Kyle’s propensity to blow hot and cold. The fact that he’s not out. The feelings I have when I’m with him, which are far too intense for a one–and–done. Mind you, the last part could just be because he’s the best rass fuck I’ve ever had. The kind of brain–exploding sex we had would definitely warp anyone’s perception.
Taking a deep breath, I lean on the broom I’ve been using and shake my head at myself. I have nothing to complain about. Yesterday was incredible, but it’s over. If Kyle’s going to be a dick because we had sex, then it’s better we don’t do it again. Since I’m pretty sure we won’t be, it’s all good, right?
“Right?” I ask Bongo, who’s lying in the corridor, where it’s dry. He cocks his head, the half–chewed ear twitching forward, and does that smile thing he seems to have mastered. “Right.” I repeat, taking his attitude for agreement. Relieved by working it all out, even if the thought of not sleeping with Kyle again leaves me strangely hollow inside, I go back to work, determined not to let him piss me off anymore.
And it turns out to be a really fun afternoon, once I get over my snit. Two of the dogs we arranged to have re–homed at the fair are going to their new homes–or “forever homes” as Pat calls them–that evening, so Kyle and I bathe them and Pat grooms them. While she’s finishing up with the second one, I take Bongo outside and Kyle leans up on the side of the barn watching as I put him through his paces. Sits and stays, down and beg. He can high–five as well as shake, and this afternoon I teach him the double high–five, which he gets after just a couple of tries.
“He’s really good at that, isn’t he?”
Kyle sounds impressed, and I can’t help smiling down at the dog. “Yes. He’s a natural, aren’t you Bongo?”
“Did you teach him all those things?”
“Pretty much,” I say. “He knew to sit and shake a paw when he came, but didn’t know how to walk on a leash properly. Weird.”
“Let me try something.”
Kyle comes over and, after a pause, I hand him the leash. Bongo goes with him without hesitation. At least one of us has some faith in Kyle.
Taking the dog over to the side of the barn, Kyle has Bongo sit, then he slaps the side of the barn with one hand and says, “Freeze.”
Both Bongo and I are looking at him as though he’s lost his mind, having no clue what he’s trying to achieve. Kyle bends and gently brings Bongo’s front paws up, until they’re resting on the side of the building, saying “Freeze” again as he does. Bongo looks up at Kyle expectantly and, as the dog stays where he is, Kyle gives him a brisk pat–down, saying, “What you got on yah, boy?” as he does.
I laugh so hard I have to hold my cheek, and end up on the grass, busting a gut. Attracted by the noise, Bongo–ever the opportunist–breaks away from Kyle and runs over to jump all over me. By the time I get myself and him under control and look over at Kyle, his expression makes my heart stutter. He’s grinning, but it’s the look in his eyes that makes me break out all over in goose bumps.
“Help me out, Vincent,” he says. “It’ll be epic.”
He’s talking about teaching Bongo how to freeze for a search, but even as I’m getting up and going to do as he asks, I can’t help wishing he was asking me for something else…
Kyle
By the time we’re heading back to my place, I think I’ve made it up to Vincent for being such a dick earlier. At least he’s talking to me again and, using some of the more subtle interrogation techniques I know, I’ve found out a lot more about him. Like the fact he has a Bachelor’s Degree in Media studies, with a minor in marketing, plays Ring of Steel like I do, and goes to visit his cousin in Windsor at least once every couple of months. He wants to eventually go back to school to get his Master’s but for now he’s working toward buying a house. Vincent acknowledges the lost years, when he was running with the gang, but hasn’t let them mire him down. I can admire that.
The closer we get to the house though the quieter he gets, until he goes completely silent. I hate talking to myself, so I go silent too but, glancing at his profile, I wonder what he’s thinking, or planning.
Seeing him back at the kennel, spending that time with him, has proven what I suspected–I’m not ready to see him walk away yet. I should broach the subject, talk it out, but I really have no idea how to even start. I’ve never been a talker, more of a doer. The tagline of the force I work for is, “Deeds, not words,” and they could have had me in mind when they came up with it.
