Christmas Kitsch (Hol) (MM) (16 page)

He shrugged. “It’s sort of the perfect story, you know? I mean, he was sad, and I think he cried and maybe went and talked to God in the church for a while, but I didn’t see any of that. I just saw my
papi
.”

I shrugged back, still piled with little girls and little dogs. “Since I’m sort of getting him by proxy, I’m not going to complain.”

Oliver came to sit down. He had to pick up one cousin to lay her down at the foot of the bed with his blanket, and shoo two dogs to the side, but eventually he managed to be sitting right next to me. I wrapped an arm around his shoulder, and we leaned back against the wall.

“I wonder,” I said, feeling sort of empty and clean inside.

“Wonder what?”

“What it would have taken for me to know if I hadn’t known you.”

Oliver snuggled. “You would have known. One day, you would have figured that you weren’t watching porn for the girls, you know?”

I thought about it, thought about the last girl I’d been with—the one
before
“no dick before dinner.” She’d been nice, with roundness in her arms and her shoulders and her breasts. Neither of us had been virgins, and we’d had a slow, easy time having sex in her room. But she’d moved to another school, and I’d been a little relieved. It was like I didn’t have to perform an obligation anymore. What had it been that made that unpleasant? I tried to remember her hand on my skin, my arm, my stomach, my dick . . .

And felt nothing.

And then, so very clearly, I could picture Oliver’s slender brown hand right on my—

I grunted and shifted on the bed, trying not to disturb dogs and cousins.

“You’re right,” I said tensely, his weight against my shoulder suddenly excruciating, too intense, painful with all the blood in my nerve endings there. I swallowed, and let the wave of
must have now
wash over me, suddenly sweating with the will to
not
pop a boner, not here in this very inappropriate time and place. “I would have noticed.”

Oliver looked at my face, frowned, and then looked down along my body.

And then he laughed, low and evil. “Oh, thank God. I was starting to wonder if I still did that to you.”

“Didn’t go away.” My voice was high and squeaky, and he chuckled again, patting my arm.

“Good,” he said smugly. “Hold that thought.” And then he looked around and grimaced. “But, uhm, you know. Maybe not literally.”

I laughed in spite of myself. “That’s
so
not funny.”

“It is.”

“No, no, it’s really not.”

“You’re not looking at it from where I’m sitting.”

“You’re sitting a foot to the right of me. I’m pretty sure I am.”

His look at my face was quick and furious, and I smirked back. Yeah, I wasn’t smart, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t play with words too.

He pounded my arm with laughter and the little girl nearest him woke up a little. (Maria-Cristina I think, and she was wearing a red velveteen dress with black shoes and was disappointed that she didn’t get to bring her stuffed bunny to Thanksgiving, but her parents were afraid she’d lose it. Oh yeah. I was paying attention.)

“Is the movie over?” she asked, and Oliver and I said yeah, and then her sisters started to move.

Oliver pulled up Netflix on
his
computer then, and we started
The Princess and the Frog.
By the time Gloria and Maria-Athena came in with pumpkin–cream cheese pie and whipped cream, we were all sucked into the movie—and Oliver was halfway in my lap, leaning with his head on my shoulder. He straightened up when they came in, but only to reach out and start helping them hand pie to the girls, and push the dogs away when they got too interested in what we were eating. The Pomeranian had made himself my special friend. He sat there with his little snout on my leg and gazed at me adoringly while I ate, and I admit, I did let him lick some whipped cream off my fingers. Those eyes—who can resist?

Oliver’s aunts hung out in the doorway for a few minutes after we’d all started chowing on pie, and they were looking into the room with that, “Aw, isn’t this sweet?” look that women get when they see men taking care of children. My mother had never gotten that look—but then, my father had never taken care of us, either—but I’d seen it in parks where kids were playing, and it made me blush.

They laughed and pattered to each other in Spanish, and then a brief flash of color washed over Oliver’s face too.

“What?” I asked, and he shook his head.

“Nothing.” He said something quick to them in Spanish, and when Gloria answered with an impertinent syllable, he sat there with his mouth gaping open in outrage, while the women laughed and walked down the hallway. I tried, but he wouldn’t tell me what they’d said, and I dropped it. We were really having too nice a time to argue.

Eventually everyone left, disappearing to the other parts of the foothills and the valley they came from, and it was Oliver, his dad, and me in the same house. We went into the living room, and Oliver pulled up a movie, and once again, I fell asleep in front of the television.

Only this time, I had Oliver in my arms.

And this time, he was still there when I woke up in the morning.

“Rusty?”

I woke up stretched across the couch with Oliver’s back pressed up against my front. We were both covered by one of those colorful wool blankets, and Oliver was breathing softly and drooling on the couch in front of him.

It took me a few minutes of blinking before I realized that Oliver’s dad was talking quietly to me from the side door. “Mr. Campbell?”

“Rusty, my guys are working today while the weather holds. It’s supposed to rain later this weekend. Tell Oliver you guys can have all the leftovers you want, and you guys can have the truck to go get a new phone when it gets dark, okay?”

I nodded, hoping I could remember that, and Mr. Campbell reached over from the head of the couch and ruffled my hair. “Don’t worry too much, Rusty. Go back to sleep. You can wake up and plan, but don’t forget, Gloria has Tuesday set aside for you, and Manny has some cars to look at that day too. You have a good day.”

He left quietly, and I was stuck, trying to decide whether to go back to sleep, or to wake Oliver up, or . . .

Hello.

I stretched my back and arched my hips forward and realized that I was hard inside my jeans, and that Oliver’s backside was right
there
pressed up against me.

Yeah, we were both wearing jeans, but . . . I arched forward again, the stroking against my cock through our clothes both subtle and really super arousing.

