The Sea Ain't Mine Alone

by C. L. Beaumont

  James steps back from him, smirking, but with his brows raised as if he’s making sure Sydney’s still alright, that he hasn’t just asked for something too unbelievably obscene. Sydney wants James Campbell to think of having sex with him as the farthest possible thing from obscene, so he bolts upright again, then goes pliant as James takes him by the hand and leads Sydney back into his own bedroom—into their bedroom. Sydney’s brain shivers at the thought.

  “But it’s the middle of the day,” Sydney hears himself say.

  James laughs, turning to lead him forward towards him by the bed. Sydney’s wondering if he’s imagining how James’ laugh sounded more nervous than not.

  “Yeah, no shit it’s the middle of the day. I thought you were supposed to be a genius.”

  Sydney huffs, embarrassed. “Well how should I know. You’re the only one who ever calls me that.”

  He means it as a joke, but James gets a sad look in his eyes and pulls Sydney close to him, placing his palms back on Sydney’s chest above his shirt.

  Sydney feels the air of the moment changing into something heavy and warm. James’ breath ghosts across his skin like velvet when he speaks. He swallows, licks his lips, then swallows again.

  “I . . . I’ve never actually been with a man before,” he whispers.

  Sydney frowns. He knows this. Of course, he knows this. Anyone who saw James Campbell’s face when he’d looked down that night in the shower and saw Sydney’s hard cock brushing up against his own would realize that he’d never gotten to be with a man before. Anyone who saw James Campbell’s face after they first kissed.

  Anyone who saw James Campbell look at his friend, Rob . . .

  Sydney opens his mouth to say that he knows—he pays attention, so he knows—and then immediately shuts it again. He realizes James looks unbearably nervous, as if he’s scared that this will somehow make Sydney step back from him and say, “You know what, actually, I’ve changed my mind since you clearly don’t know what the hell to do if another man’s penis is involved.”

  James keeps talking before Sydney can think of a response, voice thin and uneven. “I’ve never . . . Sydney, I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you. Right now. But I don’t. . . I might not know how—”

  Sydney kisses him again, pressing back through James’ lips with his tongue. He pulls off his own shirt, mind racing over his thudding heart. And it’s so unforgivably inane, but Sydney suddenly feels that right here, right now, is the first time that he has ever truly taken his shirt off in front of James—two weeks of shirtless surfing and two nights of shirtless sleeping be damned.

  There aren’t enough words in the English language to convince James Campbell that Sydney has never wanted anyone, anything, the way he wants James Campbell right now. That he has never even experienced such a breadth and depth of emotion in one moment. That he couldn’t give a shit about who James touched before this because James is here. Now. On Oahu. In his room.

  Because James survived, and he’s choosing to spend his unpromised days in Sydney’s arms.

  James’ hands immediately run up Sydney’s bare stomach and settle over his chest. Sydney watches breathlessly as James’ eyes follow the trails of his fingers over ribs and muscle. Then Sydney kisses him, letting James feel the full warmth of his bare skin, and James moans as he parts his lips to let Sydney in.

  Sydney speaks against his lips. “James Campbell, you have no idea—” He kisses him over and over, hands planted on either side of James’ face and living off the air coming from his mouth. “You have no idea,” he says again.

  With a rush of air, James reaches down and strips off his own shirt, then falls into Sydney’s arms, skin to skin. “Come here,” he breathes.

  And oh, how could this feel so different from the times they’ve touched naked before? Sydney can’t even believe that someone’s skin could change in texture so drastically. His hands run up the hard, muscled plane of James’ stomach, dipping across the curves of his abs and trailing through the hair leading down from his navel. James shudders beneath his palms, breathing hard through his nose and arching into his touch, and Sydney moves his fingers up over James’ chest, pausing to rub softly over his nipples until they peak.

  James looks down at Sydney’s hands on his body and groans, closing his eyes. “God, your fucking hands.” He lifts his own hand to cover Sydney’s long fingers where they trace his nipple. “Fuck . . .”

  Sydney chases the word on his lips with a searing kiss. James’ voice reverberates through his body, sinking deep into his veins. They are alone on this beach, on this island—alone in the universe. The only sound that exists is James’ deep, gasping breaths. The brush of skin on skin. Soft moans escaping from the back of desperate throats.

