Summer Lessons

by Amy Lane

Mason wished he had words to explain, to tell Terry what he was afraid of, but doing that would be like begging him to stay. Which was the one thing Mason couldn’t do.

  Instead he just held on tight, kissing the back of Terry’s neck, his shoulders, his ears, trying to show without words all of the reasons Terry had to come back to him.

  “Mason?” Terry asked, sounding sleepy and sated and maybe a little giggly from all the kissing.

  “Yeah?”

  “If I asked nice, would you come apartment hunting with me?”

  “You could ask mean and I’d still do it.”

  Terry’s chuckle calmed him, settled him somehow. “I’ll ask nice ’cause that way gets me blow jobs.”

  Mason’s turn to chuckle. “Just being you gets you blow jobs.”

  He rolled in Mason’s arms, nestling against Mason’s shoulders. “I only want them from you,” he said quietly. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

  Mason closed his eyes, grateful. It wasn’t much—but Terry was nothing if not honest.

  It was everything.

  “MRS. BRADFORD?” Mason asked Monday morning.

  “Yes, Mr. Hayes?”

  “Do you ever think of wearing something, I don’t know, spring themed?”

  “You mean not so blessedly hot?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Bradford. That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Mrs. Bradford cocked her head thoughtfully. “You wear a suit to work every day, Mr. Hayes. The other executives come in frequently in slacks and polos. Why is that?”

  Mason grimaced—and then recounted the unfortunate story of the casual Fridays that weren’t.

  Mrs. Bradford raised her eyebrows. “Sounds like your boss was a real prick, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “Well, that’s what my ex-boyfriend thought, Mrs. Bradford—which is why Ira spent two years sitting on him.”

  “D’oh!”

  The sound was so at odds with her appearance. “So I’ll make you a deal,” he said when he was done laughing.

  “What would that be, sir?”

  “If you wear something besides heat-sucking navy, I will wear slacks and polos, and we might survive the summer.”

  A sweet smile softened her stern features. “I would like that very much, sir. Is there anything else?”

  “Uh, yes, but it’s not exactly work related.”

  She blinked slowly. “You’re too gay to hit on me, Mr. Hayes—my curiosity is piqued.”

  “My friend, the one who comes on Friday—”

  “Mr. Jefferson?” She inclined her head slightly, and Mason knew he fooled no one.

  “Yeah. Terry. He, uh, is moving out of the house with his mother and is looking for an apartment. I was sort of hoping for something in Fair Oaks, but he doesn’t… his job isn’t… uh—”

  “He doesn’t make an executive’s salary?” she supplied delicately.

  “No.”

  “Do you know what salary he does make?” Her posture indicated no judgment whatsoever.

  “I know what he does for a living,” Mason said. “Does that help?”

  “It does indeed. You give me a description and maybe a company, and I can come up with some apartments in his price range.”

  Mason smiled at her with nothing but the most profound gratitude. “Mrs. Bradford, is there some sort of reward I can put you up for?”

  “Flowers on Secretaries’ Day are nice,” she said with a smile.

  “Isn’t that Administrative Assistants’—”

  “I just want some flowers, sir. My husband doesn’t do flowers. Is it so much to ask?”

  Oh.

  “You shall have flowers every week, Mrs. Bradford.”

  She looked at him limpidly. “You, sir, are the best boss in the world.”

  And with that, she turned on her heel and set about her day.

  By the time they met again at lunch, she had a list of apartments in Terry’s price range. And Mason had a standing order at the local florist’s shop—one moderately priced bouquet delivered to Mrs. Bradford’s desk every Monday.

  She was more than worth it.

  “WHY AM I taking Thursday off again?” Terry asked Thursday morning when Mason let him into the kitchen.

  “Because we’re a week from the end of the month. If we find an apartment today, we can pack this Sunday and move after the soccer game the Saturday after.” Mason had done his homework.

  “That’s smart,” Terry said, coming up behind Mason as he poured two coffees in aluminum mugs. He wrapped his arms around Mason’s waist and rubbed his cheek against his back between his shoulder blades. Mason took a moment to close his eyes and savor.

  “I had help,” he conceded. “I asked Skip and Carpenter.”

