Chocolate and Power Tools II

by M. Rode

  Kyle knows Royal knows he's being watched. You can't sneak anything by him. But it's a game they enjoy, he and Royal, drawing it out to see who'll speak first.

  Royal can linger like this for ages; tonight, seems like he's more in the mood for appreciating Kyle in his turn. His open gaze and the smoking upward curl of his mouth never fail to heat Kyle's blood and make him smile in return. Royal takes his time to look at Kyle, nodding a silent “hello".

  He's about to reply aloud in return when Royal beats him to it. “How'd it go?"

  "Not bad. Better than it has before, and a whole lot easier than I thought it might.” Kyle leans against the doorframe, enjoying the warmth seeping from the room. Teasing Royal, too, the next move in the game.

  Looks like Royal is going to play it easy tonight. He shifts position until his weight's on one hip, facing Kyle, and with the hand not holding his mug, he curls two fingers to beckon him closer. “Get over here, Kyle. Been missin’ you all night."

  And who could resist a siren's call like that? Not Kyle. Pushing off from the door frame, he slides to Royal on his sock feet, collapsing in the overstuffed couch cushions with a sigh of contentment.

  Royal lets Kyle roll with the first rush of bliss that comes of settling in and letting his limbs relax from the day's labors and the night's small tensions. He wraps his arm around Kyle's shoulder and elbows him, a silent signal and request. Kyle's happy to comply, tucking his shaggy head against Royal's chest. Royal tucks his chin against the top of Kyle's head, humming in satisfaction.

  They sit quietly for a space, Kyle watching one pine log burn through until it's a heap of glowing embers underneath the grate. Royal takes occasional sips of his hot toddy, petting Kyle's hair, just letting him be and keeping him close.

  Kyle's come a long way, he knows, and it's in easy moments like these that Kyle understands Royal is letting him know he's still proud after all this time. Especially after Kyle has to dip his toes back in the rarified atmosphere of the life he left to come start a new one with the man he found to love on the wrong side of the tracks.

  Royal jostles him lightly. “Anything to talk about?"

  Kyle smiles into Royal's collarbone. “Not really."

  Royal chuckles and rubs Kyle's arm. “I didn't figure. Here.” He offers Kyle his mug, and the last few swallows of hot toddy inside, watching approvingly as Kyle drinks them down and murmurs his appreciation of the strong liquor mixed with sweet butterscotch. “Better'n champagne, huh?"

  "Lord, yes.” Kyle sighs, tilting the mug for the final drops clinging to its clay sides. Royal makes his toddies strong, full of kick that heats him from the inside out, the little bit he's swallowed enough to inspire playfulness as soon as it's warmed his belly.

  Placing the mug on the floor, Kyle turns his interest to something equally powerful and tasty, namely Royal. Instead of laying his head back where it was, he nuzzles his way up Royal's neck and sucks on the tender patch of skin under Royal's earlobe.

  "Gonna leave a mark on me?” Royal asks, hand coming up to keep Kyle right where he is, letting Kyle know he wouldn't mind a bit. “Right where everyone can see if I tuck my hair behind my ears?"

  "Mmmhmm,” Kyle mumbles, letting go and admiring the rising dark patch. “Love the way you taste."

  Royal snorts fondly. “You are cracked in the head, boy."

  "Are you complaining?” Kyle leaves the rising welt behind and lazily makes his way down Royal's throat, more careful of this tissue-thin skin, stropping his cheek on the stubble under Royal's chin. “'Cause if you are, I could stop..."

  "Don't you dare.” Royal jostles Kyle's head. He exhales, soft and long and contented, relaxing further rather than tensing up.

  For all that, Kyle knows the signs: the twitch in Royal's thigh, confirmed when he caresses the hard muscles through Royal's sweatpants, the slight hitch to his breathing when Kyle trails his fingers higher on Royal's leg, the small growl when Kyle sucks up another mark in the dimple at the base of Royal's neck.

  "You tryin’ to get me all worked up?” Royal covers Kyle's hand with his own, moving it up to palm his dick, half-hard if Kyle's any judge, and on the rise. “If you are, you're doin’ a damn good job."