So when we get out of the car at the house, I walk over to the steps. Then before he can start spouting whatever speech he’s been rehearsing, I say, “Come inside.”
Vincent freezes, his key already half in the lock. “What?”
I walk back toward him, realizing I’ll have to convince him, need to convince him. I crowd him, wanting to smile when he holds his ground. When I bend to kiss him, he doesn’t pull away, although a second or two pass before he opens his lips. I almost forget what the purpose of kissing him was, as I slide right back into the driving desire I feel whenever I touch him. Finally, when I realize we’re practically taking each other’s clothes off in my back yard, I pull back far enough to say again, “Come inside.”
His eyes are hidden by his dark glasses, but he licks the corner of his lip, and I know I have him.
We don’t make it farther than the living room couch before we’re naked, going at each other as though it’s been months, rather than hours since we had sex. I don’t care that Vincent smells slightly of dog shampoo and strongly of sweat. It actually makes me hornier. Urgency makes me a little rough, using my teeth on his nipples, jacking him hard with my hand, but he gives as good as he gets and soon I’m spiraling into a mindless state of lust.
I push on his chest until he’s lying on his back, and head south along his chest and belly, desperate to taste him.
“Wait.” He holds on to my head, fingers clenched hard, stopping my downward slide. “Turn around. Give me your cock.” He licks his bottom lip and I shiver. “You shouldn’t have all the fun.”
I hesitate, more turned on by the thought of 69ing with him than I imagined possible but wondering if I can trust myself not to hurt him. “You sure?”
Vincent nods, his eyes gleaming and heavy–lidded. “Man, I want it. Need it.”
Who could resist that? Reversing my position, I straddle his chest, his arms sliding around my legs, holding me in place, his tongue already hot and wet on my balls before I’m even properly in place. Groaning, I bend to take his cock into my mouth, just as he guides mine to his lips and sucks me deep. I jerk, my thighs already straining with the effort not to thrust. Concentrating on blowing him helps to stave off my own need to come, but his rumbling sounds of pleasure, vibrating into my dick, make it difficult to keep my mind on what I’m doing.
He pushes my hips up slightly, so my cock slips from his mouth, and I take a deep, relieved breath. Hopefully this’ll give me a little time to get myself back under control.
I should’ve known better.
Vincent guides my cock back into his mouth, just as a slick finger finds my pucker and pushes in. Instinctively I press closer to his face, forcing my cock deep, the heat in my belly firing down into my balls, making them tighten almost painfully. Vincent hums, the hand on my ass tightening, the finger in me twisting and thrusting.
My control slips, and I barely hang on to it, stopping myself from shoving my dick down his throat by pulling completely away, obviously taking him by surprise.
“What–?”
I can’t answer, too busy jacking my cock. Two strokes is all it takes for me to come, my body arched and shuddering like crazy.
When sanity returns, I’m bracing myself on the back of the couch, looking down at his cum–splattered belly.
“Why’d you do that?”
Vincent sounds almost peevish, and it makes me want to laugh but I don’t have the strength. I can hardly answer, sucking in a deep breath before I’m able to reply, “I didn’t wa
nt to hurt you.”
“You wouldn’t have.”
His voice has a tinge of amusement in it and, for some reason, it makes me a little angry. “I didn’t.” That’s what’s important to me, even if it isn’t to him.
“No.” His voice is soft, just a little above a whisper. “No, you didn’t.”
Putting my hand on the back of the couch, I start to swing my leg over his head, planning to go back to my original position, kneeling between his legs, but Vincent tightens his hold on me. “Stay here.” He licks the inside of my thigh, then nuzzles my balls lightly. “Please.”
Hiding again, but it’s only now that the edge is off my lust that I realize it. But there’s nothing I can do about it right now. I need to get that sweet cock back into my mouth–suck him until he lets go of everything but the sensation and comes.