  “Mm….” Without ceremony, Terry pulled his cargo shorts down and bent low enough to kiss a line up Mason’s spine.

  “Nungh!” Very carefully, Mason put the carafe in the coffeemaker and the mug in his hand down on the counter. “Wha—”

  “Is Dane here?” Terry asked.

  “No, thank God,” Mason breathed. Terry’s hands were busy kneading his ass and parting his cheeks.

  “Good. Bend over.” Terry put Mason’s hands on the counter and nudged at his ankles until Mason kicked off his loafers and his shorts so he could spread his feet.

  Mason had never felt so exposed, and for a moment, he wanted to hide. But Terry was tracing his tongue on an evil path, and Mason wanted him to find ground zero more than he wanted to save his own dignity.

  Ahhh…. Oh yeah. Terry was good at this, and when he slid his hand between Mason’s legs to fondle his balls and stroke his cock, his tongue felt even better. And even though this was impromptu and over another sink, Mason’s body shook with yearning.

  Oh man. C’mon, Terry—you’ve got me wet and slack and bent over the counter and….

  The sensation of Terry’s head nudging between his knees pulled him out of the moment. He looked down and Terry was looking up at him, Mason’s cock at his mouth.

  He winked and opened his mouth, and Mason almost sobbed.

  And then he saw the bottle of olive oil peeking out from the cupboard where they kept the coffee.

  Mason reached up and grabbed it, hands shaking. Oh God—hard and quick and dirty. Terry wasn’t holding back on that blow job.

  A few drops—that’s all he needed—and then he reached back and… ah….

  He moaned, body pulled tight like a piano wire between the two sensations.

  Terry jerked back, mouth leaving Mason’s prick, and Mason almost cried.

  “What’re you doin’?” he asked, voice full of wonder.

  “You want in, go for it!” Mason whined, two fingers inside, thrusting, stretching. The angle was awkward, but he didn’t care. God, it had been a while since he’d done this!

  “You want me to….” Terry’s voice throbbed with arousal, and Mason forced himself to stop with the fingerfucking so he could gaze at him fondly.

  “Please?”

  Terry’s mouth made a round little O, and he reached between Mason’s thighs and grasped his wrist. “Stop,” he ordered.

  Mason glared. “You had better—”

  Terry pulled his cock in for one more good suck, and Mason strained against that implacable hold on his wrist.

  There was no yielding, and he whined, dropping his head to the counter.

  Then that peculiar pressure between his legs again before Terry stood behind him. He pulled gently on Mason’s wrist, and the emptiness that followed had him trembling with need. He held fast, fumbling for a paper towel while Terry fumbled for his own shorts.

  Mason heard them hit the floor just as Terry’s soft-skinned cock prodded his entrance.

  “Nnnnn… please?” Mason whined.

  Terry’s cockhead pushed, and Mason broke into a cold, prickly sweat in anticipation. “I’m afraid I’ll hurt you,” Terry breathed.

  Augh! “Only if you stop.”

  Ah… ah… ah… oooh….
>
  Slowly he sank into Mason’s body, farther and farther, until his pubic hair ground up against the tender skin of Mason’s asscheeks.

  For a moment they breathed while Mason tried desperately not to let his hands slide on the counter.

  “Wow,” Terry whispered. “Mace—you should see this! My cock is all the way in your ass. That’s amazing! That’s—”

  “Fuck me!”

  “Oh yeah.” He pulled back. “Right.” Smack. He thrust his hips hard, and Mason almost wept with relief. “Good?” he asked, stopping again. “I mean, that’s what I’m supposed to do, ri—”

  “Terry! Dammit!”

  “Oh, sorry!” And thrust, oh thank God, and thrust again, and he wasn’t stopping this time, and pull back, throw himself forward, ouch, that was a little hard—

  “Gentler,” Mason breathed, praying that wouldn’t make him stop. It didn’t. Just a little softer, a little slower, and—“Perfect. Keep doing that. Just that. Do that some more. Oh my God keep doing that!”

  And yes! It was exactly right! It was exactly what Mason had been craving through three different relationships and one perfidious waiter!

  Terry didn’t stop, didn’t waver—just kept that perfect, sweet-spot-hitting rhythm that had Mason burying his face in his arms and howling.

