by G. B. Gordon
Jack nodded. He’d often thought that Margaret experienced touch like that, though she couldn’t tell him. But that didn’t explain Mark massaging his shoulders. Or his face. “Ohhkaaay?”
“But me actively touching something, feeling out its structure, running my hands along surfaces, exploring textures and fabrics . . . I more than just like doing that, it’s who I am, how I make sense of the world. I got into my line of work because I like the feel of different materials between my fingers.” The massaging strokes along his cheekbones turned back to feather caresses. “Like your skin. Your hair. I like touching you.”
Jack wasn’t sure if it was the words or Mark’s hands shifting back to his hair that generated the next rush of goose bumps, but suddenly the evening was wide open with possibilities.
With his eyes closed he whispered, “Did you say you want to fuck me?”
Mark’s hands stilled, and there was a long pause before his careful, “I might have.”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
Jack opened his eyes to Mark’s upside-down face. “Yes, please.”
Mark didn’t move. “Like, on your couch?”
He sounded so scandalized that Jack burst out laughing; he couldn’t help it. For a dreadful second Mark looked shocked, but then he too exploded into laughter. He came back around, and collapsed next to Jack onto the couch cushions. It took a few minutes before either of them had caught their breath.
“Margaret’s room is right next to mine,” Jack said. “She’s a light sleeper.”
Mark nodded. His gaze flicked around the room, then back at Jack. “So,” he finally said. “I take it you’re okay with me touching you?”
The delicate phrasing was so incongruously far apart from the I want to fuck you Jack had already agreed to that it set him off again. But the close-to-pleading expression on Mark’s face sobered him fast.
“Hell yeah, I’m okay with you touching me,” he said. It came out as a hoarse whisper. He had no idea where to go from here. Every moment of this evening was beyond his experience. And they were both trying so fiercely not to screw up that Jack felt suddenly more awkward and shy than he ever had as a teenager. It was quite the novelty, but not in a good way, and useless into the bargain. He took a deep breath. “All right. Here’s the deal: I have no idea what you expect me to do, or not to do as it stands, so, can you just lay out your ideal scenario here for me, so that we’re on the same page?”
“You want me to tell you what I want?”
The tense expectancy in his question made Jack lift his hands in a warding-off gesture. “Hey, I’m not promising to do as I’m told, mind you. But at this point I think my limits lie further down the line than yours, so, yeah, tell me what you want.”
Mark’s chest expanded with the breath he took, and Jack again found himself fixating on the contours of that tantalizing collarbone that had drawn his gaze the first time the man had walked into his store. Hot damn.
“I . . .” Mark briefly closed his eyes and flicked his tongue across his lips. Then he fixed his gaze on one corner of the ceiling as if it was the most compelling spot in the universe. “I can’t concentrate on anything else when I look at you.”
“I want to touch you, to learn your body, to find out what you like.” His throat moved as he swallowed. “In my wishful daydreams—” He threw Jack a glance, but resumed his study of the ceiling when Jack nodded for him to go on. “I’m with someone who’ll let me explore what feels good and how far I can take this. Touching. Maybe . . .” He chewed on his lip. “I know I like to fuck. Can’t stand being fucked. But there’s so much I don’t know, and that I can’t try, unless I’m sure you—” his throat moved again, a thing Jack was by now utterly fascinated with “—won’t suddenly grab me, or really—” he shrugged and finally looked at Jack, a naked, vulnerable look “—do anything we haven’t previously negotiated.” His chin came up at the last two words, daring Jack to, what? Laugh? Hell. Jack couldn’t even imagine the kind of balls it took to be that open and exposed. He wanted to give back every caress Mark had given him today. Question was, could he find a way to do it that didn’t involve touch?
“You slay me in so many ways, my friend,” he murmured. “I don’t know if I can be like the guy in your wishful daydreams, but I want to try. Just . . . touch me, and talk to me, and we’ll take it from there?”
He held his breath for what seemed like a long time. Until Mark said, “Okay.”
Jack grinned. “Now that’s what I call a ringing endorsement.”
