by Lanyon, Josh
“You do like that,” he whispered, his mouth tugging into another of those sexy little smiles.
“I like it when you lick them too,” I whispered, tugging him closer, smoothing my hands over the hard flesh of his back and shoulders. Hard muscle and soft skin — the musculature of a normal healthy adult man, not a movie star, not an iron man. Our naked bodies rubbed against each other, starting to find that rhythm, my own cock rock hard and requiring attention, jutting up, nestling against his.
Ross groaned, and his mouth drifted down my throat and over my shoulder, stopping to lick and kiss, to bite and linger. I groaned and my throat protested squeakily, and he kissed me there too, tenderly.
“Thank God,” he said. “Thank God, I didn’t…”
I stopped that with more kisses.
“I could make you happy,” I told him. “I’d do everything in my power to make you happy.”
He looked up, surprised. “You do make me happy.”
“Sometimes.”
He bent his head; his tongue lapped across one nipple, drawing it firm and upright instantly. I sucked in a sharp breath. Moaned. He liked that. I felt his smile as his mouth ghosted across my chest. I moaned again, and soon the rasp of his tongue wet my other nipple. I pushed against him, loving that feel, loving that lave of tongue on teat. My heart was pounding dizzily in my chest. I worked my hand down through the fissures between our bodies, slipping past his groin, cupping his balls in my palm.
He grunted, closed his eyes briefly. I caressed him languidly.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, something to have and to hold from this day forward. I got out, “Will you fuck me? I need it. Need to feel like I belong to you.”
He bit his lip. “I don’t know if I can walk.”
I chuckled, squeezed his balls, lightly.
“Hold on,” he jerked out.
I did, stroking myself leisurely until he was back. He knelt over me, his cock long and thick and beautiful as it rose out of the dark nest of his groin. He rested his hand against my cheek.
“You’re beautiful, Adam.”
“So are you.”
I started to get up, but he pushed me back, smiling. I looked my inquiry and then whimpered as he knelt and took the head of my shaft into his mouth. Oh my God how I loved this. Was there anyone who didn’t? But especially I loved it from Ross. His elegant, clever mouth doing those unspeakably erotic things to me: his wide and warm and wet hole for me to bury myself in. I began to jerk my hips in response to that slow slide. Sensation shivered through me, stripping my thoughts away, and the trembling started.
You lovely, lovely boy, Ross said, without saying a word. His tongue and lips said precious, loving things instead.
I arched my back, crying out.
He began to suck hard. I groped for him — needing something to ground me with pleasure taking me that high. My fingers dug into Ross’s broad shoulders, watching through slitted eyes, watching how beautiful he was with his mouth wrapped around my dick. I wanted to tell him so, but the sounds coming out of me were not particularly intelligent. An electrical buzz seemed to crackle up my spine, bright lights flared behind my eyelids, I wondered if I might just short circuit entirely in a kind of sensory overload.
Ross let me feel his teeth and I whimpered, and then he was sucking again so very softly, sweetly. He varied the pressure, sucking me hard and long. My balls drew tight and I began to come in hot, wet spurts, crying out his name.
And Ross swallowed it. I felt tears start in my eyes, but I blinked them back. It was not like he had never done that before, it just…meant more tonight. He swallowed my cum and licked the head of my cock clean, while I lay there panting and trying not to embarrass myself.
When I finally lifted my lashes Ross was smiling. He bent his head to mine. His mouth brushed my mouth and I tasted myself on him — salty and sort of sweet.
He said, “You’ve gambled everything, haven’t you? What are you hoping for?”
I answered with a question of my own. “Did you think I might be here when you decided to come to the cabin?”
A strange expression crossed his face. “It went through my mind. I…didn’t think you really would. I didn’t think you’d have the nerve.”
It was hard to ask, but I made myself. “Did you…hope I would be here?”
He seemed to look inside himself. “I think I did.” He added satirically, “But not necessarily for the reason you hope.”
