The Sea Ain't Mine Alone

by C. L. Beaumont

  The thick knowledge of Sydney Moore’s steaming, wet body behind him, his fingertips massaging across James’ scalp, rubbing up his back with his deep voice right in his ear, both of them naked . . . James had looked down and seen himself growing noticeably hard and full.

  Alarm pulsed through him as Sydney calmly detailed the preferences of one of the judges for tomorrow, and James had tried to listen, tried to forget that they were just inches apart in a shower, that Sydney could see the bare skin of his back and thighs. He’d slowly moved his hand towards his groin, making to cover himself and try to will his erection away before Sydney noticed.

  And then wet fingers had gently touched his wrist, Sydney’s monolog grinding to a halt.

  Their mutual breathing swirled around them in clouds of fresh steam. James tried not to visibly shake his head as he moved his wrist out of Sydney’s grasp to drape his palm over his cock.

  “Sorry,” he’d whispered, at the exact same moment Sydney’s lips brushed the top of his wet shoulder, and he breathed, “James.”

  Something shifted, clunking into place with a deafening thud. James hardly knew what he was doing until he realized he was turned around and facing Sydney in the tiny shower, staring at his eyes through the mist, his hand now cupping the barest amount of pressure along his erection despite himself.

  Sydney had traced his face through dripping eyelashes and sucked in a breath through his nose. And James had known, as if the words themselves were written through the steam, that he was remembering the beach shower.

  A mutual blink happened—somehow, a silent yes. Then James had slid his hand away, and they’d each simultaneously looked down at the sight of their hard, dripping cocks almost brushing up against each other in the thrumming space between their bodies, flushed and bobbing in the force of the spray.

  Sydney was flushed and long. Somebody whispered, not more than a wavering moan, “yeah . . .”

  And James had watched with his breath in his throat as the water dripped down and soaked through the dark curls surrounding the base of Sydney’s cock—the first one he’d even seen erect that wasn’t his own. He’d let the water drip down from his eyelashes and off his nose, then bit the inside of his cheek as Sydney gripped his own erection in his shaking hand. He’d stepped forward, soaked curls hanging in his eyes, and shifted his hips to slowly trace the pulsing tip of his erection up the length of James’ cock, panting into the hot steam of the shower and trembling with restraint.

  That time, James had known that it was himself who’d whispered, “God.”

  James had raised quivering fingers and placed them right on Sydney’s muscled chest, letting the pads of his fingertips stroke down slowly over Sydney’s nipples until they hardened and shuddered beneath his touch. He’d rubbed and swirled and flicked the hardened beads of wet, soapy skin as Sydney arched into his hands, shutting his eyes tight when he gasped in breath. And Sydney had continued to drag just the tip of his leaking cock slowly up and down the length of James’ aching erection, electrifying the warm skin covering James’ rock-hard penis.

  James had realized, with a sharp jolt that nearly sent him to his knees on the slick tile, that they were both standing there feeling each other without any intention at all to climax. That they were just touching. Looking. James had torn his gaze away from their cocks rubbing against each other in the buzzing air of the shower and looked up at Sydney’s piercing pale eyes. And Sydney had given him a half-lidded look, wet lips parted, as if he couldn’t believe that their bodies were doing that either.

  Sydney had leaned forward, hovering for a moment to lick his already wet lips, then pressed the softest ghost of a kiss to the corner of James’ mouth just as the water started to grow cold. James had breathed through it, not quite kissing back, but his palm cupped Sydney’s elbow, somehow the safest part of him he could reach.

  Without saying a word, they’d stepped out of the shower, both still erect, and dried off side by side like they weren’t doing anything life altering in the least. Had pulled on two pairs of Sydney’s boxers over half-hard cocks, and tiptoed across the creaking floor, and climbed into his bed without even discussing who would sleep where, a careful foot of cold sheets between them.

