I paused to nod. Thought for a second. Then asked, "Why'd you bring it back, then?"
He shrugged. "You got a sweet face. I can almost believe you don't lie. Haven't thought that about anyone in a long time."
I tried to recall him saying anything serious to me yet, failed, and looked for the punchline. But he was just looking at me, elbow still on the table, drink in his other hand. Frosty glass. Hadn't noticed that before.
"Plus, I wasn't kidding about the body. You got shoulders like Hercules, and I'm pretty sure you're packing porn-star cock."
I would've laughed if I hadn't been so busy flushing. "Uh, not, I mean—"
"Okay, be shy, but tell me you're a top."
Just when my dick had settled down too. "I, uh…"
"Fuck, you're adorable." He finished his drink as the bartender brought us two more. Then he went on, "So I was thinking about it that night at the club, and I thought, well, I could take this card and have myself a party. Or I could find out who Etienne Fletcher is, invite him to a show, and try my luck. I can get another credit card. Sweet face, hot body, harder to find."
Still a little mystified and starting to get the feeling he was being outrageous to see how much it'd take to get me there, I laughed again. "Did you escape from a hospital or something?"
"Twice. Fuckers don't know when to quit." He winked and applied himself to his new drink, which also seemed frosty in patches. He went on, "Why'd you come to some dive bar to hear a possibly shitty local band?"
"Good question."
"Can I guess?" He pointed at me with his little glass. Definitely whisky, probably bourbon.
"Sure."
"Because you want to fuck me."
It wasn't so much that his shock value had worn off, just that it was true. "Well, yeah. But it's not uncommon to think of that a hundred times a day. That's nothing new. You're interesting. Apart from that."
"No one's interesting apart from that."
"You are."
He laughed and leaned back. "You're unreal, Etienne. I like saying that name—Etienne. Really, where'd it come from?"
I hit up my new beer before replying, "My mom's French."
"Speak French?" he asked.
"Like a three-year-old."
"Say something."
I ran through my stock of available phrases, most of which involved a lot of swearing. Mom had meant to teach us to speak properly, but, as with most first-generation kids, all we'd retained was the good stuff. "About what?"
"About"—his gaze flickered around until it came to rest on the abandoned stage—"music."
"What about it?"
"How I sell it for drinks." He held his up and gave it a shake for emphasis.
Nothing really came to mind except what I'd been reading the night before: Rimbaud's Une Saison en Enfer. So I said, "À qui me louer? Quelle bête faut-il adorer? Quelle sainte image attaque-t-on? Quels cœurs briserai-je? Quel mensonge dois-je tenir? Dans quel sang marcher?"
About halfway through, he closed his eyes. He kept them closed when he asked, "That's nice. What is it?" His lips remained parted after he'd spoken, and for a moment I could only stare. That face, beautiful skin, high cheekbones, like some kind of punk doll. His long, dark eyelashes, the curve of his neck, his shell pink mouth slightly open in anticipation. My earlier fantasy flooded back, bathing me in embarrassment and adrenaline. An urge to take his face in my hands, back him against the wall, and kiss him everywhere nearly overpowered me.
If he could do that to me without saying a word, then what could he do if he actually tried?
I licked my lips and forced a reply. "It's a famous Rimbaud quotation."
"I know that name." He opened his eyes. A pause and a smirk. "And no, I don't think you mean Sylvester Stallone."
"I didn't—"
He cut me off, grinning. "'Ghetto Defendant.' Clash song, off Combat Rock. Ginsberg's talking about Jean Arthur Rimbaud in it."
In my defense, the only Clash album I ever owned was London Calling—Suse never liked Combat Rock. "Oh."
"What's it mean?"
I tried to come up with the best translation, the one that felt right. "'To whom shall I hire myself out? What beast should I worship? What holy image is to be attacked? What hearts shall I break? What lie must I cling to? In what blood tread?'"
A sigh. "Fuck, that got me hard." He adjusted his package with one hand and knocked back half his drink with the other.