  And Sydney realizes he really is desperate. He’s looking down at James’ chest and shoulders like he’s never even seen another man before, and he’s vibrating out of his skin with the desire to hold, to touch, to taste—to be taken.

  Sydney grips James’ sides and traces his ribs until he’s pressing his chest into his touch, then he leans down and licks a slow stripe up James’ neck, pausing to bite him gently just under his ear.

  James cries out and grips the back of Sydney’s head, holding him there in the crook of his neck. “Touch me,” he groans, tightening his fingers around Sydney’s curls. “Fucking touch me. Please . . .”

  Sydney’s hands move before he even fully processes James’ words, working frantically at James’ belt and the zip of his jeans. He pauses with his hands on the waistband, looking at James for a nod, then pushes his pants straight down to the floor, wincing a bit when the buckle clacks on the hardwood. He looks down, lips half open, and stares at the plain white pair of boxers clinging to James’ hips and curving over the bulge of his erection.

  A thrilling rush burns across Sydney’s cheeks. He wants to drop to his knees and press his face into James Campbell’s warm, erect cock. Wants to breathe in the scent of him and feel the wet tip of his cock through the cotton of his underwear. Wants to trace the lines of it with his lips, mouth it as it swells from just the damp heat of Sydney’s breath.

  Then he feels absolutely ridiculous. Because he’s already seen James naked; he’s seen James naked in the full light of day standing tall right out in his living room. He’s kissed down James’ naked body and settled down between his legs and taken James’ cock into his mouth, letting his heavy thighs squeeze and tremble on either side of his shoulders.

  And yet, everything is different now. Sydney can’t even believe those actions happened between him and the man in front of him. James is different, and he is different. And this is the first time—the first of innumerable times, unless James realizes in the next hour, or day, or week that dropping everything to join Sydney in Oahu was the biggest mistake of his life. And still, Sydney trusts the promise of James’ packed bags more than he trusts that the tide will push the waves in to shore day after day after day.

  He shucks off his own jeans with shaking fingers, then drops to his knees like he wanted to with a grunt. He grabs the back of James’ thighs with his hands and rubs his cheek slowly along James’ erection, shivering when James curses under his breath above him. James’ hands settle firmly on his shoulders, holding him down to earth, and time stops as Sydney kneads his hands firmly into James’ ass, then turns his face and breathes hot air against the covered tip of James’ cock.

  He breathes until the fabric turns wet and warm under his lips, until James’ thighs are clenching and trembling in his hands, straining to push forward against Sydney’s mouth and back into his firm grip.

  Sydney looks up at him through his eyelashes, lips resting right on the tenting bulge of James’ cock. James’ eyes pool black.

  “Do you want this?” Sydney whispers. His voice is husky and hoarse. It’s unbelievable how badly he wants to put his mouth on James’ cock, how desperately he needs to feel the thick weight of him on his tongue, heavy and hard as steel and hot. He needs to ta
ste the evidence of James’ desire for him leaking thickly from the tip, staining his fresh, clean boxers.

  Sydney knows his face is embarrassingly flushed. He rests his cheek against the top of James’ thigh and waits.

  James blinks hard and groans before finally shaking his head. “No,” he says, tracing Sydney’s ear with his thumb. He coughs a laugh. “Well, yes. Hell yes. Fuck. But . . . Jesus I need to feel you. Let me feel you.”

  James Campbell is a genius. Sydney can’t believe he even briefly forgot.

  Sydney reaches up from where he sits back on his heels and pulls James’ boxers down off his hips, dragging them slowly over the blanket of soft hairs covering his thighs. He gets quickly to his feet, so quickly he gets dizzy, then pulls off his own underwear as James kicks his off his ankles.

  They take a mutual deep breath and stand before each other naked. Sydney wonders why the sight of James standing tall, breath swelling his chest, is filling him with such a sharp rush of gratitude, enough to cloud his vision. Then he remembers that, of course, they’ve never stood in front of each other naked before—not like this. Not when Sydney can let his eyes slowly wander over every inch of James’ bared body with the knowledge that his time left to look isn’t slipping through his fingers like sand.