  And James had taken a deep breath and reminded himself of the man he’d just been all evening—the man who hurled away the bullet into the sea, and kissed Sydney Moore in view of the stars, and caressed his soap-slick skin—and then he’d turned into Sydney’s body and slotted his leg against a warm thigh. He’d put his arm across Sydney’s slightly trembling stomach, his hand fanned across his side. And he’d shut his eyes just as Sydney reached up to hold his arm there with huge, strong hands. He’d let the sensation of his slowly softening penis pressed into Sydney’s hip be relaxed and intimate and known without flinching away.

  James opens his eyes out of the memory to see Sydney still fast asleep beside him, nose twitching gently in the throes of a dream, chest heaving deep and slow. James stares at him and waits for his insides to churn with nausea. Waits for the realization to dawn hot and sour in his gut that he’d finally given in to the desire he’d forbidden himself from since he was sixteen on a sunset beach and found himself wishing that Lisa Kerny’s painted fingernails gliding over his skin could be replaced with Billy Madden’s solid, callused fingers.

  He waits for five minutes, watching the tips of Sydney’s eyelashes flutter in warm, soft air, intimate and vulnerable in the breeze caused by James’ breath. He waits as he reaches out a hesitant hand and places a ghostly light touch over the stubble on Sydney’s cheek, running his fingertips across the side of his strong jaw before reaching into his hair to scratch his scalp.

  He waits as Sydney’s eyes suddenly flutter open all at once, completely awake in less than a second, surprised gaze focusing immediately on James. James looks directly into his eyes, tracking the fluttering droplets of sea in his irises, the way the corners crinkle when Sydney’s lips curve into the hint of a grin pressed into the pillowcase.

  “James,” he whispers, voice raspy from sleep.

  In an instant, James knows he doesn’t have to wait anymore. The nausea simply isn’t coming—not now, at least. Not for a little while. He returns Sydney’s lazy smile, heart inexplicably pounding, and he brushes a curl off Sydney’s forehead with his thumb, amazed at how frighteningly easy it is to gaze into his eyes without looking away.

  Sydney reaches both arms above his head and stretches luxuriously across the sheets before shuffling closer to James, facing him with his hands folded in between them, appearing utterly relaxed. There’s a question in his eyes, though. An almost-invisible frown hidden between his brows. The sight of it unexpectedly tugs at James’ chest, and he shifts, painfully aware of the rasp of his bare skin on the sheets, then covers Sydney’s hand with his, smelling the combined, sleepy warmth of their limbs.

  Sydney does a slow blink; the easy contentment in the relaxed lines of his face almost hurts to look at. James has never had such a force of such . . . such guardlessness directed at him before, not even from Rob on all the mornings they sat side by side on the waves, completely at ease with each other.

  Well, maybe not at ease. Not when Rob’s palm had never stroked his scar, not when Rob had never held James’ gaze instead of looking away, not when James had never told him that he had a bottle of untouched pills in his cupboard the day they met, just in case. That he’d killed a man before checking his uniform shirt.

  But Sydney Moore doesn’t know those terrible things, either—probably couldn’t even comprehend them, not in the safe sheets of his private bed—and yet he’s staring at James with a look of total rest. Rest in James, and with James, and because of James.

  James Campbell, who didn’t stop to carry anybody’s lifeless body out of the red jungle for the waiting caskets. Who hugs Lori hello after getting off to thoughts of her naked boyfriend the night before.

  James sighs, suddenly unbearably sad and unable to pin down why. The emotion in Syd
ney’s eyes is young and clear, unclouded and stripped bare for James to drink in his fill. The back of James’ throat tightens at the intimacy of it, somehow more meaningful, more dangerous and risky, than standing naked together in a shower with their erections pressed together.

  Sydney clears his throat, and a light glimmers in the corners of his eyes. “You know what I’m gonna do tonight?”

  James raises his eyebrows and hums.

  “Gonna have sex with the Billabong Pipeline Masters champion.”

  James huffs out a laugh and as a flutter of shocked nerves soar up his throat, along with a heady, thick heat zipping down his spine at the rawness of the words.

  “You’re something else, Moore,” he manages.