That had been exactly my first reaction to it, years ago. Still was, if I was thinking about it instead of reciting. Another urge to put him against the wall tore through me, this time so hard I gripped the edge of the table to keep from giving in.
I said, "Yeah. I know the feeling."
"Then what are we still sitting here for?"
CHAPTER THREE
We were making out before we got into my apartment, our mouths connected in a frenzied exchange of liquor, smoke, and spit. I locked the door behind us, then pinned him to it and applied both hands to feeling him up. His skin was cool under his shirt, stretched tight over long muscles, shifting and flexing as he rolled against me. He parted his legs, and I took the invitation, fitting my hips between his thighs. I pushed in and up until he rose slightly against the door. The thrill started in my cock, already up and pressed tight to his, and ripped all through me, right to my fingertips. He closed his eyes and sighed, his head falling back to hit the door. His hand tangled in my hair.
I grinned, sliding one hand up higher and higher under his shirt, the other pulling at his belt. The look on his face, like he was in heaven already… And God, he really was beautiful. The way he panted, his mouth open and pink—
How the hell had this even happened? I laughed. "Okay, I really never, ever do this."
He opened his eyes. "Everyone says that."
"Yeah, but—"
"You think a guy who gets laid all the time is gonna pull that shit I pulled, tracking you down the other day? That is desperation, Etienne."
By that time, the hand I'd had in his belt had ventured upward. I ran my fingers down his cheek, brushed back his bangs. They were surprisingly soft to the touch. "But you're beautiful."
He kissed me again, hard and fast, making this sound in his throat that was halfway between a growl and a whimper. His hand, still down the back of my pants, pulled me against him. "Say that again."
I mumbled into his lips, "You're beautiful?"
"Yeah, but like you mean it." His hand clenched in my hair. He rolled his hips, this time quickly. "Like last time."
"You're beautiful."
He crushed his lips into mine and took his hand from my hair. He tucked it into my waistband at the side, moving around to the front—
I pulled back, stopped pushing him against the door. He popped my button, unzipped me, and put his hand down my jeans. He flattened his palm, rubbed the length of my erection; his hand was cold through the cotton, dragging over me. I swelled again, every muscle in me burning with anticipation. I leaned my forehead against his, sighed into his lips. Oh, God, to feel like this, to want someone so much, to be so completely—
"Now say you want to—to fuck me." His voice cracked at the end, not quite adolescent but close enough to make my stomach drop. His mouth found mine; the kiss was different again, desperate. Starving.
Whoa.
I put my hands on either side of his face, trying to slow myself down. Something was wrong, but it was hard to say what, with him on my dick like that. "Brady—"
"You can lie to me. I don't give a fuck." He laughed into my mouth, actually laughed, and felt all the way up my cock, over the head, then back again. "Just make it sound good."
Now it was my turn to close off the kiss. I pulled back, my head spinning. My body, little pinpricks of heat and ecstasy racing after his eager hand, told me to tear off his clothes, turn him around, and live out that fantasy from earlier—had it been just a few hours? But something else held me back—that hitch in his voice, the words on his to
ngue, the desperation in that kiss. "Wait. Hey." I kept my hands on his face, turning it up and holding it a few inches away.
His dark eyelashes fluttered like trapped insects. His mouth, red with violent kisses, opened, breathed frost against my lips. He pulled his hand out of my shorts and put both of them at my side, just under my shirt.
They were so cold, like he'd been holding ice. I nearly jumped at the sensation. My cock, the perverse thing, pounded hard in my shorts, missing it.
Was this the same guy who'd followed me onto the dance floor? The same guy who'd told me an hour ago that I'd come into that bar because I wanted him?
Oh my God, he was so beautiful.
And so—
Fucked up.
I didn't know what to say, but I had to say something, anything, other than what he was asking. "Your hands are freezing."
A deep breath hitched in his chest. I felt it in mine, saw it in his face. He mumbled, "Sorry."
"Don't be." I kissed him again, slid one of my hands down, over his neck, to his tensed shoulder, then down his flat, hard chest.
