Goldilocks: A Man, a Jersey, and a Tight End (8 page)

Looking up at Jim through golden eyelashes, Scott stuck out his tongue and licked a long, slow slurp around and around and around.

Jim moaned.

And Scott just stopped. “We aren’t done discussing this,” he said, smile feral.

“Sure we are,” said Jim. “Whatever you said. I agree. You’re right. About everything. Please, Scott, baby…”

Scott chuckled. He bent his head again and licked around and around and around.

Jim moaned and opened his legs.

“I wanna ride the pony,” whispered Scott.

Jim just swallowed and nodded, helping Scott get astride him and slowly lower himself onto Jim’s cock.

Oh heck, they could discuss this later.

* * * *

Paul heard Scott’s groans coming from the other end of the house and smiled. It wasn’t Paul’s thing, but Jim’s anatomical particulars usually elicited just those sorts of groans from both Scott and Brian.

Paul was about as secure as they came, but he couldn’t help but think about this and about Brian’s request and wonder…

“Ridiculous,” he said. He tapped the search keywords in and hunted carefully. Brian was at school, giving Paul the time and space to research the very subject in question. Jim had offered to advise, of course, but Paul could admit he always liked to find things out for himself.

He opened a promising-looking window and winced immediately at the images there.

And then there was how the entire question made him, Paul, feel. It was a curious and interesting sensation, thinking of doing this with Brian,
to
Brian. It was more stimulating than Paul would have imagined it could be.

He could admit that his attraction to the idea concerned him a little.

So he kept reading, trying to block out what was disturbing or cruel or just plain disgusting. Trying to find useful information that would protect them both. Man, he thought. A year ago, before he’d met Brian, he’d thought he definitely had it all under wraps. Himself. His life.

Amazing what one little wide-eyed brat could do to a man’s world.

The clock on the computer monitor clicked, and Paul shook his head at the time. Brian would be home soon. He methodically cleared the cache and any bookmarks and shut down the computer.

From the other end of the house, he heard another long-drawn-out groan.

* * * *

Brian pulled a folder out of his backpack, and the envelope came out with it, flipping off the zipper and plopping onto the ground at his feet.

Brian picked it up and turned it over in his hands. It wasn’t like him to procrastinate, but the envelope had been in the bottom of his backpack long enough that the edges had grown thin and grubby, and the return address sticker was half scraped off.

It contained a letter and a form and a return envelope.

Paul would do more than raise an eyebrow if he found out Brian had been sitting on this for so long.

Nevertheless, Brian stuffed the letter back into the bag, taking care that it wound up back at the bottom. As if hiding it would somehow make the contents disappear.

The whole situation was just too complicated.

“Just can’t deal with you yet,” he told the letter. Then he slung the backpack over his back, just in time to hop up and catch his bus home.

* * * *

Jim was whistling something that sounded remarkably like “Small World” when Paul sidled into the kitchen and said, “Hey.”

Jim looked up from chopping a pepper and raised an eyebrow. “Hey yourself.”

Paul perched his ass against the counter, crossing those big inked arms across his chest, chains on his leather boots clinking when he crossed his legs and kicked, meditatively, at the linoleum tile.

Jim rinsed his knife and reached for another pepper.

“How’s Scott?” said Paul.

Jim thought briefly of his lover, who currently lay spread-eagle across the waterbed, ankles and wrists restrained, a towel covering his tush and a serene smile on his sleeping face.

“Resting,” said Jim.

Paul looked around the kitchen, seemed overly interested in the dangling chain of the ceiling fan, and then said, “You talk to him?”

“A little,” said Jim. “You ready to talk to him?”

“No,” said Paul immediately.

“Hmm.” Jim scraped the chopped peppers into a bowl. “Have we reached an impasse?”

Paul tsked. “I did a little online research.”

“Oh, Christ, Paul, what did you expect to find there?”

“I don’t know.” He toed the linoleum. He sighed.

Jim wiped his hands and turned. “Okay.” He held out a fist and drew one finger at a time up, enumerating his points. “One. Take it slow. And I mean s-l-o-w. You might not even do it the first time. Two. You set the pace. I don’t care what Brian tells you; you understand? A man in that position doesn’t always know what he wants.”

“Christ,” said Paul fervently. His jaw clenched.

