The Tinder Stories

by Tory Temple

His jeans were still on, so Chris popped the button-fly and wriggled out of them while trying to reach for the lube in the nightstand drawer. He settled back down again and coated two fingers with the slick. One thing Chris had definitely learned to appreciate about Morgan was his preference for the higher-end brand of lubricant.

  Chris ignored his cock for the moment and reached down between his legs. He circled his hole with wet fingers and felt himself clench involuntarily. His dick twitched on his belly, and Chris teased himself that way for a while, just circling and rubbing. There was time to draw it out; no one was going to tell him what to do or to hurry up, so Chris savored the feeling.

  He pushed in one finger, sliding it all the way to the third knuckle and stretching himself a little before adding a second one. With two fingers inside himself, Chris reached for his prostate and pressed lightly. He still hadn’t come near his cock, and it was starting to leak onto his belly.

  When there was a small, sticky pool of fluid on his stomach, Chris finally withdrew his hand and took his prick in a gentle hold. A shudder coursed through him, and his eyes fluttered closed as he touched himself with light fingers. He fondled his balls with his other hand and squeezed every now and again.

  Chris did that for as long as he could stand before gripping himself more firmly and taking a nice, long stroke. His hips came up off the bed a little, and his legs spread even more. God, he really loved jerking off. He worked his other hand back down between his legs and circled his hole while he tugged hard on his cock. His stomach muscles clenched, and Chris thought perhaps he wasn’t going to last quite as long as he’d thought.

  He slipped a finger back inside his body, and the hand on his prick sped up. There was a lick of flame right at the base of his spine and Chris fed it with harder, faster strokes. One of his feet slid and slipped against the sheet, and the slick sounds of hand on flesh mixed with Chris’s light panting.

  Two strokes, then three, and Chris was coming with gritted teeth and a soft grunt. His come was warm and sticky as it flowed over his fingers and down between his legs. Chris knew it was getting on the sheets, probably mixed with the lube, but he’d strip the bed before Morgan got home. Right now, Chris just wanted to lie there limply.

  He stayed there for a while, long enough for his eyes to become heavy again, but Chris knew if he fell back to sleep, he’d be up all night. With a tired sigh, he struggled to sit up and then swung his legs out of bed. His sweats were on the chair, and he left his T-shirt on the floor while he tugged the sheets off the mattress.

  A cool shower improved his mood and cleared his head.

  The sheets went into the wash, and bread went into the toaster oven. Chris ate a bowl of cereal while standing at the counter, ignoring the tiny drops of water that were dripping from the ends of his hair onto his bare shoulders. Time for a trim. He was off the next day too, so maybe then.

  The rest of the day was spent tinkering on his bike. His black Superhawk was in just as good a shape as it’d been on the day he’d bought it. The chrome gleamed and the paint remained unscratched, although the leather on the seat was looking a bit worn. Chris figured that was a testament to how much he rode her, and anyway, seats were easily replaceable.

  He wanted to ride, but by the time Chris had finished puttering around, dusk was falling. Morgan was likely due home within the hour. What had Tucker’s advice been? To just let shit go, right? Chris sighed and dragged the cover back over his bike. Okay. He’d try.

  He had marinated tri-tip going on the grill when Chris heard the front door open. He checked the twice-baked potatoes in the oven and waited in the kitchen to see if Morgan would make an appearance.

  “You’re cooking?” Morgan’s voice was curious behind him.

  Chris nodded and closed the oven. He turned and leaned against the counter, studying his partner. Morgan was as neat and starched as he’d been when Chris had left the day before. “Yeah. Hungry?”

  Morgan’s nod was cautious. “Did you poison it?”

  “Yes.” Chris could feel the corner of his mouth turn up. “Yours has arsenic. You won’t taste it.”

  “All right,” Morgan said, and sat at the table. “Just so I know.”

  Their dinner was quiet but not uncomfortable. Morgan ate his full plate and glanced toward the counter for more, so Chris got up and gave him some. Morgan finished his seconds and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Thank you.”

  “Welcome. I made dessert.”

