by V. L. Locey
“How the hell do you come up with such outlandish shit?” he asked, his pen frozen over a crisp new page of hotel stationery.
“It’s a gift. So, no girl?”
His dark brows beetled. “No, no girl. It’s a speech. I have to say something to someone…” He looked down at the paper then back to me, blue eyes riddled with pain. “I need to express myself well and in a short amount of time because once I start saying this, shit will get shut down fast.”
I walked over to him then dropped into a crouch, our gazes staying on each other. “Dillon, if you’d let me in and tell me what’s going on, maybe I could help. I can see that you’re tortured, but I don’t know why. Is there some dark family secret about to be revealed?”
He shook his head and nudged me away with his knee. “You can’t help with this one. It’s not a paper for Professor Wilkins or a pleading love note to Jenny in Intro to Human Resource Management. This goes way deeper and is a family matter for now. I promise when I deliver this speech I will explain everything to you on the ride home, but for now, I need to just be alone and get this written so I can memorize it. Okay?”
“Sure, yeah, I’m just worried about you.”
That got me a feeble smile. “Thanks, you’re a good friend. Now go spend the night with this guy you were painting the town red with.” I opened my mouth to argue but he ran me over. “Nope, go. Seriously, go. I need to process shit a little more and get my words down in some semblance of order. I’m miserable right now, I know that, so go be with this guy. I’m happy you found someone who appreciates you. I bet he’s a great guy.”
“Yeah, he really is. Older, sexy, and knows who Edward Murrow is.”
“Who?”
“My point exactly!”
“Then go be with this amazing guy. I’ll be here. Go.” I gave him a look. “Go, I mean it. Go find this guy, be romantic, fuck each other’s brains out, and come back tomorrow morning looking like you’ve ridden the Cyclone at Coney Park.”
“Never again,” I swore, getting a sickly chortle from Dillon. A combination of beer and bravado had somehow pushed me into riding that roller coaster two years ago when we’d done a day at Coney Island. Never, ever, ever again. I was sick all over myself, Dillon, the people behind us…it was a nightmare. No more beer, roller coasters, or allowing my best friend to talk me into ‘exposure therapy’ for my height phobia. From that day onward it was Manischewitz or a reasonable facsimile for this guy.
I gave him a pat on the head, took a quick shower skipping the shampooing as I’d just done that two days ago, changed my clothes, and left Dillon to work out his family issues as he saw fit. My mind was packed full of possibilities of what it was that Dillon was facing. And how he had managed to cough up enough money for our accommodations. I thought of calling his mother, but she’d been miserable and crying when we’d left Trenton. The thought of upsetting her even more didn’t sit well.
I was still muddling over my friend’s problems when I exited the elevator on the ground floor. Well-dressed people milled around the lobby, some coming and some going, all in clothes that spoke of wealth. And here was Roman, wearing a retro bowling shirt with bright red pins on the back, tan trousers, loafers without socks, and no hat because some sexy bastard had asked me to leave it off. I was rocking the shit out of my poor but trendy look. Thank goodness wild Jewfro was a hot hair look this year as were shirts and hats that had been your grandfathers. Or maybe that was just in my head. Whatever, confidence came from within, and I was feeling pretty damn cocky tonight.
I slipped into the Atlantis Room and gaped at the difference. Gone were the buffet tables and coffee urns. In their place was a stage with a large screen centered over it, a catwalk leading from the stage out into a sea of big, round tables. Lighting was also being placed along the stage, the catwalk, and secured to the walls in various locations. Chairs were stacked in the corner by the stage. I snagged one from the top of the pile and carted it to a long table where someone was setting up what appeared to be bid sheets. Each bid sheet was lying under an eight by ten glossy of an available bachelor. I plunked my chair down and perused the twenty or so men who’d be sold off for a dinner date tomorrow night.
