by Clare London
Connor laughed softly. To Scot the sound had a physical presence of its own, as if one of Connor’s hands was still at his chest, as if he still teased at one of his nipples. Scot winced. His nipples were both painfully erect, feeling bruised.
Connor chose to speak aloud. “Jerry Harrison is a very different person from you, Scot, you know that already. He’s responded in his own way. He has a past that you will never know… a reason for his darkness, and his own brand of determination and desire. He’s opened to me more swiftly and he connected with Vincent very successfully. And he has heard me, in his way. I’ve been with him for the whole time.”
“With him?” Scot couldn’t stop staring at Connor’s lips as he spoke.
“With him. Inside him, Scot. In whatever way you wish to explain it to yourself. Because he’s wanted that since he arrived. Perhaps even before that.”
“And I haven’t?”
Connor’s confident voice wavered slightly. “You’re exceptional, Scot. You’ve smelled the flowers and the herbs, and heard my voice and the voices of the others—that’s more than Jerry has seen and heard, because you are stronger. You have your own way too. I just wish… but you haven’t opened completely to me yet.”
Connor’s fingers on Scot’s body felt suddenly cold. The chill was like a brand, searing Scot in amongst the heat of the air around them. He couldn’t reply.
“You have connected directly to me,” Connor continued. “And although that holds the promise of more joy—much sweeter, more precious joy—you’re still processing it. You’re unique, Scot.”
Scot frowned. He wanted that connection, sure, but not as much as he needed explanations. He persisted, his throat painfully tight. “You can’t move directly into me, like you have with Jerry, can you? Is it… am I somehow protected from you? Resisting you?”
The expression in Connor’s eyes flickered with uncertainty. For the first time, there appeared to be pain alongside the pleasure.
“Is that what you want, Scot? Do you wish to be protected?”
There were soft, grunting sounds from beside the pool. Oliver had draped his arms around Vincent’s neck, leaving the taller man’s hands free to play with his own cock. Vincent’s head was thrown back, and he was pumping hard. Oliver’s head hung down between his arms, watching Vincent’s hands at work. Jerry stood against Oliver’s back, his thighs pressed tight to Oliver’s buttocks, still plunging in and out of the soft shelter of Oliver’s ass. His hand was tight around Oliver’s shaft, so that the young blond man was jerked back and forth as Jerry thrust. The three of them moved as if they were one.
Vincent hissed suddenly, and his climax shuddered out of him, the seed splattering up over his fist, and down onto the stone ground. Oliver groaned, his gaze following the path of stray drops. He bucked hard against Jerry’s hips, crying out with his own delight. His cock leaped in Jerry’s hand and his come burst out, with its own glimmering trail, stark against the shadowed darkness of their bodies.
The courtyard was still so dimly lit that Scot questioned whether he really did see Jerry’s head lift up from the haven of Oliver’s jerking body; whether he really did see his companion’s face turn toward him; whether he really did see the familiar dark green eyes slide close with passion. Jerry’s mouth opened soundlessly.
There was no mistaking it now. Scot felt his lover’s gaze crawl inside him, and the imprint of Jerry’s hands on his own body, and then—with a shocked, horrified fascination—he felt the delicious shudder of Jerry’s climax ripple through his own groin, as it reached its spurting satisfaction deep into Oliver’s tight, welcoming body.
Scot was hard again, but he didn’t climax. He didn’t need to: the shiver of Jerry’s shared sensuality was spectacular enough in itself.
***
Scot felt disorientated—his head was elsewhere. Common sense was distant and weak, and his body laughed at his attempts to stay in control. He leaned back against the wall, surrendering to his shaking limbs.
=beautiful=
“Who the hell are you, Connor Maxwell?”
Connor shrugged and Scot felt the pressure of supple muscles against his shoulders. Connor sat very close to him now on the bench, all but supporting him. “I own this place, Scot. You call on it, and I must provide what you need. I like to provide what you need. It pleases me. It amuses me. It satisfies me.”
Scot shook his head. Connor’s hand was on his thigh and his hand was on Connor’s. Nothing had ever felt so comfortable, but... “I don’t mean what you do. I want to know who you are.”
