by Z. Allora
He’d cuddle Phillip close. Maybe kiss the man’s eyelids and lick his extralong eyelashes. Maybe he’d rub his feet, his back… his whatever.
Tristan tried not to stare at Phillip, but his gaze kept straying from the movie. Twice within five minutes, Phillip caught him gawking, and a dimple came out in his cheek.
Had Phillip moved closer? Their knees almost touched. God, did Tristan imagine the heat coming off Phillip? So close, so warm, so everything. If he parted his legs a bit farther, they’d be touching.
The sex scene… he didn’t care if the sex scene was heterosexual or not. If done well, the intensity of emotion could transcend orientation. Johnny Depp looked so—Tristan could never hope to be that erotic and loving at the same time.
Phillip leaned into his side, and the words he whispered tickled Tristan’s ear. “Oh God, it’s so sweet but searing hot.”
Never had the fade to black taken away his breath the way it did this time around. Their knees inched closer. Why on earth did he crave contact with Phillip and with this intensity?
Did it matter? For once in his life, he’d do what he wanted. He gave in and opened his legs just enough to make his knee rest against Phillip’s. The small sigh from Phillip said Tristan hadn’t been the only one affected by the touch.
Phillip’s face lingered close to Tristan’s. If he turned his head, their lips would graze. However, to move his head was a risk he couldn’t take. Maybe Frederick had been right about Tristan’s timid nature. But following his animal instincts without control would make Tristan no better than his father, and he wasn’t his father. Plus, he was at work.
After a moment, Phillip nuzzled his cheek, making Tristan ache for so much more. When he remained frozen, Phillip fell back into his seat with a long, drawn-out sigh.
When the credits rolled, one side of Tristan remained planted against Phillip from his knee to his hip. He hated to break the tiny connection, but he needed to lead the discussion. He smiled at Phillip as he stood.
He couldn’t identify the expression Phillip wore. Confusion? Lust? Probably irritation….
Getting to the front of the room, he asked, “So, what did you think?”
Various watchers threw out comments. “Good.” “Sweet.” “I loved it.” “New way to make sandwiches. I’m totally doing that tomorrow for lunch.”
Most people laughed.
A retired schoolteacher who’d been coming to the library since Tristan had been an intern said, “I think this shows us just because someone has some mental health issues doesn’t mean they can’t love and be loved.”
One of the few adult men in the audience said, “There’s lots of different ways to support someone who is struggling, and it doesn’t usually have to be an all-or-nothing kind of a thing.”
When the conversation wound down, Tristan reminded everyone, “Feel free to mingle. We’re open for another hour.”
Instantly people of all ages surrounded him, asking questions he’d normally be thrilled to answer, but right now he wanted to see if there was anything he could say to Phillip.
Phillip meandered to the snack table, and three high school kids engaged him, probably assuming he was their age and unknown because he was from another school district. He did look young. How old was he?
Time to put away the snacks and Tristan still hadn’t gotten over to speak to Phillip. When he finally herded the last few people out the door, he didn’t see Phillip. Maybe it was better this way. Really, what would Tristan say if he did have the opportunity?
He locked the front door of the library and trudged to his car. The lot was almost empty save Phillip, who leaned against his bike, looking like he’d stepped off the cover of Sexy Twinks on Two Wheels.
Tristan swallowed hard against the sharp desire that swamped him. Excitement, need, and want ripped a path right through his sanity, forging directly to his heart. The chaos swirling inside guided him toward the focal point of the building storm.
Standing in front of Phillip, “Hey” was the only thing that could get past his desire.
Phillip gave him another come-hither smirk that confirmed he knew everything Tristan fantasized about and might be more than happy to participate in any or all of the activities. Phillip pushed away from the bike, slid over, and looked up at him.
The move made Tristan’s heart clench with the possibilities. What if he—
Phillip reached out and, as if in slow motion, carded his fingers through Tristan’s hair. “You’ve got a nice head of hair. You should come down to the shop. I can shape it up for you.”
