Huge everlasting love and thanks to one of my bestest fucking betas, Viola Cornuta!
Disclaimer: Mainemett, so MINE. Twilight is not.
For winterstale's birthday. My own brand of… no, not heroin… personal, perfect pain killer. Because sometimes you just have to write something new, and let a wonderful person know how much they mean ;).
(Awesome banner made by RMP's Lindz on my profile, thank you lovely!)
Pain Killer, by Turin Breaks
www . youtube . com/watch?v=GkIZXKJmZ38
Batten up the hatches, here comes the cold
I can feel it creeping, and it's making me old
You give me so much love that it blows my brains out
You need something better than the bacon and eggs
The creaking in the walls and the banging in the bed
You give me so much love that it blows my brains out
Summer rain, dripping down your face again
Summer rain, praying someone feels the same
Take the pain killer, cycle on your bicycle
Leave all this misery behind
~Lyrics from Pain Killer
I sat in the small schoolhouse chair, surrounded by other druggies. At the MGM - and that didn't stand for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, but Maine General Medical in Waterville.
Seton Unit, otherwise known as 6th Floor, aka 'rehabilitation'. As in the twelve step kind.
I looked like just another pot-tokin' teenage meathead with my jeans hanging off me like an acid trip dripping from my hips.
Weren't my fault.
Everything was confiscated at intake from belts to shampoo to razors, everything included bootlaces too. So not only were my faded blues falling off, my fucking boot tongues flapped around listlessly like the goddamn twin tongues of a pair of basset hounds. And I had to wash with barsoap because some dope or other figured what with the alcohol content in the shampoo, us potheads were going ta get tanked on the VO5 like it was vodka.
Flight risk. Fight risk. Suicide watch.
I never fit in, no matter how big and strong I was… even when I'd given up the pharmaceuticals for the Principal's Honor's List instead of laying paralytic on my mom's living room floor, watching the light from the last orange-felt lamp burn off dust in a kaleidoscope on the ceilin'.
I was a mean footballer, a smart motherfucker, the man of the house. I repaired the jacked locks and shucked cords of wood down through the broken cellar window, stacked it all up against the damp cement wall adjacent to the woodstove that kept the bottomed-out ranch at least semi-warm throughout the winter.
Mom had me.
I had nothin'.
I coulda' joined yearbook, but I yearned to blow a hole through my nose instead.
Coke, ganga, muscle relaxants.
Whatever I could get my hands on. Reddi Whip cans for the nitrous oxide worked good enough too. Whip it, whip it real good.
Mom. I'd let her down.
Looking about the decidedly institutional room that stank of antiseptic and played it all off with lurid little kid's drawings, I rained my head down to my hands and listened to the chair creak and groan under the shift of my weight.
"We have new friend today," Banner's voice bleated.
I shoved the heavy length of overgrown black waves out of my eyes to look at patient number whatever with my adolescent's perpetual snarl.
And that snarl turned into a smile, then the smile became a sneer.
Jaspa Whitlock with his demonic good looks, with his angelic face.
All around jock of the year, yearbook pin-up, pretty Lacoste wearin' boy, the one I'd sat next to, cheated off of, and tried to ignore through every annoying study hall.
Only thing I'd been studying was his body.
My golden-haired nemesis, my infatuation.
Ayup, gay was for downtown's Water Street's Papa Joe's and Prick Emporium.
He ran with the pack of puck-happy-preppies, and he was the kind of all-arounder who'd toss a can of beer out to anyone whose eye he caught at the high school's famous sand pit parties, no matter what clique you were part of.
He was dangerous as sheer black ice.
Sitting beside me, his warmth worked off his more upperclass clothing—his t-shirt might have been from an Ozzie concert, but it was covered over in a flannel no doubt purchased all the way down at Portland Mall's Porteous department store.
Me? I was all my dead dad's hand-me-down-dungarees.
He wore a hard rock emblem that said one thing, but he smelled of another: fabric softener, clean sheets, safe suburbia. Kind of… youthful.
Me? I'd lived so many lives, I didn't belong in high school. And I was probably gonna be lucky to end up at the Vo-tec school, whereas he'd most likely graduate magna-something-or-other from one of the Tri-colleges: Bates, Bowdoin, Colby.
Hell, at this rate I was just going to get myself permanent room and board in a big-ass pine box with a poor man's gravemarker a lot sooner than I should.
