Cock and Balls

by Mia Watts

  “Take me deep,” he directed Hank softly.

  Hank’s mouth closed on Monty’s flesh. He hissed at the sensation of hot and wet encasing his dick. Hank did as he was told, taking Monty deep into his mouth, adjusting and then accepting more as Monty felt himself slide into the younger man’s throat.

  “God, yes. So good,” he praised Hank.

  Monty slipped his other hand into Hank’s hair too, loving the silken texture of the short strands between his fingers and against his palm. Hank’s hands caressed the backs of Monty’s thighs higher and higher until they rhythmically squeezed his ass cheeks on each draw. Hank looked up at him, and Monty couldn’t tear his eyes away from the beautiful man sucking his cock.

  “Like that,” Monty encouraged.

  Hank hummed with pleasure. Monty’s eyes nearly rolled to the back of his skull as the vibrations plucked along the tiny nerves driving him toward orgasm. He leaned into Hank, rocking his hips slightly and trying to keep himself in check so as not to hurt Hank, but Hank didn’t seem to mind. If anything he pushed himself to take more, adjust faster, swallow deeper. Hank was a wet sucking dream that sent chills down his spine.

  “Suck it,” Monty told him. He twisted his fingers in Hank’s hair, pulling it just enough to sting which seemed to get Hank hot.

  Hank had dropped a hand to his lap, and every demand Monty made of him, every element of sharpness seemed to quicken the rapid jerks he gave himself. Monty would remember that. How could he forget? It was fucking hot to see the younger man so responsive to commands.

  A cool sweat broke out across his shoulders, and moisture dampened the base of the dip in his lower spine. Hank’s fingers clutched him. And Monty lost himself in the flex of those relentless fingers, the gentle slap of his balls on Hank’s chin, the consuming draw on his cock and the soft hungry noises coming from the man hell-bent on giving Monty the best orgasm of his life.

  “I’m coming.” Monty gripped Hank’s head tightly, not letting the other man pull off, though Hank made no effort to do so. But the show of strength, the perception of demand was what he knew appealed to Hank, and so he held fast. “You’re going to swallow every last drop.”

  Hank’s fist wrapped the root of Monty’s cock as he turned his attention to an oral assault on Monty’s cockhead. His tongue dipped into the seeping slit, traced the heavy vein running the length of the shaft and flicked that indefinable pleasure spot under the rim of the flared crown.

  Monty hissed. His balls tingled, and cum shot up his length, into the hidden depths of Hank’s throat. “Suck it,” Monty demanded between grunts.

  Monty saw stars explode in his vision. His knees nearly buckled, but Hank held him up, cleaned him off then sat back on his heels.

  “I knew I’d get you sooner or later,” Hank said.

  Monty’s nostrils flared. He hauled Hank to his feet. “Did you now?”

  “It was a matter of time. I knew I had you the minute you walked in on me at the Goth”

  He studied the younger man for a moment, testing the weight of his words, then smiled. The kid hadn’t a clue. Not at all. The eyes he looked into were filled with bravado as he tried to save-face however he could. Made sense considering the dominant personality he’d been displaying had just had his sexual ass handed to him in a series of commands.

  “Nice try.” Monty let him go. He walked outside as though nothing that had happened between them mattered. Let the snarky little bastard chew on that for a while.

  Hank followed. Somewhere between the hair pulling and having cum shoot across his tongue, he’d known he was in trouble. Monty seemed to take everything Hank dished out in stride and throw it back at him. He also seemed to read him a little too well. No one got under Hank’s skin. No one. It wouldn’t start now that’s for damn-sure.

  As he reached the porch, he saw Monty strolling down the dock. Mid-morning sunlight hit his golden skin and lit him up. His short black hair glistened, and Hank found himself hoping that the man would turn, allow him to admire the rest of him with the backdrop of the ocean behind him.

  “God, he’s gorgeous,” Hank muttered under his breath. “He fucking knows it too. Or else he doesn’t give a damn.”

  Either way, the no-nonsense fearlessness Monty wore like a second skin drew a desperate groan from Hank’s lips. Already, his flagging cock filled. Even this soon was uncharacteristic of Hank, but he just couldn’t seem to get enough of the agent. It drove Hank half-crazy that the agent didn’t seem to feel the same way about him.