Eventually we make it upstairs and share a shower. One of those I’ll–wash–your–back, you–do–mine, businesslike showers that degenerates into something completely un–businesslike fairly quickly. Vincent laughs, and says there’s no way he’s risking “busting his parradus,”–whatever the hell that is–by having sex in the bathtub, so we end up, damp and horny again, in my bed.
He has a way of looking at me that’s both amusing and arousing, and I know I’ve laughed more in the last couple of days than I have for a long time. It’s a good feeling, even if sometimes I know he’s laughing at me. I just make him pay with pleasure, play with him until he’s practically begging. Not that it’s a one way street. Vincent has a way of turning the tables on me when I least expect it, leaving me surrendering to the almost feral urges he stirs in me.
By the time we finish having sex–again–I’m exhausted, and strangely conflicted. I want Vincent to stay, yet it’s weird to have had someone around non–stop for two days running. He looks at me with those dark, knowing eyes, and stretches.
“I’m going to head home. I’m working at eight tomorrow morning, so I need my sleep.”
I want to ask him to stay but don’t, a little relieved he’s volunteering, since I wouldn’t have been able to bring myself to ask him to go. “Okay,” I say, as he swings his legs off the bed. “Want me to get your clothes from downstairs?”
“Nah.” He flashes me a smile, while heading to the bathroom. “I’m not shy. I’ll dress down there.” He pauses with his hand on the doorknob. “It really is a good thing you don’t have any neighbors. We’d be in big trouble.”
He’s right, I think, picturing what we must have looked like 69ing on the couch. Enough for a charge of ’commit indecent act’ at the least. Even that thought makes me chuckle, as I pull on a pair of shorts in preparation of walking him out.
Then it registers in my sex–addled brain that I need to say something to him about maybe hooking up again sometime. Seeing if it’s something he might be interested in and, if it is, discuss exactly what the relationship would be. Well, tell him all I’m interested in is a fuck–buddy and nothing else. My hands start sweating, and I wipe them on the front of my shorts.
Vincent comes out of the bathroom and gives me a long look before throwing me a grin as he crosses to the door. “Don’t look so worried, Sarg. A no nuttin’”
Okay. I’ve heard that particular Jamaicanism before. Searching my memory, I remember. It was what he said when I sympathized with him about his mother and the rest of his family not wanting to have anything to do with him. Remembering that has me going after him.
When I get downstairs he’s already pulling on his shorts in the living room, his shirt and dark glasses on the chair beside him. I cross the room and get up in his face, grabbing him by the shoulders, the surprise in his eyes telling me a hell of a lot more than he probably realizes.
“Don’t fucking say, ’a no nuttin’ about what happened between us.” I didn’t know how angry I was until now. His eyes widen, and he shakes his head, his hands coming up to grip my forearms. “Don’t lump me in with the people who’ve turned their back on you.”
“Kyle…”
I won’t let him finish. I’m too ramped up. And yeah, it’s my cop voice, but he needs to hear it this way. “Maybe I can’t offer you anything permanent, or anything public, but I’m not turning my back on you. We’re friends now, unless you want it different.”
He blinks, confusion flickering in his gaze for a moment, then, as if blinds come down, I can’t read him anymore. “Appreciate it, Kyle.” He smiles, but it doesn’t ring true. “That’s…good to know.”
I let him go and step back, but my heart is thundering, adrenaline pumping through my system, making me want to shake him. I cross my arms, my feet are spread–battle ready. “So, what’ll it be?”
Vincent shakes his head slowly, and reaches for his shirt. “I–” He pulls the t–shirt on, then looks at me again. He speaks slowly, as though thinking about every word. “I don’t know what I want otherwise, but I’ll take the friendship.”
It’s the perfect answer, exactly what I should want to hear, and I nod, but at the same time it feels wrong–incomplete–and I curse myself silently for being so contrary.
Picking up his dark glasses, Vincent walks around the counter to the fridge and writes something on the pad I keep magnetically stuck to the door. Putting the pen back in its clip, he pats his pockets before turning to face me.