Right. That tossed out all the sinful ideas Tristan had. Phillip’s interest was in new business, not Tristan. “I’ve been seeing the same barber for years.”
“I can tell.”
The insult cut and made Tristan pull away from those enticing and talented fingers. He pushed his own fingers through his unstylish hair. Wanting to lash back, he tossed out a fact. “I don’t change things if they’re working.”
“Is it working?”
No! Damn him. Nothing in Tristan’s life worked. He shrugged.
“I’d love to cut your hair” shouldn’t sound like “I’ll blow you blind,” but it did. “Just call the salon… or me.”
Standing there with nothing to do or say made Tristan feel stupid, as he always did around men too pretty for his sanity. A feeling he’d become accustomed to.
Slipping a card into Tristan’s shirt pocket, Phillip purred, “I’d be happy to hear from you.” After a halfhearted nod from Tristan, Phillip got on his bike and rode away.
Forcing himself to stop gawking, Tristan hurried to his car. He shoved away all the silly notions of going after Phillip and drove home to his neat and ordered life.
TRISTAN PULLED into his driveway, then grabbed his takeout sandwich and his mail. Flipping through the pile as he jogged up the stairs showed it was mostly advertisements and one bill he paid electronically. He hated that the company continued to waste paper by sending him confirmation.
His 1960s brick cottage wasn’t a mansion—only two bedrooms, two baths—but it had a decent-sized kitchen, a screened-in porch, and a garage, and it was all his. He needed to cut the grass this weekend. There wasn’t much of a yard, which could be counted a blessing when it came time for yard work. It took less than seven minutes. Watering the bright red geraniums in the white window boxes took more time.
After toeing off his shoes, he placed them in the brass shoe tray by the front door and slid into his slippers. He put his car fob and wallet in the box he kept on a table near the front door. ABC—his reminder to “always be charging”—raced through his mind along with the admission he might be a little obsessive-compulsive. Plugging in his phone, he caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror.
Hmmm, maybe he could use an update to his look. He pushed away the thought that it would be a way to get Phillip’s fingers in his hair again.
He fluffed and readjusted the sofa pillow as he passed through his cream-colored living room with a perfect reading nook under the bay window. His sister laughed at him for being overly tidy, but resetting a room before you left meant you always knew where things were and you weren’t embarrassed by unexpected company—although when was the last time he’d had unexpected anything?
He set the table. One place mat. One dish. One fork. One knife. Turning away from the sad table, he dropped the type of coffee pouch he wanted into the dispenser, put out one coffee mug, and adjusted the timer.
At least with being single again there were no compromises in his life anymore. He didn’t have to worry that Frederick didn’t like nutmeg vanilla coffee. No discussion about what time was too late to drink coffee. He could play Vivaldi and Brahms as often as he liked. And if he wanted to eat the same thing for breakfast every day, he could without being criticized for being unimaginative. Boring—
Being single wasn’t bad. It was the ultimate indulgence.
His coffee was done, and he sat at the table. When the qu
iet got too loud, he flicked on the TV to hear someone talking to him. He quartered and then devoured his takeout chicken sandwich.
“I’m Todd Jones, reporting on dogging in America.”
Turning toward the TV—where were the puppies?
The partially blocked-out picture showed a couple having car sex while people stood around in a semicircle watching. A voiceover boomed, “It’s called dogging. People watch a couple have sex or go to participate in some way themselves and to be watched.”
What in the world was this?
The handsome interviewer started chatting with a couple who could be Tristan’s next-door neighbors—for all he knew they might be! They calmly discussed the vast number of websites available for people to find out where others are having sex in public places.
“How long have you two been doing this?” Todd asked.
Not why, which would have been Tristan’s first question. Why would you take a risk? Why would you want others to watch you? Why—
Tristan forced himself to swallow the last bites of his sandwich while the middle-aged woman on TV smiled. “For several years. The kids graduated college and moved across the country, and, well, we wanted to add spice back into our relationship.”