But, for a goddamn second, I felt new as the violently colored afghan Miss Winnie had knitted and knotted next door.
Nauseated by all the colors and feelings and yarns I shouldn't untangle.
Caught in the kaleidoscope cobwebby structure of want and pretty fucking much in need of a joint.
All because Jaspa-gaddang-Whitlock was sitting next to me.
I turned aside and memorized the sickly crayoned landscapes made by toddler preschoolers, looked out over the monotonous gray sky, drummed the fingers of one hand, fisted those on the other, and really tried not to look at or breath him in.
Anything to make my hard-on go away.
Attraction currented between us even so. A shift in his melamine chair. A falling curl of his fucking goldy locks, the rough toughness of his knuckles sturdily gripping the seat under his muscular ass.
My shut-it-down tactics didn't work any more than a Friday Night failed gameplay.
Felt like stadium lights were aimed at us, illuminating my so-fucking-wrong lust.
And sure enough, Doc Banner called on me to be the quarterback, "Mr. McCarty, care to share?"
Well, fuck and no, I did not. Leave that shit to D.A.R.E.
Instead of going off, I blushed when Jaspa looked my way, waiting. I stumbled bashfully, understanding the man I was would never be accepted by a guy like him, "I've been s-s-s-ober for fifteen days…"
My mouth took over where my mind left off. Because it was busier taking in Jasper. His knees splayed so the nearest brushed mine. He scratched his jaw that was crisply shaved and patted my thigh like a teammate.
My cock jumped at the offsides contact.
My voice cracked and croaked, and I crossed my legs, re-crossed them with my sweaty palms trapped inside to keep my fingers from the walk they wanted to take right down his stomach to his crotch.
Only the thoughts of pit parties and puking, racing down the Western Avenue Strip in Gremlins and Pintos and pick-ups put me off the unignorable rise under Jaspa's jeans that rivaled my own bone.
Could he be…?
Was Jaspa Whitlock like me?
I realized it just as soon as my dick waved its fag flag for Jasper.
I was gay.
But I didn't think on it, though I guess I must have always known.
I was more a do'er.
Thoughts tried to deafen me, and I would take up my hunting knife to whittle something or other.
Ideas flurried and a snowfall of imaginings skied over my mind, and I shoveled them away.
When it came too much, I had me my Jacks and Johns and no more Jills.
Weren't like I was left wanting.
My carving hand got a good workout too.
Nothing ever felt just so or just right, though.
When it got too hard, I shut off and went to the backwoods with my camping gear.
Yeah, I pretty much knew, the moment Jasper sat next to me in Seton's psycho-circle-jerk, I'd been branded, taken, tattooed, and totally done for.
Not a thinker, and damn sure I wasn't a talker, I was that man more suited to solitude.
I may have moved to Blue Hill where the crunchies were thicker than clam shells after a bake, but I weren't no pussy.
Didn't eat granola, either.
And Kashi? Shoot, give me some hashish instead, make it all good. At least it used to.
I still wore my tie-dyed Zepp t-shirt. In all weather. Including right now. Right here in the midst of what was to become the Ice Storm of '98.
Guess you could say that brief 'interlude' on the 6th Floor cleared a dump truck load of shit up for me.
But it didn't get me any closer along the frost-heaved road to relationshipville.
I couldn't ever stop the trip-trop of time elapsing, and every circuitous year brought me right back to the one moment.
A pale eyebrow raised.
A lean thigh to mine.
Biceps clenched as he raised his arms above his head with a deceptive yawn I'd wanted to capture with my lips, close with my mouth.
A smirk and nod and coolly sizing up look when I'd been sprung from our joint-lover's jail fifteen days after his arrival.
His lips. I could never forget those haunting lush pillows, that perfect cushy pout set against a wholly masculine chin, raising in a half-curved smile to dig deep dimples into his cheeks.
'Yup. My sobriety had unveiled the one thing I'd tried to suffocate through drugs and misdeeds and good-doings and goings-on.
Violence and vitriol and honor roll and valium.
Gay as a three dollar bill.
And even after ten frigging years I was still hot for the preppy, towheaded piece of… tail.
That's what I did.
And not just in that capacity.
As well as carpentry, and all around repair-man-about-white-clapboard-town.
Ten years was a long time to carry a torch for someone.
Brought my mom to the coast too, set her up proper enough. But even she spun her own theories on me.