“But you did want me?”
“I always want you. That doesn’t mean…”
“What?”
And he said, “It’s easy to be brave when you’re young.”
“No, it’s not.”
Maybe he read something in my face because he seemed to draw on something within himself. “No. It’s not always,” he agreed. “And you want me to be as brave as you, don’t you? Idealistic youth expects no less.”
I nodded. “There is recompense, though.” I slipped from the sofa and got on my hands and knees on the rug before the fireplace. I glanced back and he was already settling on his knees behind me.
“Recompense.” He sounded amused. “That’s a good old-fashioned word.” I heard the unlovely sound of something squirting, followed by the delicate scent of oranges and honey.
“Orange blossom?” I suggested.
“Dear God,” he said, and his laugh had a choky sound. Still, his eyes were smoky with desire as his thighs brushed mine, and his finger pushed against my body.
Always so cautious and careful with this, although we both knew I had three times his experience. One finger insinuating a long, slender length through that tiny, puckered mouth, soothing with oil and honeyed oranges, then two slick fingers.
“I love this part,” I admitted, pushing back against his hand.
He pushed the third finger in. Always, always three fingers with Ross. Such a careful, circumspect man. I liked the little rituals. I reached out my hand and he squirted oil on my fingers, and I smeared the oil the full length of my cock, stroking myself, enjoying the pull while his silky fingers slid in and out, knowing exactly where and how to touch.
“Now,” I managed. “Please.”
“You do have nice manners,” he admitted. “Usually.”
He withdrew his fingers, positioning himself at the entrance of my body, nudging slowly, slowly inside. He pushed smoothly in past the ring of muscle, joining us, wedding us. I drew back on my knees, resting against Ross’s broad chest and belly. I turned and kissed the side of his throat. He stroked his hand slowly down the length of my torso, stroking my belly.
I shifted in his lap, Ross’s hips pushing against me. His voice was warm against my ear, “I’ll give you this much, Adam. I do love you. Nothing changes that. Nothing could.”
Tears blinded me for an instant as we rocked together in gentle, lullaby motion, that seesaw of give and take, the balancing act…and that was love, right? That was marriage? For richer for poorer, for better for worse, in sickness and in health, push pull, an irresistible force meeting an immovable object…and somehow finding a way to make it work?
The heat built like a fever, like joy…
Ross’s hand stroked my hip as he steadied into that rhythm, and then faster and sweeter, and I thrust back at him trying to take him deeper, further, gasping with each hard stroke, shivering with the sweetness of it, the cycle, the circle, the beginning and the end of us that was hopefully just another beginning.
I pressed my back and spine against Ross and his fingers laced within mine across my chest, and then he surged up into me and held very still and emptied out all the heat and hunger and heartache.
Then, another couple of tight jerks, and he was slumping forward and taking me with him in a heavy, boneless sprawl on the soft fur of the carpet.
We lay there panting for a long time, unmoving. Ross lifted my hand to his lips and kissed the palm.
Wh
en his cock finally slipped from my body, he rolled off me, and the loss felt too familiar — like it could get to be a habit. But he put his arm around me, pulling me close, and we lay for a time on the rug. The rain beat on the roof in soothing rhythm, and the fire crackled in counterpoint, and our breathing slowed and steadied and evened out.
After a time he said, “And you think love is enough?”
“Sex helps.” He didn’t laugh and I said, “I think love is the point. Because anything else is just a business contract.”
He said wearily, “I had my life all planned out.”
“I know.”
“You’re not a very good actor,” he said. “I’ve known from the first that you were in love with me.”
“You’re not a very good actor, either,” I said.
The firelight moved across the ceiling beams in lazy, flickering shadow.
He said, “There’s a justice of the peace in Greensboro.”
“Is there?”
He turned his head and pressed his face into my hair. I felt his lips move against my forehead as he said, “Do you have any idea of what I should do with an unused marriage license?”