“Wow,” I murmured. Who the hell knew athletes were so damn attractive? Not me. I had no conception of hot jocks. I played no sports nor watched any, and my whole life had been spent looking at sporty types not as sexy men but as ugly antagonists. It was time to change that. Maybe I could start watching hockey. Layne played for the Jersey team, or so he’d informed me, had been playing for them for close to twenty years which was a timeline thing that I’d not dwell on or that skittish tickle in my belly would reappear.
Instead of thinking about the fact that Layne was in high school when I was born, I put my mind to other things, like talking with as many people as I could while the bachelors were put through their paces by the organizers of the event. There was a lot of joking and good-natured jibes being tossed around as each bachelor would sashay down the catwalk, spin, and then head back to the stage. I pulled aside event planners, hotel staff, and the emcee, a handsome older black man who seemed to know everything about hockey. Like ever. He quoted stats and bios to me that I had no interest in but felt compelled to act like I cared. Booker Blake went on and on and on, filling my phone with tidbits about this and that until I finally had to make up a lie to break away.
“I see you ran into Booker,” Layne whispered after coming up behind me after his turn being heckled on the catwalk. “He’s a good enough guy but man can he talk.”
“Did you know that you had a really good zone start/zone finish ratio in college?”
His blue eyes grew round. “I did not know that. Although the relevance of that stat when I’m about to retire in a few months seems a little iffy, but Booker likes to talk stats. So, have you had enough of this silliness,” he waved a hand at the players stumbling about and cracking jokes on the stage, “for one night? We could retire to my room, order in some wine, and get into some deep and probing questions.”
My cock kicked at the mere thought of probing. “I think I have enough from other sources.”
He smiled a wicked smile that made my pulse triple. The ride up to the twelfth floor took forever. Layne and I kept sneaking glances at each other as people got on and off, our passionate longing looks secretive and ours alone, or I hoped. No one said anything when we exited or made kissy noises, so I assumed we were good.
“I’m nervous,” I confessed as he scanned his key card. The green light flashed. I looked up from the door to him.
“You have done this before, yes?” he asked his hand lingering on the door handle. I nodded. “And by this, I mean…”
“Having sex. Yes, I have had sex with a man before. Twice.” I shut up when an elderly couple came around the corner dressed for a fancy dinner. They gave us peculiar looks as they passed, and my cheeks grew hot. “Let’s take this inside.”
He pushed the door open and held it. I slipped inside, feeling edgy and anxious. When the door clicked shut, I turned to face him. Muted light from the bathroom fell over us.
“You know that we don’t have to do anything, Roman. We can just sit here, drink wine and nibble on some cheese and watch All the President’s Men until you’re ready to go back to your room.”
“Yeah, I’m not going back to my room. Dillon told me and I quote ‘we should be romantic, fuck each other’s brains out, and come back tomorrow morning looking like I’ve ridden the Cyclone at Coney Park’.”
He carded his fingers into my hair, leading me closer to him then up to meet his hungry mouth. That kiss did things to me. It peeled away some of my anxiety. It made me feel wanted, and it got my dick so hard it throbbed in time with my racing heart.
“I’m going to have to meet this Dillon, he sounds like a wise young man,” Layne purred over my puffy lips, cradling then tipping my head so we had better access to each other’s mouths.
“Maybe I’ll…bring him…” He
nibbled along my lower lip. All my college-educated journalistic words went up in ash as we tangoed toward his big, soft bed.
Chapter Four
It’s amazing how smooth and seamless love scenes are in movies.
Shirts never get hooked on noses, buttons never get snagged in bushy hair, pants never trip you up as you try to kick them off. Real love scenes are bumbling and embarrassing. Still, it’s funny how when the clothes are finally peeled off, and you’re lying on the bed, braced up on your elbows while getting your first full look at Layne Coleman naked, the sore spot on your head where your soon-to-be lover ripped some hair from your scalp in his mad frenzy to get you bared doesn’t hurt quite as badly as it had just a minute ago.
