In The Absence Of Light (29 page)

“Two can play that game.” I huffed against his lips. “Come for me, Morgan.”

“No.” His entire body shuddered, and more precum bled from his slit until the foreskin squelched.

“Please.”

He shook his head until his curls were a blur. Morgan arched his back and keened. I was so sure he’d lose it then, but unlike the tics controlling him, he was able to rein in his climax.

I’d been with a few who edged, taking themselves to the height of an orgasm then stopping. Some did it because it was just a kink, others because they liked how it built up the end, a few to increase their stamina. But what Morgan did, was nothing like I’d ever seen.

And while he might have been able to hold back, my body rapidly reached its limit. The fire in my muscles turned into an electric crawl. The rush pulled my nuts tight and yanked me to my toes. I barked out a cry that became a series of grunts as my body seized up and pulse after pulse rippled down my cock. I emptied everything I had, and Morgan undulated against the table as if the sensation of cum filling him was a whole new pleasure.

“Love that,” he gasped. “Love how that feels.” He was still hard in my hand. Morgan held me in place with his legs, humming while he rolled his hips. Cum leaked from around my softening cock. If I’d been ten years younger, I would have been pounding him again, working my cock until it was rock hard and stretching him to his limit, but my recovery time was a bit longer now.

I didn’t care, watching him was enough.

Morgan put his hand over mine. One at a time, he pulled open my fingers until I released his dick. It slapped it against his stomach, all swollen, angry, and weeping.

“Why did you hold back?” I didn’t realize just how much it hurt my ego, but the tone of my voice said everything I wasn’t willing to admit.

“Want you to suck me.” He sat up on his elbows. “Want just your mouth, Grant.”

I wasn’t quite sure what he meant until he pushed away any attempt to hold him. I wound up with my hands on the edge of the table so I could balance myself. Morgan gripped the back of my head and pushed me down. He didn’t cram himself to the back of my throat, just deep enough to take half his cock. I started to bob my head, but he pulled my hair.

“Be still.”

I did. Even though it made me feel useless, I stopped moving and stood there while Morgan watched me. Then slowly he began to move. First it was just a roll of his hips, then he pulled his feet up to the edge of the table and it became an all-out face-fucking.

Head back, one arm holding him up, the other hand buried in my hair, he held me in place. Even if I’d wanted to pull away, I couldn’t have. Not with the image of his glistening body weighing down my mind, the scent of musk and clean sweat in my nose, the taste of precum, the anticipation for more, and the animalistic sounds he made with every thrust.

I think I would have stayed there forever if he wanted me to, but once in control, the constant tension in Morgan’s body didn’t return, and he simply rode out the crash and ebb of pleasure until one final thrust had him shooting down the back of my throat.

I swallowed, but it wasn’t quick enough to keep the stream of cum from backing over my lips and making lines down his cock and leaving droplets in his golden hairs.

Morgan pulled me forward until we were nose to nose, chin to chin. He licked the cum from my lip. His dark gaze was on me and at the same time far, far away.

He didn’t resist when I molded my body to his and wrapped him in my arms. The heat of his flesh, the curve of his muscles, the strength in his body, nothing had ever felt so perfect in my life.

Morgan peppered my shoulder in kisses. “Gonna have to get a new table.”

My mind was still fifteen seconds behind. “What? Why?” We hadn’t damaged it.

“’Cause I’m never going to be able to keep a straight face if Aunt Jenny comes over for lunch.”

I laughed, but it died too quickly. Like I said, my thoughts lagged.

“What’s wrong?” Morgan tilted his head. A small tic pulled his shoulder and his hand went to his temple, but I caught it and kissed his palm. The involuntary pull fell slack and his fingers opened. I did it again.

“Grant?”

I pushed one hand behind his back, but when I reached for the other, he eluded my grasp.

“You want an encore, then we're gonna have to get the lube.”  The warmth of his gaze didn’t match the sudden edge to his words. It was like seeing two men. One on the inside who wanted me, trusted me, then another on the outside who couldn’t lose control.

I took his hands again. “I won’t hurt you.” I brushed my lips against his. “I swear to you, Morgan, you can trust me. I’ll never hurt you.” His lips parted, and his breath huffed in and out.

“What makes you think I don’t trust you?” He pulled out of my grasp again, but I regained control before he got very far. His gaze slid away, and some of the color left his cheeks.

“I think you know why.” He really pulled then. I let him go because it was either that or leave bruises. Then he was off the table, grabbed his jeans off the floor, and headed toward the bathroom. Cum left a shiny streak across the back of one ass cheek and thigh.

“I gotta get ready for work.”

“I’m not him.” I don’t know why I said it.

Morgan froze in the doorway. The muscles in his shoulders bunched.

“And whatever it is he did, I won’t.”

His hand flexed on the doorknob. “I know you’re not Dillon. And I know you’re nothing like him.”

“Then why don’t you trust me?”

Morgan turned. I swore there were tears in his eyes, but when his hair slid out of the way, as me met my gaze, they were gone. “It’s just sex, Grant. It’s not like we’re married. Three years, remember? You know, to fill the space, because it’s better than crossword puzzles.”

I took a step, and he withdrew. I couldn’t be sure, but I don’t think he realized he did it.

“What if it’s not?”

Morgan laughed, but it fractured. “C’mon, Grant, when’s the last time a crossword puzzle made you growl like a rutting bull when you come?”

“I don’t…” Okay, I did make a lot of noise. Maybe not like a rutting bull. But honestly, I don’t think I’d ever heard one before. I took another step, and this time he held his ground. “Maybe I don’t want to be with you to fill the space anymore.”