“I do,” I said.
In Sunshine or In Shadow
In Sunshine or In Shadow
This is probably one of my personal favorite short stories. I remember I wrote it in a day. I’d been to Ireland the year before, and the place that stayed with me the most was an island in the west called Inishbofin or Island of the White Cow.
“It’s a little awkward,” Keiran said, and his gaze — a green that was almost gray — dropped suddenly to the little bowl of peanuts on the table between them. His blond eyebrows knitted together in a little scowl; very important to select exactly the right peanut.
Rick’s mouth quirked indulgently. They’d been partnered in Homicide for nearly five years, and he could be forgiven for thinking he knew Keir pretty well by now. One of the things he knew was that Keir preferred whole peanuts; he had an annoying habit of cherry-picking the perfect peanuts out of any dish. Another thing Rick knew was that Keir had a tendency to over-think things. Not in the field, fortunately. Nothing wrong with Keir’s instincts or reflexes, but get three beers in him and he started brooding, and next thing you knew, he was spouting stuff from some half-forgotten philosophy course he’d taken in college.
Five years was a long time. Rick knew plenty of marriages that hadn’t lasted five years.
“So?” he raised his mug, swallowed, watching Keir over the rim.
Keir’s mouth curled derisively, and he picked out a peanut and tossed it in his mouth, crunching irritably, like he’d caught the peanut in a moving violation.
“It’s just that I’ve been thinking…”
“I warned you about that.”
Keir’s smile was mostly perfunctory twitch.
Rick drained his mug and rose. “Want another?” It was Friday night. After two brutal weeks, they finally had a weekend off, and they were on home turf — a cop bar in Van Nuys. Decent selection on tap, plenty of Stones on the jukebox, and the knowledge they could let down their guard because pretty much everyone in the place was law enforcement or ex-law enforcement. Home sweet home.
Keir was staring up at Rick with a strange, disconcerted expression. He shook his head, and Rick moved to the bar. The memory of Keir’s expression stayed with him — like an irritating finger tapping his shoulder.
At the bar he ordered two Harps, chatted with Bill Suzuki, also from Homicide, and unobtrusively watched his partner.
“Good going with the collar on the Martinez case,” Suzuki congratulated.
“Yeah. It’s a pleasure putting that scumball, Olmos, behind bars.”
“What’s eating Quinn?”
“Nothing.” Rick said it curtly, discouraging further discussion on the topic of his partner. He couldn’t help glancing Keir’s way again.
Keir was staring at nothing and chewing his bottom lip, a sure sign he was edgy. What now for chrissake? It had been a good week. For once the bad guys were not swaggering away untouched, and tomorrow Keir was starting two weeks of well-deserved vacation. So what was there to bug him? Rick sighed inwardly. He was undoubtedly going to hear all about it when he got back to the table.
If anyone should be feeling out of sorts it was him. This was the first vacation they’d taken apart in…three years. Keir had just announced it the previous week — right out of the blue. No warning, no discussion. Not that he had to talk his vacation plans over with Rick, but…they were best friends in addition to partners, and they usually did spend a portion of their off-time together — being the only two gay cops in Homicide gave them a natural bond.
He collected the sweating bottles and carried them back to the table, hooking the chair with his foot and sitting down. Keir jumped as though he’d been miles away, and Rick studied him before turning his attention to topping off Keir’s half-empty mug.
“So you’ve been thinking,” he prompted.
Keir stared at him blankly before registering Rick’s reference to earlier. His expression changed — Rick couldn’t read it at all, and that gave him an uneasy feeling. What the hell was going on?
Now that he thought about it, Keir had been acting weird for a couple of weeks. Since the Martinez case had been dropped in their laps. No wonder. Nobody enjoyed it when a kid was the victim. Even if the kid was a gang banger. Suspected gang banger. Gang bangers had parents too. Well, one usually. Some overworked, out-of-touch woman — but in this case, a nice woman. A woman who loved her kids even if she couldn’t control them, didn’t begin to understand them — these young, tough, tattooed strangers who lived in her house.