  Morgan arched a brow. “Why, Mr. Matthews. I haven’t known you to be this domestic in months.”

  “It’s just brownies. That marble kind you like, with ice cream.” He began dishing it out, making sure to give Morgan the chewy center piece.

  Morgan ate his dessert with no further comment. When he was finished, he rose from the table and began doing the dishes, a chore Chris knew he didn’t like.

  “I can get those.” Chris licked his spoon and brought over his empty bowl. “Or stack them and let them soak. I’ll do them in the morning.”

  Morgan kept washing and didn’t answer, so Chris shrugged and wandered out to their small living room. He turned on the television and began scrolling through his list of recorded shows, looking for the motorcycle race he’d missed while working the day before.

  The sounds of dishes and silverware clinking stopped. The light in the kitchen went off, but Morgan didn’t immediately appear. Chris thought for a minute that Morgan had gone to the bedroom to work and wondered if his whole peace offering of supper was a waste, but then Morgan came in, dressed in soft, paint-splattered jeans and an old T-shirt.

  He sat next to Chris on the couch, close enough for their thighs to touch. Chris liked the warmth he could feel through the worn denim. “Did you watch this yet?” Chris indicated the race with the remote control.

  “Just the beginning.” Morgan settled against Chris, heavy and warm and smelling slightly of his favored aftershave.

  Chris knew Morgan had waited to watch the end of the race with him. He accepted that for what it was and leaned back, watching the racers and wishing not for the first time that he could experience that speed and thrill just once.

  Regular, everyday riding wasn’t the same as racing, although Chris loved it more than anything else on the planet. Slipping his helmet down, tugging on gloves, feeling his bike rumble like a giant cat between his legs. And there definitely were places where he put her to the speed test, but it still wasn’t the same as watching the riders on television go two hundred miles an hour around the track.

  The desert rides he took with Morgan were pretty good, though. Finding small, paved streets off the main freeway. Heading out to Rosie’s for decent egg-salad sandwiches and more than decent blowjobs in the tiny diner’s restroom. Coming back home together, sweaty and dusty, and having a cold beer on the back patio before taking a shower with each other.

  Chris supposed that was a pretty cool way to spend a day.

  The race lasted for another hour. Chris shut it off after it was finished—irritated that his favorite rider had lost yet again—and nudged Morgan. “Hey. You asleep?”

  Morgan mumbled that he wasn’t, but his heavy weight and soft breathing said otherwise. Chris grinned and tugged him up off the couch.

  “Let’s go. You go to bed earlier and earlier every week. Isn’t that what old people do?” The jibe was gentle and teasing; most of their jokes revolved around their age difference.

  “You can fuck off, Christopher.” Morgan yawned and let Chris lead him to bed. “I’m up every day at six thirty. Plus, I can’t nap on the job like some lazy firemen I know.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

  “Yeah, we’re all lazy and fat. No wonder you don’t like us.” Chris steered him toward the bed and pushed Morgan down on the edge of it. Morgan lay back obediently and fumbled with his fly. The buttons slipped easily out of the stretched-out holes.

  Chris knelt on the floor and pulled at the frayed hem of Morgan’s jeans. They came off with j
ust a tug, and Chris smiled a bit when he noticed the lack of underwear. It wasn’t Morgan’s style to go without briefs except on the rare occasion when he was feeling lazy or tired.

  “Nice,” Chris commented, rising up to stretch out next to Morgan on the bed. He gave Morgan’s soft cock a light caress with his fingertips and then reached for Morgan’s T-shirt.

  When Morgan was naked, he roused himself enough to crawl beneath the covers and reach for Chris. Once Chris had gotten rid of his own clothes, he slipped under the sheet and joined Morgan in the warm space.

  The bedside lamp gave off a low, warm light. Morgan’s eyes held none of their icy gray quality. They softened to a smooth pewter color at times, the little black flecks fading away to blend in with the silver speckles. Chris loved that color the best.

  “I want you,” Morgan whispered. Completely unnecessary—his blunt prick nudging at Chris’s hip said it for him, but Chris liked to hear the words anyway. Sometimes he also thought it might be nice to have “want” replaced by “need,” but he’d learned over the months to read between Morgan’s words.