  And then: “Mace, I’m gonna—are you gonna? ’Cause I’m gonna—” Oh hell. Mason moved his hand to his cock just as Terry groaned, “Come!” against his back.

  Terry convulsed, his cock pulsing in Mason’s ass, and Mason stroked frantically at himself, chasing that bright-dark light of orgasm. Yes, yes, yes, yes, c’mon, please, oh my God so good so stretched so full and hot and wet, running down my thigh and—

  “Yes!” Oh yes. Climax took over his body, his ass clenched, his cock spurted, the sky exploded, the heavens wept, and oh my holy God, Mason Hayes had finally gotten topped by the man of his dreams.

  Who was currently collapsed over his back, cock leaking down Mason’s backside, sweating body sticking to Mason’s skin.

  Mason straightened up, groaning a little as his back released. He sighed and stretched and turned to pull Terry into a hot, sweaty, sexed-out hug.

  “That was unexpected,” he said into the sex-scented sunshine.

  “You’re telling me!” Terry panted. “God, that was awesome. I was so scared—I didn’t want to hurt you, but… but it feels good when you do it to me, and I thought… I just wanted to… you know. Give to you.”

  Mason smiled, wishing they could just go nap now. “I want to give you the world,” he confessed. Some of the ebullience faded, and his shoulders slumped. “But first, an apartment.”

  “Can we shower first?” Terry asked hopefully.

  Mason laughed and kissed his sweaty hair. He’d worn it down today, and it hung lank over his eyes. April—already hot.

  “Yeah,” he said. “But first I need to wipe down the cabinets.”

  Terry looked down at the dripping wood paneling. “Ugh. Dude. Yeah.”

  So no nap. No second sex in the shower. And the olive oil stained Mason’s boxers and shorts, just from pulling them on for the walk upstairs. He had to throw them away.

  Sex—as messy as real life.

  But as Mason stood in the shower and soaped Terry’s hair, scrupulously stomping on his libido so they could go out and do what they’d planned, he remembered Terry trying so hard not to hurt him.

  The only way to not get hurt was to keep going.

  Getting an apartment was the next step in the “keep going” part.

  Maybe they really were going somewhere.

  “YOU LIKE it?” Mason asked, pleased. It was their fourth try, and the last apartment on the short list Mrs. Bradford had produced. The first three had been small and decrepit—one had a stairwell that had jumped out and bitten Mason as he’d walked up, and they’d had to stop to bandage up his ankle. (“Always the fuckin’ ankle,” Terry had said sourly.)

  This one was small, but the carpet was new (or newly stretched), and there were ceiling fans in every room. The windows were strategically placed for flow through, so even though it was a top-floor apartment, it could still get rid of the heat, and the kitchen opened into the living room, so even though the whole thing was about the size of Mason’s master suite, it didn’t feel as cramped as the other three.

  It was respectable. A kid’s first apartment after moving out.

  Mason really hated it. With all his soul. He had to keep reminding himself that Terry’s key to seeing the world as a bigger place was paying rent on this much smaller place, but damn, was it hard.

  “So my bed should go under the window,” Terry muttered, and then he grinned. “You could fuck me in my bed for a change.”

  That suddenly, Mason didn’t hate it anymore.

  “Yup,” he said. The place was hot, and they were both sweating, but Mason still moved behind him and kissed his neck. “And we can run around the place naked.”

  Terry laughed at that. “Which’ll take about two minutes.” He turned in Mason’s arms then and frowned. “You won’t mind? Coming here sometimes?”

  Mason nuzzled his temple. “As long as I’m welcome.”

  “I… I mean, it’s not as great as Skip’s place, but Carpenter’s giving me an extra TV and I’m getting Owens’s old couch. We can watch movies.”

  He sounded so hopeful. “Sure.” Mason had a good thought then. “So—what do you want for a moving-in gift? If Carpenter’s giving you a TV and you have a bed and a couch, what can I give you?”