He pulled away suddenly, back still to the door, sliding sideways. "Fuck, I should go."
Something in the back of my head shouted, You really should.
But I leaned in for another kiss, making sure not to trap him again. He was about the same height as me but not as broad, and I didn't want to remind him of it. Like he'd slip through my fingers, disappear if I held him too tight. "Don't."
He kissed me back. His thumb slipped into the elastic of my boxer-briefs, but he didn't move nearer.
Lips still touching his, I said, "Please stay."
He kissed me again, and this time he curled his fingers around the waistband to give me a little tug. His lips parted under mine now, soft and yielding. I leaned forward more, and he tilted his face to match the angle. He covered my fingers with his as I touched his cheek.
His hand had warmed slightly. So had his breath.
I knew it was stupid. In that much, at least, I made the decision fully informed. But I would've done almost anything to convince him to stay—just not if he asked for it like that. Jesus Christ.
Eventually we both leaned against the door, kissing slow and hot, one of his hands back in my hair, the other still tucked safely into my shorts. I echoed his posture almost unconsciously, one hand against his cheek, thumb caressing his jaw, his neck, his face, the other thumb in his belt. Only our mouths were connected otherwise, though my chest might have touched his when we breathed, and my open fly clinked against his belt buckle.
When I felt he was calm again, I pulled away far enough to speak. My lips felt almost bruised but in a wonderful way. "I thought about this. A lot."
He tilted his face up, let his lips touch mine but barely. When my fingers brushed his cheek again, he turned into it, eyes fluttering closed.
More. He needed more.
I said, "When you called, I was thinking about it. Just unzipped my pants and everything."
Finally he smiled. "Shut up."
"It's true." I smiled back.
"What'd you think about?"
"Pinning you to a wall."
His lips parted, still smiling.
"I was thinking, 'That guy, he got up on me, and now he'll never call, and I'll sit here and jerk off every time I think of him, and maybe he never even really existed, and I'm out of my mind.'"
"You are." He kissed me again, mouth closed, with that little sound in his throat again.
I moved my other hand upward, under his shirt and against his side. He sighed and moved nearer, pressing his front to mine.
Now I could almost think—enough to feel his reactions for what they were, anyway. They spoke of some emotion, some ferocious need. That was why he hadn't left, because he needed it for more than the obvious reasons. That was also why he'd wanted to leave—he'd thought he'd been found out.
But there was more to it. I'd heard the crack in his voice. Felt the desperation in his kiss. Both were gone, but the memory lodged in the front of my mind.
Did he think I wouldn't see it if he grabbed my dick and told me to fuck him? What if I had been someone else, someone who'd use him up and forget him?
What if that was what he wanted, just so he never had to see me, never had to think of it again?
I said, "Don't disappear again. Let me give you a reason to come back, at least."
"If you were smart, you'd tell me to fuck off."
"I'm an idiot. And you're beautiful."
*~*~*
I could count all the men I'd ever slept with on both hands, but Paul had been the last and the longest. He used to look at me in a particular way, lick his lips, check out my package. When I saw it, I'd get hard instantly—a dog in his experiment, wagging my tail.
When he said he was sorry, he'd been wrong, he loved me, and he wanted to stay together and work it out, I heard what he was thinking instead: "I love you" meant "I love sex with you." We were terrible together in every way but bed, and I guess he thought that should be enough. No matter how I annoyed him, no matter how we argued, he always wanted to screw.
Don't misunderstand me. There's a lot to be said for knowing what buttons to push. His body could convince me to forget sometimes, but I'd known I didn't like him long before the end. And who wants to sit around pushing buttons all night if it's no fun anymore, even if there's some small, fleeting payoff in the end?
That's called a job. And I already had one.
I didn't know Brady's buttons, so that was part of it. But my God, I wanted to. In that moment, looking at him sprawled naked, pale in the dark and tangling up with my sheets, I couldn't recall ever wanting to know how another person worked quite so badly. It wasn't deep or meaningful; I ached to make him happy. He needed it, and I happened to have extra at that exact moment in my life. Happened to remember what it was like not to.
