eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of thi...
Author: Haldeman-Time Matthew
eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work. This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. Samhain Publishing, Ltd. 512 Forest Lake Drive Warner Robins, Georgia 31093 Hot Weather Copyright © 2007 by Matthew Haldeman-Time Cover by Scott Carpenter ISBN: 1-59998-650-7 www.samhainpublishing.com All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: October 2007
Hot Weather Matthew Haldeman-Time
Dedication This story is dedicated to everyone who found me on-line and said, "Hey, you should get published." Apparently, someone out there agrees with you. Thanks.
Chapter One The streets were deserted. Enridge wasn't a ghost town, but it was a small town, and a college town. Now that all of the students had fled for the summer, the few residents who remained were safely tucked within their air-conditioned homes and offices, leaving the streets empty and broiling. The "empty" part was unusual, but the "broiling" was what had John's attention. The word "sweltering" was on his mind, too. His walk slowing as the oppressive heat took its toll, he tried to think of ice cream, ice cubes, iced tea, icicles, cold, refreshing— "Aaahhh…" Moaning in heartfelt relief, John swayed slightly as he stepped inside the blessedly cool diner, his knees weakening as crisp, refreshing air caressed his sweaty, overheated body. He didn't even feel shame at having made that noise aloud. In this deserted town, who was there to hear him? "Feel better?" The amused voice was far too perky for this kind of weather. John looked around and found the diner's only other visible occupant, a blond guy about his age with a wide smile and gleaming green eyes. Notepad, short white apron: "You work here?" "I do." The waiter leaned forward and rested his arms on the countertop, still smiling. "What can I get for you?" "Water." John wished he could undress and let the air conditioner's breeze ripple across his naked flesh. "Cold water. With ice. Nice, cold ice." Grinning, filling a glass, the waiter asked, "Hot out there?" "Hot?" John repeated, astonished. "Hot?! It's a sauna out there! It's a steam bath! The sun's so bright, I got sunburned through my clothes, and the air's so thick with humidity, I'm collecting water in my lungs." "So"—another grin as he set the glass on the counter—"it's hot." John gulped down the water, draining the glass and licking one of the ice cubes into his mouth, sucking on it and maybe moaning again. He needed a bath. A nice, cool bath. And clothes that weren't plastered to him with sweat. And something to eat, because he was starving. www.samhainpublishing.com
Matthew Haldeman-Time
"Have a seat." The waiter dropped a plastic-coated menu onto the counter. "Order something. Stay a while." Stay a while? He wanted to stay forever, or at least until winter came. The idea of going back into that blistering heat was too hideous to contemplate. He'd have to leave the diner too soon, to return to work, but the thought made him cringe, made him silently whimper in resistance. He slid onto one of the stools at the counter, committing himself to this chilled oasis in the middle of his summer's hell. Across the counter, the waiter leaned down beside him, casual and friendly. "What're you in the mood for?" A salad would be light and refreshing, but he was too hungry for that. Picking up the menu, he glanced over it briefly. "I'll have the joe-burger with fries." Craving something cool, he added, "And ice cream, please. Vanilla." "And to drink?" the waiter asked, eyes bright. He hadn't written down a word, hadn't jotted a note of John's order. "Lemonade, thanks." "Sure." Not moving, he raised his voice and called, "You got that?" "Got it!" a deep voice replied from, it seemed, somewhere behind him in the kitchen. The waiter grinned at John. "That's Joe." The waiter had a charming smile and the kind of long, lean body that John liked. "Creator of the joe-burger?" he guessed. A slow wink. "You're quick, I like that," the waiter murmured, as he lazily twisted his rangy form into an upright position. While he walked away, moving around behind the counter with easy familiarity, John eyed his masculine, vaguely athletic body. His pale jeans were too baggy for John to get a good glimpse of his ass, although apparently he was wearing red boxers. His dark blue T-shirt was free of patterns or logos, and beneath it, his torso was long and slender. When the waiter returned with John's drink and a friendly, "There you go," he relaxed against the counter again. Finally pulling out a pad, he began to write John's order across the first sheet, in sturdy outlines of block letters. The lemonade was cool and too sweet, which was just what John had wanted. Licking his lips, he decided to start conversation. With the entire diner available, the waiter had decided to post himself directly to John's right, leaning so close that John could see the tiny indentation in his earlobe where an earring should be. He was very cute, and even if he wasn't gay or wasn't available or wasn't interested, it couldn't hurt to
www.samhainpublishing.com
pass the time by talking. "Not much business." John figured it was a safe, if obvious, place to begin. "The whole town shuts down for the summer." The waiter's tone was easy and conversational as he continued drawing out each letter of John's order. "We have a few regulars, but mostly it's a matter of swatting flies and biding time." Biding time? John hadn't heard anyone actually say that out loud before. "What's your name?" "Keith." He frowned briefly as his pen left a stray mark across the O in "lemonade". Then, raising his head, he asked, "What's yours?" "Manning," he said automatically. "John," he amended. Blond eyebrows rose as Keith smiled. "Would you like me to call you John or Manning?" "John." It wasn't really worth explaining, but he had time. "My boss calls me by my last name, and my coaches and the other guys on the team did, too, so I'm used to it. But I like being just John sometimes." "Bosses don't tend to care for personal preferences," Keith acknowledged. "Which team are you talking about?" A quick, assessing glance was followed by an appreciative grin. John felt himself grinning back, pleasantly warm from Keith's approving smile. "I'm guessing football." "Running back. I played for ESU." "Really?" Keith set aside his pen and committed his full attention, arms crossed on the countertop. "When did you graduate?" "Last year." Keith looked really close to his age, but not quite. A light in his eyes said that he'd been a teenager only months ago. He was definitely college age, but a student, or a townie? "Are you in school?" "I managed to escape my sophomore year alive," Keith said, "and I'll be back in a few months for my junior year. But as far as I'm concerned, this summer is my welldeserved respite, and I'm going to fritter away every precious second of it doing as little as possible." Well-deserved respite? Fritter away? "What's your major?" "Ah ah ah." Keith tapped at John's arm with his pen. "I'm not going to waste my time away from school talking about school. I've spent two solid years living and breathing that beautiful garbage, and my brain and I are taking a hard-earned break." A bell dinged. "Food!" Joe's deep voice called. www.samhainpublishing.com
"Thanks." Keith straightened and loped over to retrieve a white plate. Returning, he set the plate down in front of John. "You need anything else?" "No, this looks great." Slathering ketchup over everything first, he took a hearty bite. The burger wasn't spectacular, but it was hot and fresh and satisfying, and after he swallowed, he called, "Thanks, Joe." "Welcome!" was his reply. Grinning, Keith leaned down beside him again. "You graduated a year ago, and you're still hanging around?" "I got a job," John said between bites. "Walker and Lindstrom." "Corporate." Keith propped his chin on his hand and regarded John with curious eyes. "Where's your coat and tie?" "Back at the office. I took them off before I came out here." "To better your chances of surviving the heat?" Keith asked. "Smart move." He'd rolled up his shirtsleeves, too, but he wished he could take the damned shirt off entirely. And his socks and shoes, too. "You must love getting to spend your summer in here." "In the air conditioning?" Sighing, Keith almost seemed to melt, sliding down the side of the counter until only his face was visible as he crouched on the other side. "While all of my friends are off frolicking on the beach and surfing on the coast and cramming my inbox full of e-mail about suntans and bikinis and sex in the sand?" Gripped with envy—that had been his life, once!—John was caught by Keith's mournful sigh. Hoping to comfort, he said, "All of your friends can't be at the beach." "No, they're not." Another dismal sigh. "The rest of them are backpacking through Europe." Damn. "Then what are you still doing here?" Keith's expression was suddenly amused. "What am I doing in this dead town? The same thing you are. Getting paid." Rising, he explained, "Since a college education isn't free, I'm saving up for tuition. I worked here all last semester, and when I was offered full-time hours for the summer, I decided to take it. The minimal work soothes my tired brain." "Work," John decreed, "sucks." Laughing, Keith poured him some more lemonade. "Working and going to school at the same time sucks twice as much. This is relaxing, in comparison. Or were you one of those lucky kids who didn't have to pay their own tuition?" 8
"Scholarship," John admitted. "That's why I came here in the first place." "Oh, you're one of those guys." Keith's eyes sparkled. "Did we get our money out of you?" Opening his mouth to drop his stats, John hesitated. "How much do you know about football?" "It's the one with the puck and the goalie?" John quickly swallowed so that he could laugh. "Then yes, trust me, you got your tax dollars back." "Good." Keith draped himself across the counter again. "Where'd you come from originally, and why'd you stay here?" As he devoured his lunch, John explained his background: his home in North Dakota, his family's financial struggles, his genuine athletic talent. As he savored his vanilla ice cream, he told Keith that while he'd done well in his college ball career, he didn't possess the necessary drive to pursue it any further. His current goal was to work as an ad exec, but at the moment, he was a simple administrative assistant with pathetic dreams of working his way up through the company. "I'm good at what I do, but answering phones isn't a real challenge." "This isn't your regular lunch break, is it?" "Two thirty to three thirty, yeah," John said. "Marge says that she 'can't possibly spare me' at any other time. Normally, I eat over on Maple, but my car's in the shop, and I couldn't drive today, so I walked into the closest place I could find." "Joe and I appreciate the compliment. Did you say three thirty?" "Yeah, I—" Suddenly, John felt doom begin to spiral around him. He checked his watch and, "Shit!" "You'd better get going." Keith headed for the cash register. "I'd push it, but if I clock in late, Marge calls me into her office to 'discuss my commitment to the company'." Rolling his eyes, he pulled out his wallet. "Sounds like overkill," Keith said. "It's easier to get through when I tune her out and think about what she'd say if I brought up her frequent and suspiciously long closed-door meetings with Bob from accounting." Chuckling, Keith accepted the bill John handed him. "Good for Bob." "Keep the change." John pocketed his wallet. Summoning his strength, he faced the doors…and balked. www.samhainpublishing.com
"It's just a heat wave. How old were you when you started playing football?" What did that have to do with anything? "Eight." Keith snorted. "You're telling me that after fifteen years of suffering systematic physical abuse, you're afraid of a little heat? Didn't you guys practice in the summer before school started or something?" "I told you that I had athletic prowess. I didn't say anything about being a masochist." Steeling himself, he took a deep breath and headed for the doors. "Bye-bye, now," Keith called after him. "Come back again sometime, big tipper!" John was laughing when he stepped outside.