  Terry smiled shyly, obviously pleased. “A… well, only if you have an old one or it’s not too expensive. But I don’t have a coffeemaker yet—or a microwave.” He paused. “Or dishes, or cups. Or shower mats or towels. Or a dresser or….” His grin was wide and happy. “You know, I was all scared about this. I must have thought maybe six times about asking if I could sleep in your guest room or something. But I’m getting all excited. My mother’s cups and glasses and stuff—that shit was ugly.”

  Mason had to nod. There was no denying that Terry’s mother hadn’t given a crap about decorating.

  “But I get to pick my own. That’s gonna be awesome!”

  “I can’t wait,” Mason said, his throat a little tight. “I’m so happy for you!”

  It was hard to say—but he said it with a whole heart. Loving someone was easy, apparently. Letting him go was like swimming naked in eel wire.

  MASON WENT for both the microwave and the coffeemaker. He presented them on Sunday, when he, Skipper, Richie, Carpenter, Dane, Cooper, Menendez, and some guy named Rudy from Terry’s job helped him move.

  Skipper rented a U-Haul, and Mason, Skip, and Richie helped get the stuff out of the house into the truck. They ignored Terry’s mom, and she returned the favor, huddling on the couch and glaring at the men as they trooped up and down with Terry’s furniture.

  “You owe me for that!” she called as they left with each piece. And each time, Terry would remind her that he’d paid up her next four house payments.

  Mason’s stomach clenched at that.

  It was one of the reasons Terry hadn’t moved out on his own before. He’d been saving the money.

  Mason couldn’t think of someone who deserved it less then Terry’s mother did.

  But by midmorning they were set, and they caravanned from Carmichael to Fair Oaks, which all told took about fifteen minutes.

  Of course to Terry, it was like jumping from the earth to the moon. He and Mason were the last ones to leave, Mason’s car jammed with Terry’s scant wardrobe. As Mason got into his car, Terry ran over and kissed him full on the mouth, and pulled back, smiling.

  “What was that for?” Mason asked wonderingly.

  “For being here and being awesome and not telling my mother to piss up a rope.”

  Mason laughed evilly. “That’s only because I didn’t think of it.”

  Those kisses on the cheek were still not getting old. “You’re awesome,” Terry said meaningfully
. “Rudy thinks I’m lucky as shit.”

  “Rudy?” He was tall—taller than Mason or Skipper, even—and thin, with a shock of black hair, pale skin, and green eyes. Mason had grudgingly admitted to Skipper that he was damned beautiful, but there was no guarantee he even played for the boys’ team.

  “Yeah. He’s a nice guy. He and I started talking a couple of weeks ago, which is why he offered to come help. He knew I was excited about it.”

  “He seems nice,” Mason lied. He seemed like a pasty, scrawny boyfriend stealer, but Mason wasn’t going to say that. For one thing, it would be embarrassing if it wasn’t true, but for another?

  Mason had made a show for Julie, but fact was, they weren’t officially boyfriends.

  Or a commitment.

  Or anything with a name.

  And Mason couldn’t put one on him until Terry did it himself.

  “He is. He found out that my soccer captain was gay and wanted to know if the guys were okay with it.” Terry blushed. “I told him I was gay, and he said he was too. It’s like… you know. A friend.”

  Of course. Mason knew how that went. In college he’d hung out with all the gay friends. At his last job, it had been his female coworker, Janice, and a couple of his managers.

  Here, it was Dane and Skip and Carpenter.

  You looked for people—not just sex people, but kind people. Terry had found his own.

  “Well, I’m glad he found you. Maybe he can play on the team.”

  Terry smiled at him like he’d invented friendship. “That would be awesome! ’Cause, you know, now that you’re good on defense, we need more subs. It would be great if we had more than one or two, you know?”

  Mason thought he could play an entire game without a break if it meant Mr. Scrawny Pasty Green Eyes wasn’t there, but then, Mason didn’t get a say, did he?

  “I think that’s an awesome idea. Why don’t you ask Skip?”

  Terry grinned and hopped in his car, and they took off for the jump to the moon.

  By that evening they had everything unpacked and in its place—including the new coffeemaker, microwave, and sheets Mason bought for Terry’s bed. The sheets weren’t fancy—a basic stripe—but they came with a comforter, and Terry got so excited Mason wondered if he’d ever had sheets not from the secondhand store before.