  Hank wasn’t used to it. Being ignored wasn’t something that happened to him in clubs with other men—or with women. The silence of the cabin on the water and the presence of the only other human in his immediate vicinity not caring if he drank too much or wanted fuck something, left him feeling out of sorts.

  He shifted, uneasy with the powerlessness of it all. The lack of structure to the days and expectations. President Dad wanted him to sit still and calm down? Wanted him out of sight and out of mind? Maybe, but Hank never did take instruction well. At least not until that morning.

  His dick got rock-hard as he remembered taking those instructions. He rubbed himself absently. Dad may think he’d gotten rid of him, but he had another thing coming. A smirk curled his lips as he started to hatch a new plan. One that involved putting both his father and Monty back in their rightful places—although in completely different ways.

  Chapter Seven

  Monty gave him a little less than twenty four hours to cool off. Hank had been shooting him glares since Monty had walked away after the mind-numbing blowjob, intent on keeping the kid in his place. Hank was used to having command of everyone around him. The experience of not having control over Monty’s actions was exactly what he needed—to Monty’s way of thinking.

  But the more hours that passed in tense silence the worse Hank’s attitude became. Then maintaining his distance became less about teaching Hank a lesson and more about keeping his hands to himself.

  Monty had served the president long enough to know the dynamic between father and son. He’d seen the separation between the two men grow until it had reached a fracturing point six months ago when Mrs. McClaren died. He even thought he knew why Hank hated his father, but knowing it for himself and getting Hank to admit it were entirely different things.

  Whatever was going on there, Monty was sure of one thing, he had to get Hank to break. The façade he put up—the carefree, selfish partier—came off too cheerfully forced to be more than just that. Grief possibly caused it, but there was fire beneath the grief. Anger. But the anger seemed to be directly aimed at his father, not at the loss of his mother.

  Hank wasn’t a child. He needed to deal with it to move on, and the more he got to know the kid the more he wanted Hank to heal. There was passion lurking beneath the surface. The capacity for it, the desperation in his eyes mingled with hope weren’t things Monty associated with sabotage. They were cries for help, cries for understanding. But how did you understand someone who refused to communicate the problem?

  The president had said as much to Monty one night after a long day of negotiations. He’d sat in his hotel suite in Paris, in front of the fireplace, swirling a glass of amber liquid. Whiskey, Monty had guessed from the pungent smell. The president had stared into it, and with Monty stationed at the entry, the president had crumbled into broken sobs at the news of his wife’s death and his son’s refusal to take his calls.

  Monty wouldn’t forget that moment. Not ever. But looking at the son, he knew Hank had hurt too. He’d done his grieving just as alone as his father, and he’d come out the other side angry, bitter, destructive.

  Why?

  Monty picked up his paper breakfast plate. Nothing remained except crumbs from his toast and eggs. Hank stared off as he continued to chew.

  “We need to go fishing before it gets too hot,” Monty said.

  Hank’s gaze lifted. Almost out of defiance, he tore off another bite of his toast with flashing teeth. “It�
��s barely light out.”

  “Finish up.”

  “I’ll stay here,” Hank countered. “Without you banging around, I might actually get some sleep.”

  “You’ll go with me so I can keep you safe.”

  “So I don’t run away?” Hank corrected, his eyes cut at Monty.

  Monty leaned on the table top, not caring that he crushed the plate in his fist as he leaned down nose to nose with Hank. “Exactly.”

  “Say what you mean, then.”

  Monty searched the other man’s eyes. “Take your own advice.”

  Hank pushed his plate back from the table. “Okay. I don’t fish.”

  “You will today.”

  “I buy fish. I cook fish. I eat fish. I don’t fish.”

  “Today, you will.” Monty stood his full height. “I’ll teach you.”

  “In the real world I only have to know where to find the grocery store.”

  “You think so?” Monty folded his arms across his chest. “Because the way I see it, this is real, and if you plan to eat, you’ll plan to provide. Get your ass up from the table, toss the bratty attitude and let’s get moving.”