There'd only ever just been us two most I could remember… and with all the hurt I'd caused, least I could do with my measly paycheck-turned-to-savvy-CD's was take her away from the squalor of the capital city of Disgusta, Maine.
Oh, they did talk about me here. At their hole-in-the-wall gallery openings. At their artistes retreats—Big handsome guy like that? But then, gossip was like trashy-treasure found washed up on the beach… litter was few and far between in this green town, so they gnawed and chawed over any old thing like scavenging seagulls, long as it was newsworthy and sordid enough.
But really, they didn't give a fuck who or what I was… I was fodder for sometimes-gossip in this 'anything goes' kinda place.
I could have been dyed blue and pink-inked, and I'd still past muster here.
I slapped my cap to my thigh. Felt a dampness in the armpits of my Zepp shirt; even though it was ten minus frigid degrees, I'd worked up a sweat. The snow'd come first… pure, white fluffy flakes on a more humid descent.
The lazy snow transformed to pellets of ice and the new sleety rain spitting on the tarmac was straight from the St. Lawrence up north over the border.
This kind of weather always made me expect a berg to come floating down the Hancock River.
Just as I'd finished spreadin' salt all the way down the corkscrewed, treacherous driveway, a sleek sedan shifted gears in the hollow. It ground and bit into the cold, wet-washed road and bounded back to its starting point.
Night had worked her way in, disguised on frosty swan's wings.
A man in a long woolen coat came out the car and guarded his eyes against my flashlight.
"Ice." He gingerly made his way up towards me. He was smart enough to do the sideways-shuffle as if he was on cross country skis regaining the crest of a hill, because facin' forward he'd just slide right down the icy slope.
Not an out-of-towner.
"Give me a hand?" His voice was rough and low. His clothes tailored and crisp. And under a cap, there were some right pretty blond curlicues peeking out. But his jaw was all fucking strong. Sharp, carved, square.
His own hand was encased in leather driving gloves to my Woolworths' best. I clasped and hauled… too hard. His chest met mine and we almost windmilled to the latest snowbank before I righted us with my hands to his hips.
He was close enough I could see the un-cracked berry color of his lips. The cold bloom on his cheeks.
He was close enough I could smell the musky woods scent of his cologne. So goddamn close our hips hit and I bit off my groan.
Maybe he was dressed all city-like, but he was a man.
And there weren't nothing soft about him.
Maybe he was a good two inches shorted than me, and not quite as broad—but I was bigger than most, a literal Paul fucking Bunyan.
Even so, he didn't have to look far up to meet my eyes.
Even so, he didn't really have to crush my down coat against my ass to make sure of his footing.
I knew for a fact he held on because he wanted to. Many a time I'd helped folks out who'd been stuck in this dip of the road, and they didn't grasp me like he did.
Not a one. And especially not with that telltale growing hardness right where his dick would be.
"Emmett Fucking McCarty?" he said familiarly with a deep bass note that caught me off guard.
Well, how the hell'd he know that was my middle name… just the same way Mom used to say back in my good ol' boy days.
My eyes might not have recognized the swank yuppy, but my groin sure did as it came to life with a surge of blood… lifting and filling and causing the muscles of my abdomen to crank hard, making my balls warm and heavy and ready for a suck against the Canadian cold wrapped around us.
In the flesh.
A fat plop of wet snow shuddered down from the pine above to hit him fair and square on his cheek… and fuck me if the sliding trail of disintegrating ice didn't remind me of my own cum, creamily curling to the corner of his mouth.
Up over the glassy steep steps, into the mudroom of the cedar shingled formerly POS—with the two spotlights on so they burnishing his shining-snow-globe halo, Jasper took off his overcoat.
He shook it off outside and hung it on the coat tree beside my fleeces.
The ice melted from his cuffs with splatters to the floor.
Hissing, the logs in the woodstove kissed only to burst apart in flames.
I was used to being alone, a reclusive man.
I wasn't ready for the way he took over, commanding space. Making me feel mighty in my flesh with each feckless stroll of his green-gray eyes up and down and over and around me when I hauled away my jacket and then took off the knobbly woolly sweater too with one hand wrapped around the back collar.
My thermal shirt rose up to my ribs, and Jasper's eyes followed and lingered before he looked about the place, wiping two fingers over his really red lips. And that made me feel, for all my brawn, like prey.
