by Van Barrett
But Liam was strong where Paul was weak. And vice versa. That was one reason why they made a good couple. It was why Paul liked to watch Liam work, and why Liam liked to watch Paul work, too.
And Paul always worked.
When the two started dating, Liam knew he was getting involved with a hard-working man. But even then, he couldn't possibly have guessed just how hard-working Paul was.
Paul didn't take a single day off for that first year. He ate, slept, and breathed Parisi's. Both men would admit that their first year wasn't always an easy time in their relationship.
But, as Paul always told Liam when it seemed like they weren't spending enough time together … Paul was investing in their future. Thanks to the shop's abysmal years under Carl's ownership, Parisi's had to win back its lost customers. But he would not and could not give up without a fight.
Paul, Scooter, Steve and Axel all worked tirelessly to turn their reputation around. And, slowly, surely, customer by customer, it happened. Until a funny thing happened, seemingly overnight: Parisi's became known as the best shop in Miami. Soon, Parisi's needed a waiting list. And at any given time, a group of people would stand on the sidewalk just outside the shop, just to gawk at the parking lot and garage filled with exotic, high-powered cars.
Parisi's had become the go-to shop filled with mechanics who knew their shit and would never try to pull a fast one on you.
With his family name restored, and with the money starting to roll in, Paul could finally be convinced to take some time to himself. (And it wasn't just Liam who had to do the convincing, but his employees, who were afraid that their tireless boss would one day burn himself out.)
On Paul and Liam's first real day off together, Paul took Liam to the same spot on the beach they'd first made love, two years prior, on a day that almost broke them apart.
“Remember this exact spot?” Paul asked him.
“Of course I do,” Liam answered with a nervous laugh. “I'm still shocked we didn't get caught.”
“Yeah. Me too,” Paul laughed. “You know … I've still got this.”
Paul reached into his pocket, pulled something out, and tossed it into Liam's lap. “Here you go, Dr. Liam.”
Liam cocked his head and eyed the packet: it was the trial packet of Viagra. “Oh, lord.”
“Turns out I never needed those pills. I just had to meet the right guy.”
“You're sweet,” Liam chuckled softly. “But you're being a sap.”
“Maybe I am.” Paul nudged Liam's elbows. “Go ahead. Open 'er up.”
“Why? You want me to get uncomfortably hard on the beach?”
“Just open it.”
Liam tore the packet open. But instead of a blue pill, a gold ring fell out.
“Holy shit!” Liam yelled.
“Will you marry me?” Paul asked, putting one knee in the sand.
“Hell yeah!” Liam threw his arms around Paul. “But now I really am gonna get uncomfortably hard.”
***
The air grew hot and humid with the scent of sweaty sex and sticky man flesh. The breeze from the ocean blew through the window again—a refreshing breath of air in the stuffy room.
“Fuuuck!” Paul moaned as Liam jack-hammered his ass from behind. “Fuck yeah, Liam!”
“Oh my God,” Liam chanted, again and again, “I'm gonna cum. Oh my God, I'm gonna cum!”
Paul pumped his tight ass against Liam's presence, forcing him deeper.
Bottoming wasn't something Paul thought he'd ever be able to do, much less enjoy. But he gave it a try, because he could tell that Liam wanted to top occasionally—and he loved to make his man happy. And, if Paul were being totally honest, the idea of reversing roles was a little appealing … to have Liam take control and fuck him for once.
And, in time, Paul became hooked on the mind-shattering orgasms that he could only get when Liam penetrated him.
“I'm cumming too! I'm cumming with you!” Paul cried as Liam's cock hammered his prostate straight into ecstasy.
And the two pushed and pulled against each other, faster, heavier, to a rising chorus of manly grunts and groans.
The sounds of wet, smacking flesh and groaning men reached an orgasmic crescendo.
“YES!” both men yelled as they blew their loads at the same time; Liam, right into Paul's ass; and Paul, whose seed powerfully splattered against his abs, and all over the bed-sheets and pillows below him.
“Fuck,” Paul grumbled with a dopey-smile. “Fuck, I love you.”
Liam spanked Paul's muscular butt, whispering, “I love you too.”
And Liam, dripping with sweat, collapsed on top of Paul's wide, muscled and sweltering back.
A Word From Van Barrett
Thank you so much for reading – I hope you enjoyed the story.
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Questions, comments, just wanna say hi? You can send me a personal e-mail at [email protected].
Also by Van Barrett
Second Chance: A First Time Gay Hockey Romance
Ten years ago, Rustin and Clay were more than teammates: they were best friends chasing their big breaks into pro hockey. But their paths split when the friendship grew too complicated ... and 'male bonding' went too far.
Now a seasoned veteran in the NHL, Rustin Kellar would rather not remember the mortifying night he made a pass at his straight minor league captain. But a career-threatening concussion has left the defenseman crippled with pain – and an unlikely ghost from his past might be his only shot at recovery. Can Rustin ever forgive Clay?
