Brought to His Knees-Tough Guys Laid Low By Love
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If he’s not careful, I’m going shoot my load all over his face. I don’t think, this time, he’ll be able to stop me, the need is that acute.
But I don’t get to that point again before he pulls away and slides up the bed until we’re face–to–face. There’s a little comfort in the fact that he’s breathing as hard as I am, his eyes sparking hot the way I’ve discovered they do when he’s turned on. And he’s hard again.
“I want to fuck you, Vincent.”
My mouth is dry, and I lick my lower lip before I can answer. “Yeah. Do it now.” I almost add “please” but hold back at the last moment, although why I do is something I’ll have to think about later.
He kisses me–one of those mind–bending, ravenous kisses he’s so incredibly good at giving–then sits up to reach for one of the condoms he’d put on the bedside table. I watch him tear the packet open with his teeth and then roll the latex sheath onto his cock, wondering if I should mention it’s been a while since I had sex, maybe ask him to go easy at first. He isn’t extraordinarily long, but his cock is pretty thick, and I know there’s a better than average chance it’ll hurt like hell at first. Yet, I don’t want to say anything, preferring to just let it happen and see how he flexes. I’ve learned you can tell a lot about a man by the way he fucks; how much care he takes when there are no parameters set and he’s left to his own devices.
While I’m contemplating all that, he’s finished putting on the condom and has a bottle of lube in his hand. That’s a good sign anyway. He rolls toward me, and I suddenly realize he’s planning a face–to–face fuck. Panic fires down my spine and, although it’s obvious he’s coming in for another kiss, I roll away and tuck my knees up under me, so my ass is in the air and my face is buried in a pillow. Can’t be clearer than that but, in case he has any doubts about what I’m telling him, I turn my head to the side and say, “You might want to give me a towel to lie on, if you don’t want your comforter messed up.”
Kyle doesn’t answer right away, and I stick my face back into the pillow, waiting to hear what he’ll say, the tension in my body not just from sexual need anymore.
A hand strokes over the back of my head, down to my shoulder, and his fingers give a little squeeze before they fall away. “It can be washed,” is all he says as he shifts to behind me, making the mattress dip and move.
I hear him inhale, just as his legs brush mine, and I shiver, goose bumps trickling up my spine and down my arms. It feels as though his hands are shaking slightly as he palms my ass with one hand, pulling at the cheek to squirt some lube into my crack, but I can’t be sure. I’m trembling too hard to know for sure.
One finger, then two work their way in, and I force myself not to clench, to stay relaxed, even as my back arches with the pleasure streaking through my body. It feels as if hours pass, although I’m sure it’s not more than a few minutes, and I’m about to start telling him about his rass and insisting he fuck me, when his fingers retreat and I feel the tip of his cock touch my hole.
“You ready?”
His voice is hard, almost ferocious, and a trickle of fear tightens my body. I force it away, force myself to keep breathing. “Yeah.” I say it into the pillow, hoping he hears me, since I can’t seem to move. “Yeah.”
I expected the pain as he works his thick cock into my resistant ass, but not the rest. Not the time he takes to help me get used to him stretching me, the tender way he strokes one hand up and down my spine while holding himself still inside me, even though now I can feel him shaking and know he’s desperate to thrust.
“It’s okay, babe. It’s okay.” I’d laugh at being called ’babe’ in that harsh, rough tone if it didn’t make me tear up like an idiot. Now I’m triply glad for having hidden my face. “I’ve got you. Ahhi…shit.” I hear his breath sort of shudder in and then out, and his legs shift slightly. The hand on my hip tightens almost painfully, but he doesn’t move inside me, only repeats, “I’ve got you.”
Now I realize he’s torturing himself, trying to make sure I’m okay. I’d wanted to know what kind of man he is, and now I do–and something inside me is both happy and scared by the knowledge. I can’t say anything, my throat clogged and tight, but I can let him off the hook, encourage him to take us both where we need to be.