Chest beating hazardously hard, I had to turn my back on him, waving an arm out into the mostly open area that tripled as kitchen, dining area, and living room. I had to caution myself against looking at him, I had to tell myself that he was here because he was stuck on my fucking doorstep only and would be gone soon as Mother Nature got over her hissy fit.
Otherwise I was going to fall hard.
"Wicked place, buddy," Jasper thwapped his gloves to get off the last cold, crystal crusts and then laid them precisely on the window sill of one of the seven floor-to-ceilings that caught the afternoon's rays all along the front of my shingled single man's abode; warming this place up better than any base heater even in the dead of the never-ending winter.
Buddy. That's right, there you go. Don't go getting all girly with the 'he loves me, he loves me not' shit here, Emmett.
Flattened to the wall embellished with a simple watercolor of lakebound loons so he could move around freely without coming into contact with me in the narrow space built like a sailboat's galley-because if he so much as brushed by me I wasn't sure I could hold myself responsible for my actions-I took two steps over and filled up my stamp-sized kitchen, "You some kind of funeral director?" Because I couldn't see much other reason for him to be all dressed up in these parts.
He smirked, looking down at his threads that were still leaking like a sprung spigot from his creased pants' cuffs, "Public Defender."
"Not much crime here," I thought back to the boy down the road who'd broken in and fenced my rifle. I hadn't brought any charges apart from making him help with the roofing. Got to know that kid good over the summer, talked to him about all sorts, starting with what a shit way it was to start his life out as a teen with a drug habit and a record. Because Lord knew, I'd bout written the Good Book on that.
And listening to me was retribution enough, I'd figured.
"I do a lot of trade up Brewer way." He shook his shaggy head, "Say, think I'm stuck here for the night, man."
That'd be about right. On both counts.
"So you holed up in Blue Hill too?" He wandered into the main room that was set up with nothing more than books, a little RCA from the Dark Ages, a stereo in pieces piled up in a corner I usually spent my night's messing with.
Holed up was a funny way of putting things. He sat on the rough woven fabric of the couch, frowned when his shoes squelched and cold from his trouser legs settled on his calves.
"Figured you for more of a Deer Isle guy." He took the microbrew I gave him, and set it down on the dinted coffee table as a shiver took him over.
I ducked my head, "I like it fine just here; nobody bothers me."
He raised his beer and one eyebrow, took a long tug and then spoke slowly, even more lowly so his timbre was not all about the pleasantries, "That what you want? No one to bother you, Emmett?"
This was fucking ridiculous! Suggestion dripped off his tongue like he'd dipped that pink tinged muscle inside a hot vat of erotic seduction.
"Yes," I whispered, because to speak would be to groan out loud. And I was having a fucking hard time even pulling in a breath.
"Taciturn as always," he nodded and winked. "Sure did admire that about you. People sure do talk some shit. They should just be fucking quiet or have the balls to back it all up." He gave me that once-over one more time, "Like you."
A flush roared up my body like a cherry colored Trans Am had just gone full throttle because for a second it felt clear he was talking about an entirely different set of balls. My gut rolled and tightened, my hips made a move to thrust, my thighs got a whole lot of nerve endings lit up from busted up kneecaps to cock where the real action started going on.
I dumped myself in the recliner and tipped back my drink and made sure the sidearms threw up enough of a rampart to keep my burgeoning boner off-sights.
"Say, bu-bu-buddy, you got something I can change into? Because I'm freezing my nads off here," Sure enough, even though the small place was warm and toasty, his shivering ratcheted up a few too many notches.
Shit. I'd been so far off in my lusty-la-la land I hadn't even noticed the pink of his lips turning steadily blue.
Amidst the clattering of his jaw trying to work, I mumbled, "Yeah, Jaspa, sorry man." I walked the two paces to the fire, cranked it open, added another few timbers, made sure the cast iron mother fucker was throwing off heat.
Two steps back and his shirt was off.
My hands that had been shaking now quaked. I stuffed them into my pockets.
I focused on my oven. The pitiful piece of shit that wasn't even big enough to roast a homegrown chicken, let alone a T-day Turkey. Even if I'd wanted to celebrate. Which I didn't.
Since I really had no one to share it with.
"Just going to get you something to put on, I'll be right back."
When I came back from the adjacent room, Jasper was standing front and center on the galvanized hearth, heating himself up.