Connor’s voice was back in his head, no longer an audible, rich tone. Did he withdraw to that when he was challenged?
=who do you want me to be, Scot?=
“No!” Scot snapped. “Don’t bullshit me! I want you to be who you really are, of course.”
And now Connor’s voice was sharp in reply. “No, Scot, now you’re not being honest with either of us. None of us wants that, not truly. We all have stories for our lives—fables that we wish to be truth.”
“That’s not true.” Truth was everything, surely?
Connor’s tone was seductive; persuasive. “You came here, both of you, but not with your true selves. You had your own agenda, your own alibis. You wanted to reinvent yourselves, didn’t you? Like we all did.”
=watch my lips. Kiss me Scot=
It was a fight almost physical, but Scot kept the voice at bay. “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”
“Scot! Why do I have to find the words?” Connor squeezed Scot’s leg, but in apparent frustration rather than seduction.
Scot watched the play of emotions on Connor’s expressive face; the dangerous flash in his eyes. A surge of something inside him felt astonishingly like authority. Suddenly Scot knew he was disturbing Connor Maxwell more than anyone else ever had.
“Listen.” Connor struggled with his communication, something that had obviously always been easy for him before. “Your life wasn’t right—your journey here was inevitable. I don’t know why you fight me like this, you understand far more than you think. You have more power than you realize.”
Yes, Scot thought, the rush of excitement and sympathy and hunger suddenly filling him, overwhelming him. I’m beginning to realize that very thing.
And then he leaned forward just a fraction more and kissed Connor Maxwell at last.
There was barely any other sound in the courtyard except for their shared breath.
Scot leaned into Connor, supported by the wall, his shoulder propped against the stone behind them both. Connor stayed close, stroking Scot’s thigh, whispering almost silent moans into Scot’s mouth. Connor’s lips were soft and firm, and indescribably luscious. Scot knew that, because he’d tasted them at last, and he’d also tasted the cool ice water, and the hot desire, and the mixture of fruit and lemons and earlier cups of wine. He’d never felt so fantastic in his life.
He was also very painfully aroused. Never had he felt so desperate, not even for Jerry, not even when they were still at home, when they were often kept apart for days. Then they would have fallen on each other in their shameful little corners, grabbing and clumsy and so full of lust it clouded any words they might have had for each other.
Connor shook his head gently.
=such a waste=
“You heard that?” Scot whispered. “It’s just a memory.”
“And it’s not shameful, Scot. It’s beautiful. But so much better with the right person, the right one.”
“The true one,” Oliver interrupted, his voice strangely sharp.
He was back, sitting on Scot’s other side, naked and slippery with water droplets: a real water baby. He’d slipped from Vincent and Jerry’s embraces into the pool to wash away the hot, messy attentions of the others. To cleanse himself, presumably, for the next. Then he sprang out again like a leaping, wriggling fish, laughing and shaking his hair dry and returning to Connor’s side.
Connor glared at him now, as if he shouldn’t have
said anything. Scot saw the look and stored it in his mind for future thought. Connor was back to his relentless persistence; the words in Scot’s ear, the touches, the temptation. “Who do you want, Scot? Your lover? Did you see him deep inside Oliver? It was magnificent to watch. His confidence—his dominance. My bright one’s moans, and the way his body twisted under Jerry’s hands.”
Oliver’s accompanying laugh was brittle, like the high notes of a piano.
=magnificent!=
Scot pressed his hands to his temples. His head ached under Connor’s onslaught. His lips ached to kiss Connor again but he couldn’t seem to hold onto anything for long enough. Connor seemed to move too fast to be caught. His lips were at Scot’s mouth, but then his voice came from somewhere else, with only the echoing fingerprint of his hands on Scot’s body.
Or had he moved from the seat beside him at all?
=do you want to be taken by him, by Jerry? Like Oliver?=
Oliver smiled as if he was fully aware of being talked about.
“Or do you want to take him? To plunge inside him. To sheathe yourself in him, and feel him trapped beneath you. At your command.”
Scot groaned. The thought of that made his heart skip out of synch. His flesh ached… the questing fingers were all over him. “We never...I never….”