Bracing my arms against the headboard, I push back and roll my pelvis, like I’m dancing to a slow calypso song. Kyle grabs my other hip, so he’s holding me tight with both hands, but all he does is groan, apparently unable to do anything else. I keep swiveling, doing a tight figure–eight with my hips, hopefully letting him know, without words, that I’m more than ready.
“Stop… I can’t…”
I turn my head and croak, “Then don’t. Just–ahhh…”
Before I can finish, he pulls back and then slams back in. Yeah. This is the other side of Kyle, the one I glimpsed before when I sucked him off and he lost it, fucking my mouth hard and fast. It’s as exciting to me as his gentleness and the surprisingly playful side that lead him to frisk me. I like all of his facets, but this is the one I want right now.
He thrusts over and over; powerful strokes I fancifully think would push me through the headboard if I wasn’t securely braced. Then I can’t think anymore, only drown in the sensations of being thoroughly, intensely fucked and the rising need to come, as the tension in my belly coils itself tighter and tighter, until I’m hovering on the edge of exploding.
My back arches, as our bodies slap together on a particularly hard thrust, and I realize I’m cursing, egging him on, telling him he’s going to make me come, that I’ll strangle him if he stops. Part of me is shocked–I’ve never been a loud lover, bawling out and trash talking–but another part of me feels free, ready to fly. I hear Kyle laugh, a rough, surprised sound, and that just makes it all the sweeter.
Then he curls over me and grabs my dick, and just like that I’m coming, bucking and trying to shout, although I don’t think my voice box works any better than any other part of my body, except the part in his hand. It takes everything I have not to collapse, as I come and come until I think I’ll die while still holding myself up on my shaking legs.
Kyle grunts, slams home a couple times more, then I realize he’s coming too when he loses that hard, controlled rhythm and thrusts deep, holding there for a couple long, trembling moments, before he slumps over my back. When his hand slips away from my cock, I let my legs give way, and we end up flat on the bed in a breathless, sweaty, tangled heap.
There’s no sound in the room except for harsh breathing. All I’m aware of is his weight, the hardness of his body covering mine, the slow dissipation of the heat we’d generated. It’s like the world has stopped, and we’re all that’s left of it.
“Shit,” he mutters, his face in the crook of my neck, his lips moving against my skin. “Shit.”
Yeah.
Chapter Six
Kyle
I’ve always known Vincent had the potential to be real trouble, and now I know it’s true. But there was no way for me to realize, five years ago, that the trouble he’d bring would be into my personal life.
Having envisioned just having sex with him, not thinking past that, it wasn’t part of the plan to invite him to stay for a late lunch/early dinner. So as I wash vegetables in the sink, looking across and seeing him sprawled on the couch, thumbing through the gun book, seems a little unreal. But it doesn’t make me uncomfortable, which in itself is weird. He’s the only man I’ve ever brought home with the intent to have sex with him. The house has always been a no–sex zone, not because I’m afraid of nosy neighbors–I don’t have any neighbors, nosy or otherwise–but because I don’t hook up with men who live nearby. Hell, there’s only one man besides Vincent I know of in the entire city who could say with honesty he’d had sex with me, and he just chanced to move here from Toronto after I’d hooked up with him there. Luckily for me, he’s even farther in the closet than I am, so I don’t have to worry about him saying anything.
Besi
des which, when I think about it, I can’t remember having sex with anyone I’d want knowing where I live. How fucking sad is that?
Vincent puts down the book and stretches, his shirt riding up to expose a strip of dark, smooth skin across his abdomen. I know what that flesh feels like under my fingers, against my lips. I know what it tastes like, and how he shivered when I licked across the smooth, muscular expanse and shoved my tongue into his bellybutton. He lowers his arms, but I’m still lost in the memories of touching him.
“What?”
The question catches me by surprise, but when I tear my gaze away from his body to look at his face I see the twinkle in his eyes and know I’ve been busted. I try not to smile but it’s a losing battle, between the impish quirk of his eyebrows and this insane sense of wellbeing soothing my usual restlessness.