Ex-hockey player turned horse-whisperer, Clay Grayson spent a decade soul-searching under the scorching Texas sun. When Clay witnesses Rustin's head smack the ice, he knows the injury is serious. But if this cowboy is good for one thing these days, it's helping old race horses find their legs again. Can Clay help Rustin recover, and finally make things right? Or is he ten years too late?
Second Chance pairs ice hockey and cowboys -- a surprisingly delicious combo! This 71,000 word first time gay romance novel has an HEA and light MMF scenes. No cliffhanger nor cheaters. Narrated in alternating third-person, past tense.
Excerpt from: Second Chance
1
Best Friends
– Rustin Kellar –
Rustin and Clay arrived home late last night after a week-long road-trip through the Atlantic division. Today was the first day of a five-day lay-off between games for their minor league team, the Hershey Bears. It was a rare and much needed rest for two minor league athletes who were always on the move, always on the road, always waiting for their big break.
And so the two roommates and defense partners slept in the comfort of their own beds. They slept in until noon—what a rare treat!—before they finally woke. They ate a big breakfast together, as they always did, whether they were at home or on the road.
But time off can be a blessing and a curse for athletes who had such little time of their own. And it wasn't long before Rustin and Clay found themselves feeling lost and restless. Not knowing what else to do, besides play hockey, Clay suggested they pack up their roller gear and head for the park to train some more.
It was a beautiful early Spring day, after all—they might as well work on their conditioning in the outdoors. Clay always swore up and down that an athlete had to get out of his comfort zone and break habits when he trained, so he'd be mentally prepared for anything to happen in real game situations.
If you could corral and settle a bouncing puck on a cracked and broken pavement, Clay told Rustin, it only made you that much better at controlling a puck on the ice—especially late in the game, when the ice surface had worsened, and the puck h
ad the tendency to wobble and flip and jump right off the blade of your stick.
Rustin just chuckled and agreed. “Alright already, Clay! I'm sold, man, let's go.”
And so they changed into their athletic shorts and tanks, packed up their roller blades, threw sticks into Clay's pickup with a noisy clatter, and raced off for the park.
Clay, who had 27 to Rustin's 23 years, was full of quips and theories and ideas about how to train the body and mind for the game. Especially the mind. Clay didn't grow up under the private tutelage of his own personal training or power skating coaches like Rustin had. Clay hailed from a cattle ranch in North Texas—not exactly a hockey hot-spot—and everything he knew about hockey, he'd taught himself. A tireless worker who didn't just want to improve … he had to. It's what drove him.
Clay was the definition of a rink rat who'd made it to this level, against all odds, running on sheer willpower and determination alone. And Rustin respected the hell out of his elder teammate for that. He'd never seen anyone work as hard as Clay to gain and master skills. Hockey came so easily to Rustin, thanks to his early start—turns out, growing up in western Ontario with a hockey fanatic for a father had certain advantages.
Rustin had learned a lot from his coaches. But in the past three years, he felt he'd learned a lot more about what it meant to be a true professional from Clay. It was one of the reasons why Clay was the Bears' captain, too. His tireless attitude and approach to the game was infectious.
Truth be told, the closer they grew, the more Rustin learned from Clay. Not just hockey. But about so much more.
And so the two friends spent hours racing through the park's trails on their rollerblades, practicing their stick-handling and perfecting their passing. Soaked with sweat, their tank-tops came off in a hurry. Their cotton gym shorts, which went mid-way down their thick, muscled thighs, didn't leave much to the imagination.
They passed an outdoor puck back-and-forth between each other as they raced through the park's trails, as if they were racing up-ice together, grunting and huffing for air, their skates pounding the pavement like the thunder of hooves.
And Rustin had to chuckle every time they skated past a girl. All the women in that park, from the late teens to the young women to the middle-aged moms, couldn't help but crane their necks and check out the rock-hard, chiseled physiques as the two young men hustled by like a passing storm.
Rustin guessed it probably wasn't too often the small-town ladies of Hershey, Pennsylvania got to see two young professional athletes without their shirts on. Rustin was fit, but Clay especially—with his penchant to go the extra mile in training, his body had hardened like a rock. Thick arms and jutting pecs. Broad shoulders, rounded with meaty muscle. Abs chiseled into human perfection.
Hell, Clay's obliques were so thick and rippling, you just wanted to dig your nails into that hunk of flesh and hang on while he spread your legs, mounted you, set the tip of his big dick at your entry and slowly, deliberately, pushed his thickness in …
At least, it was easy enough for Rustin to imagine the scene.
It was hours later when the evening Sun had begun its arcing descent towards the horizon, and the spring air was quickly cooling. Soon, it'd be dark. It was time to pack up.
The two returned to Clay's truck, both men dead-tired. Their shorts were now soaked too—Rustin had seen how some of the ladies they passed gave their bulging packages a healthy stare—and their toned upper-bodies were slick with oil and sweat, but gritty with dirt.
They threw their sticks and gloves into the bed of the pickup.
“Hell of a workout today, Rusty,” Clay said in his slight southern twang. His accent was endlessly amusing—and endearing—to Rustin.