Chapter Two The laughter didn't last, as he trudged back toward the office, but the farther he got from the diner—what had it been called? Anna's?—the more fond he grew of it. It had been nice and clean with good food. Air conditioning. A cute, friendly waiter. Ice cream. Lemonade. Heaven. Once he was back in the frigid office, he clocked in, then positioned himself under one of the air vents for a minute to cool down. After stopping by the men's room to take a leak and wipe off sweat, he went to his desk and, hating every second of it, rolled down his shirtsleeves, buttoned his cuffs, buttoned his shirt up to the neck and slid on his tie. None of his friends wore a tie to work. Half of them dressed in jeans and sneakers. Pete and Craig were in the fucking NFL. That didn't even count as a job. They had to bust their asses in practice and sit on the bench during games, but, shit, they were in the NFL. What was John doing? Answering phones and slowly being strangled by his own tie. It was summer! Summer was supposed to be fun. Summer was about sunshine and freedom, not work and drudgery. What had happened? When he'd been a kid, he'd spent his summers playing, running around outside, wrestling on the grass, riding his bike everywhere, going to the pool. Summer had been the best time of the year, when hours stretched on forever and he could spend all day however he wanted, not going home until his mom called for him from the back porch. Then, he'd become a teenager, and summer had meant parties, and beer, and making out with Mark Wilson in Huey Stevenson's bathroom. And in Josh Taylor's kitchen. And in Beth Hooper's backseat. Once he'd gone to college, summer had meant trips to the beach. He'd spent his days sleeping late, walking the beach, chatting people up to find out where the next good party was. He'd help his friends pick up hot girls, they'd help him pick up hot guys, everybody would enjoy drunken, casual sex, and the next morning he'd wake up with sand in his hair, loving his life. No one had warned him. www.samhainpublishing.com
He'd known that growing up meant changing, meant adapting, meant more responsibilities, but he hadn't realized that it would mean leaving summer behind. This wasn't summer. This was hot, muggy, sticky weather, but it wasn't summer. There was no fun, no freedom, no break, no vacation. This was more of the same goddamned thing he'd been doing all year with no reprieve. Keith was having summer. Keith was on summer break, between semesters, getting ready to head back to classes in the fall. Keith had this summer to enjoy, and another summer ahead. And all of Keith's friends, they were really having summer. Maybe that was why John's boss was such a bitch sometimes. They'd taken her summer away, too. Who could really ever get over that loss of freedom? That loss of a break from drudgery and responsibility? Summer was supposed to mean playing outside until the sun went down, then putting off bedtime to chase fireflies. No more fireflies. No more grass stains. No more bike races. No more sandy feet. No more freedom. No more summer. Sighing, John slumped in his chair. He was so busy mourning summer, he didn't even bother to straighten up when Marge walked past. "Something wrong?" she asked him sharply. "Is there something that I can help you with, Manning?" Wondering if she could understand, he asked, "Don't you miss summer?" With a snort, she walked on to her office. "I plan to spend Sunday afternoon sipping margaritas by my pool. And no"—a warning look over her shoulder—"you're not invited." As the door to Marge's office closed, John groaned. Maybe it was just him. Everyone younger than he was still had summer, and apparently even Marge could find her own kind of summer. Maybe he was the only person without one. How was he supposed to create one? He didn't have a pool. Maybe he could find a public one off-campus. Not an indoor one in a gym, either, but a real pool, with the pavement too hot under his feet and the sun too bright overhead. Maybe there would be a cute lifeguard. Cute like Keith. Keith was cute, in a lithe, casual, sexy way. He had to look even better without clothes. He didn't seem very inhibited, which was a huge turn-on. And he seemed pretty consistently happy; he almost never stopped smiling. Lunch had been pretty great. John wanted to go there again. But wouldn't that be too obvious? He'd been the diner's only patron the whole time. If he walked right back in, the very next afternoon, it would be like broadcasting the fact that he was interested. 12
Besides, he couldn't recreate the same scene. It would never be as good again as it had been this first time. Keith would be less interesting, the food wouldn't be as good, Keith wouldn't be as attentive. Something would go wrong. He should just find somewhere else to eat. Or go back sometime next week, so there'd be less emphasis on his return. Without his car, he didn't have a lot of options. But he could find something. Still, thoughts of Keith, of green eyes, of lemonade and ice cream, lingered. And, the next afternoon, as lunchtime rolled around, John wavered in his determination not to go. Keith was used to repeat business. Hadn't he said something about regular customers? He wouldn't see anything unusual in John's reappearance. It wasn't like John required special, personal attention. He just wanted food. He wouldn't even sit at the counter. He'd find a booth along the wall. Yeah, he was interested in Keith, but he wasn't going to be obvious about it. Or so he told himself, as he rolled up his sleeves and dropped his tie into his desk drawer. Then he stepped outside, directly into an oppressive wall of heat.
Chapter Three By the time John reached the diner—which turned out to be named Annie's—he longed for Keith's welcoming, green eyes. He wanted icy water and Keith's friendly conversation. Just as he stepped inside, as the blast of cool air hit him, something else hit him, too: Keith had another customer. A petite woman in her thirties, giggling at Keith, who was lounging on the counter and drawing circles in the air with his pen. As soon as John decided to go, Keith looked up and spotted him. A smile broke across Keith's face, and he straightened. "John Manning, as I live and breathe. Come on in and take yourself a seat. Joe, John's here!" "Johnny!" a deep voice called in greeting. "Hey, Joe," John called back, wondering if Keith greeted all customers this way. Not necessarily, judging by the woman's renewed laughter. "Yep." Keith checked the clock on the wall. "It's about that time," he told the woman in a knowing, confiding way. "John's lunch break." Already, he was pouring a fresh glass of water and setting it on the counter. "What'll it be today?" he asked, his eyes bright and curious. "That burger was pretty good." John took the water and a seat at the counter. "Lemonade, ice cream? Why don't you mix it up a bit?" he suggested. "Throw in some coleslaw or something." "Coleslaw sounds okay." It did, if it was cool and creamy. "You got that?" Keith called back to Joe. "Got it!" Joe replied. "I'd better be getting back to the girls." The woman set down a few dollars and counted out some change. "I still don't trust Lisa on her own over there." "Tell Kelly to come around here sometime," Keith said. "She'll never go anywhere but the deli as long as that guy over there keeps winking at her and slipping her extra toppings for free." 14
"Hey, I can wink," Keith argued. "I winked at you just yesterday." Now he turned to John for backup. "Didn't I?" John hadn't expected Keith to remember that. Doing it in the first place could have been just part of Keith's personality; bringing it up after the fact was flirting. "He did," he told the woman. "Nice and slow. I came right back here today, and he didn't even give me free food." "Now that," Keith said firmly, "is valuable customer loyalty." Chuckling, the woman slid off of the stool, slipping her purse over her shoulder. "I'll bring her by next week, as soon as I can drag her away from her deli-style lover." "Tell her that Joe's making coffee cake again," Keith said, as she walked toward the door. "That'll get her in here." "I will," the woman called, and the door swung shut after her. "Deli boy has nothing on Joe's coffee cake." Keith dropped money into the cash register and cleared the remains of her meal. "He winks, but does he have nutmeg and a nice crumbly topping?" "Probably not," John said, amused. "Damned right." After wiping down the counter, Keith brought a glass of lemonade and leaned on the counter, resting his weight on one elbow, starting to sketch out the block letters of John's order. "So." He glanced at John out of the corner of one eye with a slow, slyly appreciative smirk. "You look like you work out." That was such unsubtle flirtation, John laughed aloud. "I do," he admitted, nudging his glass aside and shifting an inch closer. "I'm in the gym every day before work." "Five days a week?" Keith asked, eyebrows rising. "Seven. I go on weekends, too." With a shrug, he explained, "There isn't much to do in this town." Licking his lips, Keith went back to drawing. "What about you?" John wanted to know more about him. "You look pretty fit." "Genetics. Metabolism. Sit-ups. I'm not really a gym kind of guy. I prefer to do my sweating and grunting in private." Keith shaded in a vowel on his pad. "You got a boyfriend?" "No." Warmth tingled and spread upward from his stomach. And downward. Definitely down. "You?" "No." A flirtatious grin. "Girlfriend?" Cute. "No. You?" www.samhainpublishing.com
"Not since second grade." He shaded in another letter, then looked up again. "So tell me what a running back does." "I carried the ball a lot. Ran around and tried not to get tackled." "You got to hold the ball? I thought that only important people got to hold the ball. Like the quarterback, or the little kicker guy." "Everyone on the team is important," John said, as a bell dinged and Joe called, "Food!" "Okay." Keith walked over to retrieve John's plate, setting his lunch down before him. "So if they're all important, why were you a running back and not something else?" "Because that's what I'm good at. I'm fast, I'm strong and I have good hands." Taking the ketchup that Keith set in front of him, he hesitated. "If you really want to know, I can explain what the different positions are." "Can you draw me a diagram with lots of O's and X's?" "I've had enough of that for a lifetime. What about"—John glanced around for inspiration—"salt and pepper shakers?" After Keith rounded up enough shakers, John lined them up to face off against each other. He'd spent so many years with the terms and mindset and concepts firmly lodged in his brain, it surprised him how little Keith knew, and how quickly Keith picked it up. In the beginning, Keith had basic questions ("Which ones are the guys built like refrigerators?"), but then they moved on to more specific points ("You're a running back and a halfback, and a fullback is a running back, too, but you're not a fullback? Then what the hell's a tailback?"), and by the end of his explanation, his plate was empty and Keith was directly quizzing him ("What's a blitz? What was your number? How many concussions have you had?"). He'd never told his mother the actual number of concussions, so he saw no reason to be honest with Keith about it. While he ate his ice cream, he told Keith some of his stories. Not the ones full of jargon, like his glory plays; not the gory ones about pain and blood and broken bones; not the after-party ones full of drunken idiocy and vomit. He just told his good stories, about his high school coach taking them to meet the Vikings, about getting courted by ESU, and about the time he and Pete and Craig had filled Sid Rafferty's bag with live frogs. "Where'd you even get that many frogs?" Keith demanded, still on the floor where he'd collapsed in laughter. "If we didn't tell Sid, I can't tell you," John said, grinning. Checking the time, he wished that he didn't have to go. "Guess I'd better get out of here." 16
"After all of that education, I feel like I should be paying you." Keith got to his feet. "Hey!" Suddenly looking injured, he poked at John's chest. "You made me learn. I'm on vacation and you made me learn something." "Sorry." John chuckled and turned aside as Keith poked him a few more times on the arm. "Sorry! I didn't mean it. It all just slipped out. I won't teach you anything else, I promise." "You'd better not," Keith warned, pointing at John threateningly. Then he laughed. "Okay, pay me and get out. We wouldn't want the boss lady to get pissed." "No, we wouldn't," John agreed, pulling out his wallet. He already wanted to come back tomorrow, but he asked, "You don't work here every day, do you?" "I'm off on Saturdays and Sundays." Keith opened the register. "I work Monday through Friday, nine to five thirty with a half-hour break." That raised an interesting question. "When you're on break, who's out here?" "Out here tending to customers?" Keith grinned. "Joe." Really? John glanced past Keith toward the kitchen. "You don't do that during the lunch rush, do you?" "I'd never do that to Joe." Keith pretended to be offended by the very idea. "The man has his own burger named after him." Keith tried to hand over John's change, but John said, "Keep that. And split it with Joe." He walked toward the door. "He deserves it." On his way back to work, John felt a newly restored confidence to his step. Talking about football had really put him in his element, and it had reminded him of how much he'd accomplished. He'd been a good player. Even his coaches had said so, and getting a compliment out of them was like pulling teeth from a riled bear. He'd been in his prime then. What he'd forgotten, though, was just how recent his prime had been. He was practically still in it. Maybe he wasn't out on the field anymore, but he was a contender. He was just in a different game. Several games, actually. The game of flirtation, sex and picking up guys, well, he hadn't scored with Keith yet, but he was definitely on the field. As for the business game, the ad game, he was still on the bench. He just needed more practice. A little experience, a little time, he'd get out there. After he clocked in, when he stopped by the men's room to mop up sweat, he took a second to lift his shirt and yeah, oh, baby. Yeah. That was it. He still had it. He had all of it. www.samhainpublishing.com
A good look at this, and Keith just might pass him the ball.