All but naked as a baby Jay.
And I was… yeah. Speechless.
The pile of sweats and socks and sweaters in my arms—the idea of him in my clothes—combined with him just standing there, nude and… well, naked and bonafide frigging sexy as anything I'd ever seen, almost knocked me to my knees.
His torso strapped with lithe muscles.
His nipples pink and pulled up tight on the thick pads of his pecs.
His legs like a runner's, trained with sinews and the felt of wheaten hair getting closer and darker and thicker until it formed a bushy heart right around his… lean waist.
Long, thick, rose colored… cock.
Apparently his chatterin' had ceased. Not a muscle jumped. All loose jointed and finely honed and handsome as hell, his dick alone took one leap from half hard to flag staff and the tic at the back corner of his jaw pounded a particularly fast rhythm, "Sorry, Emmett, but it isn't anything you haven't seen before." He swiveled around and thrust out his hand for the leaning tower of sweats I'd gathered.
Like FUCK I'd seen that before.
And now I had the rearview, didn't I?
Taut ass cheeks, dimpled spine, spanning muscles from shoulder to narrow hips, balls smooth and plum-colored, and…
Gulping, swearing quietly, sweating a whole lot, thinking the woodstove musta been throwing out too much heat, that I needed to turn back the blower, I couldn't take my eyes off the rippling body in front of me. Stumbling and feeling like a giant lummox, I groused to myself about those extra logs and all that heat, and I was about to keel over when Jaspa finally pulled up his sweatpants, and leaned back against the wall.
"I'm fucking beat, Bud."
And I was wiped, all over the floor. Like a mop that'd been dunked in too much filthy water.
I got out the tried and true LL Bean's zero-degee'er for him. Sleeping bag met sofa met amber waves of… whatever.
He was out like a light.
I wanted to run my hands over his face and through his hair.
I was awake all night.
Listening to the ice add layer upon layer of igloo to my house; hearing the snuffles and shuffles in the other room. Where the man I'd always wanted lay.
Safely. In my house.
All that wool-gathering had gotten me nowhere fast.
Except for a really late night, and an even later start on the day.
I heard the clang-clang chain gang of the hot water pipes and knew he was in the shower. I jerked the heavy matte black door of my own personal furnace open, poked around for hot coals, and started the blaze.
Mr. Coffee'd the percolator.
Checked the clock.
And I needed a piss like nothing else.
My morningwood had subsided—no fucking thanks to dirty images of Jasper under the trickling rain of my showerhead—and my dick was reaching that point when even a camel's got to cry mercy.
Knocking on the imitation wood-paneled slider that never had locked, I got me a full gander when Jasper opened it all the way. Towel hanging negligently off hips. Warm mist drifting out.
"Sorry bout the shower," his gleaming muscles vied for attention with that drizzling curling rope of coarse hair from his navel to his… yeah. "Bathroom was last on my list."
And my former morning wood went hard as a Redwood. Immediately.
"Need a piss?" he crammed himself to the sink, motioning me inside.
Fuck. "Ah, yeah," I watched the towel drip and tuck and unfold lower, "I'll just go outside." No neighbors, just the porcupines and coons. I'd definitely watered the plants before.
"Can't have that, don't want you to get frostbite, down there," he trained on my crotch with a wink.
I blushed an autumn red.
"Come on, just like a locker room," he encouraged. He cleared the path for me by brushing his clothes against the radiator.
The fuck? He was serious?
I struggled to unzip my fly, lifted the lid, took out my dick with difficulty because all of a sudden it was getting stifling in here and that heat, wouldn't you know it, was going straight to my nuts to my shaft.
Taking a Bic from the pack in the medicine cabinet, Jasper looked down once. His eyes widened, and his question was all raspy over parted lips, "You mind if I?"
I shook my head, fucking hell, I shook all over.
I got a piss shiver as I started to take a leak and then another when my eyes met the wieldy oceanic look from Jaspa.
He foamed his face and drew a long line down one cheek. Pulled tight at the corner of his mouth, and swooped through the bubbles to cut a clear swathe of skin.
His tongue peered out and his eyes left-hooked for one second down to where my cock was coming all back to life, rejuvenated as if it'd been given a shot of adrenaline right to my main vein.
A rose of blood rorschached over the white mask.
He didn't even notice.
He licked his lips and tasted the iron and tore his eyes off me to put a tear of toilet paper to the nick.