  Sydney’s grin widens, and he shuffles closer to James in the bed so that they’re chest to chest, nose to nose. James imagines he can hear the sound of Sydney’s heartbeat thrumming into his skin, in time with the steady beat of the waves onto the wet shoreline just outside the quiet hut. Golden rays of dawn light slowly seep in through the windows, illuminating Sydney’s tan skin with glowing, sunlit warmth. James feels as if he’s embracing the sun itself.

  “You know what you’re gonna do right now?” Sydney asks, fake serious and voice deep.

  James’ eyes pool black at the sound. The breath leaves his chest, and all he can do is shake his head like some naive, innocent kid. He is aware of every place where the warm sheets caress his bare skin, humid from sleep, and Sydney’s nearly-too-small boxers feel tight around his thighs.

  Sydney puts his warm hand on James’ shoulder and pushes him onto his back, rolling to hold himself over James on his elbows, hips raised. A groan escapes James’ throat at the heavy weight of Sydney’s hand pushing his body, muscles still lax from sleep.

  James holds his breath as Sydney dips his head towards him, licking his lips for a kiss. When they’re nose to nose, Sydney pauses. James sees a flash of uncertainty suddenly blaze across his eyes—cutting through the playful teasing and easy confidence. Their lips hover inches apart, halted in time. Sydney’s eyes search James’, a hesitant, yearning look hidden in the folds around his mouth, and James remembers a flash of conversation from just two days ago.

  “Nobody else has ever been here.”

  James wants to cup Sydney’s face in his hands and whisper to him, “Come on, man, tease me. Be cocky like that because I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, and you fucking got me.”

  Then the reality of his plane ticket back to LA tomorrow slaps him in the face, leaving a stinging bruise. He tries to hide the realization in his eyes, but he knows Sydney catches it first. The moment turns dense and uncomfortable, tension radiating through Sydney’s body as it hovers just above his skin, as if touching him will cause James to leap from the bed and run away for good—to escape the reality of a man touching his skin in the slow, relaxed, purposeful light of day.

  James wonders if Sydney’s right to be so cautious. If he really would . . .

  But James finds himself raising a hand to Sydney’s waist. He glances down at the clear sight of his tan fingers on the pale, smooth skin, kept hidden from the sand and sun. He watches the pre-dawn light illuminate a wave of shivers down Sydney’s thigh as James slowly rubs his thumb, then he closes his eyes, relaxes his neck, and presses Sydney down onto himself.

  They both groan. Heavy, thick heat floods down his front, and his thighs tense. James breathes deeply as Sydney settles his full weight, then rubs the sleep from his eyes before placing a hand in Sydney’s lopsided curls.

  “Well, what am I gonna do right now?” he whispers, playing along. But the words hang heavy in the room like too many questions at once, leaving Sydney’s playfulness far, far behind.

  Sydney leans forward so that their lips can graze together, open mouthed and shaky. James starts to grow hard at the heavy weight of Sydney’s lean, muscular frame on top of him as Sydney’s hot breath trembles against his own panting lips. James can tell that even now, Sydney’s still holding himself back—still moving in slow motion, waiting for it all to disappear. That same tug from before gives a great, rushing pull through his chest, and James gently pulls Sydney’s face down to capture his soft lips in a kiss, moaning at the taste of him bursting across his tongue.

  Sydney barely moves, frozen and trembling above him, then he pulls back with a gasp and licks his lips, eyes wide and locked on James’ face. James lets him look, lets him drink in every line of sincerity on his face, plane flight tomorrow be damned. A tiny flicker of sadness passes over Sydney’s eyes, quickly replaced by the same easy desire from before.

  “What you’re gonna do right now,” he finally whispers, shifting his weight along the warmth of James’ body, “is you’re gonna have sex with a Billabong Pipeline Masters champion.”

  And James barely has time to process those words before Sydney is scooting down James’ frame, bringing his wet, parted lips to the center of James’ chest. He kisses his way slowly down the center of his stomach as James gasps, abs clenched. Sydney pauses to lick at the dips of his pelvis, and James imagines he can feel the slick slide of Sydney’s tongue straight through to his bones and muscle, raw and stripped bare.

