Jim tells him, “I’m not one of the unwashed masses. My momma taught me right.”

  Then he pulls both shirts off over his head without bothering to unbutton the top shirt all the way, showing off smooth flesh over faintly defined abdominal muscles. His pert nipples are dark like his hair. As he tosses the shirts to the floor, Alan runs a finger up the middle of his chest.

  “Damn,” he says softly. “You’re built.”

  “I’m in shape,” Jim clarifies. “There’s a difference. I can’t bench press more than thirty pounds, tops, but I stay fit so I can hold my own if things ever get physical with a suspect. But this is nothing. You should see my partner drop a man in seconds with a well-aimed kick. Talk about built.”

  Picturing Detective Farrow kicking a man in the groin, Alan grimaces. “I bet. Still, I feel like a fat slob next to you.”

  “Hush.” Jim unbuttons Alan’s shirt the rest of the way, then pushes up his undershirt to expose the hint of abs and…Jim lets out a surprised sound that’s more of a yelp than a laugh. “Jesus, you’re hairy!”

  Alan’s face heats up. His chest is covered in graying hair that curls and whorls every which way. Sometimes he thinks he was born with a rug over most of his body, and getting older has only encouraged the hair to grow. It’s on his chest and arms, his legs, his crotch…the one thing Alan’s thankful for is that the mop on top of his head still seems to be just as thick as everywhere else, despite his age.

  When Jim pulls up the undershirt, Alan’s chest hair stands from the static, and Jim buries his face in the downy curls. “I love this,” Jim admits. “I have like two chest hairs and you can only see them in UV light. But this…”

  Self-consciously, Alan says, “It’s a bit much, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s perfect.” Jim rubs his cheek over one of Alan’s nipples. Instantly it hardens, and Jim runs his tongue over the ruddy teat. “Well, hello there.”