“Three,” Jim persisted. “Give yourself the space to deal afterwards. Brian will be…” Jim sighed. “Just fucking be there for him.”

Paul’s head was down, but he was listening. After a few minutes of silence, he said, “Okay.”

Jim reached under the cupboards and brought out a soup pan.

“You’ve done this before, though,” said Paul.

“Not with someone I
cared
about.” There was something about the way he said it, something damning. Paul’s eyes narrowed as he studied Jim.

“Thanks,” he said. And strode out of the kitchen, the chains on his boots ringing out with each step.

“Don’t mention it,” said Jim, shaking his head and pouring tomato sauce into the pan.

* * * *

“I’m home!” called Brian brightly. He hung up his jacket and carried his backpack into his room to put it where it belonged under his desk.

There was a pink rose on the desk. Puzzled, he picked it up and found the note under it.

He read the note, and a crimson flush rose up his neck and into his cheeks. Carefully, he folded the note. Put it in his pocket. Then he went off to shower and get ready for dinner.

* * * *

Paul came in from the garage, where he’d been tinkering with his bike, wiping the last of the grease from his hands.

He stopped and looked at the set dinner table. There was a vase with a single pink rose sticking out of it. “Who put that there?”

“Brian,” said Jim. He opened the refrigerator. “We’re eating in ten.”

“Okay.” With one last look at the rose, Paul turned to the sink and began washing his hands.

* * * *

What the hell was wrong with Scott?

“Ask, don’t reach,” snapped Jim for about the tenth time.

Scott rolled his eyes. “Pass the butter, Bri?”

When Jim had woken him, Scott had been a sleepy, happy, golden bundle of satisfied man. That had lasted until he’d sat down at the table with Brian.

Now he jittered in place. “Accidentally” kicking people under the table, “accidentally” flipping bits of pepper off his plate, “forgetting” his manners, and looking more and more pleased with himself as he did so.

Brian’s cheeks were pink, and he seemed distracted, eating quietly and only lifting his eyes now and then to smile shyly at Paul, who seemed equally struck dumb.

What the hell was happening in his house? thought Jim.

“Wanna kick a ball around after dinner?” said Scott to Brian now. Well, thought Jim, at least he’d burn off some of that nervous energy.

“No thanks,” said Brian, with that enigmatic, shy smile again. “I think I’ll go to bed early tonight.”

“You have class tomorrow morning?” asked Scott.

“No. No class.”

Scott’s leg, swinging back and forth, connected with Jim’s shin rather hard. “Oops, sorry,” said Scott.

“Scott, just set your feet down on the floor.”

Now the bright, nervous energy seemed to implode, and Scott scowled. Jim sighed. “You’ve finished anyway. Why don’t you excuse yourself?”

Scott jumped up from the table, almost tipping his chair over, and thwacked Brian in a lighthearted way on the shoulder. “Lazy.”

The
thwack
was, in Jim’s opinion, a little harder than it should have been.

And Brian seemed almost feverish, with that high color in his cheeks, his quiet.

“Maybe it’s a good idea that you go to bed early,” said Jim.

“Yes,” said Paul. “Yes, Brian. Let’s call it an early night.”

Jim’s eyes narrowed. Oh-ho. He rose from the table with a sigh. “Well, go on then. I’ll get Scott to help me clean up.”

* * * *

Paul locked the bedroom door as he entered. Brian was still in the shower; he could hear the water dripping and other telltale sounds. When Brian came out, his hair was wet and lay over his shoulders, the curls twisting at the ends. He had a towel knotted at one hip, and the rings in his nipples glowed.

“Did you mean it?” he asked, breathless.

Oh God, did he mean it? Paul realized he had this one last chance to back out, but just as that thought occurred to him, he looked at Brian standing there and realized that he, Paul, wanted this too. Perhaps more than Brian and for reasons he understood even less well.

“Anything you need, hon,” he said. “You know that.”

Brian nodded eagerly.

“But we do this my way,” said Paul. “Slowly and carefully, you understand?”

“Yes,” said Brian.

“Yes, what?” Paul made his voice cool and authoritarian.

It was exactly the right tone. Brian’s skin went bright pink. “Yes, Sir.”

Brian dropped his towel. He was already partially erect and waxed, and Paul knew he had cleaned himself. He crawled up on the bed, but Paul said, “Wait. We need to use some other sheets.”