I shivered, and chills threw all up and down me, and what do you know, soon as I finished up, wiggled to dry off, my cock was at full attention, and I couldn't just slip that motherfucking traitor back through the fly, I had to undo the waist and turn to the side and slide down my jeans.
A warm, wide, long fingered hand was on my ass. Fingertips seeking, palm cupping, squeezing. I pounded a fist to the shower door. From below, as if he'd turned to me, his other hand dallied to the bottom of my ass, and two strong fingers washed closer, and closer into my crevice.
Jets of breath beat from me and then…
A husky 'FUCK!' and he was gone.
Took me two times round the jagging off-thing, in the shower that steadily grew colder, to feel civil and un-caveman enough to get dressed and hunt out Jaspa.
I found him out back, sweatshirt off, hefting my ax, chopping wood. I watched him swing with precision, slicing through the pine.
Grabbing a companion from the shed, I righted a stump and got to work beside him. I didn't so much split as wreck the fuck out of a half cord of logs, grunting with every heave, putting all my longing and frustrating into each almighty fucking Crack.
Sweating, finally, and swearing up a storm, the sun came out for one snow blinding moment.
Brows wiped, boots stamped, gloves hung to drip dry, we went inside.
I cranked the fire and the weather radio. The sky threatened devilishly in dark blues and bruised purples, then washed us in another sleety fall.
Whole Northeast was on stand-by.
Jasper was on lay-by for at least another night.
Nothing else for it, we parka'd up and snowshoed across to the pond, ice auger in hand, little flagged fish traps packed up.
Hot coffee, cold wind, and a couple trout later we were battened down when the lights went out, the generator giving a big Fuck You. We ate all the perishables in the fridge then started in on the five grain from the local bakery. Grilled the fish outside on the fieldstone circle I excavated from its summer resting place.
Then we found ourselves in my bed.
It was mangled with our making out and fevered touches.
Rubbing cocks and licks and bites and groans of, "Fuck yes."
I had him by the hair, trying to be gentle, absolutely almost exploding when his plush pout folded over my head until I was shaking from head to foot and screaming into the pillow yanked into my mouth.
Up and down, Jasper wet me, licked and jerked me off. With a sinister spill of his lips, he looked up then candidly down to suck my balls, one at a time, into his parted mouth.
I could see him massaging his own massive erection one-handed. With a swear, rearing up, I folded him back and over and… there it was.
I'd waited so long, I was gonna make a Hungry Man's meal out of him. Ankles first. I bit his tendons until he whelped and demanded, "You… fuck, Emmett!"
His thighs jumped under the collision of my hard grip and softly toying tongue, getting closer and closer to the drum-tight head of his rigid, bold dick.
Swerving around the main course, I dove into his 'V', drove my mouth up to his meaty ribs, plied my hands up the arching, twisting planes of his chest to tap and pat his nipples only to spit on them, then swirl my tongue in tightening degrees until I had the fine hard nubbings hollowed into my cheeks.
All the time, he spread his legs and made sure with every thrust our dicks danced. The feel of his cock on this side and that of mine made me bite down, cry out and curl over.
I had to look twice, because sure enough his length had swelled. Licking up, launching down, I set to work like I was getting overtime.
Feeding myself over the big head, slicking the trapped vein, the velvet smoothness, the incredible muscle under it all that drew up harder and harder, I made love to his cock with my mouth. Rimming his ass with my fingers, fighting inside his little plush prick lips with my tongue arrow-straight, tasting his first drops of cum, being anchored by his pale hands in my dark hair and his tough heels on my taut ass.
Panting and straining, he dragged me off, "You first."
The implication had me sweating, reeling, moaning. My cock agitatedly slid up and down his.
Condom on, lube all over, inside and out, the perfect gorgeous wink of his hole made me one gasping, almost-cumming mess. "You sure?" My chest felt like it was barrel-strapped.
He tucked his hands to my hips and slipped me right on home to both our sensual frowns and toughened groans.
Soon as my gonads slapped his ass, soon as I was in, I belted back with a bellow, "JASPER!"
With every smack of skin to skin, with every position change—though I didn't do anything fancy, just plain fucking Jasper was… was—I tried to hit the hot spot and saw ten dozen pinwheels whirling in my mind, felt like they were whirring up in my cock too.
Boiling, I took his legs up and aside and just watched.