“Always is, Tex,” Rustin replied, in his own slight Canadian drawl.
Both men rolled around to the back of the truck. Rustin rolled lightly, careful not to put any extra weight on his feet. All that hard skating had taken a small toll. He glanced down and saw the copper-colored splotches that stained his white socks. With every strong stride, his skate laces had chafed against his ankle until the skin rubbed raw.
But the pain was easy enough to ignore when you were out having fun. And hanging out with Clay was always fun. They did everything together, and it was one big reason why they had so much chemistry on and off the ice.
Clay pulled a latch and gently lowered the truck's tailgate. With tired but satisfied groans, both Rustin and Clay settled their rears onto the open tailgate. Under the weight of the two athletes, the old truck lowered and let out a tired creak of its own.
Rustin hunched over to loosen his laces. As soon as the pressure let off his ankle, he inhaled as if sucking through a straw.
“Whew.”
Rustin tossed the skate aside and carefully worked his socks over his chafed and chewed-up skin.
Clay peered down at his defense partner's raw flesh.
“You got some pretty bad lace-bite there, Rusty. You want something for that?”
Hockey was a sport whose players were notoriously tough. For a hockey player to make a big deal out of a little lace bite, you might as well be a toddler screaming bloody-murder over a boo-boo.
So it was only natural for Rustin to stubbornly decline. “Nah, I'm fine, bud.”
Besides, lace bite was more annoying than it was painful. It wasn't nearly as bad as, say, getting seventeen stitches right below his eye—which was exactly what had happened to him the other week in Bridgeport. And even that wasn't that bad. Rustin only missed one shift while he was getting sewn up; he was back out on the ice a minute later. (And once they were back at the hotel room, Clay asked if there was anything he could do to ease the pain. But Rustin demurred.)
“Look at you, tough guy,” Clay teased. He turned and reached into the cooler he kept in the truck's bed anyway, his hand digging through a swill of half-melted ice and water. He pulled a bottle of water from the cooler, twisted off the cap, and gently poured the water over his partner's raw skin.
“Sorry I don't have any rubbing alcohol or anything like that. Figure water's better than nothing.”
Rustin hid his small, slightly embarrassed smile.
“Thanks Clay.”
Sometimes it was nice to be fussed over—and ever since they started to become close friends, Clay had done plenty of fussing over him.
Clay didn't show that side of himself to the others on the team. Only to Rustin. Rustin appreciated that fact—it was like being let in on a very private and tender secret. That the big, gruff, tough guy that policed the blue line on the ice … was actually a big softy once he skated off the ice.
Sometimes, thanks to Clay's caring nature, Rustin liked to picture Clay as a doctor in some alternate universe. Imagine that: the handsome young doctor with the dimples, the thick locks of chestnut brown hair. And the muscles that discreetly bulged under his button-down shirt and trousers. And the southern charm that had you trying to think up any random question to ask, just so you could hear him answer in his twangy accent.
Girls would really go crazy for him then. Not that he needed anymore help in that department …
Clay grabbed two cans of Bud Light from his cooler. “I don't have alcohol, but I do have some Bud. Think you can disinfect a wound with beer?”
Rustin laughed. “I don't know. Doesn't sound like a good idea.”
Clay inspected the beer can in his hand. “Yeah. Might get a yeast infection or something. Who knows.”
Rustin bumped his bare shoulder against Clay's, leaned in closer, and whispered. “I think I'd rather head to our spot and drink them.”
Clay nodded. “Good idea. Game's probably on by now, you think?”
“I'd bet, yeah.”
“Sweet. Let's go.”
The two men threw their beers back into the cooler. They stepped into their sandals, hopped into Clay's truck, and sped off in a hurry. A cloud of dust raised in their wake.
2
Window of Opportunity
�
� Rustin –
Clay turned on the radio, but they couldn't pick up the signal from Washington. That wasn't much of a surprise—what was a surprise was that they could pick up the signal at all. That required driving up to Sand Beach, through some twisting-turning back-country roads, and parking at their usual spot atop the highest hill around.
There, looking over the lush, rolling green hills of Pennsylvania, they'd sit, drink a couple beers, and listen to the Washington Capitals game on the radio. The signal was always bad—it crackled, whined, and phased in and out. Other signals, usually fiery church sermons, often bled over and hijacked the transmission.
But it's what Rustin and Clay always did; it was tradition. It was fun to sit and listen to the game and imagine that someday soon, the announcers would be broadcasting their names—Grayson and Kellar—over the airwaves.
Clay pulled the truck off to the side of the road. In all the times they'd spent parked at this very spot, they'd never seen a single car go past. They wondered if anyone else even traveled these roads. Either way, it gave them the sense that this spot belonged to them.
It was their spot.
Both men smiled when the signal came in stronger, clearer, like it always magically did when they parked at this one destined spot.
Clay and Rustin popped their beers open, mashed their cans together with a clunk, and each took a sip of the crisp brew—sweet reward after a long day of training.
“Ahhh.”
“Yup. That's good.”
The radio announcer informed that the game was in the second period, and the Capitals were trailing by a pair.