The disembodied voice droned on as various censored encounters played out. “The term dogging originally came from someone walking a dog and stumbling across people having sex. But now the practice has turned into what some consider a sport. Usually the meetups happen in parking lots, but with the use of the internet….”
The man smugly stated, “The wife and I have dogged in a junkyard, mall parking lots, the back of an ice cream parlor, near several drive-thru windows, the drive-ins—”
“My favorite was in long-term parking at the airport.” His wife grinned.
The interviewer cleared his throat and asked, “Do others participate when you…?”
The wife giggled. “Only if we want them to.”
The husband added, “And only a little bit. They can lay their hands on her, but—”
“Oh you! You’re so jealous. I love you.” The woman blushed.
“I love you too, Mary Jean.” The husband appeared stupidly in love with the woman.
Tristan sighed and turned off the television.
Was that what Frederick wanted? Was everyone in the world into wild sex? Why was it so amiss to want to have sex in a bed?
He finished the coffee and put his dishes in the dishwasher, and couldn’t prevent his mind from making a beeline to Phillip. He pulled out the card in his pocket and stared at it. Phillip probably used hookup sites on a regular basis. Did he order “oral sex to go” on a recurring schedule?
Tristan wanted to deny the appeal of the straightforward ease but couldn’t. It had to be wrong just having sex with strangers. Didn’t it? Maybe he was too straitlaced and hemmed in by societal norms, but he found the whole thing sordid.
Why even think about the sites he’d never use? The idea of Phillip ordering a blowjob like fast food made Tristan’s cock harden… again. The dirtiness, which had never had appeal, now seemed arousing.
God, Phillip’s ass was perfect. Really flawless. The men Tristan had been with were average in looks and picked more for their conversational skills, not on the roundness of their backsides. Tristan itched to cup, squeeze, and part those cheeks so he could bury—
What was wrong with him? He didn’t even know the man!
He tossed his clothing into the washer and set the machine to begin an hour before his alarm. As he passed the kitchen table, he hesitated a moment before he snatched Phillip’s card off the table. In his bedroom, he double-checked his alarm clock, put the business card on his nightstand, and set his cream-and-white decorator square pillows on the cream-edged-with-gold club chair, as he tried to push away the images of Phillip Valentine sprawled across his side of the bed, begging for—
His side? There were no sides to Tristan’s bed. It was all his… alone. He untucked the white duvet and fluffed the two down bed pillows. After finishing his nightly shower, he moisturized and restlessly meandered to bed.
Glaring at his erection didn’t make it go down. Fine, he’d do this. Grabbing a towel out of his nightstand, he lay down and proceeded to fuck his hand. He didn’t bother with lube or even spit.
The image of tonguing Phillip’s ass and then of making love—no. It couldn’t be something so benign. How about a good hard fucking against a wall? No, a back alley where anyone could see him would be better.
He reached over and grabbed his slim dildo out of the nightstand. He slicked some lube on the device and slid it home. “So good,” he groaned on an exhale.
His fantasy morphed to being pounded by Phillip with an animal need Tristan had never experienced. He bent over where anyone could see, and….
He rhythmically clenched around the dildo and stroked. Within record time, he came to a shivering orgasm.
Grimacing, he wiped away the cum and then got up and washed his plastic friend. As he was putting it back in the drawer—darn! He’d overshot the towel and gotten some on the sheets. He stripped the bed, put on new sheets, and added the soiled linens with the towel to the washing machine.
As Tristan fell into bed, he tried not to look at Phillip’s card on his nightstand. That didn’t help him block out the image of being taken that had tipped him over into such a powerful orgasm.
Phillip might have one fine ass. Too bad he probably was one!
Chapter 3
PHILLIP IGNORED Monique’s text: WTF R U?