Chapter Four The next day, John brought an extra T-shirt to work. He felt so good about himself that he put forth extra effort and actually got Marge to say, "Good," which was as satisfying as a standing ovation, considering the source. When he clocked out for lunch, he changed into his T-shirt. It was pale blue, and it looked like shit with his pants and shoes, but when he stepped outside and felt the blazing heat wrap its clinging arms around him, he was glad he'd changed. "Johnny Manning!" Keith was alone at the counter and happy to see him. An appreciative glance, a flirtatious wink. "Don't you look good. Joe, our boy's here." "Got it!" Joe called. "Casual Friday taking place on Wednesdays now?" Keith got him a glass of water as he took a seat. "Tired of sweating through my shirt on the walk here." This was just what he'd needed. Keith's smile was as refreshing as the cool water. Keith poured him a glass of lemonade. "You know, the term 'heat wave' implies an ebb and flow." "So far, I've just noticed a whole lot of flow, and not much ebb," John said. "Your friends at the beach must be loving it." "My friends at the beach spend twenty-three hours and forty-five minutes of every day having more fun than a gym bag full of frogs." "Okay." John took the hint. "What do they do for the other fifteen minutes?" "They e-mail me to tell me how much fun they're having." Shaking his head with a sigh, Keith slouched over the counter, so close to John that their elbows touched. Since Keith made no effort to move away, John didn't, either, and their skin-to-skin contact remained. "You should read the junk they send me. They're having so much fun, they have such fantastic tans, they met the sexiest little group of surfers, they got drunk beside a bonfire on the beach." "And they're getting laid," John guessed. www.samhainpublishing.com
"A lot." Propping his chin on his palm, Keith studied John. "I console myself with the fact that they're getting sand in uncomfortable places." "And getting wicked sunburns in uncomfortable places. Trust me." A speculative lift of Keith's eyebrows, an intrigued curve of his lips. "You have a few drunk-beside-the-bonfire stories, don't you?" "A few," he hedged, drinking lemonade to avoid talking. "You can tell me." Keith's eyes were bright with curiosity, the backs of his fingers tapping John's arm. "Go ahead. What's your poison?" "My poison?" John repeated. He hadn't heard it phrased that way in a while. "Beer." Keith laughed. "You have a highly refined palate, I see. And do you prefer any particular kind?" "No, just beer. After the first few, they all taste the same." He didn't want to discuss all of the fun yet stupid things he'd done while drunk. "What's your poison?" "Wine coolers. Simple, low maintenance, no mixing or stirring involved." "You can't even taste the alcohol in those. You might as well be drinking fruit punch." "Exactly. Now tell me about some of your drunken misadventures." "I'll tell you one, if you tell me one." A few seconds of speculation in Keith's gaze, and then he straightened, slapping one hand down on the counter and grinning. "Okay. Inebriated shenanigans. Last semester, Rob and Lisa got me liquored up and took me to a bar. A little country and western place over in"—he gestured vaguely to one side—"Tonoma or somewhere, about forty-five minutes away. While Lisa was busy picking up a cowboy, Rob and I tried to keep up with everyone on the dance floor. We were too drunk to drive home, so we got a room, and while Lisa and the cowboy played bucking bronco, Rob and I had"—he coughed into his fist—"fun in the bathroom. I woke up just in time to vomit, and I still know the moves to a couple line dances." Interesting. Having fucked in a few bathrooms before, John knew how hot that could be. "Where's Rob now?" "Backpacking through Europe with his brand-new Scandinavian lover. It's all very romantic." Lounging against the counter again, he tapped at John's shoulder. "Your turn," he murmured with an expectant smile. Unreasonably warm despite the air conditioning, John sorted through his disarrayed memories, trying to find something appropriate. "Most of my stories are…" Not sure how 20
to describe them, he shrugged. "I go to a party, I get drunk, I laugh my ass off, I get laid, I fall asleep somewhere." "There's a certain sameness to them," Keith interpreted. "At least there's frequent sex," he added brightly. "Mostly blowjobs from cheerleaders." Looking puzzled, Keith hesitated, then asked, "Would those leaders of cheer be male, or female?" He'd brought it up; he might as well be honest. "Both. Either. Female, usually, because there are more of them." Keith's eyebrows rose. "Then you're bisexual?" "No, I'm gay. I just like getting head." Keith pondered the point for a moment. "Well, I can't fault you for that." He regarded John in silence for another minute, and John was beginning to get nervous, like certain things had been better left unsaid, when Keith asked, "No drunken line dancing?" "I don't line dance. I don't really dance, period." Keith grinned. "Not even after you score a touchdown?" John couldn't believe this. "You don't even know what a placekicker's called, but you know about celebrating in the end zone?" "Do you have a touchdown dance?" Keith asked. "We're not allowed to do that. It's not good sportsmanship." Another grin. Keith nudged him. "Do you have a touchdown dance?" Well… "Yeah," he admitted begrudgingly. He was quick to add, "But I'm not going to show it to you." "Oh, come on," Keith urged, laughing. "I'll bet it looks great. Very festive and selfcongratulatory, and also quite sportsmanlike." The question wouldn't wait. "You're an English major, aren't you?" "Hey!" Immediately retreating, Keith swatted at him with a dishcloth. "Leave my brain alone. It's resting." "Sorry, sorry." He leaned away, hands up to display his surrender. "I didn't mean it, I take it back." "You'd better," Keith muttered, but he wasn't mad at all. Ding! "Food!" "Thanks, Joe." Keith retrieved John's plate. www.samhainpublishing.com
Joe-burger, onion rings and potato salad. "Thanks, Joe," John called. "This looks great." "So." Keith gave him ketchup and silverware. "Tell me more about your job." "At Walker and Lindstrom?" There wasn't much to tell. "I have my own desk." "Not a cubicle?" "God, no, that would make me claustrophobic. Just a desk. My own computer." "Really? Give me the specs." "The specs?" he repeated. "I don't know. It has a flat-screen monitor." "Oh, sweet." For the first time, Keith leaned down on his left side instead of his right. It made him feel off balance for a minute. "How big?" "About…I don't know, like this." He sketched it in the air. "Oh, man, they're spoiling you." There was a trace of envy in Keith's tone. "You like computers?" John asked, wanting to learn more about him. "Some of my best friends are computers. The ones who haven't run off to the beach with sexy, sandy surfers, anyway. Mine's not that great, it's just," and then he ran off a list of numbers and letters that sounded familiar but John couldn't exactly place fast enough. "I'm looking for an upgrade, though. Maybe I'll scrape together something for Christmas." Keith was into computers. John hadn't known that about him. Really, John barely knew anything about him. This was a whole new side of him, unexplored. "You have a site and a blog," he guessed. "And you—" What was it called? "You write code." "I'm not a programmer," Keith said with a self-effacing gesture. "But yeah, I've been known to write a little code. I don't have a site of my own—I wouldn't know what to put on it—but I troubleshoot for my friends. Hey." Keith gave him a fake-irritated, you-can't-get-away-with-that look. "We're supposed to be talking about your job, not my side ventures. What do you do besides answer phones?" "There are schedules and spreadsheets. Copying, faxing, e-mail. Coffee. Sometimes I read memos." "Write memos?" He snorted. "No, that's for the big boys. I'm not authorized for that." Keith sighed. "Do you at least have a key to the supply room?" "It's a closet, and, yeah, I have my very own key. I claimed a box of staples last week." A proud grin. "That's my boy." 22
He really was close enough for John to kiss him. He almost always was. "Sometimes I sit in on meetings. I take notes and file them." Those weren't the most fascinating statements ever to come out of John's mouth, but the engaged, amused expression on Keith's face was like a conversational reward. In general, Keith seemed easily entertained and positive. His near-constant smile made everything he said come across as goodnatured. He really seemed to enjoy whatever was happening, no matter what it was. He had fun and didn't take the world too seriously. "Why don't you have a boyfriend?" "Why don't you?" Keith countered quickly, like it was a friendly challenge. "There's no one in this town but you, me, my boss and Joe. I can't date someone I work with, and no one at the gym is interesting." He'd tried, but no one had been worth a follow-up. "You have an entire college campus." "I had a few…prospects, toward the end of the semester," Keith admitted, shifting lazily, which drew John's attention down his long, lanky body. "But no one's truly captivated me. I'm not saying that I'm looking for the love of my life right at this instant, but there's casual sex and then there's a string of one-night stands, and I like my sex a little less casual, these days. Maybe it's the hopeless romantic in me. I read too much— what?" He was wearing green boxers today. A soft, pale, washed-out green nothing like the brilliant gleam of his eyes, but— "Naughty, naughty," Keith murmured, straightening to tug his pants up and his shirt down. "No fair looking at mine without showing me yours." A cough, and he raised his voice. "Good afternoon, Mr. Riggins!" A customer. A customer with really bad timing. John scowled and went ahead and ate his onion rings. It wasn't like he'd need fresh breath now. An old man, Mr. Riggins shuffled his way over to the first booth by the door. "Good afternoon, Kevin." He slowly lowered himself onto the bench. "It's good to see you, sir." Keith came around from behind the counter, order pad tucked neatly into his apron, dishtowel in hand. "How's the little one?" John watched over his shoulder as they conversed. Damn, that was a nice body. Long, lean, it would fit just right in his hands. Keith would look great stretched under him, writhing a little bit, moaning, asking him for more. The idea was getting him hot, and he knew that Keith was down for it, too. All of that flirting, all of that touching; there was definitely come-and-get-it all over Keith's signals. And John was ready to get it.
Chapter Five Coming back behind the counter, Keith told the unseen Joe, "Tuna on white with some chips and broth for Mr. Riggins," then took over a glass of water. A few more minutes passed, but finally he returned, leaning against but not across the counter. Wiping with the dishcloth at an invisible spot, he asked, "You want some ice cream?" Keeping his voice low, John looked up, trying to meet Keith's eyes. "I'd love some cream." Keith didn't blush or look scandalized. He just took a quiet breath, then made eye contact. "I can't serve that here." It wasn't an outright no. John pushed for more. "There are other places we can go." The tempted, conflicted expression on Keith's face gave John hope. Then it was like Keith made a decision. In a calm, nonjudgmental tone, he asked, "Were you listening to what I said earlier? About casual sex and—" "And you being a hopeless romantic?" "Right. I…I really like you," Keith said, like it was an important point but not a brutal thing to say. "I'm really attracted to you, but I like you, too, and the more I get to know you, the more time I want to spend with you. I don't want to make a big thing out of this, but it seems like if we"—he coughed—"go too fast all of a sudden right now, it'll mess things up. If we wait, not forever, just for a week or so, it'll be better pacing. And pacing is everything." "You're giving me a yes-but-not-now? You're saying yes and still putting me off?" John couldn't believe this. Oh, God, hell. "I hate you." "You don't seem to mean that," Keith said, with an amused, perplexed smile. "At all." "I freaking—of course I don't mean it. Give me the ice cream, give me—no, give me a whole sundae. You owe me that much for this yes-but-no crap, and make it to go, because I'm going to need a few extra minutes alone in the men's room before I get back to work, after this—yes-but-not-now?!" "You're used to getting an immediate yes without conditions." 24
"I look like this and I can string a coherent sentence together. I was one of the most celebrated players on the field, and…" And now Keith was laughing at him. "You'd better not keep me waiting for too long," he warned. Still chuckling, Keith made a visible effort to pull himself together. "You don't want to take a sundae out in that heat," he said, coaxingly. "I'll make it for you right now, and you'll have enough time to finish it before you go." Moving over to the ice cream machine, he asked, with a sweet smile, "Hot fudge or caramel?" "Caramel." He wanted to lick it off of Keith's body, tracing the drizzles of it across his lean, firm chest, down that long torso, sucking sweet, thick caramel from his dick. "With extra whipped cream." Making an indecipherable noise—it sounded half appreciative, and half like "oh, God, don't do this to me in public"—Keith made the sundae. Carrying it over to John, he set it down carefully. "One sundae, plenty of caramel, loads of whipped cream and a sweet little cherry on top, just for my favorite customer." Catching Keith's wrist before his hand could retreat, John brought it close to the sundae and, "Oops." "Shit," Keith whispered, maybe to himself. His index finger white with cream, he suddenly stopped trying to withdraw. Slowly, deliberately, and licking his lips with anticipation all the while, John guided Keith's hand near, bringing it to his mouth. Curling his tongue around Keith's finger, he sucked it into his mouth and— Keith whimpered. —nursed it, licking it clean, his teeth gently grazing the sensitive tip. Another whimper, helpless, like Keith just couldn't hold the tiny noise back. Gradually releasing it, John sat back. Looking up, he smiled innocently. "Can I get a spoon?" Keith's hand hovered there in the air, finger wet. Suddenly he dropped it back to his side and cleared his throat. "Yeah, right, spoon." He fumbled for one without looking, gaze still on John. "So you're not, uh, too, ah, macho to…help a teammate out, return the cheerleaders' favor…" Was that what Keith thought? John grinned, taking the spoon from Keith's trembling hand. "I'm exactly macho enough. The thing about a halfback is, he has to be versatile. I run, I block, I'm a great receiver, and sometimes, if you're lucky, I'll even throw a pass." There was a long moment of silence, when Keith simply stared at him, slowly turning red and saying nothing. Then: Ding! "Food!" www.samhainpublishing.com
Snapping back, Keith glared at him. "You've caught me off guard and unprepared by proposing something that I was fantasizing about but not ready to act on, and then you—I think that you just violated some sort of health code. I have other customers to tend to, and I can't even remember my own name when you're sitting there smoldering at me like that, so why don't you take your sundae and go, and I'll see you tomorrow." He liked seeing that he'd flustered Keith, and he had no trouble being kicked out. He knew that he'd be eagerly welcomed back later. "You said—" "Yes, well, I was wrong, and you were right. Take your sundae and get out. You can bring the glass and spoon back tomorrow. You're a good customer, I trust you." "Your favorite customer," John reminded him with a smirk. "I don't know." He slowly, meditatively licked at his spoon. "I think that I'll just eat here." Keith's eyes grew wide and he bit his lip, but before he did, John distinctly heard him whisper, "Porn, it's spoon porn," which was just designed to make John smug all year long. Ding! "Food!" Joe called again. Hearing the bell a second time seemed to clear Keith's mind, at least somewhat. "You," he said firmly, wiping his hands on his apron, "I will see on Thursday." Then he turned away, took a tray to Mr. Riggins, and sat over there. Finishing his sundae, John watched Keith, and fantasized, and got a decent hard-on. Then he left some money on the counter and went back to work. Oh, yeah. He still had it.