  James catches his eye, a serious look on his face, and Sydney would bet anything—every medal he’s ever won—that James is thinking the same.

  “Sydney,” James whispers, sounding like so much more than a name. And Sydney reaches for him, absolutely helpless to stay still, and pulls him close into his body, meeting his lips in a warm, deep kiss. He lets his unsteady hands roam up and down James’ broad, muscled back, and James’ gentle, rough fingers are on his waist, his ribs, his biceps, the dip in the middle of his chest, fingers curling softly through his fine, thin hair.

  It’s everything and it’s not nearly enough. Sydney kisses the corner of James’ mouth, lips open and panting, then pulls him back with stumbling steps towards the bed, somehow anxious not to let his hands leave James’ skin. He thinks James is going to push him down and climb on top of him—hold him down. He wants to feel the solid weight of James’ body on top of his, rolling and heavy until the sweat slicks the hot places kept hidden between them.

  Instead, James walks straight past him and lies down first on his back with a small sigh. He stares at the ceiling, then closes his eyes in a long blink, then looks over at Sydney like he’s waiting for Sydney to decide whether he actually wants to come and join him—like he’s waiting for himself to suddenly leap up from the bed and run. James’ chest is heaving as he tries to control his breaths. His stomach is clenched, and his thighs are shaking, and his cock stands proudly up from his stomach, red and swollen and full.

  Sydney licks his lips, meets and holds James’ thick gaze, then swings his leg to settle over James’ hips. The bed creaks and groans. Sydney holds himself up on his thighs, hovering in the air, giving James—giving each of them—one last chance to change his mind. James looks down at the thrumming space between their bodies and bites his lip, then throws his head back onto the pillow with a moan, lifting his hips up into the air towards Sydney’s body.

  “Please,” James whispers in a high voice Sydney’s never before heard him use. “God, please . . .”

  With a rushing sigh, Sydney settles his full weight down on top of James’ thighs, and they both gasp, two unleashed moans, when their flushed erections settle heavily against each other. Sydney can barely breathe at the spark of heat radiating up his spine, greying his vision and constricting his lungs.

  “Oh,” he whispers, right as James grips Sydney’s hips hard and grunts, “God, like that . . .”

  The soft afternoon light pours in through the open window looking out over the shore, bathing James’ bare chest and stomach in smoke-like ribbons of gold. The light settles across the muscles of his shoulders, drapes over his firm, tanned arms, illuminates the freckles on his sun-kissed skin. It makes the scar look like a beautiful whirl of sand in a rippling tidepool.

  Sydney leans down and licks a stripe up James’ chest, tasting the sunlight on his skin, his hairs on his tongue, and James’ hand flies up to grasp the back of Sydney’s head to hold him close. James tastes like the ocean, as if he just stepped out of the Banzai waves only moments before.

  Sydney slowly kisses and licks across his collarbone, down over his pectorals, the sides of his shaking shoulders, all the while slowly rocking his hips deeper into James’ body, his erection rutting heavy and full against James’ pulsing cock beneath him, the heavy weight of his balls pushing James down into the mattress.

  And James’ hands frantically clutch at his hair, the back of his neck, the length of his spine and the very lowest dip of his back as Sydney leaves a trail of wet, open kisses across his bare skin. He stops to lick at a nipple, moaning around the taste of the hardening bud under his lips, and a shiver of heat erupts down his sides as James cries out breathlessly and pushes his chest deeper into the heat of Sydney’s mouth. Sydney bites his nipple softly between his teeth before moving his lips down, tracing them reverently over the muscles in James’ stomach, moaning kisses over the strong lines of his body, breathing softly over the spot where his dog tags would have lain.

  He pauses when he gets to the scar. Sydney looks up through his eyelashes to see James staring down at him as if he’s looking straight up at the sun, overwhelmed and desperate, shocked at being seen. Sydney stops his rolling hips over James’ arching body and instead holds himself still against James’ warm, naked skin. The soft, curling hairs about James’ cock caress the most sensitive spot in the dip of his thigh.