  "I might just be.” Kyle laps as far down as he can go without opening any of the buttons on Royal's flannel shirt, then pops them loose one at a time because there's no reason in the world he shouldn't. “Don't mind if I do, in fact."

  "Far be it from me to stop you.” Royal sprawls wider, opening himself up better than any box of chocolates on this Valentine's Day, which Kyle thinks he might always remember for better reasons than he'd anticipated. He rumbles his pleasure as Kyle tastes him, undoing each and every button and kissing each new stripe of skin as it's made available, laughing and pushing Kyle's head when Kyle coyly laps circles around his navel. “Yeah, you know how I like it."

  "You up for some more of this, then?” Kyle teases.

  Royal rocks up into his palm, giving Kyle his answer in the hard line of his swollen cock. “All you care to dish out, I can take.” He hums. “However, I could suggest a change in plan."

  "Oh, yeah?” Kyle lifts off, intrigued. “What do you have in mind?"

  "I want to play.” Royal gazes at him, heavy-lidded and lazily hungry, putting Kyle in mind of a sleepy lion. “Help me push the couch back and lay yourself down on the rug, Kyle."

  Kyle shivers. “I can do that,” he replies, turned on by the husk he hears in his own voice. “What're you going to do with me once I'm there?"

  Royal pulls Kyle up and answers him from a position mere millimeters away from Kyle's lips, tantalizing him with a not-quite-kiss on every word. “Three guesses, boy, and the first two don't count."

  Kyle grins. He steals a quick, firm kiss and squeezes Royal's cock, more to get him worked up than to distract him or reassert control, and gladly does what's been asked of him.

  Royal is gentle as he helps Kyle stretch out full-length by the hearth, making him snort and laugh as he plays around with positioning Kyle just so, drawing a gasp from Kyle's lips when he insists on Kyle stretching his arms out behind his head, hands clasped together. “Keep ‘em there,” he directs, gravel-voiced and darkly lit up with appreciation. He trails his forefinger down Kyle's chest, hooking it under the waist of Kyle's best pair of khakis. He comes back up to tug at Kyle's tie, loosening it. “Lord, you are a sight. Here, gimme this."

  Kyle lies back and lets Royal do as he pleases, pulling the tie loose and looping it around his wrists, binding them together. The knot he forms isn't tight enough to stop Kyle from getting free any time he pleases, but that's not the point.

  "I could look at you all night,” Royal breathes. “Got a few better plans in mind, though, so you'll excuse me if I don't."

  "You don't ever have to apologize for that,” Kyle replies, savoring the sight of Royal hovering over him, shirt open over the flat line of his torso and the tight muscles of his belly, and the dark trail of hair leading down under his sweatpants. “Gonna make me wait?"

  "Not on your life.” Royal straddles Kyle, slowly yet efficiently doing away with the buttons of his dress shirt and his cuffs, pushing aside the thin-striped cotton and splaying his hands wide over Kyle's chest. He bends, then, not wasting any time before fastening his lips around Kyle's right nipple, drawing the nub between his teeth and holding it fast for him to lick.

  Kyle hisses, his stomach tightening.

  "You like that, oh, yeah.” Royal moves to the left nipple next, biting and then soothing away the sting. He keeps on in that manner, marking a path of red spots down to Kyle's pants. Oh, and he's caught the fire now, getting clumsy as he draws down Kyle's zipper and mouths over the solid line of Kyle's cock, sucking and licking until the dark cotton of his underwear is soaked clear through and Kyle's bucking up, wanting more of Royal's mouth than just this teasing play.

  "More,” he demands, wishing he could spear his fingers through Royal's hair, blood running hot with the thrill of knowing he
can't. He raises his hips, seeking friction. “Suck me."

  Royal raises his head to fix Kyle with smoldering need in his gaze, licking lips already bee-stung from their work on his cock. Kyle's breath catches, arousal jolting through him. “God, you're gorgeous,” he breathes.

  Royal chortles at him. “And here I was all set to razz you about bein’ one of the last true romantics, but I'd say you've redeemed yourself."