Chapter Six As he walked to the office, John felt a silly, dreamy smile spread across his face. It was really good to know that Keith wanted him, that he could turn Keith on, that he could have that kind of effect. He'd definitely thrown Keith off balance, and he'd had fun doing it. Maybe he'd come across a little strong, but Keith had responded to that, so he couldn't regret it. Keith took him seriously enough to want to share more than just hot sex with him, which was flattering, but frustrating. He was ready to have the sex and worry about the rest later. And did he want anything more than sex? Keith was terrific, but it sounded like, despite vague protests to the contrary, Keith wanted a relationship. A relationship was a pretty big commitment, when John just wanted to get laid. But, if he couldn't get laid right away, if his choices were to wait for Keith or to go somewhere else, he'd rather wait. He could already tell, from all of that flirtation and touching, that Keith was closer and closer to caving. Besides, he genuinely liked the guy, and he wanted to get to know Keith better. He wondered how long it would take. He wasn't used to waiting; he was used to making an attempt at sex, and if that attempt didn't work, he just moved on to someone else. It wasn't that he was incapable of taking it slowly, he'd just never bothered to do it before. Keith seemed worth it. Those bright eyes, those easy smiles, that sexy little whimper, yeah. John could wait for that. The weather was hot, he was horny, he was forced to walk or take the bus everywhere he went, and the guy he'd been most attracted to all year was giving him the wait-and-see…and he was happy about it. That night, after he walked home from the bus stop, he let himself into his tiny brick house. After he checked the mail and dumped most of it in the trash, he took the dogs for a walk, came back in for a shower and stuck dinner in the microwave. While that cooked, he checked his e-mail. www.samhainpublishing.com
His sister had sent pictures of her kids playing in the sprinkler, and his buddy Ryan was about to leave for two weeks in Jamaica. Everyone else was having a better summer than he was. "What happened?" he asked the dogs. "I used to play in the sprinkler. I used to go to the beach. Why can't I have summer anymore? Why do I just get hot weather?" One of them, responding to the sound of his voice, nosed inquisitively at his knee and hands. The other ignored him entirely, standing by the microwave, tail wagging. "You get summer every day," he realized. "Every day is summer for you. You never go to school, you never go to work, you just lie around in the sun and go for walks and eat and bark at squirrels and make me carry your shit around in little bags. You have summer in the middle of winter and don't even appreciate it." The microwave beeped. Both dogs immediately sat, on their best behavior, hoping for food. John wanted to be a dog. "You're good boys," he told them. "I'm getting you a sprinkler. Even if I can't have my summer, you can get the most out of yours." The next day, when John entered the diner, he actually stopped and checked his watch for the time. This couldn't be right. "Welcome to Annie's," Keith told him, walking past bearing a heavily loaded tray on one hand. Out of breath but grinning, Keith spared him a wink before carefully unloading plates and bowls onto a table surrounded by old women. John took the tray off of Keith's hands, holding it steady for him. "Convention?" The diner was filled with old people. They were everywhere: at the booths, at the counter, at the tables. They were all well dressed and chattering. "Thanks." Keith set down a last plate. "Let me know if there's anything else that I can get for you," he told the women. "Trip," he said to John, taking the tray back and heading for the counter as the bell dinged and Joe called "Food!" through the busy voices. "The senior citizens' center over on Central goes on a day trip every Thursday. They stop here on the way back, no matter what time it is. They like Joe's cooking and Annie's prices. Isn't that right, Mr. Markham?" he asked the man seated nearest the cash register. "Best peach pie this side of the Mississippi," Mr. Markham declared firmly. "That's good to know." John was taken aback by the man's determined tone. Keith put down the tray and loaded it up again with a fresh set of meals. "You want me to tell Joe you're here? I can get you a table in the back. The counter's full of my best customers." He winked at a pair of women, who laughed. 28
"Do you need help?" "We do have a pretty lively bunch today. But Joe and I can handle it. Go sit down and I'll bring you something." "Are you sure?" John asked. "I'm sure. Stop talking to me so I can get some work done." Ding! "Food!" Joe called. Now Keith was clearly behind and John wasn't afraid to take advantage of that. He grinned. "I won't tell Annie if you don't." Keith hesitated. "You're on your lunch break." "Joe can set aside something for me to take back to the office." Biting his lip, Keith glanced around the diner. "Okay." He met John's eyes again. "But wash your hands first. Then give these nice folks at the counter some refills, and see who else needs what, while I try to get some people fed." "I'm on it." John moved to the sink. After washing his hands, he provided refills at the counter, then walked through the restaurant refilling water and lemonade, iced tea and hot tea, coffee and decaf. All of that time, he was aware of Keith weaving through tables behind him, serving food, chatting pleasantly, flirting and gossiping, flattering and laughing. Once drinks were taken care of, he carried a few trays full of desserts for Keith, then tried his own hand at chatting up the customers at the counter. Before he knew it, Keith was making change and everyone was leaving. "See you next week!" Keith called one last time, and the diner was silent. "You do that every week? Alone?" "Not alone." Keith had already begun to clear tables. "I couldn't do it without Joe." He tossed John a grin. "Want to split some tips?" "Give me some extra fries for free and we'll call it even." Shit. "I'd love to help you clean up—" "I'm sure that you would." Keith chuckled, stacking plates in his bin. "I would," he argued, because he honestly did want to help. "But I kind of have to go." "Oh, to your actual job? Joe, you got any scraps left to feed John?" he called, raising his voice. Two Styrofoam boxes appeared on the ledge. Ding! "Food!" Perfect. John chuckled. "Thanks, Joe." "Get yourself a drink before you go," Keith said. www.samhainpublishing.com
"Thanks." "And don't," Keith warned, steadily cleaning as he talked, long torso stretching over a table as he reached to the far side, "try to pay us. We'll take it out of your tips. Diner policy, right, Joe?" "That's right," Joe agreed, unseen. "Okay." John poured lemonade into a plastic cup and capped it. Adding a straw, he took a five-dollar bill from his pocket and wedged it under someone else's plate. "See you guys tomorrow." "Hey." Leaving the bin behind on a half-cleared table, wiping his hands on his apron, Keith approached as John neared the doors. "Thanks." Keith's gaze went from his eyes, down to his mouth, and back up again. "You were a huge help. I'm sorry that we didn't get a chance to talk, and you didn't get a chance to eat, and I didn't mean for you to get roped into—" "It's okay." If his hands hadn't been full, he would've touched Keith. "I enjoyed it. We'll talk tomorrow." "Okay." Keith's fingertips skimmed across his chest, making him warm, making his skin feel tight, and then a soft kiss brushed his cheek. Taking a step back, cheeks pink, smile nervous, Keith said, "Bye." Hey. "If filling a few glasses of water gets me that, I'll pour for you every day." Relaxing immediately, Keith grinned. "If I worked on that kind of reward system, Joe and I would really know each other far too well by now." Reaching past John and pushing the door open, he added, more seriously now, "I really do appreciate your help today. It made it a lot easier on me. And"—another grin—"more fun. I loved seeing you all bent over Mrs. Jenkins, pouring her tea and asking her if you could get her anything. You're so big and you looked so sweet." "I'm a nice guy," he argued. Keith leaned back against the door, smiling, green eyes soft. "I know." Now things were getting mushy and he was about to have to kiss Keith, but he really had to leave. "I'll see you tomorrow." He'd said it before, at least twice, but he wanted to say it again, to reaffirm it, because he hadn't even left yet but already he wanted to come back. All the way to the office, as he sweated through his clothes and sipped lemonade, he thought about Keith, about helping Keith, and about the senior citizens. Even though Keith had said that he'd made the work easier, he suspected that Keith would have done
well without him and would have enjoyed it. Still, if he'd made things run more smoothly, then he was glad to have been able to help. And, he'd gotten a kiss. A kiss on the cheek, but it had been accompanied by a touch. Keith wanted him. Yesterday, Keith had said that they had to wait, that they had to get to know each other better. Today, Keith had made a simple but direct move. Oh, yeah. That wait-and-see period was getting shorter.