“Wow,” I whispered, my gaze moving over him. He was so manly, so rugged, so damn big. And hairy. His chest was covered with dark brown hair. The fine fur coated his belly as well then thickened into a clump of mahogany curls at the base of a long, thick, rock hard prick. He was cut like me, and that was kind of the only similarity between us. Layne was power, muscle, masculinity, and machismo and I was, well, not. Feeling terribly awkward and unmanly, I fell back to the bed and tried to cover my chest and my dick. Layne moved to the bed, kneeling beside me, and placing a hand to the center of my chest. “I’m having a moment of imposter syndrome,” I confessed. He eased my hand away from the center of my chest then lowered his lips to the spot where my hand had rested. “I feel like I’m trying to be a man and failing miserably.”
“You’re a beautiful man,” he whispered then licked a thin line to my left nipple. I gasped at the touch of his tongue to the pink nubbin. He then slid his hand down my belly, pressing his fingers under mine to caress my cock. “I love the soft smoothness of your chest and stomach, how long and lean your legs are, how curved this gorgeous cock of yours is…”
My hands slid over his wide shoulders as he flicked and stroked. Eyes closed, I arched and writhed under his hand and mouth.
“People will ask ‘What does he see in him?’ like they did after seeing Call Me by Your Name.” He shook his head softly, nipping and sucking his way from one hard nipple to the other, his fist working my cock with slow, strong pumps. “I can see why the young guy wanted to be with that big blond guy but why would the big blond guy want to be with some backward, skinny guy?”
He lifted his head and peered at me. “I’m with you because you’re a beautiful man, both physically and mentally. You stimulate my mind as well as my body. I adore how you talk and the way you dress, your hearty laugh, your passion for journalism and the truth. The curve of your lip, the length of your neck, the soft brown cloud of your hair, the way your calf is formed, and the smooth satiny skin covering your cock. Everything about you turns me on, so let’s not worry about what other people think about us or some movie couple and let’s focus on pleasing each other.”
I smiled up at him. “I really need you inside me now.”
He captured my mouth, the kiss wet and hard. I rolled to my belly, and he came with me, lying half over me, his weight pressing me into the fluffy duvet. His fingers danced along my back, down over the crack of my ass then up and down each thigh. I humped the bedding, my arms up over my head, my fingers digging into the edge of the mattress. His lips moved over my shoulders and neck, his touch feathery light as it skimmed up and down, over and around, rough fingertips ghosting over my ass.
I spread my legs. “Please,” I asked on a breathy exhalation.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, so sure.”
His heat and weight disappeared for just a moment. I closed my eyes and worked my legs further apart, lying belly down on the bed. I imagined that I looked like a frog from above. That thought made me snigger. I shuddered at the sound of a condom wrapper being torn open. The slick touch of his fingers gliding over my hole stopped the snickers cold. I gasped. He slid a fingertip into me. I rolled my ass skyward. He gave me more and more, one finger then two, working lube up into me.
“God, now. Now, please now,” I begged, my balls heavy and full, my dick grinding against the covers in search of more. “Get in me now.”
“We have all night,” he replied, moving his fingers in wildly wicked ways that made me cry out in pleasure over and over. When I was panting and humping the bed, he slid his fingers out of me and pressed his dick in. I whimpered in joy at the fullness and stretch, easing my hips up off the mattress to get more of him into me. “Slow, easy, God you’re tight.”
“This is…you’re…so good,” I huffed, turning my head to the right to pull in cool air. He kissed along the side of my face, his mouth skimming my parted lips, his cock stealing my breath and my sanity.
“Roman, you are so beautiful,” he murmured as he rolled his hips. I yelped in reply, lifting my ass for more of him. He began to move, his pelvis moving with a sensual pace that pushed me closer and closer to the edge of the bed and a rapidly approaching orgasm. “Are you close?”
“Yes, yes, yes.” I clawed at the bedding, yanking the sheets off the mattress, giving him my ass to claim over and over with stronger and stronger rhythmic thrusts. He shimmied up over me further, losing some depth but giving him more room to wedge his arm under me. His fingers crushed my cockhead then gripped my dick tightly.