“Nothing.” I realize I’m drowning the lettuce and turn off the tap. “Just…woolgathering.”
“Heh.” Vincent gets up and strolls over to the island. “Want some help?” He starts to dip his head, then I see the effort it takes for him to keep looking straight at me when he smiles. “I’m pretty handy in the kitchen.”
“Learned from your mother?”
I throw the lettuce in with the rest of the greens in my spinner, but don’t start drying them, waiting for him to answer. He looks down at the counter for a moment, then I see his mouth twist, even though he’s still smiling slightly. When he looks back up at me, I can’t really read his expression properly, but I know I’m about hear something important.
“Nah. My mother left Jamaica when I was five. Never went back there to live. I learned from the woman who looked after the house–and us–after she left. Her, and an aunt who tried to make sure me and my brothers had someone to take care of us, as family, you know?”
What can I say to that? Sorry to hear? Shit happens? Neither feels right, or appropriate, so I start spinning the salad, buying time. I want to hear more, but don’t want him to feel as though he’s being interrogated. Then, it suddenly strikes me… I just spent a couple of hours in bed with Vincent. I’m not operating as a police officer now, but as a man–an almost–friend, if nothing more. It takes that shift of perception for me to realize I can’t not ask.
Letting the spinner slow down on its own, I grab a bowl and put it on the island between us, then toss the dried greens into it. Then I push the cutting board across to him, and turn to the fridge to get out tomatoes and sweet peppers. When I put them on the board, Vincent picks up the knife. “Do you like them chopped fine, or in bigger pieces?”
I shrug. “Whatever you prefer.” He starts cutting the stem out of a pepper, and I lean on my side of the counter, watching. No need to feel nervous, but I sort of do. I take a breath, and ask, “Did you see your mother at all after she left?”
Without looking up from what he’s doing, he replies, “She’d come back every now and then, for a week or so, then go back to Toronto. Then, by the time I graduated from university, she’d filed papers for me, which is how I ended up here.”
He has a degree? I kick myself for being surprised. He’s smart, well–spoken when he’s not putting on a front, why wouldn’t he have one? I store that information away for later contemplation. “So you see her now?”
He looks up then, and his hands still. Now I see a strange mixture of amusement and pain in his expression. “Not for a few years. Not since I came out.” Vincent shakes his head, a wry smile contorting his face. “I was welcome in her house when I was on the wrong side of the law. She’d pray over me, and say I should change my evil ways, but there was never a time she turned me away, until I told her I was gay. She hasn’t spoken to me since.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nah.” He goes back to chopping the pepper, the knife rocking back and forth in a smooth, almost professional motion. “I guess I’m irredeemable now. She preferred to have a criminal for a son rather than a law–abiding battyman.“
“Shit.” I’m unaccountably angry on his behalf. “She should be charged under the Stunned Cunts Act.”
“The what?”
Then, as if the words have just sunk in, he starts to laugh. I can’t help chuckling too, and I shrug. “I know. Completely un–PC, but it’s an old cop insider joke. That’s the act we wish existed, so we could cite it and charge all the assholes, just for being completely stupid.”
“I like it.” He’s still snickering, but he shakes his head. “The name is totally antisocial and misogynistic, but I kind of wish it existed too. I can think of a few people who’d get life.”
“What about your father?” Somehow I think I know the answer to the questions, but can’t resist asking anyway. “And your brothers?”
He shakes his head, not looking up this time. “The only person in my family who speaks to me now is my cousin Jenalyza. She’s a professor of English in Windsor, which is why I ended up staying here, to be closer to her.”
“I’m sorry.” I have to say it, because I am sorry. I can’t imagine being without my family, even if I’m not as involved with them as I should be, trying too hard to hide, even being pretty sure they’d accept me, no matter what. Admitting that to myself makes me feel like crap. “That must be hard.”
“A no nuttin’.” Another wry twist of his lips accompanies the patois. “I knew what I was facing when I decided to come out. It’s better this way than what was happening before.”