Chapter Seven Back at work, when he got to his desk, John opened the first carton. "Damn." He opened the second. Joe had crammed those things full. A still hot joe-burger, fries, coleslaw, a wrapped chicken salad sandwich for later, and three thick slices of cake. Things were looking up. Maybe the humidity had warped his brain, or maybe the past hour had gone so well that he wanted to spread the wealth, but he went to the break room, took a small paper plate, a plastic fork and a napkin, and left one of the pieces of cake on Marge's desk. That evening, on the way home from work, he switched buses and went to buy the dogs a sprinkler. After he installed it, he sat and ate his chicken salad sandwich and watched them play while the sun set. He really had to kiss Keith before someone else discovered what hidden treasures lurked in that diner. Friday, Marge sent him to lunch half an hour early. Despite the heat, he was so eager to see Keith that he almost sprinted the last block. He shouldn't have bothered. A dozen girls were clustered around the counter, flirting and giggling. They had practically flocked around Keith. He couldn't blame them—Keith was really cute, and really sexy, and practically asked to be crushed on—but he resented them anyway. Half of them looked like they were Keith's age, and the rest were younger. He stood there for a while, watching, trying to decide whether to will the girls away or just walk up and claim Keith as his own, when Keith looked across the room and saw him. Lighting up, Keith said, "John! Hey, you're early. Ladies." Keith gestured dramatically toward him. "This is John Manning. Joe, John's here." Suddenly, ridiculously, John was surrounded by breathy females. "Did you really score all of those touchdowns?" "Can we see your touchdown dance?" "Do you really know Craig Miller?" "Can I have your autograph?" "How much can you lift?" It had been roughly a year since he'd dealt with this, so it took him a second to get back into gear. But now that the girls were on him and off of Keith, he didn't mind them, 32
so he answered their questions and told them stories and flirted and exaggerated and flattered and lifted his sleeve to show off his muscle. By the time the girls flitted away, a few of them pausing to give his biceps a firm, curious squeeze before running off in giggles and laughter, it was about time for him to go. Keith leaned down to lounge beside him, and that felt good. He'd missed that. He slid his fingers through Keith's hair and kissed his cheek. "You're recruiting new fans for me?" "I've been so eager to talk to someone about you, I took the first chance I got." Keith nuzzled against him, eyes closing, and he stroked the back of Keith's neck as they rested cheek to cheek. "You're not working tomorrow," John said quietly. Keith's hair was soft between his fingers. "I'm covering Nicole's breakfast shift." "What about after that?" "Don't," Keith whispered. It was John's turn to close his eyes. "I want to fuck you." He needed to have Keith. Just the idea of kissing Keith, of feeling Keith's skin slide against his as they rolled across a bed together, of pressing into Keith's tight— "I'm not ready." A soft, shuddering breath. "I'm not ready for you." "Why not?" Cupping Keith's chin in one hand, he forced Keith's head back and looked into those suddenly nervous, green eyes. "Why can't I have you?" "You can," Keith insisted, pulling back. "You do, you already do," he said, with a desperate laugh. "I just need more from you before I"—he swallowed—"give myself to you that way, too." He loved Keith for saying that, and he resented it. "Why does this have to be some big thing? Why can't it just be about fun and sex and—" "Because I'm not some surfer on the beach. I'm not a cheerleader. I care about the guy inside the suit, the guy inside the uniform. And I care about myself. I know what I want from you, and I don't want to invest without getting a decent return." He was never going to have summer again. He was living a life of hot weather. Frustrated, tired, and showing it, he asked, "Then what do you want from me?" "If you want to know, come back on Monday," Keith said quietly. It wasn't a dare, or a challenge, or a demand; it was a simple set of words. "If it's not worth it—and it may not be, to you, and I understand that—then you can go somewhere else." A smile that didn't quite make it. "You have plenty of other options." www.samhainpublishing.com
What a great fucking point. "I do," John agreed. "I really fucking do, I can eat anywhere I want, I can screw anyone I want, I can get whatever I want, anywhere else." He wanted to storm out. Better yet, haul Keith across the table and kiss him and storm out. Better yet, drop money on the counter and say something harsh, something really cutting, and then storm out. But he didn't. He couldn't. That would be rude, that would be cruel, that would be mean, and he couldn't be mean to Keith. Realizing that he was truly whipped, he stood and got out his wallet. "Except that what I want is you." He looked down like a coward as he pulled out the right number of dollars. "And I can't get you anywhere but here." Setting down the money, he met Keith's eyes. Keith looked as caught and hungry and scared as he felt. "So I'll see you on Monday." Stuffing his wallet back into his pocket, he headed for the door. "See you, Joe," he called without energy. "Bye, John." The door swung shut behind him, and he trudged back to work. He wanted to be pissed at Keith, for jerking him around, except that Keith hadn't led him on at all. He wanted to be pissed at Keith for making him wait, except that he knew the wait would be worth it. He wanted to be pissed at Keith in general, except that Keith had said, "I've been so eager to talk to someone about you, I took the first chance I got," and that made him feel like he was a million bucks, on top of the world. Keith saying that he could have him, that he already did, that Keith was already his, was even better. And that soft, shuddering breath, that whispered, "I'm not ready for you," so quiet and scared in his ear, was the best thing that had happened to his ego in his entire life. Keith wasn't ready for him, like he was something to get ready for, like he was just that much to handle. Oh, yeah. Keith was his. If that were true, as long as it was true, he could be generous and let a little time lapse before staking his claim. He wakened on Saturday morning and wanted Keith and realized he wasn't going to see Keith again until Monday. He walked the dogs, and went to the gym, and tried to sweat his way through the day. Then, remembering that Keith had picked up an extra Saturday shift, he went straight from the weight bench to the bus stop without stopping to change clothes first. He reeked of sweat, and no one would sit near him on the bus, and when he reached the diner, he saw right away that Keith wasn't there. He was too late.
Furious with himself for missing his chance, he went home. To punish himself in the heat, he walked the dogs again. Living an eternal summer, the dogs loved the extra attention. He wondered if his life would be easier if he were neutered, too. That night he walked down to the local bar and got drunk. He was so sexually frustrated that when some guy hit on him, he almost went with it, but he thought about Keith, and he couldn't do it. He went home, took a cold shower and fell asleep thinking about looking Keith up in the phone book, thinking about calling, thinking about what he might say. Hi, this is John. I don't know what you want from me, but you're the lemonade and ice cream in my heat wave. Even if I can't have summer anymore, maybe I can have you, and that's a trade I'm willing to make. Sunday, his sister called. Her husband was going to take her and the kids to a vacation on the beach. He asked her if she'd caught any fireflies lately. She laughed. "No, but the boys have. I'm a little too old for that." He told her that no one was ever too old for fireflies, or for ice cream and lemonade. He took the bus to the pet store, bought his dogs some extra toys, and spent the afternoon playing with them. He even jumped through the sprinkler with them, and it wasn't as great as he remembered it being—he was a lot bigger now—but it was still fun. He thought about Marge sitting by her pool, drinking margaritas, and grinned. Summer didn't have to end. It just changed. He spent Sunday night slouching on his sofa, watching porn and jacking off. He fell asleep there on the couch, and when he woke up and stumbled to bed, he had jumbled sex dreams about fucking Keith in the diner, trying to balance on the counter enough to get a decent rhythm going, painfully hard and unable to come, while he kept hearing that damned bell going ding! ding! ding! in the background. He realized that the bell was his alarm clock. It was Monday, and he had to go to work. But if it was Monday, he could see Keith again. Twice that day, Marge, who didn't like to repeat herself, asked him if he was looking for a raise. He said no; he just wanted to do his job well. She said, "I thought that you were going to get that out of your system over the weekend, but if this is going to be a permanent change, I may have to increase your duties." He cheerfully told her that he'd do whatever he could to help out the company. She looked suspicious, but he thought that he caught her smiling as she went back into her office. That afternoon, the mechanic called. His car was ready. Finally. Ah, sweet freedom. He agreed to pick it up after work. www.samhainpublishing.com
Then he went to the diner.
Chapter Eight On his way to the diner, John contemplated what Keith might want from him. He couldn't pin it down, but he did figure out what he wanted from Keith, besides sex. So, when he got there, the first thing he did was ask, "How long have you lived here?" "Hi." Keith climbed right over the counter to hug him. "You came back." Surprised, John wrapped his arms around Keith's slender body. "I said that I would." This felt good. Really, really good. Satisfying, and arousing, at the same time. Keith was almost as tall as he was, and firm against his chest, arms tightening around his shoulders. "Joe," Keith said without moving away, "John's here." His hand slid, slowly, down John's back, and he made a quiet noise, like he was turned on. "God, I knew you'd feel amazing, but this is even better. What the hell have you done to yourself?" "Weight training and years of a strict nutritional program." He let his fingers creep down Keith's side. "You like it?" "Your body makes me so hot, I have to question all of my priorities, because I always swore that I was attracted to intelligence and strong morals, but this is really doing things to me." He kissed the shell of Keith's ear. "You want to know what else I can do to you?" He gently began to tug up the hem of Keith's shirt. "Oh, wow." Twisting away, Keith hurried behind the counter again, putting that barrier between them. "If you want, I can do mine, instead," he offered, teasing up his shirt, aroused and loving it, knowing that Keith wanted him and loving that, too. "If you like how it feels, you're going to love how it looks." "Ah! Stop," Keith protested, holding up both hands as if to ward off a blow. "No, no. I'm not strong enough to withstand that kind of temptation, so you're going to have to— although that creates a fox guarding the henhouse kind of situation, doesn't it?" He dropped his hands. "Okay." He could do that. Settling onto one of the stools, he rested both elbows on the counter and leaned forward, grinning. "Give me a kiss and I'll play fox for you." www.samhainpublishing.com
"A kiss?" Keith immediately lounged beside him as if drawn there. "A kiss," he whispered, nuzzling Keith's cheek, kissing his neck, nibbling his earlobe. "Give me a kiss and tell me about you." "About me?" Keith asked, his voice distracted as his hand stroked the side of John's neck. "Mmm." That felt good, that was making him nice and warm inside. "Why you're here, what you like, what you're into." "I'm into you," Keith whispered, and kissed him. Slow, wet, with a soft rhythm. Keith's mouth was receptive, welcoming, and when their tongues met, Keith moaned and slid his thumb along John's jaw, sending fresh prickles of heat and awareness down John's neck. John was eager for more, and more was right in front of him, and his body was hot and ready, and his dick was hardening fast, but Keith had just asked him to take it slowly. Breaking the kiss, panting softly against Keith's mouth, he struggled to find his voice. "Oh." Keith kissed him again. John pulled back, groaning at the effort it took. "I'm trying to stop." "Stop?" Keith repeated, like he didn't recognize the word. Then it sunk in. "Oh," he said, blinking and realizing. "Oh." Swallowing, straightening, he coughed. "Thanks." John needed to feel his mouth again. "Do you give head?" Turning his back, Keith said, a little shakily, "To you, as soon as you ask for it," and poured a glass of water. Instead of offering the water to John, he drank it himself, draining the glass and breathing hard once he'd finished. That had not been a safe answer. John's blood pounded, hot and eager. They had to talk about something else. "Tell me about you." "My middle name is Alan, I'm twenty years old, my dad repairs computers, my mom sells shoes, I'm from a tiny town an hour away that nobody's ever heard of, and I came here because I could afford it and I liked the curriculum." Running his hands through his hair, he finally faced John again. "And I'm totally devastated by the way you kiss." Ding! "Food!" John stared at the plate. That wasn't possible. He'd just shown up! Keith stared at him. "How long were you kissing me?" Slowly, feeling very, very pleased, John grinned. "Do you have a car?" "I…" Hesitating, Keith eyed him cautiously, trying to decipher his reason for asking, then went to fetch his plate to buy time. Giving him the plate, finding ketchup and 38
silverware, Keith finally said, "Yeah," but didn't ask why, which made John want him more. "I need a ride to the shop after work, to pick mine up. Can you take me?" "Sure." Keith wiped his hands on his apron. "I can pick you up outside Walker and Lindstrom. What time?" "I get off at six. Is that okay?" "Yeah, that's fine." He moved a napkin dispenser, then fiddled with a salt shaker. Keith was making such an obvious effort not to lean down beside him, John couldn't bear it. "Come here." He reached across the counter and tugged on Keith's arm. Immediately acquiescing, Keith rested easily beside him, not touching, but close enough that John could see the green of his eyes through his half-lowered lashes. There was still too much that John didn't know. Even if the question of Keith's major was off limits, there were still ways for John to learn about him. "What kinds of books do you like to read?" "All of them." The answer sounded honest, but then Keith laughed and met his eyes. "Fiction, mostly. The older, the better." "How old?" "Anything written since the industrial revolution is crap," Keith told him. "Don't fall for the hype. Anything from the Renaissance onward is pretty iffy. The best stuff predates anything written in the English language, Old English certainly included." "Wow." John stared at him in amazement. "You're serious." "It's going to be the subject of my thesis. I'll let you read it when I'm finished." John grinned. "Won't it be crap?" Laughing, Keith said, "Yeah, but that'll have more to do with my lack of talent than the date it's written." He'd never heard anyone talk like Keith. "You're either really smart, or just opinionated and kind of crazy." "My professors would argue the former. My friends, the latter." "What kinds of friends do you have? Do you live off-campus during the semester, too? If I want to read something good, where should I start?" They talked until the hour was up. John fed some of his ice cream to Keith, who licked the spoon and kissed his fingers and made him ache. They kissed again before he left, at the door, a slow, cool, vanilla-flavored kiss, and when he nudged his thigh between Keith's thighs, when he cupped Keith's high, taut ass in his hands and made sure www.samhainpublishing.com
Keith felt the swelling of his arousal, Keith moaned and clutched at his back and ground against his thigh, humping a little and groaning. "Tonight," John whispered. "Come home with me tonight. I want to make you come with my mouth, with my hands, with my—" "Oh, God," Keith breathed, kissing him hungrily, rock hard against his thigh. "I'm not too macho," John whispered, cupping his face, looking into his eyes, "to give you what you need. I promise that if you come home with me tonight, I'll come back here on Tuesday, and I'll be here on Wednesday, and I'll pour tea for little old ladies on Thursday. Just let me have you tonight." "You're saying such good things," Keith said, sounding dazed, "and I'm so hard that I can barely understand you. Yes, yes, I'll come with you tonight, you can do whatever you want." Smiling, John kissed him and let him go. "Just remember to pick me up at six, and I'll take it from there."