No. The trouble had started before that. Before the Martinez case. Keir had been short-tempered, distant, absent-minded — not at all like himself for nearly a month now. And then this sudden vacation.
Rick asked abruptly, “You okay, Quinn? You’re not sick or something, are you?”
“Me? I’m fine.”
The tone was reassuring enough, but now that Rick examined his partner, he wondered. Keir looked tired. More tired than a Friday night warranted. And he’d lost weight recently — even for his normal wiry self. There were shadows under his eyes and it seemed a long time since that full mouth had smiled.
Full mouth. Yeah. Keir had a very nice mouth. He tasted nice too. Funny how people had their own taste…
And no way was Rick letting his thoughts stray in that direction. They’d already tried that and it had been a mutually agreed upon disaster.
“You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”
Keir reached for his mug and said, “Right.”
Rick picked his own mug up, tilted it, pouring beer against the side of the glass. He nearly dropped the bottle as Keir said, “I’m resigning.”
“You’re…”
“Resigning. I have resigned, in fact.”
“Why?”
Keir shook his head — like it was too complicated to explain?
Rick gave him an easier question. “When?”
“Last week.”
“Last week? And you’re telling me now?”
“I told Captain Friedman I’d think it over for a week.”
Rick stared at him, then gave a disbelieving laugh. “You’re kidding me, right?”
Stone-faced, Keir stared right back.
“What the hell’s going on? You can’t quit.”
Unbelievably, Keir laughed. “Wanna bet?”
“You resign and then you go on vacation?” It felt safer to give way to indignation on this score; Rick was still trying to assimilate the other.
“Hey, I’m entitled to my vacation.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“I’m sorry —”
“Sorry? You didn’t even discuss it with me.”
Keir was giving him a strange look. “It’s my decision to make.”
“You’re going to pretend this doesn’t affect me? We’re partners.
We were.” Rick kept his voice low although — shock wearing off — he was getting angry.
“I know that. I’m telling you now. Before anyone else —”
“Gee, thanks! I feel better already.”
Keir sighed. “Listen, I know you’re pissed. When I get back I still have two weeks. We can talk then.”
“Talk? I don’t want to talk.” I want you to un-resign, that’s what Rick meant. But Keir was looking at him as though this just confirmed a much-contested point. What point? What the hell was going on?
“Then we won’t talk,” Keir said evenly. “Either way, I don’t give a shit.”
What. The. Hell?
And now Rick was angry. Hurt and angry. “What does that mean, you don’t give a shit? What am I supposed to make of that? What the fuck’s going on with you?”
But Keir glanced at his watch and was already on his feet. “I’ve got a plane to catch. I’ll see you in two weeks.”
He turned away, and Rick rose too and grabbed his arm. Keir stood perfectly still. They were the same height, but Rick was broader, bigger. He was by nature cool and low key, relying on his build and obvious strength to get his point across to perps. Keir relied on the force of his personality — which was considerable. Especially after five years of it.
Rick let go of Keir’s arm. He said, surprised to hear how aggrieved he sounded, “A plane to where? Where the hell are you flying off to?”
“Ireland,” Keir replied.
* * * * *
Rick was very drunk when he phoned.
He’d stayed at O’Mally’s after Keir left, joining the crowd at the bar. After closing the place down, he’d had a couple more when he got home. Not the brightest idea he’d had recently. The bed didn’t levitate, but it was spinning nicely, and — proof of how drunk he was — Rick decided the best way to get his mind off how really awful he was going to feel in the a.m., was to call Keir.
The phone rang once.
“Yep?” Keir sounded perfectly alert for three-thirty — like he was expecting Rick’s call. Or maybe he was still packing for this mystery trip to Ireland. Maybe he was on his way out the door.