And I can tell he means it, believes it.
Then he changes the subject, steering the conversation into less heavy water, but although we talk about mostly inconsequential things while we eat, what he’s said stays with me, rolling around in my head.
I can’t convince him not to help with the dishes, even when I point out there aren’t a lot. When the last of the things are put away, I offer him a beer, but he just grins.
“Yeah, man. Give me beer to drink, then you can arrest me for impaired driving when I leave.”
During the course of conversation I’ve learned he’s a supervisor for customer care at a pretty big software company and, even more importantly, that he isn’t scheduled for a shift the next day. I’m on day two of a scheduled four off. With the fridge door still open, I look at him over its top. “You could just stay tonight, unless you have something else to do.”
Truth is, I’m not ready for him to go. We’d fallen asleep after that intense bout of sex, then got up and agreed we were both starving. In my book, we have unfinished business…
It feels as if it takes forever for him to answer, then he says, “Okay. Yeah.”
And it’s only when I bend into the fridge to grab the beers that I realize I’d been holding my breath.
Vincent takes the beer and, after twisting off the cap and tossing it away, wanders into the living room to settle back down on the couch. I follow him, wondering if I should offer to turn off the music I’d put on earlier and suggest we watch TV instead. Before I can ask, he takes a swallow of beer and looks up at me.
“You’re not out, are you?” I force myself not to show any emotion or miss a step, even though my heart drops down into my stomach, and ice starts pumping through my veins. Before I can answer, he holds up his hand. “I’m not…blaming you, or judging you if you aren’t. I’ve heard the stories about what happens to cops if they come out. I’m just curious.”
Sidelining. Nasty locker room pranks. Getting shunted into obscure parts of the force. Hitting a glass ceiling even if you’re fully qualified to go further. Hell, the one openly gay man I’ve heard of that was on our force resigned after being transferred to petty theft–basically collecting bicycles–and left there to rot for a couple of years. Yeah, coming out while I’m still a cop isn’t an option I’ve ever even contemplated.
“No.” I take a long suck from the bottle in my hand, trying to ease the dryness in my throat. “I’m not out.”
He nods slowly, takes another drink. I realize I’m standing beside the couch, probably looking as if I’m about to make a run for i
t, and force myself to sit down. I’m glad Vincent is picking at the label on his beer and not looking at me, since it gives me a chance to get my expression and thoughts under control.
“That’s rough.” He nods slowly, still looking at the bottle in his hand. “Real rough.”
He’s commiserating with me? I stare at him, wondering if he’s just saying that while really feeling like I’m a coward or something. But when he looks over at me, I don’t see any judgment or pity in his eyes, only understanding.
“It can be.” I won’t let any of the things I’m feeling–not the regret, the pain, the shame–come through in my voice or cross my expression. I use my cop voice, keeping it firm, sure, unwavering. “But I’m used to it.”
He nods again, the slow up–and–down motion showing complete understanding. “Do you know…”
His voice fades, and he glances away, lifting his hand as though he’s changed his mind about what he was going to say. But I need to hear it, whatever it is, even figuring I won’t like it. “What?”
A deep breath makes his chest rise, then Vincent turns his gaze back to mine and something there freezes me in place. “I came out because of you.” He gives his head an impatient shake, even as I’m trying to figure out what he means. Because of me? He knew I was gay even back then? How? Before I can fire the questions at him, he continues, “Because of what you said to me when I was in hospital. That with the strikes against me, I should realize my luck would run out and change directions before it did.”
I vaguely remember saying something like that. At the time I was more interested in who’d put him in hospital, but knew he was in no condition to talk. I’d been laying a foundation for when we went back to speak to him later, hoping he’d think about how he’d ended up where he was and be willing to turn a new leaf. Tell us what we wanted to know. It brings home to me how no one can tell exactly how their words will affect someone else’s life–the ripples that can spread from one conversation–and I wonder if he blames me in some way for the loss of his family.