  For the very first time, Sydney suddenly imagines—really closes his eyes and imagines—James Campbell lying in hospital sheets. He imagines the blood-stained gauze, and the Army-issue cot, and the way his eyes would squint as he stared up at the ceiling in pain. And James Campbell has never really told him any of this, not the details or the who or the how or the where, but something hot and sharp in Sydney’s chest knows that nobody was sitting beside that hospital bed—nobody but the hourly nurse.

  He opens his eyes to see a small frown on James’ face.

  “I don’t . . .” Sydney swallows hard. “I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

  James’ frown turns to a sad smile. He runs a steady hand through Sydney’s curls. “You wouldn’t’ve done anything,” he says in a heavy voice. “You wouldn’t have even met me.”

  Sydney’s whole body tenses. “Exactly. James . . . James, I—”

  He can’t finish. Instead, he helplessly opens and closes his lips, willing James to somehow read his unspoken words in the sheen over his eyes, then he takes a breath and bends his head to kiss the center of the scar etched into James’ skin, reaching up as he does to cup James’ cheek.

  Time stops once again as he kisses the gnarled skin. He traces its outlines with his lips, tastes its different warmth with his tongue, holds James’ body firmly against himself as he anchors him into the earth with his mouth. He wants to feel the bullet’s weight on his own tongue, swallow it into his body, rub his skin with the bloody sand and mud from wherever James fell, and he doesn’t know why the hell he can’t have normal thoughts about James Campbell being shot in the chest, why he can’t just say he’s selfishly glad James survived and then move on, but he can’t just . . . he can’t—

  James’ lips press softly into the center of Sydney’s palm. Sydney stills, holding his lips on a ridge of the scar, as James whispers words into his skin, bringing his hand up to hold Sydney’s palm against his lips.

  “It was on a beach” he breathes. Sydney immediately holds his breath so he can hear every syllable, and James clears his throat. “We were ambushed in the jungle, and—Sydney, it was chaos. There were bombs, and the rain, and I saw people just drop . . . and I couldn’t . . . Keith. Keith was the man who saved me—my deck watch mate.” James swallows. “Keith Hartman. He told me to run. It—it came at me from behind when I
finally reached the shore. The bullet. Keith found me there in the water. Carried me with him when they pulled him up into the helicopter.” He sighs. “You can’t imagine the noise. The screams. And then . . . whoosh. Silence.”

  Sydney presses another kiss to James’ chest as James’ hand comes to rest gently in his hair—unbearably soft, as if those same fingers had never felt the screaming metal of a gun. Sydney closes his eyes, losing himself entirely to the soothing sound of James’ living voice.

  “I surfed there, too” James whispers, a small smile in his voice. “Just once. After.” He sighs, and his fingertips send shivers across Sydney’s scalp. “China Beach, they all called it. I promise I’ll tell you about it another day.”

  Sydney nods. He wraps his arms around James ribs and presses his cheek into James’ chest, curling himself into a small ball, half on top of James’ body. James holds him with a grounding, easy pressure, and Sydney thinks that maybe they’ll just stay like this forever, who even cares about the surfing and the sex, who even cares about standing upright, but then he hears James’ heartbeat skip.

  “I shot someone,” James says, so softly Sydney can barely hear him over his own pounding heart. He feels a cold sweat suddenly break out across James’ skin. James’ hand leaves Sydney’s back. “When I was . . . I was just trying to escape. And he came out of the trees. . . I just—just shot him without thinking. Without looking.”

  Sydney looks up sharply at the desperate, horrible sound of James’ voice. The grey fear choking out the blue of James’ eyes makes him want to weep.

  Sydney presses his palm right over James’ racing heart. He tries to steady his voice. “He died?”

  James’ eyes gloss over. “He was . . . he was just a kid. He died.”

  Sydney Moore decides, right then and there, that he will do everything in his power—he would give up surfing—if it means James Campbell never again has an expression on his face like he does right now.

  James’ entire body is tense, held in a flinch as if he’s readying for Sydney to hurl himself back from his skin, or yell in his face, and instead all Sydney’s frantic brain can piece together to do is to breathe out, “James,” right before taking James’ head in his hands and rushing his lips to his mouth.