Oliver laughed with pure pleasure. “But he’s so gorgeous, Scot, when he’s taken! He melts into you—he moves with you like he belongs against your hips. And when he comes, he makes such a soft, plaintive cry, and he begs for you to come deeper, to fuck him harder and harder—”
Scot swiveled to stare at Oliver, shocked. “Jerry says that? Shit.”
Connor laughed softly. “Believe us, it’s true.”
He moved on the bench, drawing back from Scot, and Scot moaned under his breath at the loss. Connor’s absence was like a cold, biting wind on the heat of his desire. They had become the same: Connor and Scot’s need.
“You can watch him.” Connor turned toward the pool, and beckoned. “Come to me, Jerry.”
Jerry came over to where they sat. His eyes searched Connor’s face with the anticipation of excitement. And then he turned his gaze to Scot. His face was flushed and his eyes were almost unnaturally bright.
“Jerry?” Scot couldn’t go on. Jerry didn’t reply but his cheeks colored further.
Connor looked between the pair of them, amused at their sudden embarrassment. “Touch yourself, Jerry,” he said. “Like Vincent touched himself. You like that, don’t you? To see him pleasing himself. Let us see you doing the same.”
“Scot?” Jerry whispered, though his eyes were on Connor.
Scot just nodded. He knew Jerry would see the gesture.
Jerry sucked in an agitated breath. He slid a hand down to his crotch to fondle his balls, and reached his other hand up to his mouth to suck on the fingers. His eyes shone out from under his limp fringe.
“Scot’s here,” came another voice, and Vincent stepped up behind Jerry, sliding hands around his waist. “And so am I, Jerry. I want to see you touch yourself. Show me how well you know your body. Show us your comfort, your control. Show us what you like.”
He rested his head gently against Jerry’s, and Jerry leaned back to nuzzle against Vincent’s broad shoulder. Then Jerry looked back into Scot’s eyes and started to pump at his cock. He did it slowly and with relish.
Scot’s breath caught painfully. Connor was there as well, of course. His voice in Scot’s head; his smell in his nostrils. “Watch them, Scot. You enjoy watching, don’t you? Jerry knew you would.”
Jerry was panting with animalistic sounds both low and shallow. He slicked his hand over the top of his cock, spreading precome that shone in the shadows. His hips thrust out at an imaginary lover, and his legs bent to support himself. Vincent clasped him tighter, holding him upright, his body moving in a copy of Jerry’s sensual stretching. As Scot continued to watch, Jerry ran his other hand down behind his ass. A gentle jerk of his body was the only sign that he’d probed a single fingertip up inside himself. Then he repeated the motion, and grunted with pleasure.
Shock washed over Scot. “Jerry! Fuck.”
“Isn’t he good?” came Connor’s reverberating words. Connor was even closer now, his breath caressing Scot’s naked skin. “He loves you, Scot, in his way. But he loves himself as well. He wants this for himself. Doesn’t he deserve that? Don’t we all?”
Behind Jerry, Vincent groaned as if he couldn’t bear the passivity any more. He gripped Jerry’s neck, twisting Jerry’s head back so that he could reach his mouth. Vincent kissed him, holding Jerry’s chin in his hand while his tongue thrust in, and they moaned passion into each other’s open lips.
“They’re splendid together, aren’t they?” Connor’s breath was rich with admiration. “They understand the joy of it so well. The pursuit of pleasure—the satisfaction.”
“The sharing,” Scot blurted out. His voice was stronger than he thought it would be.
Connor tensed beside him. A frisson of surprised delight ran across Scot’s skin that seemed to have come straight from Connor, and then his head was tugged around to face the deep hunger in Connor’s eyes. Something passed between them that Scot had almost missed. He slid his arm around Connor’s back, running his hand down the rippling muscles to the dip into physical promise at the base of his spine. The towel barely clung to Connor’s body by this point. Scot pushed it boldly away.
Vincent turned Jerry to face the wall beside the bench. He pushed him forward and Jerry threw out his hands against the stones to support his bent body.