“My number.” He jerks his thumb toward the pad. “Call me when you want some company, or look me up on RoS.“ He smiles, but there’s a wry cast to it, and I know he doesn’t think I will.
Then he’s gone, so quickly there’s no time to say anything more, or even kiss him goodbye.
And when I drag myself upstairs I end up tossing and turning half the night, my previously perfectly comfortable bed suddenly too empty. The quietness of my room suddenly too complete.
Chapter Ten
Vincent
I don’t expect to hear from Kyle again. Or, if he does call/text or even DM me on Ring of Steel, I expect he’ll just be friendly. Until he wants to fuck again. But I don’t know. He could be one of those men who can just push sex to one side and go about their business without it for long periods of time, so I won’t hear from him for a while. Then again, the almost angry way he insisted that we were now ’friends’ made me think, despite my better inclinations, that he just might have meant it. Again, I don’t know. Feels like I don’t know anything right now.
Concentrating at work takes a lot of effort, and a couple people notice I’m distracted but I just shrug off the questions. What could I say? Met a guy, but he doesn’t really want to be seen with me. No, not because of my scar, but because he’s afraid of the consequences.
It’s not like I can’t relate. Hell, if he wants an example of how things can go wrong when you come out of the closet, he doesn’t need to look further than me. Yet, it makes me sad for him, and a little angry. Back home, ’buggery’ is still a crime and homophobia is rife. The gay men brave enough to come out risk not just being assaulted, but being arrested or even killed. Compared to that, can whatever he’s facing for claiming his freedom, for being honest, even compare?
But he’d said to me all he’d ever wanted was to be a cop. If being known as gay would jeopardize that, I guess I can see where he’s coming from.
Again, I have no clue. I can’t seem to wrap my head around anything, my brain filled with sex–soaked, sweet memories, and questions. I know the fog will fade eventually, and I hope it’s rassclaat soon. This whining and pining like an adolescent girl is already getting old.
On break I text Jenalyza, not to tell her what’s going on, but because I really just need contact with someone I care about and who cares about me. I never knew how precious that ability was–just to be able to reach out to someone–until I only had one person I could do that with.
Hey. What’s going on?
She surprises me by replying right away. Nutthin’ much. On lunch, hangin’ in the caf, watching the cray–cray. What u saying?
I snort. For an English professor her
texting grammar leaves a lot to be desired. Not much. Just on break. Wanted to see how you and Anton were doing.
We’re good. Want to come down this weekend? We can B–B–Q now that it’s finally warm.
It’ll be good to see them. Jenalyza and Anton, her French–Canadian contractor husband, are fun. It’ll give me something to look forward to as well. Yeah. I work Saturday. Sunday okay?
Yep. Heading into finals, so I’ll be a little manic for the rest of the week. Sunday suits me perfectly.
Sounds good. See you then.
I’m about to stow my phone back in my pocket when it vibrates again. Bringing anyone with you? Followed by a smiley face.
She’s always on me about getting involved in a relationship–kind of like Pat but worse, because Jenalyza’s known me all my life and knows the buttons to push–but this seems almost psychic. I’m tempted not to answer, but then I know I have to talk to someone, or go nuts. No. Tell you about it when I see you.
Not surprisingly, the phone buzzes again almost immediately. I’m calling you later. And do I have to kill anyone?
That makes me laugh and, as I reassure her that murder will not be necessary on my behalf, I feel better.
Once again, I’m about to shove my phone in my pocket and go back to work when it buzzes.
“Lawd, Jenalyza,” I mutter, still smiling as I unlock the screen. But it isn’t her. It’s a number I don’t recognize, and my heart starts hammering. For a moment I consider not looking at the message, but I know I’ll just be consumed with curiosity and angst for the next few hours if I don’t. I hit the screen with my thumb to open the message.
Hey, it’s Kyle. What time are you off work? Want to come over? You could bring your laptop and we’ll play some RoS.
Brought to His Knees-Tough Guys Laid Low By Love Page 24