“So you want to watch TV instead?”  His gaze slid away and his wayward hand flicked thoughts.

“No. I want you. Next to me. Every night.”

Morgan dropped his jeans in the dirty laundry pile inside the bathroom door. Then he turned on the shower and tested the water for a lot longer than he needed to before he went to his room and came back with some clean clothes.

Again he stopped at the door. “I know you’ve got some things to do, but would you like to stay the night?”

“You know I would.”

“I was thinking about cooking dumplings.”

“Sounds perfect.”

He nodded once, then twice, before stepping into the cloud of steam and shutting himself inside.

**********

The skill saw screamed through another two by four. Even with earplugs, it left my head ringing. After you run one of those things for so long, there’s just no escaping the sound. It echoes in your bones and occupies any moment of silence in between daily noises.

No, the only way to get that irritating screech out of your head was to replace it with something louder and far more memorable. Morgan would be leaving Toolies around eight. He wanted to ride his bike home, but I was going to pick him up. If he complained, I’d make it up to him in any and every position possible.

I picked up my shirt from the railing and wiped my hands before carrying the stud inside. While rewiring an outlet, I discovered a soft spot in the wall. The soft spot turned into a patch, and the patch turned into an all-out nightmare. A lot of old home places are built on stone foundations. Not concrete block, not brick, I’m talking rock. The kind you dig up out of the garden and toss off to the side. Depending on the age of the house, sometimes that rock isn’t even held together with mortar, just stacked and glued with luck.

The Anderson house had a stacked rock foundation. Whoever had done it had been a master at fitting those rocks together. Whoever tried to do the repair job caused by time, erosion, someone backing his car into the corner of the house, had been an idiot.  Instead of taking the time to shore up the spot and fit the stones together, they’d slapped some globs of mortar and tried to paste the rocks in place like macaroni on a kindergarten paper plate project.

And see, the thing about mortar is, it’s porous. It sucks up water like a sponge, and badly mixed mortar will not only suck up that water, it will crumble. The fact the floor wasn’t sagging was a miracle and a testament to the skill of the original builder. Unfortunately there had been enough rain over the years to soak the mortar until it hit the wood and the wood had done the rest, drinking up Mother Nature’s offering until the oak had blackened and turned soft as a sponge.

What was left of the insulation had been tunneled into one of the nastiest black ant infestations I’d ever seen in my life. With a liberal amount of Borax and a new section of wall, I could convince them to move on. If it had been fire ants, I would have had to burn the place down and collect on the insurance.

It took me two days to rip out the wall, remove the window, shore up the floor and restack the stone. I had no illusions regarding my rock stacking skills, so I cheated and used concrete block to brace the spot and covered it up with the original stone.

I’d had to build up the foundation from under the house and despite long sleeves, coveralls, and a box of Borax, the few remaining ants had fought well.

With the last stud in place, I was ready to reinsulate the wall. Looking at the roll of pink fiberglass, I couldn’t help but wonder what would itch worse by morning.

I made a mental note to grab some calamine lotion on the way home.

Age had turned the oak of the outer wall planks into the consistency of concrete, so I’d been able to save all but a few. Now the sun broke through the small spaces in the slats, scattering irregular shapes on the dark floor. They lay there like puzzle pieces waiting to be snapped together, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I stared at them long enough, I’d eventually see the picture they made.

If there was a picture at all.

According to Morgan, the light held more than just pretty colors and patterns, it spoke. If his sculptures were anything close to what he saw when he watched the sun break through the trees, then I could only imagine what kind of music it made.

Maybe I could have imagined. I don’t know. I wasn’t sure if my mind could even stretch that far. Part of me really wanted to know what it was like, another part was terrified by the prospect.

Not because I feared what I’d see, I feared I’d never want to come back.

I didn’t even hear the car drive up. Like I said, the ring of a skill saw sticks with you for a while. The scent of Old Spice cologne drew my attention. Jeff stood at the front door in his suit, sunglasses in his front pocket, smirk—although subtle—on his face.

On any other man, Old Spice was Old Spice, but on Jeff, it morphed into a rich flavor saturating the air. It wasn’t because he wore a lot of it, honestly it only took a few drops, but there was just something about his body chemistry that transformed it into some sort of Spanish Fly.

At least it used to. According to my dick, it still did.

“Been busy?” Jeff ran a look over me from head to toe. Covered in dirt, Borax, sweat, and ant bites, I’m sure I was regular Kodak moment.

And my deodorant had long ago gone by the wayside, washed away by hours of sawing, hammering, and crawling around on my belly under the house.

“Are you ever going to stop?” I made myself busy picking up tools. The air stirred, and his shiny black shoes came into my periphery.

“Grant—”

“No.” I closed the toolbox.

“You haven’t even heard the question.”

“You’re a broken record, I don’t need to.” I stood, and suddenly he was too close. Only the toolbox kept space between us. And it wasn’t nearly enough.

“I was going to ask you how you did it.” For once, I had no idea what he was talking about. It must have shown on my face because he added. “The warehouse.”

Maybe it was his cologne, the heat of his body, or how he searched my face, pausing on my lips, sliding to my throat, then making no attempt to hide the slow drag down my chest to my groin, but my brain still skipped.

“It was empty,” he said.

Warehouse. Empty.

Then it hit me. Jeff brought his gaze back up and I could practically see what he was thinking about, and it had nothing to do with my warehouse near the old carpet mill where I’d stashed some of my most valuable personal items under lock, key, and concrete.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I said it so smoothly even I would have believed me.

But Jeff knew me way better than most. “We had that place under twenty-four hour surveillance. No one in, no one out, and it was empty.”