Connor was speaking aloud now, and panting into Scot’s mouth. He was a very real thing in Scot’s embrace, there was a very real plea in his gasped words. “It’s all for you, Scot… whatever I do. Kiss me now.”
His tongue was hot and furious in Scot’s mouth, probing the corners, pushing against his teeth and demanding to be tasted. Even though Scot had a firm grip on Connor, Connor’s strength was obvious. Scot found it unutterably thrilling. Connor’s arms forced their way on top of his own in a mock, but eager struggle for dominance. Within seconds, Scot didn’t know who was embracing whom.
“I can’t cope, Connor. I…”
“Hush.” Connor moaned into his mouth. “Let me help you. You’re taking strength from us here, Scot.”
=you are more than you could ever imagine=
“Taking strength?” Scot’s legs shook and he knew he needed the support of the bench. It wasn’t enough to be gripping Connor, kissing him and feeling the strong, supple limbs mirroring his own. “From you?”
“Not yet.” Connor’s breath hitched. “But soon.”
His mouth roved over Scot’s, touching it then pulling away, teasing and tormenting. Scot heard himself panting, the sound too loud in the quiet air. His chest moved jerkily, his stomach tensed above his groin. He wanted to run his hands over Connor’s body, his legs, his hips, his dick. He wanted to reach for it all.
To possess you.
Connor sucked in a breath. His eyes were greedy in return, scouring Scot’s mouth as if to find some last drop of excitement that he may have missed devouring, but now he shook his head gently. “Wait, Scot, watch Jerry.” He stood, pulling Scot up with him. “His pleasure is calling for you.”
And so Scot turned inside Connor’s arms and watched the men beside them.
Chapter 11
Vincent bent eagerly over Jerry’s back, parting Jerry’s long, straining legs. Scot watched Vincent guide his damp, fiercely erect cock against Jerry’s ass, and press for entry—as Jerry bent further, and reached back to pull himself open, ready to welcome it. Jerry lifted his eyes to Scot, and when Vincent thrust into him, his face contorted with pleasure and amazement. Scot had never seen Jerry show such willingness, such eagerness. He’d never seen him offer submission, not even when Scot had gathered the courage to ask. And he’d never seen such a look of ecstasy on Jerry Harrison’s face.
Scot’s mind whirled. The air was tight a
round him, like a vice that caressed him at the same time as it pained. Jerry was only a few feet away, braced against the wall, legs apart, moving under Vincent with sharp jerks that matched Vincent’s thrusts into him. Scot’s ears rang with Jerry’s moans of total pleasure. And Connor Maxwell was always there… moving around Scot, breath like nerve gas, hot skin prickling at his own. A constant, living presence—an aura that was all too physical, and becoming more a part of Scot than his own awareness. He’d touched Connor Maxwell; kissed him. He wanted more of him. No, that was an understatement. He needed more!
Connor’s chest pressed against his back, his side, then the man moved away. It was infuriating, the way he teased! Scot wanted to hold him but he was too elusive. How the hell? One minute, his hand rested on Scot’s waist, his lips on Scot’s shoulder blade. The next minute he’d move again, his hot cock snagging across Scot’s thighs, leaking sticky pre-come and leaving its trail across Scot’s skin. Each time Scot turned to catch him—to make him be still—Connor twisted and evaded his clutching hands. Scot moaned as Connor’s touch returned to his neck, kissing at his jaw, licking at his earlobe. Bliss—but just for a few tantalizing seconds before Connor’s mouth slid away again. The suspense was agony.
Connor’s hand ghosted past Scot’s groin many, many times, and Scot’s body begged for him to touch his cock—to fulfill the continuing promises. The mischief would have made him furious with any other man. He somehow knew that Connor didn’t intend to leave him unsatisfied but, for now, he was tortured by anticipation and suspense.
Connor’s whisper was hot in his ear. “Are you enjoying the show? Your gorgeous, generous lover? Who do you want to be, Scot?”
“Me? What do you mean?”
Connor’s laugh was smooth as hot chocolate, warm and sweet. “I asked before, but you never replied. Do you want him to fuck you? Do you want to be the one against the wall, spreading yourself for a lover, feeling the invasion deep inside you?”