He reached for me, wriggling like even the touch of the sheets was good. I watched for a long moment, standing above him—his long limbs, his flushed cock angling upward, his open mouth, his bright eyes.
I crawled into bed on all fours and rested an arm on either side of his torso. He turned his face up, meeting me for a kiss. When he started to rise as if to come nearer, I buried my face in the softest part of his neck, where his pulse thumped hard under my tongue, and pinned him to the pillow. His arm moved beneath me, but I flattened it to the bed again, my palm against the inside of his wrist—cool skin, softer than expected. I sucked at his neck, kept my hand at his wrist until I could feel the pulse in both. Then I moved my hand up over the soft part of his forearm, where I'd written my number once upon a time. I reached the crook of his elbow, and he arched his back, gave a little purr deep in his throat. I felt it against my lips as much as heard it.
Now we were getting somewhere.
I pulled my mouth away, hungry for more, and kissed his collarbone. Then lower, where it met its counterpart just beneath his throat, the other tender, vulnerable place. I moved my hand up, running the backs of my fingers along the hard curve of his biceps, up into his armpit—
He laughed.
I smiled and kissed him again. My fingers played over his shoulder, the pretty indentation where it met with his pectoral, then down the edge of it. I sat up on my elbow and kissed his chest. A soft, dark fringe of hair met my lips, and I moved again, found his nipple, pink and erect, just as my fingers reached the other. I kissed and pinched gently.
That sound again, the low whimper combined with a growl. His legs parted farther, knees angling outward. His back arched; his belly tightened. When he gripped the sheets beneath him, his knuckles were white.
My cock dripped, pressed into the sheet, begging for more sensation with every pull of the fabric, every movement I made. My mouth watered. I sucked at his skin, tasting salt and dry sweat, the taste of him under the stage lights, asking to be adored.
That, I could do.
I sat up, resituated myself so I was on my knees between his legs. He
propped himself up on his elbows, and I lifted him slightly so he could scoot backward and lean against the pillow and headboard. I crawled forward until my knees pressed against his ass, my hands on either side of his chest, just beneath his arms. He reached up, both hands on my shoulders, and just felt me.
I leaned forward a little more until I could feel his cock against my belly. When he opened his mouth—maybe to say something, maybe not—I kissed it hard. Then I smiled, sat back on my heels, and pressed my face against his stomach, kissing just above his navel, then licking, then sucking.
His ass lifted off the bed, pressing his erection into me.
I started at the back of his knee and ran my hand up the soft inside of his thigh. When I reached his groin, I brushed downward, felt the place where his leg creased inward to meet his ass.
He let his head fall back against the pillow, sighing.
I explored the supple hardness of the spot for long seconds. Kissed his belly, near the artistic jut of his hip bone. Then up a little, above it and more to the side, where the V of muscle met the hip to create a soft spot. He squirmed and sighed again, impossibly impatient, impossibly content. When I moved back down, my hair brushed his cock and it moved.
The game was meant to go on until I had kissed most of him. Until I knew every spot that would make him purr. But I couldn't deny either of us a second longer.
I let my fingers trail steadily up his leg. As they brushed against his sac, already pulled up tight, I licked the head of his cock clean with a flick of my tongue.
The first thing out of his mouth the whole time was a divine little "Ah!"
Oh, God, he tasted good.
I backed up, stretched out between his legs so my heavy erection was trapped against the bed. I ran back down the inside of his thigh with one hand, to the soft spot behind his knee; with the other I cupped his balls. I licked down the middle, the taste of his sweat heavy and sweet, then took one into my mouth completely.
He groaned, shifting his hips in vain. I ran my tongue all over him, spit as much as I could, and rubbed it around, all the while touching, tickling at his skin.
I licked every bit of him, his sac, his taint, stopping short of his asshole. He wriggled when I came near, angled his hips for better access. His legs tightened up, still spread wide. He whimpered, growled.
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