“Fuck my hand,” he growled out, rocking his dick into me with a frenetic pace that rammed my hips forward, his pace setting mine. I blew apart with a grunt and a rush of electricity dancing up my spine. Hot, wet spunk coated his hand. He fucked me hard and fast, his release coming a moment after mine. Splayed out under him I felt his cock kicking inside me, the tremors rolling through his big body setting off another dozen rounds of cum oozing out of me.
We lay there huffing and slick with sweat, my belly covered with cum. The covers balled up atop my head, his weight slowly flattening me. His lips found the thumping pulse in my neck then he slipped off to the side, my ass clenched to try to hold onto his still hard dick to no avail. My limbs were not functioning so I just laid there, well and truly fucked, and enjoyed the soft hum of sensation still snapping along my synapses. He padded into the bathroom, the flush of the toilet and the splash of water trickling into the fuzzy nap mode my brain was settling into.
“Here, roll over.” His tender words roused me from the thick, sleepy place I’d drifted off to. I moved to my back, smiling at the warm cloth moving over my stomach.
“You’re a nice, nice man.” I sighed dreamily, curling into him when he eased me up and off the dirty duvet. We slipped under the sheets and woven white blanket, our body heat warming the coverings perfectly. He pulled me close, his fingers moving through the knotted mass of my hair and told me stories of his days at his school paper, secreting away with other aspiring correspondents, trying to find dirt on the mayor or the head of the sanitation department.
“Sadly, there was no trash to be found, not even in the sanitation department,” he said with a dramatic flair that caused me to laugh aloud.
“I really like you.” I chuckled softly, stole a kiss, and fell asleep to his sweetly whispered reply of ‘I really like you too.’
Sleep was rich and uninterrupted. I came awake slowly. The room darkened and the bed empty, the aroma of coffee in the air. Yawning widely, I untangled my legs from the bedding, used the bathroom, washed my hands, and dumped a few cups of water on my head. Pulling my fingers through the damp mat, I went in search of clothing after tossing the curtains wide. The sun was up and melting the fine lacy frost patterns on the window. Finding my briefs by the foot of the bed I stepped into them and went in search of Layne and that coffee I smelled.
He was stretched out on the sofa, wearing joggers and a tank top, reading a newspaper. Let me repeat that. Reading a newspaper. A real one. Made out of paper. My dick got hard at the sight of all that sexy man with his nose buried in The Washington Post.
His deep blue eyes lifted from the news of the world to me. I grew hot under the open appreciation in his gaze. He lowered the paper then called me over wi
th a soft jerk of his head. I hustled over, climbed in between his long legs, and settled my back against his chest.
“If you have newsprint on your fingers I just might have to drop to my knees and suck you off,” I teased, pulling the national news section from his fingers and inspecting them. “Oh my, look at that. Ink. Guess I’ll have to suck your dick now.”
“Well, if you must,” he replied, letting the paper slither from his fingers to the carpet. I wiggled around until I was lying on him then grabbed a long, hot kiss before I began kissing and nibbling my way downward. When my knees hit the end of the sofa, my lips landed on the ridge of his erection pushing against his pants. I mouthed the hard length of him through the fleece, rubbing my face against his dick as he gyrated and made soft, gruff sounds of pleasure.
“Let this be a reminder of what happens when you read a newspaper,” I said before grabbing the elastic waist of his pants with my teeth and jerking them downward. The top of his prick appeared. I nosed my way down into his pants just enough to get my lips over his cockhead. He grunted and twitched, his hand coming to my hair. I sucked hard on the end of him, pressing the tip of my tongue into the slit then burrowed down further, using my jaw to edge my way down his shaft until I had most of him down my throat. He bucked up, and I choked.
“Sorry, sorry, fuck that’s the sexiest thing I’ve seen in years,” he huffed, his hand gliding into my damp kinky hair. “Seeing your lips stretched around my dick is hotter than hell. Suck the head. Hard, yes, yes, just like that.”
I bobbed up and down, giving attention to the soft red head of his cock until he arched up and shot down my throat. Cum coated my tongue and lips, ran down my chin, and yet he kept coming. I swallowed and sighed, easing off his dick to lick up each small spurt.