Mark’s eyebrows drew together. “No, I didn’t mean— I’m just—”
“I know.” Jack held out his hands, parallel to the floor, so Mark could see the tremor in his fingers. “Me too.”
Mark was silent, and for a heartbeat or three neither of them moved.
It suddenly hit Jack that lube and condoms might be a good idea. “Don’t go anywhere.”
He sprinted out of the room, along the corridor and into the store, where a small selection sat inconspicuously on a lower shelf. He grabbed what he needed and dashed back. Mark hadn’t budged, and didn’t say anything when Jack dropped his loot on the table and sat down, breathing deeply to slow his heart rate. Not that there was much of a chance of that, with Mark watching him intently.
“Touch me,” Jack whispered.
Very slowly, Mark reached out and cupped his cheek, brushed his thumb along the bone under his eye. Then his fingertips followed the line of Jack’s jawbone, and his thumb traced the corner of Jack’s mouth, then his lips. Jack half opened his mouth, and Mark inhaled sharply but didn’t move away. And Jack didn’t lick or kiss the thumb, much as he wanted to. His heartbeat sped up as he waited, and he took a deep breath. Patience.
Mark scooted closer. One knee drawn up on the couch, facing Jack, he started to open the buttons on Jack’s shirt. Again, very slowly. As if he wanted to give Jack every possible opportunity to change his mind and call a stop.
There was nothing Jack wanted to do less. He shifted slightly to give Mark better access, and Mark took it as the encouragement it was meant to be. He opened the rest of the buttons and pushed the shirt off Jack’s shoulders, then tugged the T-shirt out of his waistband. Jack sat up straighter and raised his arms. He was simply following prompts, not initiating any movement.
“Are you cold?” Mark asked when he dropped the T-shirt to the floor.
“No.” It was warm enough in the room, and Jack was breathing as if he’d sprinted up here from the bottom of the road. Nothing had happened, really, and yet this was already the most intense encounter he’d ever had with another man, including the first time he’d had sex.
Mark lined up his fingertips along Jack’s collarbones. Jack swallowed his need to do the same and closed his eyes, felt Mark’s palms cover his pecs, then thumbs brush his nipples. He thought he’d made a sound, but couldn’t be sure. His skin was tight, tight, amplifying every sensation tenfold. A drop of sweat ran from his hairline down his neck like an additional caress.
“You still okay?”
“Yes,” Jack got out between his teeth. He felt Mark’s hesitation and groaned. “For the love of everything that’s holy, don’t stop now.”
Mark pushed him down onto his back, made sure Jack had a pillow under his head, then stretched Jack’s legs out on the couch. Jack was glad he’d left his shoes in the hallway earlier. One less thing demanding his patience.
Warm fingers slipped behind the waistband of his pants, popped the button and pulled down the zipper. Jack held his breath, but Mark only peeled back the edges of his pants. What the . . .? Jack opened his eyes.
Mark was kneeling by the side of the couch, still fully dressed, apparently lost in thought, or the vista of Jack’s belly button.
Just as Jack was going to complain about the interruption, Mark feathered two fingers down Jack’s stomach, from the side of the navel to as far as the pants would let him. Jack’s stomach muscles spasmed in surprise. The touch on the other s
ide was slightly less out of the blue than the first, but still sudden. He understood what Mark had meant by “startling,” but he wasn’t uncomfortable. Tense, expectant, breathless, yes. He wanted to push up into the touch, but he didn’t dare move, didn’t dare do anything that Mark might interpret as “touching back.” Don’t stop.
“Such a perfect treasure trail,” Mark murmured, then followed said treasure trail downward with one finger, across Jack’s briefs until it touched the base of Jack’s cock, which was straining to escape its wedged-sideways position. Sweet Lord, have mercy.
Then Mark stood, and his hands were at Jack’s waist, pulling his pants down. Finally. Jack lifted his ass to make it easier and was summarily relieved of pants, briefs, and socks. He welcomed the cooler air against his heated skin.