  James groans under his breath and grabs at the bedsheet with his hands to keep himself from bucking up into Sydney’s touch. He gazes at the slowly lightening ceiling, eyes hazy with arousal and unable to look down as Sydney’s fingers dip into the waistband of his boxers. After a second’s hesitation, Sydney pulls them down off his legs, leaving James exposed to the morning air and the rushing hiss of the waves through the window.

  He can’t look. He can’t see his erection bobbing near Sydney Moore’s lips. He can’t see it, he can’t—

  James takes a wild, deep breath, and he looks down just in time to see the grey light dappling across Sydney’s long, bare back where he’s bent over James’ thighs, his curls trailing down his stomach, when suddenly hot, wet lips press to the base of his half-hard cock.

  Air punches from James’ lungs. He throws back his head, spine limp, as Sydney leaves a gentle trail of open-mouthed kisses from the base to the tip of his cock. His cock which is quickly thickening beneath the hot velvet of Sydney’s lips.

  “God,” James whispers, unable to stop it. “Oh my God.”

  The touch feels unbearably obscene—Sydney’s lips kissing his not even fully erect cock, just like he would his mouth, suckling and tasting the hot, steely skin. James ears’ shiver at the raw, wet sounds echoing through the room. He grows even harder with each little gasp and lick.

  Sydney’s huge hands finally grip his hips. Hard. He reaches the tip of James’ now throbbing erection and pauses, looking up at James with piercing eyes through a mop of curls. He licks his lips.

  And James is just about to reach down desperately with his hands, to grip Sydney by the shoulders and pull him off and tell him, “You don’t have to. You don’t have to do this. You don’t—”

  Sydney’s mouth closes around the tip of James’ erection, sucking at the tip with his lips. The words die in James’ mouth, everything except a high, breathy sound. Sydney’s tongue rolls in slow circles across James’ dripping slit as groans deep in his throat, then he closes his eyes, tilts his head, and inhales down James’ aching shaft until a line of spit drips down his chin.

  James can’t look away. Can’t move. His wide eyes are locked on the sight of Sydney’s full, wet lips swallowing down the tip of his cock over the view of his own heaving chest. And God, fucking God, it’s been years since even a woman did this to him—before he ever set foot on a Navy ship.

  Long, quiet years. And he’s certainly never looked down and seen the fucking hard, muscled lines of a man’s broad shoulders in between his thighs, or felt the heady rasp of stubble scrape across the hair at the base of his cock, or heard a rumbling moan so deep he feels it rattle straight through to his bones.

  “Fuck,” he groans. Sydney moans again at the sound of his voice, and pulls slowly off the tip until just his
tongue is laving at the swollen, dripping slit, licking down into his foreskin with wet sighs.

  James tries to suck in enough oxygen to breathe. Sydney looks up at him again with those pale, half-lidded eyes and absolutely pins him with his gaze. His tongue curls under a fat drip of precome and sucks it into his mouth.

  James’ voice cracks and rumbles as his mouth spits out the least-arousing thing he could say. “Have you ever done this before?”

  He wants to punch himself in the face.

  Sydney presses a last kiss to his cock before letting it fall hard and throbbing onto James’ tensed stomach. He leans up on an elbow, and the air turns focused and clear, cutting through the fog of arousal as Sydney clears his throat.

  “Not with you,” he says, eyes quiet and serious. A wash of something like embarrassment, like insecurity hides behind them, and James reaches down to place his thumb at the corner of Sydney’s mouth.

  He nods, madly hoping Sydney will be able to read everything James means in the only word he finds himself physically able to say.

  “Okay,” he whispers. Sydney bites his lips, then dips his chin.

  James exhales a shaky breath as he watches Sydney’s wet, full lips once again descend to the aching tip of his cock, still glistening with his saliva.

  All at once, it dawns on him in full force that he’s watching the two-time Billabong Pipeline Masters Champion suck him off. That the Danny Moore is giving him a blow job with spit on his lips and sweat down his back.

  James lets out a breathy laugh, stunned. He rubs a hand over his eyes and pinches between his brows. “Who the hell are you?” he asks, embarrassed at the awe in his voice.