  Hank stood up from the table so fast that his chair fell backward. He glared at Monty as though he thought Monty would back down. He’d have been wrong. Monty waited him out until Hank pushed past him, muttering under his breath about control-freak jackasses and presidential minions. Monty hid his smile as he left the tiny corner kitchen to get his fishing supplies together.

  Less than five minutes later, they stood on the front porch. Monty inhaled deeply, loving the moist salty smell of the Gulf as it met the verdant decay and growth of coastal flora. The bitterness of swamp water carried in just enough to remind Monty that it was there, a few miles off, and already the cicadas were singing within the shadows of every kudzu-covered tree trunk. God, he loved Alabama in the summertime.

  Hank stepped up beside him. Monty held out the tackle box blindly, waited for the other man to relieve the weight of it from his hand and moved off toward the shoreline.

  “Are we taking the boat?” Hank asked.

  “Nope.”

  He heard the unmistakable slap of Hank swatting a mosquito. “Can we?”

  “Nope. Not everything has to be done from the boat.”

  “But it could be.”

  “C’mon citified sissy boy. Earn some man-stripes today.”

  “Do those come in army green or just West Nile?” Hank snapped.

  Monty chuckled. “Mind the ticks.”

  “Ticks?”

  Monty shot him a backward glance. “More things out here suck than just you.”

  “Fuck you.”

  He chuckled and kept trudging through the undergrowth to get to the part of the shoreline he wanted. The part his dad cleared under large shade trees where the fish liked to hang out to get away from the summer heat. A short, wide deck extended over the water.

  Monty put down the Styrofoam container holding the nightcrawlers he’d picked up from the supply store and kept in the fridge. He looked from where he squatted.

  “Don’t just stand there. Put the tackle box down, and get a rod ready.”

  Hank shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Aren’t they already ready?”

  “Release the hook from where it’s secured and put a section of worm on it.”

  “I have to go dig up worms?” Hank asked, horrified.

  Monty sighed, held up the Styrofoam container. “We have the worms. Cut one in half, and thread it onto the hook.”

  Hank thought he might get sick. Mosquitoes. Ticks. Worms. Fishing. Next thing, Monty would be having him gator wrestle. They had gators in Alabama, right? He looked at the water’s edge suspiciously.

  “What’s wrong?” Monty asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Monty held up a wriggling worm. “Bait it.”

  Hank tried not to gag as he baited his hook. Never in his life had he felt so much like a ten-year-old girl. First, he tried wrapping the hook with it. Was it more humane to do that and then drown the worm before it was eaten alive or stab it with the barbed end? He barely quelled his shiver of revulsion.

  Fortunately, Monty saw his dilemma and baited the hook for him. It was then Hank decided he’d pretend never to hook a fish. If it ate the bait—even if a gator nabbed it and dragged him into the water in some kind of death roll—Hank was going to play it off like nothing was on the line to avoid touching the slimy nightcrawlers, or in the case of gators, death by chomping.

  Monty showed him how to cast his line. Hank fumbled it until Monty made a scoffing noise and stood behind him. Suddenly fishing seemed like a lot of fun. At least this part. Monty tucked Hank’s body against his own. His big hand wrapped around Hank’s on the rod and depressed his thumb on a lever-thing. Then swinging it behind him slowly, Monty whipped the rod around and fishing line zipped from the reel, plunked in the water and the float bobbed happily on the gentle waves of the inlet.

  “Now, you wait,” Monty murmured, stepping away from him.

  Monty’s cock no longer pressed Hank’s ass. He decided he needed to rethink his I got nuthin’ on the line plan. The more times he had to bait the hook, the more often Monty would show him how to cast the line, right? He looked at the sexy agent next to him who busied himself setting up his own line. Hank didn’t think he could get away with it too many more times, but damn, he though looking down at lift in his jeans, who knew fishing could be sexy?

  Monty settled on the side of the decking, removed his shoes and socks. He rolled up his jeans legs and careful not to disturb the water too much, he dipped his tanned, hairy calves into the blue water. Hank stared at the way his skin glistened around hardened calf muscles.