  “Want you,” Chris whispered back, already reaching for their cocks. “How?”

  “You pick.” Morgan’s eyes fluttered closed, hiding the gray.

  The lube was where he’d left it on the nightstand. Chris took what he needed and coated both of their shafts liberally. Morgan didn’t make a sound except for a small intake of breath.

  “Like this?” Chris asked, although he’d already been given the rare permission to do whatever he wanted. Their cocks felt good together in his hand, the softness of the skin conflicting with the dual hardness.

  “Like that.” Morgan’s eyes stayed closed, and he rocked his hips a little, the only indication that he was impatient.

  Chris stroked them together, using only one hand to hold them while he slipped the other one between Morgan’s legs to rub and fondle his sac. A quiet gasp was Chris’s reward. The man loved his balls played with almost as much as his dick. Morgan showed his appreciation by sliding a hand over Chris’s waist and splaying strong fingers over his ass in order to pull them closer together.

  It wasn’t easy to get a good rhythm going with their bodies pressed up close, but Morgan didn’t seem to care. He rubbed against Chris as much as he could, a tiny furrow between his brows and his eyes squeezed shut.

  Chris did the best he could. Both of them were leaking, so he used that for more lube and breathed in the scent of their sex. Strong and musky and unique to them together. His own come never smelled as good as it did when his and Morgan’s mixed, and Chris had come to appreciate that as a powerful aphrodisiac.

  “Chris.” A soft breath of his name, nothing more, and then Morgan was shuddering and spilling hot fluid over Chris’s hand. “Yes. Chris.”

  He would have waited and tried to ride it out, but the sharp scent rose up and hit Chris all at once. He ground down hard against Morgan’s stomach and his own hand and then he was coming too, more powerful than any hand job he could ever give himself. Chris trembled and buried his face in Morgan’s neck.

  When the mess had cooled and was in danger of becoming sticky, Chris lifted his head. “Don’t tell me you’re asleep again.”

  Morgan snuffled and moved closer into the circle of Chris’s arms. He sighed and made no other sound.

  “You do that on purpose,” Chris chastised softly. “So I’m the one stuck cleaning up.”

  He didn’t mind.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “BUT I left mine at Station Sixteen when I worked overtime two days ago.”

  “How is that my problem, Mr. Matthews? Go and get the damn thing. You’re off today.” Morgan’s voice was harried and rushed over the phone. “I have a class starting in four minutes.”

  Chris glared at Morgan’s laptop on the kitchen table. The guy had the fucking thing password protected all of a sudden—or maybe it had always been like that and Chris never noticed or cared—and Morgan was refusing to give him the password.

  “Station Sixteen is a thirty-minute drive! Why do they even keep that station in Oceanside’s district? It’s all the way over on the south side. Seems to me like they should just go over to Carlsbad or something.”

  Morgan made a frustrated noise into the phone. “Christopher. It’s not my fault you forgot your laptop and your phone at work. Mine has the next month’s schedules and classes and rookie sheets all laid out on it, and I haven’t backed it up. One little accidental deletion and I’ve got six captains giving me shit for fucking up their crews’ classes.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Morgan! I won’t screw up your precious schedules. I know how to use a fucking computer. All I want to do is check my email to see why the new helmet I ordered isn’t here yet. The package delivery sucks.” Chris poked at Morgan’s laptop again but had no success, password-wise. “What’s the password? ‘Chris has a big dick’?”

  “Close. Substitute ‘is’ for ‘has’ and you’ve got it. I have to go. I’ll be home early.” Morgan disconnected and Chris would bet a large sum of money that he turned his phone off too.

  Chris glared at the phone and threw the cordless down on the table. He slammed down the lid of Morgan’s computer and went to find his keys. After that argument, he needed a drive or a ride.

  Ride won out over drive, so Chris’s truck remained in the driveway as he pulled out on his motorcycle. Hopefully the trip to Station Sixteen and back would clear his head and remind him that Morgan didn’t mean to sound like Chris couldn’t handle using Morgan’s laptop without fucking something up. It had just come out that way accidentally.