And he didn’t answer John’s call, because he didn’t want sex—alert the media!—or rather he didn’t want to actually have to say no. No one said no to sex.
Saying no was harder than simply not responding. He and John… fucked and sucked. There were several other Johns—men he saw in a rotation with a number of random one-timers. None them really mattered. They were interchangeable. If Phillip were honest, he could never see them again and it wouldn’t bother him. So when they were busy, there were enough apps to keep him occupied and drained.
Usually he gave head; it was quicker… simpler. And he preferred blowjobs. Oral involved less entanglement and much less entitlement if he took care of himself. No one had anything over him.
However, they owed him their pleasure. He enjoyed the satisfaction of knowing he held all the cards, if not always, most of the time.
His partners didn’t appear to mind, if they even noticed the trend. Several might be considered selfish assholes—
But not tonight. Right now he basked in the uniqueness of having not fucked or sucked a man he wanted. His overwhelming lust went unsatisfied. Maybe it was even unrequited.
No, Tristan wanted him. The way he’d clung to Phillip while on the bike, and during the movie, his motherfucking way of inching closer, millimeter by millimeter, until their knees finally touched assured Phillip of that fact.
The concerning question of how a press of his leg even registered on Phillip’s heat index chased around his head. No answer came forth, but he couldn’t deny when their knees finally touched, that moment beat out any of the deliciously dirty experiences he’d ever had by a mile.
A better question was why hadn’t Tristan acted on their chemistry? Phillip would have happily blown him in the library bathroom, in his office, in the stacks….
Tristan’s lack of follow-through troubled him but was fascinating. Smile at ’em, flirt, fuck or suck ’em, and never think of them again. Men weren’t supposed to need figuring out.
When Phillip crawled into bed, he still had no answers. If he were into self-analysis, he might ask why he bypassed his usual porn sites to find “gorgeous but didn’t know it” librarians being seduced and having wild sex in the stacks. An easy answer came: it was hot and different. He might want to block out the fact none of them were as good-looking as Tristan.
He ran a finger through the wetness dripping from his tip and painted it around the crown. Closing his eyes, he wrapped his hand ar
ound his hard cock and gave it a stroke.
He let his imagination wander until it created the vision of Tristan making sweet love to him. Oh, he’d gladly play Mary Stuart Masterson’s Joon to Tristan’s Sam. He danced on the edge of climax.
Usually at this point in his solo activities, his mind would force him into harsh penetration bent over a counter or a back-alley blowjob while onlookers placed bets on how fast Phillip could make a stranger come. None of these held any space.
Instead he imagined… kissing. Kissing?
As orally inclined as he might be, lips weren’t usually what his mouth entertained. How long had it been since he’d truly kissed someone? Gasped, honeyed words of… love escaped into his mind and sounded entirely too much like Tristan’s deep tenor.
Phillip tried to put the brakes on such a dangerous path. Only pain and heartbreak could come from the lies one told when they wanted to make sex meaningful. But fuck if he could resist the temptation.
He tried to envision what the exchange of soft openmouthed kisses with Tristan would feel like as he toyed with his erection. In his mind, he stretched to present his lips to Tristan.
Nothing.
In a typical tug fantasy designed by Phillip’s imagination, the Tristan character would shove Phillip to his knees. But instead, Tristan trailed his hands along Phillip’s jaw and cupped his face, sending tingles and confusion through Phillip.
What shit was this? Wasn’t Phillip in control of Fantasy Tristan’s actions? Why couldn’t Tristan act like everyone else? Try as Phillip might, he didn’t seem to have the ability to make Tristan act out of character. This was uncharted territory, exciting as much as troubling.
Chasing the physical, Phillip stepper closer to Tristan and stroked his own cock.
Tristan licked his lips, making them glisten. God, Phillip wanted that mouth on his, but instead of rushing to climax, he hungrily ate the soul-searching stare Tristan shared with him. It made him feel like he mattered.