Second Chances (6 page)

“Just him. I promise, I swear on whatever you want me to swear on. It was just him.” His voice was steady and he met my eyes without blinking. Funny, I believed him.

“He’s gone?” I had to know.

“Yes, he’s gone. I never wanted him, really. He’s gone,” he swore.

“We won’t talk about him again. If I do this, you don’t fucking spread your legs for anybody else. This’s your one last chance, Brian. There won’t be another. Do you understand me?”

No hesitation from him. “I understand. I don’t want anyone else. I’m yours.”

I didn’t answer with words. Instead, I reached beside him and grabbed the condom. After tearing the package open, I rolled it down my length, making sure it was tight. Then I popped open the lube and ran a thin stream of it over my cock.

“Don’t come until I say so.” I slicked up my shaft.

“I remember,” he whispered, his breath shallow and fast. He knew what was coming and he looked ready to shoot now.

I grabbed him behind his knees and pushed them back, his feet against the flat of my chest. I positioned my cock against his hole and rested it there. Looking him in the eye, I tugged his hips hard toward me and shoved inside.

He tensed, then relaxed, opening himself to me and welcoming me inside him. I saw the struggle on his face.

I took him this way when I knew he needed it hard and fast. Hardly any lube, just making him take me. That sharp burst of sensation always made him “be present.” His words, not mine. I could see his breath as it began to even out. I pulled out and slammed back in, taking the pace hard and fast right from the get-go. He would always adjust, and he did now. He was so fucking tight, but he opened enough to take it.

He kept his hands to the sides like he always did. His legs spread open wide, my hard cock pounding in and out of him, he looked so fucking beautiful. I kept up a hard pace, knowing I wouldn’t last long. It’d been way too long, and I needed to come inside him so badly. I could see the sweat starting to pop up on his brow—he needed this too.

I shifted a little and could tell when I hit his prostate. His cock started to swell, then leak, and I saw his mouth working, his jaw clenching and relaxing. I held his thighs in a vise grip and managed to gasp, “Work those nipples for me.”

His gaze locked on mine. His hands relaxed the death grip they had on the comforter and pulled and twisted the hoops. I had to close my eyes for a moment; the way his ass tightened around my cock almost made me blow my load right then.

I kept this up for a minute or two but I felt the pressure start building in my balls and spine. I knew it would all be over with soon. “Come for me. Now. Or you fucking don’t get to,” I growled out at him.

He looked me square in the eyes, tugged the rings hard as hell, and shot all over his chest.

And that was all she wrote. I pushed in maybe three more times and lost my load. His insides spasmed around me while my orgasm ripped its way out. My knees gave out and I flopped down on him, forcing his legs wide apart, making him take my weight for a minute while I caught my breath.

When I got some strength back, I stood and walked over to the bathroom. “Stay,” I ordered.

I tugged off the condom and threw it in the toilet, stopping to take a piss while I did. After I flushed, I grabbed a washcloth and waited while the water warmed, then went over to him. He lay there like I left him, sweat and globs of cum dotting him from chest to groin. Debauched. I cleaned him off and looked away, smiling.

“Move your ass over and let’s get some rest,” I told him, and reached for the lamp.

T
HAT
was five months ago, and while we weren’t living together again, we were seeing each other exclusively.

Here I was on my birthday, having dinner with my massage therapist, who was fast becoming a really good friend. And evidently still totally straight, because there was some woman sitting there with her hands all over him when I got to the table.

I thought I looked totally dignified as I called his name and waited until he turned his attention from her skanky ass to me.

“Hey, dude, happy birthday. This is Rianna. She’s Mario’s sister—you know, my buddy from back home. She’s in town taking a break from the husband and kids and staying with me a few days,” he explained.

What. The. Fuck.
I seemed to think this a lot where Antonio was concerned.

“Well, nice to meet you, Rianna. Maybe we should do this another time, Antonio,” I mustered.

“Nah,” he laughed. “She’s gonna go out dancing and have a good time and we’ll have our time together. Right, honey?”

“Right, baby,” the mass of Lee Press-on Nails and weave said.

“Fantastic,” I drawled.

“See you later, dollbaby.” He grinned and gave her a wet, openmouthed kiss and a quick smack on the ass as she teetered away on heels three inches too high for a hooker.

That’s when it hit me. I was fucking jealous.

Mother. Fucker.

W
E
FINISHED
dinner, and I let him carry the weight of the conversation. I was only half there anyway; all the thoughts spinning around in my head needed to settle the fuck down. I was
not
going to be attracted to a straight guy again. Every gay man out there has at least one man-crush in his past that totally shriveled his nads into raisins and sent him screaming off into the night. Or into the straight dude’s fist. Mine ended in a lost friendship.

So I got my shit together right then and there. Antonio didn’t seem to notice, and before I knew it I’d heard the whole sordid story of Rianna, her hot-headed Cuban husband, her “brats,” and how she liked to just get away and let off steam every few months. Her brother Mario was an old friend of Antonio’s, and evidently starred in some kind of adult films and did massage on the side.

But he was the happy ending kind of masseur. And also had a very nasty drug habit that reared its ugly head now and again. Antonio would sober him up, kick his ass, call his sister, and she’d come and take him home. Then the cycle would repeat. Rianna was out having a good time while Mario was sleeping it off before they went back home to Miami the next day.

And, oh yeah, she and Antonio were going to spend the night together. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Not my fucking concern.

After he paid the bill, I followed him back over to his apartment. My resolve was righteous—I’d get my massage and get back home. There was a guy who wanted my cock at home in my bed. That’s where my focus needed to be, not on this beautiful disaster.