  And with that, he slaps Kyle's hip to get him to lift up, slides his slacks and shorts down double-quick-time, and only teases a few wicked seconds longer with nuzzling into the thick, damp brown thatch of hair around Kyle's cock before sealing his lips over the head and sliding down.

  Royal never once looks away from Kyle, capturing his eyes and keeping him fixed there, focused on the sight of his cock sliding wetly in and out of Royal's amazing mouth.

  Kyle's toes curl, his spine arches, and where they're bound loosely together above his head, his hands twist together in need of something to grab onto and hold.

  Royal watches him, wickedness ripe in his dark eyes, firelight turning him into something less than human and more than temptation incarnate. Pushing his hand inside his sweatpants, he gropes and pumps his own cock, the bulge of hand and cock together driving Kyle crazy.

  "Can't ... gonna...” Kyle gasps, trying to warn Royal.

  No need, really; as always, Royal already knows. He kneads Kyle's hips as he lashes Kyle's cock with his tongue, never once letting up on the suction or stopping his slide up and down. He presses the flesh, encouraging, asking for it.

  Kyle only breaks the eye contact when the rush of orgasm steals his breath, tipping his head back and drawing his mouth open wide in a gasp for sweet, sweet air. He breaks loose of the tie and does take Royal by the hair, holding him still while he thrusts his cock deeper into Royal's mouth. Royal swallows, noisy and messy, drinking him down, shudders racking him as he comes a few heartbeats later.

  Head spinning and lungs working hard for breath, Kyle's dizzy but not so far out of it that he can't drag Royal into a hard hug when Royal flops down by his side, his head on Kyle's chest this time, butterscotch-and-rum-and-come-scented breath tickling Kyle's skin.

  They lie in silence for a space, easy with one another. Kyle closes his eyes, knowing once again that he's happier in this life he's chosen as a working man with a hard-working lover, plain and simple and affectionate, than he ever could have dreamed to be in an ivory tower on the right side of the tracks.

  This is who he is, and the man next to him is who he loves, and it's all better than any storybook's happy ending could ever be.

  Royal nudges Kyle with his chin, words running together as he drowses, “Happy Valentine's Day, babe."

  Kyle kisses the top of Royal's head. “Happy Valentine's Day, love."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  V-Day

  By Kiernan Kelly

  There are only two events that would ever get me to step foot inside the Home Warehouse, the handyman's Mecca, the store that sells everything and anything that can be measured, hammered, drilled, or plugged in.

  One is Armageddon, and the other is Valentine's Day.

  I'd almost rather it be the End of Days.

  Valentine's Day, that holiday celebrating the patron saint of fat little cupids and chocolatiers, is tomorrow and as usual, I've put off shopping until the very last minute. I'd been wracking my brain for weeks trying to figure out what to buy F.B. that he a) didn't already have, and b) wouldn't roll his eyes at because it was too sentimental or fluffy. I love him, but my big ex-Marine is strong, tough, and not exactly the romantic type.

  I've left myself with little alternative other than to brave the cathedral of lumber, plumbing, paint, and power tools, and bow down before the altar of duct tape and caulking guns.

  This store is F.B.'s realm, not mine. I'm much more at home in the aisles of Bed, Bath & Beyond, where I'm less likely to put out an eye or lose a finger. Give me a sale on Egyptian cotton sheets or Turkish towels and I'm totally in my element. Show me a thirty-foot-high, fifty-foot-long aisle stacked with nothing but screwdrivers, and I'm likely to regress into infancy and curl up into the fetal position.

  Over the weekend, F.B. had decided that he was going to make a few new shelves for his collection of war memorabilia. He has a slew of stuff, most of it boxed up neatly in the garage, but he keeps a few mementos on display in the den. Okay, maybe it's more than a few—the den looks like the set of Apocalypse Now. I'm not complaining—when we moved in together that was the deal. He got the den, and I got the rest of the house. I don't hang Priscilla curtains in the den, and he doesn't fill the dining room hutch with night vision goggles and hand grenades.