Chapter Nine Despite the trek through the heat, by the time John reached the office, he was still humming inside, his blood pumping, his body eager for more of Keith. Six o'clock came almost as fast as he wanted, and when he stepped back outside, he saw Keith waiting for him in a little blue sedan. The air conditioner was running in the car, and Keith looked happy but nervous. "Hi." "Hi." He kissed Keith's cheek, and ear, and cheek again, squeezing Keith's firm, slender thigh. "Thanks for picking me up." "Thanks for feeling me up." Keith put the car in drive. "Where are we going?" "The Happy Little Garage over on—" "You actually go there?" Keith asked, laughing. "I didn't think that anyone really took a car there." "They're good. The whole team used them." He took off his tie and tossed it in the backseat. "Probably still does." "Happy Little Garage." Keith pulled out of the lot and onto the street. "If you say so." He drummed his fingers on the wheel, then asked, his voice quiet, "Do you miss it?" "What?" He eased his seat back to give his legs more room. "Playing." "Ball?" He shrugged. "Yeah, of course, sometimes." "You've never…said anything. About…" "About what?" He tried to decode Keith's expression. A quick glance, and Keith's eyes were back on the road. "Being gay and playing football at the same time." "Oh." He grinned. "You want to hear a big dramatic story about it?" "I just—were you? Did you? Or weren't you out, then? I mean—I don't remember hearing anything about it, and I was a freshman when you were a senior." www.samhainpublishing.com
"I was out. I came out when I was in high school. My coach's daughter was lesbian, and he was pretty fierce about supporting me. He didn't treat me any differently, personally—he still made practicing and drilling absolute hell, just like always—but he pretty much threatened to beat anyone into submission if they so much as looked at me funny. He knew I had talent, and he knew I was more than good enough for a scholarship, but he didn't want me to have any trouble with the recruiters, so he made sure that I got on a college team that would be a safe environment. And that's why I came here. I was offered scholarships with other teams, but this was the best place for me." "And the other guys on the team were cool with that?" "They were great. The other teams said shit on the field, but they would've said shit about me if I had a crooked nose or fat elbows or a funny last name, so I didn't let it get to me." Keith's hand rested on his thigh. "I have more school pride right now than I've had since I enrolled." He put his hand over Keith's, lacing their fingers. "I wish I'd met you while I was still there. You must've been a really cute freshman." "And I put out a lot faster then, so you would've enjoyed that." Laughing, he squeezed Keith's hand. "You've only made me wait a week." "I'm so horny, it feels like it's been months." Driving onto the parking lot of the Happy Little Garage, he asked, "You want me to follow you home?" "Yeah." He wanted Keith in his car, but he wouldn't push it. "Give me five minutes." "Okay." Keith kissed him, a fleeting brush of soft lips. Gazing at his mouth, Keith said, softly, "If you don't have a preference, I want you to fuck me on my back, so I can watch you. And I might, I might—I haven't had sex in a while, so I might, I have kind of a hair trigger, but don't let that slow you down, you can fuck me as long as you want, as often as you want." Green eyes flicked up to meet his gaze. "Okay?" It was a long minute before he could reply to that. Swallowing, John said, "You take my fucking breath away." Visible relief, and Keith was kissing him, kissing him deep and moaning when he started unbuckling seatbelts, when he started pressing forward and trying to cross the gearshift to climb on top of Keith's body. One of them bumped the horn, and at the sudden blare, Keith made a weak sound and pushed at his chest, at his arms, whispering, "Not here, not here, I can't blow you in a parking lot, come on, not here."
"Would you?" He cupped Keith's chin, kissing the corners of Keith's reddened lips. "Would you blow me in a parking lot, if I asked?" Keith's eyes flickered, and he said, reluctantly, "Well, not this one." His dick jerked, and he almost asked for it, almost pushed, but he couldn't do that to Keith, he couldn't, so he kissed Keith's mouth and got out of the car. First pausing to adjust himself in his pants, he went into the shop. He wasn't even fazed by the high bill he had to pay, because he was about to get laid. He was about to have sex. With Keith. Oh, yeah. Before going to his car, he went back over to Keith's. When Keith let down the window, he leaned in and took another kiss. "You want to wait, and I'm not going to let you wait, because you should never let the fox guard the henhouse, but I need you to tell me that this is okay with you. If it's not, you can drive away, and I'll come to the diner tomorrow for lunch, and I'll wait until you're ready." He had to ask now, before he had Keith in his house, while they weren't touching, while Keith's escape route was visible. "I don't want to wait. I want this now." A swift, burning kiss almost had John crawling through the window for more, and then Keith was sucking at his tongue and nipping at his lips and whispering, "Let me see your abs." He'd never been shy. It was hard to break away from Keith's mouth, but once he did, he straightened and raised his shirt, showing off the six-pack he'd worked hard to develop and was very proud of maintaining. Making a primal sound in the back of his throat, Keith reached for him with both hands, running eager fingers over his abs, sliding warm palms up to his lats and back down. "Oh, God, why do you feel like this?" Keith whispered, and leaned right out of the car, pressing wet, sucking kisses to his stomach. They were so in public, it wasn't even funny, but John just stepped closer to the car to make it easier for Keith to reach him, cupping the back of Keith's head in his hand and feathering his fingers through blond hair. Keith's hungry, adoring caresses were turning him on, and his dick was getting hard from the eager promise of Keith's mouth so close and so greedy. "Let me drive." He stroked Keith's nape. "What about your car?" Keith was already shifting aside, already making room. "Fuck my car, I'll get it tomorrow." He got in, slamming the door and revving the engine. "I need you to tell me that you'll forgive me for this." He left the parking lot fast, staying under the speed limit but breathing hard. "I'll forgive you. I already forgive you. For what?"
Unfastening his belt, unbuttoning his pants, he reached into his boxer-briefs and pulled out his dick. "I really need you to blow me." "Oh, God," and Keith was leaning down, ducking under his arm, head in his lap, mouth on his dick, oh, yeah, oh, God, he bucked a little, ass lifting from the seat, thighs locking up, and Keith rode it out, moaning around him, sucking right away, sliding up and down on him, one hand slipping down to play with his balls, cupping and stroking, making him groan and shudder, his foot steady on the gas, one eye out for cops, but the streets were practically abandoned and Keith's mouth was loving him so right. It was good, it was so good it was bringing him to the edge too fast, and he steered with his left hand, sliding his right hand under Keith's chin and bringing Keith up for a second, trying to bring himself back under control, muscles still tight from it, dick throbbing and straining and begging to get back in that sweet, slick, sucking mouth. "Let me," Keith gasped, "let me," and he couldn't hold it back. Keith was on him again, sucking hard, assertive about it, the steady rhythm making him fight not to give in to it, fingers playing between his thighs, making his breath shake. He was coming just as he rounded the corner to his street, and he eased off of the gas, groaning, letting the car coast, struggling not to close his eyes, clutching Keith's shoulder too hard. The suction lasted right to the end, Keith's tongue curling and rolling around him to catch it all, those wet lips releasing him and then kissing his stomach, Keith lifting his shirt farther out of the way and kissing his skin. Feeling weak all over, wanting to collapse and let Keith take full control, he managed to park in his driveway. Exhaling roughly with a heartfelt moan, he turned the car off and sagged back in his seat. Keith sat up. Coughed. Wiped at his mouth with one hand. "We probably shouldn't do that a lot." "I'm going"—John pulled Keith against his chest and stroked his back—"to make you come however you want, as many times as you want. I'm yours, all night." "Right now, I could just hump your hand and be happy," Keith murmured against his neck, lips soft. "I'm so horny." He sounded really happy and really miserable about it at the same time. He couldn't let Keith suffer. "Come inside and I'll take care of that," he said, rubbing Keith's back. "I can't wait to see you naked." "Yeah, I'm in touch with that." Keith pulled away with obvious reluctance as John began to zip up.
As they got out of the car, John warned, "I have two dogs. They won't jump on you, let me feed them and I'll—" "What happened to being mine all night?" Keith asked, but he didn't even sound irritated, which only made John more attracted to him. "Wait for me in my bedroom." John unlocked the front door. "It's over on the left. Feel free to get naked, climb into bed, start touching yourself, whatever you want. I'll be with you"—he kissed Keith—"as fast as I can." "You'd better." Keith's hand rubbed first up, then down, John's ass. "God, that's one firm ass. It always looks so round, I keep thinking it'll be soft, but damn. You're muscular everywhere." "Forget the dogs." John pushed Keith toward the bedroom. "No, no," Keith protested, laughing, pushing back. "Go feed them. I'll wait. I'll just go make myself comfortable." "I'll hurry," John promised, kissing him and running off, calling to the dogs. He put them in the backyard, made sure that they had food and water, apologized for not walking them, and hurried back in. He shed clothes as he went, leaving his shoes and socks in the kitchen, his button-down in the living room. Unfastening his belt as he entered the bedroom, he froze.