  Sure. Chris couldn’t contain an eye roll.

  He pulled up to the fire station’s driveway and punched in the access code to the gate. It rolled open and he drove around to the garage bay where the engines sat, gleaming and proud in the late-morning sunlight.

  A few guys lifted their hands in greeting as he made his way through the station house to the small office space in the back. His laptop was there where he’d left it, so Chris gathered it up, mouse and all, and packed it carefully into his backpack.

  He stopped in the kitchen on his way out and chatted with the crew for a while, enjoying the company and the fresh banana bread one of the neighbors had baked for the station. There was talk of the new class that had just graduated the academy along with the chiefs who were retiring and the guys who were up to take their places.

  Chatting and snacking turned into chatting and lunch, and then the engine got a call for a medical aid that Chris decided to ride along for. It turned out to be a stroke victim, so by the time they got back to the station, it was nearing three o’clock. He meant to leave after that, but it turned out that Sixteen’s crew had gotten a Wii. Since Chris’s own station only had an Xbox that was a few years old, naturally he needed to try the thing out.

  When Julian, the crew’s captain, asked Chris if he was staying for dinner, Chris checked his watch in surprise.

  “Oh, shit. Five o’clock? Nah, I gotta go.” He scrambled up out of the recliner where he’d been watching Adam play a crappy game of Guitar Hero.

  Morgan’s car was already in the driveway when Chris got home, which made him blink. Morgan never made it home before six, and it was usually closer to seven.

  He shouldered his backpack and headed in through the garage door after covering his bike. “Hey,” he called, earlier irritation forgotten. The ride and the company had done him good.

  Morgan sat at the kitchen table, paperwork surrounding him. He didn’t glance up when Chris entered the kitchen. “What time is it?”

  “Um.” Chris looked over at the microwave. “Quarter to six. You’re home early.”

  “I said I’d be.” Morgan did look up then, familiar eyebrow arched.

  “You did?” Chris couldn’t remember.

  “On the phone. When you were begging me for my password instead of just getting your ass over to Sixteen’s for your own laptop.”

  “Oh.” Chris
paused, thinking. “I guess I was too annoyed to hear that part.” He offered a benign smile and poured himself a glass of juice. “What the hell was that all about anyway? I’ve used your laptop before.”

  Morgan gave an irritated sigh. “I told you. I had documents and spreadsheets all over it that I hadn’t saved or backed up. One wrong move and ten hours’ worth of work would be gone.”

  Chris drained his glass and wished there’d been whiskey in it. “You could have just told me what to save and I’d have done it for you.”

  “I wasn’t sure exactly what was on the desktop. Look, it’s not a big deal. I’ll let you use it next time, all right?” Morgan bowed his head again and went back to work.

  Chris looked at the back of Morgan’s head. There were a few more silver strands than there’d been six months ago. “Sure, Morgan,” he said quietly. “Whatever.”

  Usually, Morgan ignored what he deemed “passive-aggressive conversation.” This time, however, he turned in his chair and pinned Chris with a look. “You’re mad because I wouldn’t let you use my computer? Seriously?”

  “No.” Chris remained quiet, turning his juice glass over and over in his hands. “I don’t care about your computer. I care that you treated me like I was a kid who might make a stupid mistake. I mean, come on, Morgan. Like I don’t know how to save a fucking document on a laptop?”

  “Christopher.” Now Morgan was using his “try and see reason” voice, which Chris hated. “I never said any of those things. I know you know how to use a laptop. I know you could have saved it for me. I just wasn’t sure what was on there, like I said. I’m finished explaining myself.” He turned back to his work.

  What was it Tucker had said? Try letting things go? Okay, Chris would try. He didn’t know what good it would do, but he’d give it a chance.

  “Okay,” Chris said quietly, turning to the fridge again to see if they had any ingredients for dinner. “You’re right. It’s fine.”

  He could tell Morgan lifted his head and turned to look at Chris by the soft sound of clothing rustling, but Chris kept his eyes trained on the contents of the refrigerator.