“Okay.” Brian stood and watched as Paul stripped the dark satin comforter from the bed and laid two layers of fresh new cotton sheets down instead.

“Lie down, Brian.”

Brian lay down on the bed. His skin was white and spotless and flushed with excitement. Paul took off his boots and shed his jeans. He was pushing off his boxers when Brian said, “Can you…wear the leather pants?”

Paul managed to keep his mouth from dropping open. He had leather leggings that tied up the sides. They were almost costume-like, and he hadn’t even known that Brian knew he had them.

Brian was flushed and breathing faster. “I’d like it.”

Paul grinned. “Okay, hon.” Then he rummaged in the closet, brought out the leathers, and fastened them on.

“Oh, wow.” Brian lay back, watching as Paul coated his hands and arm in oil. He opened his legs and looked up at the ceiling, feeling Paul’s oily fingers stretching him, breathing deeply when Paul inserted a third finger into his channel, rubbing and massaging slowly and carefully. Brian’s cock was fully erect and straining against his belly. Paul leaned over, the leather creaking, and kissed it. Brian murmured and moved his hips fitfully.

“No, Brian. You are not to move at all.” Paul carefully laid his arm across Brian’s pelvis so that he couldn’t move.

“Maybe I need the harness,” whispered Brian.

Who was driving this train anyway? thought Paul. “I’ll tell you what you need.”

Brian turned wide, dilated eyes toward him. “Yes, Sir.”

“You’ll lie still because I told you to, understand?”

Brian’s ribs rose and fell rapidly with his breathing, but the movements of his hips and legs ceased. “Yes, Sir.”

Paul poured more oil on his hand. Brian was so oily that a deep stain was gathering around where his butt rested on the sheets. Sliding slowly in and out, Paul inserted the tip of his forefinger. “Lie still,” he commanded and slid in four fingers.

Brian went completely, utterly still. The nipples rings flashed as he panted. “Oh.”

“God, baby.” Paul slid his fingers in very slowly, feeling Brian’s flesh gripping him but giving way very, very gradually. In and out, in and out. Brian moaned, head tossing to one side, and Paul stopped. Brian’s channel clenched and relaxed a little. A rhythmic thing, like spasms.

“Paul,” he breathed.

“Yeah, hon.”

“I want more.”

Christ
. Paul had to close his eyes for a second and get hold of himself. “Anything you want, baby.” He began the slow rub and slide in and out, in and out. Each time, he got a little closer to his thumb. Reaching over at one point, he just dumped oil over the whole area until his hand resembled a piston on a high-octane machine.

They were breathing in unison, he realized. The thud of Brian’s blood was something he could feel around his knuckles. The grasp of Brian’s body, the timing of his breathing, all mirrored by Paul’s body.

He reached the point where the tip of his thumb was at Brian’s hole, and he slid it in, just the tip.

Brian wailed.

Paul stopped again, heart thudding.

But Brian’s one hand somehow found his shoulder and squeezed, and somehow Paul knew that was a signal, and he pushed just a little more. Hairs and micrometers and tiny little bits, and time stopped. He and Brian breathed in unison, and Paul’s thumb was swallowed. It disappeared; his entire hand was inside Brian, who closed around his wrist like the sleeve of a sweater.

Paul couldn’t breathe. He felt like weeping but didn’t dare move. Brian’s cock was leaking steadily, a tiny stream dribbling down his hip, and Paul leaned over, all on instinct, his hand inside Brian, and suckled very gently at the leaking cockhead.

Brian didn’t move at all. Still and silent, his entire body seemed to shudder, and the channel around Paul’s hand clenched, rhythmic pulses moving from his fingertips to his hand. The cock in his mouth swelled, and for reasons he would never understand, Paul knew it was time and he spread his fingers, just a little, and turned his hand.

An eerie wailing cry from Brian, and great spurts of come filled Paul’s mouth; Brian’s body vibrated around him, under him. And then, holding the softening cock as gently in his mouth as a retriever would hold a pheasant, letting his hand relax, he felt the aftershocks shudder through Brian’s body one after another, like waves pounding on a beach.

Paul didn’t know how long it took for him to slowly inch his hand from inside of Brian, how long to strip his leather pants off. They were completely soaked inside with come he didn’t even remember producing. He didn’t know how long it took to gently, so very gently, gather his lover up against him and cradle him like a broken child, crooning mindless words.