Chapter Ten "How are the dogs?" Keith asked, naked and lounging against John's pillows, lean and pale, his arousal long and red and stretching up from a tidy nest of blond curls. "Hungry?" Damn. "Starving." John kicked off his pants and stripped off his undershirt and boxer briefs, joining Keith on the bed. Time to return a favor. He— Keith shoved him back with one hand, staring, gaze roaming him, searching him, learning him. "I can't do much from here," John said. Keith licked his lips. "This is what you look like naked? This, you look like this? All of the time, all day long, under your clothes?" "It sure is." He reached for the lube, squirting some on his fingers. "Lay back for me." "You have muscles I've never seen before." Keith squirmed down onto his back and reached for John. "I've wanted to get my hands on you since we met." John settled onto him, kissing his mouth. "God, I can't wait to get you off." Keith made an eager noise, kissing him back, running greedy hands across his chest and moaning. Always pleased that his hard work in the gym had paid off, John nudged Keith's legs up, then lightened the kiss and stroked across his asshole, testing. Keith moaned and hooked one leg over John's arm, which John took as a request; he pushed in with one finger. Oh, yeah, nice and tight, and Keith was moaning, and yeah, yeah, oh, this was good. He loved doing this, loved making guys come, loved how easy it was. He knew that he was going fast, but he knew that Keith wanted it, knew it from the way Keith made short, urgent, repetitive sounds into their kiss, the way those greedy hands rubbed and pulled and gripped him, the way Keith's hips kept rising against his hand, twisting and rocking with impatient need. Keith's body was lean and tight under him, mouth hungry 46
and wet, hands possessive and eager, and when he started to kiss across Keith's chest, Keith bucked upward, hips rolling, one hand pushing at his shoulder. He'd intended a more scenic route, but he could take a hint, and he slid down Keith's body, working a second finger in as he mouthed Keith's balls. "Ah, ah, ah." Keith was making soft, gasping, tortured sounds, and he stroked Keith's prostate, licking up the long shaft of Keith's dick. It was a nice erection, dark red, not as veined as his own, with a thick, spongy head that leaked precome onto his tongue while Keith panted, "Suck it, suck it, do it, ah…" Gently scissoring his slick fingers, he did as requested, sucking, swallowing down to the root and rising off of it, bobbing his head as he sent his fingers deeper, sucking harder as Keith rocked up into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks, constricting his throat, going faster, sucking harder, while Keith's hand scrabbled weakly at his shoulder and Keith's heel skidded across his thigh. There was a loud, shuddering, "Ah-ah-uh-uh-oh!" and then an explosive, "Oh!" and then long spurts of come splattered the back of his throat. He sucked until the dribbling stopped, until Keith was making helpless, stop-don'tstop noises, then lifted his head. When he crooked his fingers, Keith twitched and groaned, and John grinned, feeling pretty proud. Sliding his fingers back out, he crawled up Keith again, kissing a few sweet spots along the way. Keith welcomed him with warm, wet kisses, wrapping slim arms and legs around him, affectionate and satisfied. "I decided," Keith said, moving beneath him, arching up to get more skin on skin and then moaning, making him moan, too, because, damn, that felt good, "that the only possible reason you're single is that you're a deranged lunatic." "Yeah?" He kissed Keith's neck, slipping a hand under that slender, arching back and urging Keith's hips up against him, rocking his arousal against Keith's stomach, groaning at the sweet slide of it, the rhythm, the friction. "And then"—Keith was breathless now, hands roaming his shoulders, his back, tracing the lines of muscle—"I decided that I'm okay with that." He grinned, kissing down to one tiny nipple, licking it, grazing it with his teeth to see what Keith would do. Groaning, Keith twisted a little under him and panted, "You can fuck me now." "I'll get to it." Pushing himself up on one arm, he wiped sweat from Keith's chest with his fingers. "Roll over." Sitting up, Keith tipped his head to one side, kissing John's arm, licking the muscle, trailing kisses along the delineation. "Your body's so hard, and the way I can feel your muscles shifting with every movement, I've never been with anyone whose physicality www.samhainpublishing.com
turns me on like this." Keith's hand drifted across John's chest, and his eyes widened and narrowed as he searched for words to express what he wanted to communicate. "I could, when I feel you against me, it's like…I'm not only turned on by your body—I am, I'm incredibly attracted to it, it's amazing, I could definitely develop a thing for athletes, I'm going to start watching football tomorrow—but it's you, too. I feel like I can see and feel so much more of you than I've ever seen or felt with anyone else, as if because I can trace each line and movement, I can experience so much more of you. Do you know what I mean?" John grinned. "I think I can understand that." Keith smiled, kissing him. "Why are you laughing at me?" "I wasn't laughing," he protested, but now he was chuckling, because he'd been caught. "Not out loud, but your inward laughter is almost audible when you grin like that." "I like the way your brain works. No one's ever said anything like that to me, and I never thought about it that way. And you won't find football in June." "Oh. Right." Keith stroked his arm. "You'll take me to some games, in the fall?" It was a simple request, but it implied so much: it implied that months from now, as the hot weather faded away, they'd still be together, they'd still be in each other's lives. It implied commitment. John was capable of commitment, when he chose to be. To football, to the team, to his grades. When he committed, he didn't half-ass it. He went all out, working hard, putting in time, putting forth effort, ensuring that he did as much as he could. That's why he had such a great record, that's why all of his teammates had known that they could count on him, that's why he'd pulled the best GPA on the team, even during the season. If he committed to Keith, it would be for real, committing to a relationship, committing to pulling his weight and doing his best for someone else, for the sake of their partnership. He thought about how green Keith's eyes were, and how sexy Keith's body was, and how fantastic Keith's mouth had felt on his dick. He thought about Keith moaning and bucking and coming in his mouth. He thought about Keith drawing his order in block letters and lounging on the counter and talking to an invisible cook. He thought about Keith telling cheerleaders about him and offering him coleslaw and saying, "I care about myself. I know what I want from you, and I don't want to invest without getting a decent return." This was what Keith wanted from him.
Keith had already given him so much. He hadn't lost summer, but it had changed. Orgasms weren't free anymore. Coming home with him, giving to him, had cost Keith something. This wasn't a drunken fuck on the beach. This was someone who mattered to him, someone he could hurt. Someone he cared about, and wanted to keep in his life. "Yeah, I'll take you to as many games as you want." He felt weirdly emotional, so he kissed Keith until the soft, mushy feeling went away and hot, hard desire reasserted itself. It didn't take long; Keith's soft, encouraging kisses and loud, encouraging moans really turned him on. "Roll over." He pushed and pulled, and Keith went easily, trusting, giving. He got a pillow under Keith's hips, kneeling between spread thighs and running his hands over Keith's tight back, squeezing long, slender thighs, cupping the taut, high curves of Keith's ass. "Oh, mmm…" Rising to meet John's hands, Keith crossed his arms in front of himself, resting his forehead on his forearms. "Oh, oh…" John's fingers trailed down the cleft of his ass, then back up, then down again, slowly, stroking, teasing, making Keith squirm, eliciting a few whimpering noises as Keith spread and arched to invite him in. Taking that invitation, John slid down and leaned down, testing the short, sparse blond curls behind Keith's balls with his tongue, licking up, holding Keith open with his thumbs and licking across that tight little hole, licking in. "Ah, ah, ah, oh, John, okay, yes, oh, ah…" Spreading for him, Keith moaned, back arching, ass offered to him. Every time he backed off, Keith's asshole snapped shut again, clenching tight, and he'd lick it open again, the tip of his tongue penetrating, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles as Keith groaned and panted. He'd always liked doing this, but he'd only done it with a very few people, and he loved how responsive Keith was, how eager, how turned on. Getting Keith hot only made him hotter, and he pushed for more, licking harder, trying to get deeper, making Keith groan and call his name. He wanted to get his dick in there, wanted to slam in deep and fuck hard; his blood was pumping and his dick was begging. But it wasn't time yet— soon, but not yet—and he ignored the steady, throbbing ache of his dick as he tried to drive Keith over the edge. A small but rhythmic movement of Keith's hips drew his attention, and he raised his head, curious, wanting to know how he'd pushed Keith to respond. Resting his weight on one elbow, Keith had his other hand down between his legs, holding onto the pillow John had wedged under his hips, clutching it tightly to his dick and thrusting against it, tight little thrusts that were making him whimper and bite his lip and sweat. Barely before John's head was up, he whispered, "Oh God, don't stop, don't stop, oh God…" www.samhainpublishing.com
Scattering kisses across Keith's ass, then patting it, John said, "Come on, roll over, I'll take care of you." "Oh, God, oh, God," Keith panted, thrusting harder now, shoving his dick into the pillow. John rolled him over, dragging the pillow from his grip. He clutched at John instead, making desperate noises until their bodies met, then making even more desperate noises, rocking up against him, groaning as their dicks stroked against each other, thrusting up against his stomach like time was running out. "Come on," John whispered, kissing him hotly, grinding down against him, caressing his body. "Come on, that's it, so close, come on." Gasping, groaning, Keith held onto him, fingers slipping in his sweat. He felt Keith's bone-deep shudder vibrate all against him, and he felt quick, wet spurts, and then Keith was moaning his name and falling limp beneath him and smiling, smiling like the world was beautiful. Even though he was rock hard and burning up with the need to fuck, John smiled, too, and kissed the fringe of Keith's light, blond lashes. "You like that?" "I," Keith breathed, his words infused with light, "loved that." His lashes fluttered and his eyes opened. So green and so warm. "I wasted," he panted softly, "so much time, not letting you do this to me the first day we met." "It was worth it." It had been. Then, because even though he'd meant that, he really couldn't wait much longer, he asked, "Do you mind if I…" "Take advantage of my weakened state to fuck me even more senseless?" Keith grinned. "Go ahead." And that was why he loved Keith, because the guy was friendly, was easy-going, understood him, and was capable of stringing those kinds of words together seconds after orgasm. "Thanks." He reached for the lube and a condom. He slicked Keith up again, then himself. The rub of his firm, slick hand over his hard, aching erection was too good, too much to take, and he tried to be quick about it, but he couldn't help moaning, which made Keith laugh. Kissing that laughing mouth, he brought Keith's ankles to his shoulders, bending those long legs, and aimed his dick right where it wanted to go. Goddamn, he was too hard, too close to the edge. But he needed it, he really needed to have this, and Keith was stroking his chest, murmuring, "Give it to me, fuck me," and he loved that Keith said shit like that in bed, "now, now, I want it," that Keith was saying that to him, "give it to me, fuck me hard," that Keith wanted him, "John." On the first push, his eyes rolled back in his head and he moaned from somewhere he'd never known existed. Oh, God, it felt good, it was so right, Keith was nice and slick and drawing tight around him. He'd known that it would be good but… "Yeah, oh, 50
yeah," and he thrust in farther, then again, driving in as deep as he could get, in to the root, swiveling his hips a little to work it deeper. He was in, all the way, and it felt incredible, it was amazing, he needed more, he needed so much more, and so he started thrusting, rocking, moaning because he had to express to the world how good this was, his dick throbbing, his hips taking over. Under him, Keith was talking nonstop, "Yes, harder, fuck me, harder," and rocking with him. "Oh, yes, John, do it, give it to me." Keith rubbed John's chest, and arms, and back, and shoulders. "Fuck me, like that, like that, yes, oh, John." Keith arched and demanded and strained for more, more, more. "I want you so much." John gave it to him just the way he wanted it, steady and fierce, shaking his body with each thrust, balls slapping his ass, grunting, sweating, needing to come but needing to fuck him more. "Come for me, you can do it, jerk yourself, bring yourself off for me, while I'm in you, while I'm fucking you." "Too soon," Keith protested, but his hand was already reaching for his dick, and he shuddered through John's next thrust, moaning like it overwhelmed him. His hand working over his dick, he panted softly, his body beginning to respond. "I can't, it's"—he licked his lips, and John licked his own, wanting to taste sweat like Keith—"too soon." "I want it." John heard his own voice low and intense. "I need this from you. Do it for me, get yourself off." Running his hand across John's chest, down John's back, bringing his palm away wet with sweat, Keith masturbated, groaning, making a hurt, desperate sound, his dick swelling in his fist. "I…John… Oh, God…" "Come on," he panted, thrusting steadily, rocking Keith harder, pounding in, pushing for more, making it happen. "While I'm in you, while you feel me fucking you." "It's crazy," and Keith gasped, "how much I," he moaned, "want you, oh, God, oh…" His dick was hard. "Oh, God." His body was shaking and drenched with sweat. "John, oh." His hand was working and squeezing and pulling. "God, yes." His skin was red. "Oh, God." He was moaning like he just couldn't stop, like he was already coming, like, "oh, oh, ah, ah, ah!" and there it was, spurting across his stomach, wetting his hand, as his body twisted and his blunt nails scraped down John's arm as he sought something to hold onto. Seeing it, feeling it, responding to it, John slammed in, groaning, releasing his come, releasing his tension, releasing everything he'd been holding back. Pleasure spiked sharply, twisting up his spine and exploding in his brain, flooding him with hot, agonizing bliss. Making sharp, feral sounds, he let ecstasy swarm him and use him, then dropped, loose and pliant, to moan and maybe drool on Keith's shoulder. www.samhainpublishing.com
Minutes passed. "It's getting hard to breathe," Keith said. Summoning energy, John rolled off of Keith, mostly, before collapsing again. "Okay." Already, Keith was shifting to get more contact, wrapping an arm around him, stroking his back. "There's so much muscle here, I could create a road map. Do we need to talk about limiting the number of orgasms we have per day? I'm thinking that three total, between the two of us, would be good, because anything more than that is just gluttonous." John kissed Keith's cheek and whispered, "I could make you come again." "And I don't dispute that, but this isn't a contest. Also, not to complain, but is your air conditioner broken, because it's so hot in here I can drink my own sweat off of these sheets." He really was sweltering. He'd assumed that it was because of the sex, but when he listened, he couldn't hear the air conditioner. Shit. It was broken. This hot weather was out to get him. No. Summer was out to get him. And it had caught him, and he'd caught it, and they were squarely in each other's grip. But now he had Keith, who seemed like an almost literal breath of fresh air. In this battle, Keith was his secret weapon. Grinning, John asked, "Do you want to go out and play in the sprinkler?" Pushing himself up, Keith flashed a wide smile. "Do you have a sprinkler? I haven't played in one of those since I was ten! Is it hooked up?" Summer could do its damnedest, but John wouldn't let it get to him anymore.