Mark sat down by Jack’s knees, facing him, running both hands up Jack’s thighs, threading his fingers through the short hairs there, tracing the line of his groin. Jack curled his fingers into the cushions and held on for dear life. It took all he had not to move into the touch or return it, but it was so worth it. Not just to oblige Mark, but also because it was hot as fuck to watch and feel Mark do as he pleased. He couldn’t get enough of Mark touching him, craved every sensation Mark’s hands left imprinted on his skin, on his memory. And the appreciation in his eyes made Jack’s chest wide and settled around him like an ermine cloak.
Mark caressed his hips and up the sides of his rib cage, then skimmed each nail across his nipples, starting an electric storm under the skin. He ran his hands along Jack’s shoulders, up his neck, into his hairline, the thumbs tracing his jaw, his cheekbones. They were chest to chest now, only Mark’s T-shirt between them. The single lamp on the side table threw Mark’s face into stark relief, shifting it from something familiar to something alien. A stranger. It should have alarmed Jack, but all it did was remind him of the sharp line of Mark’s collarbones and that he wanted to see them.
“Can you take your shirt off?”
For a heartbeat Mark stared at him, and Jack wasn’t sure whether he’d even been heard, but then Mark sat up and pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor. And there they were, the collarbones that could have cut glass, with the deep valleys behind them. He got lost in their lines, barely aware that Mark was unbuckling his belt, until he stood to step out of his shoes and pants and strip his socks off. Then the view got distracting in a whole other way.
Mark’s cock, long and thin and pointing away from his body, ramrod straight. One knee on the couch, Mark bent over him, hesitated a moment, then licked across Jack’s nipple. Jack took a deep breath, watched him consider, what? The taste of his skin? Then Mark went back for more. He started sucking, and there was a hint of teeth involved that drew a hiss from Jack. Mark’s head came up for a quick check, but at Jack’s, “Don’t stop,” he started on the other nipple. Jack caught himself squirming, and concentrated harder on not moving, letting himself sink deep into the sensations spreading across his skin, letting himself get wholly lost in them.
Mark trailed kisses down his chest and across his abdomen, and Jack felt himself straining toward his lips, ready to explode at their touch on his cock.
“Mark.”
Immediately the kisses ceased.
“I’m afraid I’m on a hair trigger, here. Might want to keep that in mind.” His voice sounded strained and slow to his own ears. All his pretense at a Northern accent smoothed away by Mark’s touch.
“Mm-hmm, maybe some other time, then.”
Oh, Lord, yes, please.
Mark nodded toward the condoms and lube Jack had dropped on the table. “Want to try those instead?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Mark reached behind his back and grabbed a pillow. “Give you a bit of a boost.”
Jack wanted to reply with a quip, but no sound came out. Instead, he pulled his knees up and lifted his ass so Mark could slide the pillow under him.
The scratchy embroidery of Mrs. Williams’s pillow against the small of his back made him huff a laugh. Surely not the use Mrs. Williams had intended it for.
Then any thought of pillows, any thought at all, disintegrated under the push of Mark’s hands against the insides of his knees and the slick glide of lubed fingers in his butt crack. The condom pack tearing sent a new flush of goose bumps across his skin. He closed his eyes. He wanted to watch, but he wanted to feel Mark more.
It had been a while, to say the least. He did his best to relax, but he needn’t have worried. Mark took his time and made good use of the lube, pushing, smoothing, kneading, and slicking up Jack’s balls in the process, then finally sliding in, an inch at a time, until Jack was sure he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from pushing back, but he didn’t have any purchase, and could only surrender to the blissful agony of Mark’s rhythm, as slow and sweet as thick honey.
He very nearly came, just from the way Mark moved inside him, the buildup unbearable until he gave up trying to come and let himself be engulfed by the sensual pleasure flooding every nerve in his body.
Mark never sped up, but at some point—minutes or years later, Jack had no idea—closed his hand around Jack’s cock, slick and warm, stroking with that same honey rhythm, building arousal until it crested and wave after wave of relief rolled through him taking with it sight and sound and leaving nothing but rich lassitude.
He didn’t think he’d fallen asleep, but there was a feeling of gathering consciousness, of unmarked time having passed. He opened his eyes to Mark sitting naked on the couch by his feet, a box of Kleenex in one hand, a wad of them in the other, looking somewhat lost.