  Hank groaned.

  Monty cut him a glance. “Sit.”

  Hank sat. He hurried to get his feet in the water next to Monty.

  “Don’t splash. You’re scaring the fish.”

  “Sorry,” Hank muttered too busy eying Monty’s thighs and groin.

  He didn’t know what it was about the man that kept him in a tailspin. He wanted Monty like no one he’d met before. He thought it might be because he could get other guys. Not just understand their very basic drives to fuck—there was always that—but he couldn’t seem to get under Monty’s skin the way he could with club fucks.

  Monty made him want to do things. The guys Hank had been spending time with lately, mostly made him yawn after he’d gotten off. But even that wasn’t completely right. The last guy, the guy Monty called the Goth, hadn’t done it for Hank. As much as he hated to admit it, he suspected that it was because Monty had been right outside the door. With the sexy, lean agent nearby, all of Hank’s thoughts had been on him, not the guy in his bed with Hank’s dick in his mouth. And that had been the first moment Hank realized that maybe he was a little bit in trouble.

  “My dad used to bring me here. We’d spend a couple weeks every summer just fishing and camping,” Monty revealed.

  “Hm.”

  “Did you and your dad ever have something like that?” Monty asked.

  Hank narrowed his eyes on the end of the fishing pole. “Not really.”

  “But there was something you two did together?”

  “Is this therapy?” Hank countered.

  “It’s conversation. I share something. You share something. We talk, and nobody gets defensive. Normal people do it all the time,” Monty explained.

  “Gee, thanks for the clarification.”

  “No problem.”

  Hank tugged on his rod, watching the red and white float bob gently on the water’s surface. “He used to take me sailing at Martha’s Vineyard when I was a kid.”

  “Do you like sailing?”

  “I used to.”

  “What changed?” Monty asked.

  “My dad,” Hank answered flatly.

  “He stopped taking you?”

  Hank shrugged, not comfortable with the direction of the conversation. He had no interest
in getting personal about his relationship with his father. Not with Monty who was clearly on the “Mr. McClaren rocks” team.

  “My dad and I could sit for hours without talking and be completely at peace,” Monty told him.

  “That sounds like a plan. Let’s try that.”

  Monty snorted.

  “Or we could fuck,” Hank offered hopefully.

  “You go from zero to sixty faster than a stock car.”

  “What’s the hold up? I like cock. You like cock. Let’s use the rods nature gave us and catch some real fun.”

  Monty shifted to the side to look at him more fully. “Slow down.”

  Hank huffed impatiently. “Why? So you can psychoanalyze me some more?”

  A ghost of a smile touched the agent’s lips. “I’m trying to understand you.”

  “That’s easy.” Hank licked his lips and spoke slowly like Monty was mentally challenged. “I. Want. To. Fuck. You.”

  Something hot flared in Monty’s eyes, something that teetered between hunger and anger. “You want to fuck. I got that. You know what gets me in the mood?”

  “A hard dick?” Hank tried.

  “The guy I’m with. Maybe it’s old-fashioned, but I want to know the man I’m plowing.”

  Hank put down his fishing pole. He leaned sideways on one locked arm. “My favorite color is green. I’m an only child with commitment issues. I hate slow kisses because they take too damn long, and I’m always up for rough sex. Hi.”

  Seemingly despite himself, Monty laughed. He picked up the discarded fishing pole and handed it back to Hank. “Hang onto this. If you get a bite, I don’t want to lose a piece of my childhood because you’d rather be choking down a cock right now.”

  “Yours. Your cock,” Hank specified.

  That seemed to get Monty’s attention. “Why mine specifically?”

  Hank gestured to the empty clearing and the expanse of the inlet. “Do you see another cock in sight?”

  Disappointment pulled at Monty’s brow. “Go jack off. Come back when you’re ready to have a real discussion.”

  Hank groaned. Probably the thing he hated most about how things were going with Monty was that the man made Hank feel like a complete asshole. Hank never kept his one-nighters around long enough to let them form an opinion of him. The problem was he couldn’t get away from Monty. Monty had not only been in his dad’s service for the last couple years, and he’d been there through the death of Hank’s mother.