About the Author To learn more about Matthew Haldeman-Time, please visit www.matthewhaldemantime.com. Send an email to Matthew at [email protected] or join his Yahoo! group at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/matthewhaldemantime.
One grieving man is forced to uphold an ancient bargain—by giving birth to a dragon. If only life were that simple.
Father of Dragons © 2007 Emily Veinglory After his lover is executed for the simple crime of being a commoner, Xeras, a young nobleman of Tirrin, turns his back on his life of privilege and flees into the wilderness. Weighed down with grief, exhaustion and hunger, Xeras awakens from one confusing night in the forest with the ghostly voice of his lover in his head—and the embryo of a dragon implanted in his side. When Xeras encounters Carly, the charming Duke of Ballot's Keep, he is far from ready to fall in love again. Still grieving, and angry about the predicament into which he's been forced, Xeras accepts an opportunity to go after the dragons who have been making life difficult for the people of the local towns. But there is sinister magic behind the machinations of the dragons, magic that emanates from Xeras's distant home island of Tirrin. Magic that puts the lives of both Carly and the tiny infant dragon in danger. Xeras finds that he can't turn his back on either of them. For their sake he must face down his own countrymen and somehow thwart the Tirrin mages' evil plans. Book 1 of the Ballot's Keep series. Enjoy the following excerpt for Father of Dragons: The young man peered at Xeras with a slight squint, suggesting that his eyesight was less than keen. "Is there a problem?" "Well," Xeras explained with exaggerated care, "that rather depends on how you look at it. I am going to Ballot's Keep, and you are going in that same direction. I am going on foot, which is not only a damp and exhausting proposition, but also rather slow. You are traveling a little quicker and in a lot more comfort in this sound carriage of yours. Now as it happens I am on the road ahead of you. So I could get courteously out of your way and let you travel on—no doubt splashing me with mud in passing—or I could
walk, even more slowly, all the rest of the way knowing that those well-mannered horses of yours are not likely to run me down." "Or," the young man added, "as we are all going to Ballot's Keep we could do the sensible thing and offer you a ride." "What?" Drin's laughter tickled his ears. I like this one. He'll drive you crazy, my dear. The young man smiled slightly at Xeras's surprise. "Was that not what you were, in your own rather interesting way, suggesting?" His open, wide and rather pleasingly symmetrical face seemed just as charming as his words. His eyes were rather small, which was an unwelcome reminder of the stone dragon, but as he was in possession of a carriage Xeras was willing to forgive that one small failing. Xeras stood and stared at him for a moment. The boiling edge of his anger refused to dissipate even in the face of what certainly seemed to be good will. As he walked to the side of the carriage, they could simply drive off and leave him behind, but that suspicion was forestalled as the man jumped out onto the muddy verge and gestured for Xeras to climb in ahead of him. With really no sensible objection to make, Xeras walked over and peered into the dark interior. Two bench seats faced each other. On the forward-facing seat sat a young woman in a demure but densely embroidered grey dress who regarded him with amusement. "Why don't you get in before you get soaked?" "It is a little late for that." But Xeras did clamber in and sat with a distinct squelch on the rear-facing seat. The young man jumped back in spryly and seated himself next to the woman. He pulled the door shut again with a vigorous jerk, and fastened it. Xeras stared at them both incredulously, incensed that in their charitable good sense they gave him no obstacle to rail against, nothing to fight. Sure, it was an irrational feeling, but with an infant dragon passing for a boil on his stomach and the ghost of his dead love whispering in his ear, Xeras didn't feel inclined to be rational. "I am Katinka," the young lady said with a nod. "This is my brother Carly—the Ballot Duke." "The Ballot Duke?" "You don't know what that is?" "No and please don't explain. I imagine you get tired of doing it and I don't really give a damn, so I might as well save you the trouble."
Carly laughed explosively, slapping his hand on his knee. A knee that Xeras noted, reflexively, was attached to a substantial and well-muscled thigh. The man's overall frame was rather impressive, if built more square than lithe. Xeras glared at him, even finding the man attractive angered him. "Here's one who might give you a run for your money, Tinka. And he has prettier eyes than you to boot." Prettier all 'round, but we won't hold that against her, Drin piped up. But Xeras was determined not to react to his asides any more, let alone when others might see it. "I can hardly help that I was not born with bright green eyes," Katinka replied primly. "And I really don't care what you seem to be suggesting about my character or that of our guest. Some of the old boys at the keep may think me a harridan, but I don't see them complaining when doing as I ask gets the drain working properly or stops the food from spoiling." "I don't have green eyes," Xeras interrupted. "But you do," Carly corrected with a bemused glance. "Bright green eyes, as my sister was kind enough to mention. And not an unpleasing shade at that." Xeras looked at him, then leaned his head back against the seat as the carriage began to rumble down the road. He'd liked his eyes hazel; Drin had liked them that way too. "Damn it. That really is taking a liberty." If he ever caught up with Plegura, dragon or not, they were going to have words.
Can a friendship of three survive the trials of love and war?
Modus Vivendi © 2007 Emery Sanborne Aidan Morrison, Virgil Craig and Drea Samuels have rarely been separated during their decade-long friendship. While war rages in Europe in the summer of 1917, two young men prepare to face the unknown. Leaving the girl they grew up with drives one man to propose to Drea and the other to seduce her. To complicate matters, the men share a secret relationship of their own. Life on the home front is no less perilous than the front lines as Drea must face a personal tragedy alone while her friends try to survive the brutalities of war. After more than a year away, first Aidan and then Virgil return. Their unresolved issues reemerge and long-kept secrets are revealed. Can Aidan, Virgil and Drea find a way through the confusion, misunderstanding and undeniable attraction each of them feels for the others? Or will they have to accept that the ties they formed as children are not meant to last into adulthood? Book 1 in The Affairs of Morton's Pointe series. Enjoy the following excerpt for Modus Vivendi: He felt Virgil come up behind him. "Problems are all we're going to have if you keep walking away and don't talk to Drea and me." While Aidan had been hurt earlier, he was pissed now. His jaw clenched tightly as he kept himself in check. "Fine one you are. I'm the only one of the three of us who ever does talk. You and Drea avoid or scream. That's the point I'm at right now. And I've told you, if I start acting like you two, there won't be anything left." He paused. "Believe me, Virgil, if I got in on it now, that's not an exaggeration. We're all better off with me avoiding." "Is that your way of telling me to get the hell out of here and give you some space?" Virgil stood right behind Aidan, close enough that his breath stirred the light hairs on Aidan's neck. "Which seems to be something you have no intention of doing," Aidan said with a short, bitter laugh. "The best thing for all of us is space. Before one of us does or says something that makes this worse."
Virgil's hand came to rest heavily on his shoulder. "Look at me, Aidan." "Just go, Virgil. Please." The hand became insistent, tugging on his shoulder to turn him. But he resisted. Or tried to. Eventually, he had to concede and face Virgil. "You're upset because I could lie to Drea about us, aren't you?" Virgil asked quietly. "It's the only way you could respond." Aidan looked over Virgil's shoulder. "It hurt, though. I expected it, but it still hurt." The hand on his shoulder moved to his neck, fingers wrapping around gently and thumb running lightly along his jaw. Aidan savored the contact. Virgil's denial hurt because it fell from his lips so easily, despite the fact that he seemed to be as affected by things between them as Aidan was. When Virgil spoke, his voice was quiet and sincere. "I'm sorry, Aidan." He shrugged. "Couldn't be helped. Your back was up, and, really, how else could you have responded without giving anything away?" "I'm still sorry." "I know," he sighed, looking at Virgil. His gray eyes were dark and troubled. "We knew it was going to be a fine mess. Doesn't make the reality any more fun, though." Virgil nodded. "What makes it worse is that I'm not about to give up either of you to keep this friendship of ours from crumbling. But I've always been a selfish bastard that way." Aidan found Virgil's words strangely reassuring. He continued. "Besides, I can't go back to being just friends with you or Drea. Not because it would be awkward, but because after having more, I can't settle for less." Aidan brought his hand up to cover Virgil's. "I could settle for less again, but"—he softened his words with a wry smile—"I really don't want to." "That leaves us with a big dilemma, doesn't it?" Reaching forward with his free hand, Aidan grasped the front of Virgil's jacket and pulled him closer. "One that isn't going to get resolved anytime soon," he said, his voice low as they stood there, pressed flush against one another. "I came out here so I wouldn't have to think about our troubles for a while, but I find I'm not all that distracted at present. Think you can help with that?" The grin was genuine this time. "I may have an idea or two that might do the trick." Virgil lightly captured Aidan's lips with his own. Aidan felt no small amount of relief at the touch and granted Virgil immediate entrance. The kiss was almost gentle,
lacking the frenetic need and urgency that usually colored their times together. A nice change of pace after yesterday and a welcome balm for the morning. He pulled Virgil along as he backed up to the wall, savoring the easy exploration of their mouths. Virgil pressed into him, a solid, steady presence, hips rocking enough to elicit a slight friction along Aidan's hardening cock and leaving no doubt as to Virgil's response. Aidan groaned in protest when Virgil broke the kiss. A satisfied smirk settled on Virgil's lips as his hands moved to the waistband of Aidan's pants. His voice was husky when he spoke. "Do you have any idea how much I enjoy having this effect on you?" "I think I have a vague idea," Aidan replied with a chuckle as Virgil undid his fly in short order and pushed the material far enough out of his way to have unhindered access to Aidan's cock. "Vague idea?" The fingers of his right hand grazed lightly along Aidan's shaft. "I know it's better than vague." With a quick kiss, he dropped to his knees, pumping Aidan's cock once, twice before his mouth wrapped around the head and followed his hand down. "Christ, Virgil," he breathed, the hot, slick heat of Virgil's mouth overwhelming his senses. The first time Virgil had done this to him Aidan thought he might lose his mind. There had been no awkward fumblings as when Aidan tried those first few times, leaving him to wonder how thorough an education Madam Violet and her girls had given Virgil. Could have been natural talent. In any event, it was good, and only got better over time as Virgil learned which spots were the most sensitive and when to bring his tongue into play. The only downside was that Aidan felt like a rank amateur, though Virgil never seemed to mind. Aidan let his head rest against the barn wall, eyes drifting closed and fingers threading through Virgil's hair as he lost himself. He needed this. Beat hard work for forgetting his problems any day, even if this was related to the problems he wanted to forget.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd. It's all about the story… Action/Adventure Fantasy Historical Horror Mainstream Mystery/Suspense Non-Fiction Paranormal Red Hots! Romance Science Fiction Western Young Adult www.samhainpublishing.com
Hot Pants Weather Girl
Heavy Weather
Dragon weather
Kentucky Weather
Eyewitness WEATHER (c) 2011 Dorling Kindersley. All Rights Reserved. Eyewitness WEATHER (c) 2011 Dorling Kindersle...
Report "Hot Weather"