“Want some wine, birthday boy?” he asked. He already had the glasses out, ice in one.
Shudder
.

“Maybe just a half glass tonight, man. I’m kind of out of it already.” I shrugged.

He poured our drinks and sat down beside me on the sofa. I noticed how close he sat, and my mind took off running again. Granted, he had the personal boundaries of a three-year-old sometimes, but he never did anything except sit there.

I was way too fucking aware of him. How he smelled. How the muscles in his arms flexed. Fuck.

“Maybe I should just make it an early night tonight, Antonio. Brian said he might come over, and I’m sure he wants to give me his present.” I waggled my eyebrows.

He looked at me like I kicked his puppy. How in the fuck did a man like him manage to pout? “No, man. I got something special planned tonight. You can’t bail on me now. Let me get things set up.”

Well, fuck. I tried. And, really, I could use the massage. Maybe he could rub my brain and unknot all the shit racing around and bumping and pinging like a pinball machine. I watched him pull out the massage table, set it up, and drape it with sheets and towels.

He went over to the table where he had all his computer and stereo crap set up and clicked on the soft rock channel of an Internet radio station. Big pussy loved Barry Manilow, Gordon Lightfoot, Linda Ronstadt. All the good stuff. And damn it, I liked it too.

Jeffrey Osborne started crooning about flying away on the wings of love.

“Go ahead and get ready while I warm up the oil, baby.”

Baby?

Oh yeah, that made me want to strip naked. No, really. It made me want to strip
naked.
So I did, and crawled up on the massage table and put my head in that little doughnut thingy.

I heard Antonio come back in the room, then felt the light touch of his hands and the warmth of the oil as he started rubbing circles right between my shoulder blades. He always targeted that area first—evidently I carried a lot of tension there. And it felt so wonderful, the pressure getting deeper and harder. I could feel the muscles relax. I took in a deep breath and settled down on the table.

Something felt… different. I couldn’t place it but shrugged it off. Probably my imagination working overtime.

He moved around the table and stood near my head, working on my neck. It hit me then, I didn’t feel his shirt brushing against me. He always wore those baggy T-shirts, two or three sizes too big, and I could feel them on my skin as he leaned in close to reach an area. And it wasn’t there. I opened my eyes in shock, but since my head was in the round thingy, all I could see was the floor, and his bare feet. And bare calves.

He must have felt the sudden tension in my back and neck. “What’s the matter, baby?” he asked.

Baby
again.

“Antonio. Are you… naked?” I hoped my voice was even.

“Yeah. You’re gonna massage me after I finish with you. I know you like what you see. Happy birthday,” he murmured.

Fuck. That. Shit.

“I don’t know the first thing about massaging somebody. And what do you mean I like what I see? We’re buddies, aren’t we? I know you aren’t gay and, dude, this shit just ain’t right.” I knew I was rambling on like an idiot, and my accent got all country when I was nervous.

I didn’t know how to say
bad idea
. Really
bad idea
.

Oh. Yeah. “Antonio, this is really a bad idea.”

“Shhhh. It’s a great fucking idea. I get tired and sore too and this way, I don’t have to pay nobody. You get to feel my muscles and rub on my ass and then you go home and get laid, and I’m gonna fuck Rianna. Everybody wins,” he crowed.

It had a strange logic to it. Looking wasn’t cheating. Touching wasn’t cheating, as long as I wasn’t touching his ass with my dick.
That
was cheating. He got laid later, and I could go home and get me some too. And I was
so
not going to think about his ass and my dick together.

When he put it that way, yeah, everybody wins.

I settled back down and he worked on my aching neck and back. Once I allowed myself to relax and get over my concerns, it was just like every other massage he’d done for me since last year. The nice dinner and the glass of wine made me drowsy, and when I turned over for him to work on my front, I almost didn’t open my eyes.

Yeah, almost. But I did. The lights were low, but I could see him, barely, through my slitted eyelids. The body I imagined didn’t do him any justice at all. Almost six feet tall, he was built like a wrestler. I already knew he had really muscular arms from what he’d been doing to my body, and I’d wager he could crack walnuts in his hands. But the rest, just… damn.

His shoulders were nice and wide, and his frame narrowed down toward his hips. Not the classic V-shape, he was a little thicker than that through the waist, but that chest was a fucking work of art. Nice solid muscles, a good dusting of hair that ran the width of it, then down to his stomach and further.

I could see that the tattoos ran down his neck and splashed onto his chest and down his arms. It was too dark to make out the details, but the shadow of them on his skin was… eerie. As he moved around the edge of the table to work on my leg, I could see everything else.

Holy fuck. I’m not huge, but I’m not ashamed to walk around the locker room either. Yeah, I’ve been in a locker room and know my way around the gym, just not a bunny. His cock was long and thin and nicely shaped, and his balls hung big and full. He shaved down there, but then not everybody’s perfect. And his thighs. Fuck, they were thick and muscled like a cyclist’s.

But I saw that ass and didn’t know if I could stay soft. It was fucking beautiful. Tight, chiseled, and round. Did I say tight? When he moved further up, massaging my thighs, I could see how smooth it was, and I had to think about awful things to keep my cock quiet. Like where he might bury me after strangling me with those strong hands when Mr. Happy stood up and spit in his eye. He might have touched me down there once, but it hadn’t been on the table again since. So to speak.

He moved up and started working on my hip, using long strokes from waist to knee with both hands. His cock brushed against my right forearm as it lay on the edge of the table. I practiced my deep breathing and stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t say a word, just kept massaging.

“How you feeling there, champ?” he asked.

“Doing good. Out of it. Back feels good. Needed this,” I almost whispered.