My cock. Entering him.
Slow ass fucking.
His stomach was pounded by his dick when I doubled the rhythm.
Sweeping low, I kissed him until our teeth were tearing at skin.
I sucked his neck.
He bowed up, I sped up, I spanned my fist around his cock and one two three four…
Short thrusts had me emptying long streams, and his cock throbbed-thumped—waited—came.
Covered in the hot goddamn tasty goo. Both of us.
Bending over, I did acrobatics with my tongue so I could clean him off, taste his cum, and stay inside with the pulse-pulse that didn't want to let up.
A mass of arms and legs and blankets, we flopped together.
I woke up with hands on my back.
Mouth to my throat.
The roar in my ears that meant I'd be having an orgasm soon.
In a tight spoon, Jaspa was inside me.
Nasty, naughty, fulfilling words drizzled from his lips onto my ear.
And I ate it all up.
It was wrong.
I'd said as much too.
One thing about being all reticent; when you actually talked, people paid attention.
Even when it was just a plain old, self-conscious ignoramus speakin'.
Lights were back on, energy back in biz, roads cleared, and he cleared his throat to repeat again over bacon and eggs while I wanted to hock up my own subconscious mealy worm, "Mistake?"
Well, yeah. How else could I explain it? I was the bumbling oaf. The 'Most Likely to Do No Good', the Man of the Not-Hour.
And he was… Jasper Whitlock, Attorney at Law.
And it was a mistake because…
Was I even admitting this to myself?
Was I just the boneheaded beefcake to him?
It was a mistake because I fucking wanted to be with him. And there was just no way he felt that about me.
So it was 'be a man time'.
After several started-stopped silences, after some coffee and eyeing up his plateful and lookin' like he might want to hurl too, Jaspa folded his hands and nodded, sent me a slight smile—one I shoulda' seen as false by then—"Okay. Okay then."
Roads cleared, conscience off the table, body well-fucked, mind completely frigging Dead Zone, I tried so hard not to touch him as he got back into that sleek sedan that'd delivered him to me.
I grabbed his elbow and shoved an extra pair of gloves into the pocket of his overcoat.
He cut me off by getting all cozy inside his ride and gunning the engine, "It's cool, bud. Friends?"
I could only nod as he pulled away.
Probably no more than a walk in the park for him, anyway.
But even so, my mom commented that spring I looked just the same as when I was going through probation.
I had my 'friend'. Right on. Jaspa didn't give me the 'brush off'. Worse. He hit me with the 'best friends' deal. No more temptation, no teasing, not flirting, and definitely no fucking.
I was one ornery motherfucker.
I saw him round 'campus', what I liked to call the picket-fenced town. Usually two to three steps ahead of me.
The height of his lanky body bobbed and weaved before me. He'd fought me out, and I'd boxed myself in.
Spring crept in on relaxing flowers, the buzz of bees, and the boon of my buzz saw.
We did the friendly: had lunch, fished, hiked.
Got to know one another, but I was done with that.
An August night in Seafarer's had him saddle up sideways on a stool next to me at the bar.
The open scope of the ocean laid flat and still before the onslaught of the incoming tide.
Seal Cove was an outcrop to the far left, my arm was a breaker amidst the toughened shores of his shoulders.
He blinked when my bicep hovered over his.
Closed his eyes and inhaled when my fingers found the inside of his elbow.
His voice was not the lawyer's know-how I was used to, but simply a wondering man's croak, "What he's having."
"Again, for me, too."
I yarned over the sensitive skin of his arm, from wrist to fingertip and back up to forearm, delirious that he didn't turn me down or swat me away.
Shirtsleeves rolled up, tie loosened, he let me touch him, he tongue-tied me.
I sank my third shot, met his eyes, listened to his prescription, "Pain killer?"
All I did was touch his neck gently, in awe over the strong ropes of flesh, "Ayup. " I only spread his knees with mine and unbuttoned the top to of his shirt and broke him free of that striped tie, "Something like."
That night, we stayed until kick-your-asses-out time.
I walked to my Jeep, he to his own motor.
We'd held hands into the parking lot.
The overheads flicked on and off, then really fucking off with a hiss.
"You want to do something tomorrow?" I held my breath. Fuck, I jumped off a cliff and dove head first into unchartered waters.
"Sure, Emmett. Pick me up?"
I kicked my tire and tried not to grin, "Yup."