  F.B.'s collection is quite extensive, including books, medals, flags, swords, guns, knives, helmets, photos, and a built-to-scale tank. There's a lot more than that, but those are only the things I can remember off the top of my head. He even has an old, empty WWI artillery shell that he uses as a paperweight. I've often pointed out that it looks like a gigantic metal dildo sitting on his desk. That's when he usually threatens to let me try it on for size, and I cup my ass with both hands and back out of the room.

  Evidently, the war museum we call the “den” doesn't have enough exhibits to suit him, and he decided to build a couple of shelves. He couldn't just buy them ... oh, no, not my F.B. Everything in that den except for his computer and his office chair he'd created with his own two hands. It was a matter of pride to him, I guess.

  For three days, I listened to a torrent of obscenities streaming from the garage as he labored to turn a few pieces of wood into a showcase for his military memorabilia. The worst came just last night. I was lying on the sofa watching a rerun of Imitation of Life, a classic movie starring the incomparable Lana Turner and mentally ticking off a list of items that would or would not serve as Valentine's Day gifts, when a tremendous crash had me off the couch and halfway to the garage before my feet actually touched the floor.

  "What happened?” I gasped the moment I flung open the door from the kitchen into the garage. “Are you okay?"

  "I'm fucking fine,” F.B. growled. He stood in the middle of the garage looking as hot as Hell in a white wifebeater and camo pants, his chest hair dampened with sweat, and arm muscles bulging with the weight of the sledgehammer he held. At his feet were two long, jagged pieces of wood and several chunks of metal that may have been the remains of some sort of power tool.

  "Yes, you usually do fuck fine,” I teased, relieved that all of F.B.'s body parts remained intact, “but what was that noise?"

  "My table saw broke."

  "Broke, huh?” I asked, looking pointedly at the sledge. “Looks like it came under attack."

  "It was mortally wounded. I put it out of its misery."

  "Oh. It was an act of mechanical mercy, then?"

  "Exactly,” F.B. had said, swinging the head of the sledge down to the ground and leaning on the handle. “But now I can't finish the shelves until I get a new table saw. Fuck! I really wanted it done before my buddies from my old unit come into town for the reunion in two days. I was going to ask them over for a few beers and show off my collection."

  "Can't you go to the store and buy another one?"

  "No time. The store's closed for the night, and I promised the Colonel that I'd go down to the Legion Hall tomorrow and make sure all the preparations are in place for the reunion. It's going to take me most of the day. I need to check with the caterer, stock the bar, and set up the tables and chairs. Then the next day is V-Day, and I've got plans."

  "Plans, huh? What kind of plans?” I asked, thinking that a candlelight dinner or a walk on the beach was out—he'd probably made plans to take me to a bull-riding event, or demolition derby, or some other sort of testosterone-riddled activity. F.B. just didn't do sweet and romantic. Hell, he even referred to Valentine's Day as V-Day, giving it a military spin.

  "None of your business, Matt,” he said, his eyes flashing me a look that
told me it would be prudent to drop that line of questioning. His gaze drifted down to the metallic carnage at his feet, and he began kicking at it with his size sixteen steel-toed work boots, growling curses that could peel the paint right off the walls. That was my cue to leave, go back into the living room and turn the sound up on the movie until he'd worked his frustration out by stomping the remains of the saw into shrapnel.

  The incident gave me an idea for the perfect Valentine's gift for him. It was a real lifesaver considering I'd waited until the last minute again and had had no idea of what to buy. A brand new, shiny table saw would bring a huge smile to F.B.'s face and a whole lot of sweaty, slick, thank-you sex to our bed. The fact that I knew nothing about power tools didn't deter me. It was a saw, for God's sake, not a nuclear reactor or a fighter jet. How difficult could it be to buy one?

  Unfortunately, my plan did have one drawback—the only place in town where I could purchase a saw was where I now stood, slack-jawed and sweating, smack in the middle of testosterone heaven.

  I grabbed a cart from the corral near the entrance. Even the carts were big here, I noticed—they were twice the size of normal shopping carriages. It was as if the entire store was overcompensating for something.

  The cart pulled hard to the right, and the back left wheel spun uselessly as I trundled it down the main aisle, craning my neck to read the overhead signs. Gardening. Outdoor Furniture. Appliances. Electrical. Plumbing. Hardware.