In my arms, Oliver made a happy little sigh, and for a minute, I felt sort of bad, like I was taking advantage of him, but he snuggled backward and rippled his hips against the bulge in my pants.

I grunted, wanting more. He’d fallen asleep in a long-sleeved knit shirt, and my hand was right about at his waist. The feel of his bare skin against my palm was magic. It was soft, and so satiny, and so warm. I spread my hand out and ran it up from the waist of his pants to his chest, feeling the skin skate by, until I got to the . . . oh, hello again!

I pinched my thumb and forefinger together around the different flesh, to make sure it was what I thought it was, and he groaned.

I went completely still.

“Stop and I’ll kill you,” he muttered, so I pinched his nipple again and breathed out when he rocked his hips back.

I buried my nose in the nape of his neck and smelled Oliver, plus all the food we’d cooked the day before, and sweetness, like pie, and some sweat and . . . Oh wow! I breathed him in again, and he arched against my hand. Then he grabbed it and slid it back down his stomach and underneath the waistband of his jeans.

I reached down on my own and started kneading him gently under his clothes, and he unbuttoned his fly.

Oh God. Oh wow. I had my
hand
in Oliver’s
pants
. I groaned again and kicked my hips forward, and then found the outline of his cock through his underwear. It was growing harder with every stupid grope, and I suddenly longed to see it, smell it,
taste
it, but Oliver was hard in my hand, and I was hard in my pants, and I didn’t feel like doing a complete body reorganization that would totally break the moment.

I settled for slipping my hand under the elastic of his briefs and straightening his cock so I could stroke it in my fist. It felt . . . well, wonderful and ordinary at the same time, but I knew what to do with one of these things—had, in fact, been using my own fairly frequently since middle school.

He moaned loudly and thrashed a little, so I wrapped the arm that was pillowing his head up over his shoulders, holding him still.

“Don’t move,” I ordered. “I want to touch you.”

“Yeah, okay.” He was panting, and he craned his head around. I didn’t have to be a genius to know he wanted to kiss me.

I did, morning breath and all, and I didn’t care. I just wanted our mouths together, wanted our skin together, wanted us close, closer, and the delicious hard pressure in my cock to be stroked, squeezed, massaged. Oliver arched up into my fist, and I stroked him a little harder, and a little faster.

He made a sound then, in my mouth—I can’t even describe it. It was like the word
passion
, which I sort of recognized in writing, but I couldn’t put a feeling to—that sound was
passion
and I was starting to feel it, starting to
burn
with it, and I was sweating underneath the blanket even though I wasn’t doing anything, and I could feel the smooth skin of Oliver’s cock in my fist, and the silky coarse hairs at his groin against my palm, the cap of the glans between the join of my thumb and forefinger, and all that feeling radiated out from my hand into my entire body.

I
hungered
. I wrapped my outside leg around Oliver’s thighs and rutted against his backside. Oliver thrust into my fist so fast I clutched him tighter because I was afraid he was going to fall off the couch. He reached up and took the hand pressed against his chest and clapped it to his mouth, then sucked my thumb in,
hard
, and then released it, crying out from deep in his gut while his whole body bucked and arched and his cock spit wetness on my hand.

It was hot, hot and satiny, and all I had to do was think about tasting it on my hand and the growing pressure, glowing white light behind my eyes, exploded, and I was clutching him so hard he probably couldn’t breathe, and I was spasming, coming, scalding and sticky in my underwear, when I hadn’t even unbuttoned my fly.

I moaned a little into his ear, in the hollow of his neck, my hips still making those impotent thrusts, because even though I’d come, I still wanted more. Without hooking up his jeans or anything, Oliver rolled off the couch, taking the blanket with him.

“Don’t go—”

His busy hands were working at my waist, and without warning or ceremony, he shoved my jeans and wet boxers down my thighs, and there was my erection, still mostly hard, dripping and wet. I didn’t even get a good look at his face as he dropped to his knees and sucked it straight into his mouth.

I was suddenly harder than hard, and he was sucking me into the back of his throat. He made gagging noises, the kind that usually break you right out of a mood, but he pulled back and dropped his head down again, and there I was, right in the back of his throat, begging for mercy.

“Oh
God
! Fucking
Oliver
!”

He pulled back and paused long enough to grin at me, then slurped me right back down to the back of his throat. I ran my fingers through his messy, smooth dark hair, and he went down again and cupped my balls for good measure. My fingers tightened and it probably hurt, but he didn’t stop. Just kept sucking and squeezing and licking and it was good, it was good, it was everything I wanted, God, his hot, shameless mouth sucking the cum through my cock like a straw.

“
Oliver
!” and I tried to pull him away, to be polite, but he went down harder, and I came. This time it was longer, more drawn out, pleasure being dragged down a gravel road. He tried to swallow, but I’m sure the cum in his mouth was a surprise to him (it would have been to me!), and I kept pumping cum into his mouth while he held it, scalding, around my crown, which made me come harder.

Finally it was done, my balls were about drained, and he pulled back, keeping his lips pressed together. He held his hand in front of his mouth for a moment, and then straightened and ran through the living room, the other hand hauling his pants up. I heard him spitting my cum out in the kitchen sink, and grimaced.

“Sorry about that!” I called, straightening and pulling my pants around my waist. I padded into the kitchen, shamefaced, and he was drinking from a glass of water and spitting out. I got behind him and rested my chin on his shoulder, feeling that wonderful buzz you get from coming and a sort of embarrassment that he had to rinse my jizz out of his mouth. He wiped his mouth on the shoulder of his shirt, set his cup down, and turned, letting his pants drop to his ankles so he could hug me.