Jack managed an exhausted grin and pointed toward the hallway. His arm weighed several tons. “First door on the right.”
“Thanks.”
When Mark had left, he sat up and fished for his briefs and T-shirt. Actually his whole body weighed several tons. But, man, they were blissful tons, every one of them.
Mark padded back in after a few minutes, and Jack took his time watching him, the way he moved, the way his skin stretched and his muscles flexed, and yeah, the unobstructed view of his collarbones. He could feel the cat-got-canary grin on his face now and leaned against the couch, lacing his hands behind his neck. “That was easily the best sex I’ve ever had in my life.”
Mark stopped dead. “Truth?”
“God’s honest.”
Mark’s laugh was raw and relieved. “We should repeat it some time, then.”
“We should.” Jack shook his head. “And I thought you didn’t want this. Man, was I ever wrong.”
Mark combed his fingers through his hair. “You’re absolved. I know it’s a bit complicated.” He laughed again as he dove for his clothes. “It certainly doesn’t make for casual hookups.”
Jack stared at his back as he got dressed, tried to unhear that last sentence, but failed.
Mark left soon after, with a fleeting touch to Jack’s cheek that might have been wistful. Or maybe it only appeared like that to Jack. Mark certainly seemed unaware of the bomb he’d dropped into Jack’s world.
He cleaned up a bit once he was alone, threw the condom wrapper out, fluffed the pillows, stashed the lube in his bedroom, then sat on the mattress and stared into space, listening to the echoes in his brain. “It certainly doesn’t make for casual hookups.” No casual hookups. Not casual. Rubbing his hands across his face didn’t chase the words away. If Mark didn’t do casual, Jack was screwed, or rather he wasn’t, or only once anyway. He shook his head to stop the babbling in his brain, got up to brush his teeth, contemplated a shower, but decided he was too tired.
He knew he wouldn’t sleep, but slipped under the covers regardless, then lay on his back and stared at the reflection of the streetlights on the ceiling.
He should have seen it coming, of course. If he’d had a moment to reflect he would have known that their encounter tonight was anything but casual, but he’d been blown away by needs, wants, and emotions—his and Mark’s. The way
Mark made himself vulnerable . . . He didn’t deserve lies. Or secrets. If it had been about Jack alone, he would have told all and never looked back, but it wasn’t.
What he should do was break it off right now. Completely. Because this whole keeping-it-casual thing was just him trying to rationalize staying close to Mark. Was it really any more defensible to live a lie if their relationship was strictly friends only, or friends with benefits as it were? He knew the answer to that. And yet, Mark made him second-guess his decisions, and though he’d make them again every time, he wished he didn’t have to. Futile, dangerous thoughts and wishes that only made things worse and harder to bear than they already were.
He hadn’t slept well since Mawmaw died. He’d gotten used to the tiredness that had settled in his bones over the years, and most days managed to shrug it off. But tonight it lay like a lead weight on his body until he could barely breathe He missed his sax more fiercely than ever, missed the wail of sad, slow blues that would have pulled the heavy from his veins like a relief valve with every note blown.
“The world is full of sad things, Jack,” Mawmaw would say when he was small. “No use adding to them by making ourselves sad.” She’d also taught him that happiness came when one pretended to be happy. She’d been right more often than not as far as he was concerned. God knew she’d had a lot of practice shrugging off the sad things. She’d never talked about her marriage, except to say once that it had been easier since his grandfather’s stroke. Jack knew she’d been married young, though, and suspected she hadn’t had a lot of say in the matter. Grandfather’s stroke had happened before Jack had been born, and he’d only known the old man in his armchair, dreaming of days a couple of hundred years in the past, when the family had been a big name in Louisiana, until a child born the wrong color had made them Anglicize their name and move east. The Louvelles of New Orleans had become the Lovells of not-quite Savannah. So the whole changing-the-name and moving-a-state-or-two-over was based in family traditions. One state hadn’t been enough for Jack’s peace of mind, though. He’d made his way north and west, with his sister and for her sake, until he’d run out of country.