The Jeep Wrangler was open to the elements.
The music was 80's and loud; AC/DC, Sabbath, Grateful, Zeppelin.
We went from lush forest to granite cliffs to the treeline of Acadia National. The salt was a briny sting to the air and every time I shifted, I saw Jaspa watching the grab of my thighs to clutch down and the punch of my hand to the gear.
"We're not going to Thunder Hole."
"'Course," I grinned and got her into third over the natural spiral staircase fettered by yellow broom and the big crash of the waves below, circling us on Mount Desert Island.
The geyser ramped up and sprayed… Biggest Show on Earth.
Fleeing down the mountainside, I snake-backed to Echo Lake.
The gravelly crunch of shells under tire all but shut down our easy camaraderie.
The State Park was closed to visitors. I had an all-access pass.
A slim drizzle erupted then sizzled away.
Evaporating as fast as it had come.
I parked and walked out, watched Jasper with the summer rain only a few drops on his face.
An endless copse of trees demarcated the ring around the oval lake, they lifted their serrated leaves up above, as if in honor of the rugged grey granite cliffs frowning over the soft fringe of forest below.
I tested the tepid water and stood front-center, undoing my khakis, "Skinny dip?"
Jaspa furrowed his brow and lowered his head. He grabbed the back of his neck and shanked his hair and took in my bare body, then looked back at the Jeep.
Foot-to-foot, he marched. And I knew what he was thinking. Didn't take a fool to understand I'd burned him once.
I pursed my hand under my balls and stood just close enough to make him meet my eyes, "Just like a locker room, bud."
"Yeah, if I'd ever been in a locker room with you, looking like this-," he pushed back under a gritty groan, "Jesus Christ… Emmett." Closing his eyes and clenching his fists, he paced away.
My heart pounded, as did my cock like the two were frigging twins.
Gun-shy and skittish, he began, "I always wanted you, Emmett..."
My knees about came from beneath me.
"But you said we were a mistake."
I curled over for a second. Then righted myself. Wading back through the lap of the lake, I stood completely naked, in body and soul, for the first time, "I said it was a mistake." I kept my hands to my sides, allowing my broad back beacon the last harsh ray's from the unfiltered sun in its setting.
"What are you saying now?" He warily glanced over me, sucking in a breath with all the tall breadth I'd bared to him. He touched my chest, and I jumped. He kissed once lightly over the cords of my throat, and I roared.
"What are you saying?"
A second chance raincloud poured out for ten seconds and then bled on.
The air wasn't one bit cooled.
I walked him back with me to the water.
Every step was a piece of clothing meeting sand.
Every caress a confession, "I want you, Jasper."
"I thought about you."
"For ten fucking years!"
Up to our hips, naked, and making out. Marking each other.
I framed his face, even though the fury of wanting to fuck him hot and hard and fast was making new waves crest outwards from my body, "I've loved you since I first frigging saw you, Jaspa."
Oh, GOD! His lips were even better the second ride around.
I couldn't even…I couldn't even stand.
On our knees, just shallow enough, everything that had been hollowed out was filled.
Kissing all over his back, watching the spell of his hips bringing his tight ass back onto me, no barriers, fresh clean water and enormous yells, big bodies held together with every lunge… I kissed his neck, cried out, circled into him with flashing throbs and held him up to me so I could watch just over his shoulder as he came with a paralyzing seize, splattering the sand, the water and my hand that swept solidly up and down his dripping cock.
But we weren't done.
"I'm no angel," he turned the tarnished, sun-setting ringlets of his head back to me, nipped that dimple in the middle of my chin, started to go down lower.
"Me either." I rolled onto my back and writhed with his tongue and mouth fucking me right up into heaven.
But this, this was unbelievably glorious.
The clouds parted.
Jasper was over me, in me, murmuring, and that fat motherfucking sun sat right behind his head like a halo.
A final push, two grunts, a collapse of heavy bodies.
The sand made me sneeze as it got up my nose, and Lord only knew where the fuck else I'd have to dig it out of.
But for now… "Don't care what you are."
I snagged the ever-present picnic blanket from the back of the jeep and our powerful arms covered up what it couldn't.
"Love you, Jaspa Whitlock."
"Do you now?"
And I heard it back, "I love you, Emmett Fucking McCarty."
Leave all this misery behind.
(PS. If you like this Mainemett, go read my other in Sour)