Storming Love Blizzard Kimo & Mike
STORMING LOVE BLIZZARD
Kimo & Mike
NEIL S, PLAKCY
mlrpress
www.mlrpress.com
Former competitive surfer and Honolulu homicide detective Kimo Kanapa’aka is in his element in his home state of Hawaii. But a ski trip with his partner, fire investigator Mike Riccardi, knocks him off balance. As a bitter storm rages outside the condo where they’re staying, one of Mike’s college buddies is feuding with his wife and the other is making sexy overtures to Kimo. Will these tensions ruin the vacation and perhaps even drive a wedge between Kimo and Mike?
Copyright Acknowledgement
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2015 by Neil S. Plakcy
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Published by
MLR Press, LLC
3052 Gaines Waterport Rd.
Albion, NY 14411
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Cover Art by Kris Jacen
Editing by Kris Jacen
ebook format
Issued 2015
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Mike’s fingertips grazed my bicep as I dozed in bed beside him one Saturday morning. I rolled onto my side and faced him. “Morning, sweetheart,” I said.
Though we had been together for years, I still thought Mike was the most handsome guy I had ever met. A swirl of the black hair that covered his head hung over his forehead, above dark brown eyes with a slight epicanthic fold, with tiny lines forming around their edges.
He had a broad smile, a square jaw grazed with stubble, and the cutest earlobes, just made for nibbling on. People sometimes mistook us for brothers, because we both had mixed-race heritage, but I was slimmer than he was, a couple of inches shorter, and my skin was smooth where his was hairy.
We both had a passion for our jobs—I was a homicide detective, and he was a fire investigator. We liked to read, exercise and sleep naked. And when we made love, we fit together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
Through the big window that looks out to our back yard, I saw the palm trees swaying in a heavy rain. The house rocked with a bolt of thunder, and our golden retriever, Roby, skittered beneath the bed.
Mike and I were alone in the house for a change; our teenaged foster son, Dakota, had gone to spend the weekend with a classmate on the other side of O’ahu, and that meant we were free to walk around the house naked, have sex on the kitchen counter, in the bathtub—or just in our own bed with the bedroom door open.
There are many benefits to loving a man with EMT training. One of them is that he has an in-depth knowledge of anatomy, and he knows just which buttons to push to get me panting with desire. His fingertips moved from my bicep to dance around my right nipple and I groaned with pleasure.
He leaned over to kiss me, our chins grazing against each other, his lips hard and wet against mine. His tongue stroked my upper lip and I wanted more, wanted to inhale him like an ocean breeze. His smell was a combination of lemon soap, musk, and dried sweat, and I reached my arm around his shoulder to pull him close.
As we cuddled, he pinched my nipple and that sent an electric shock right to my groin, where my dick began to stiffen. I lifted my right leg and laid it over his left one, loving that sensation of flesh against flesh.
He began to move down my body, kissing my chin and the hollow beneath it, and I leaned my head back and stretched like a cat, offering my body to him in supplication. I caressed the side of his head, curling down from his hairline past his ear to those sexy lobes.
Outside a storm continued to rage, rain splattering against the windows. I ran my fingers through Mike’s curls as he took my left nipple in his mouth and began to suck it. Tiny beads of sweat pooled in the hollow of my shoulder as the central air kicked on, sending cooling waves across our bodies. Mike kicked off the sheets and straddled me, sucking one nipple and pinching the other.
I reached up to palm his stiff dick, then to caress his low-hanging balls. He moaned with pleasure and looked at me, his eyes glazed with lust. I pulled his head to mine and we kissed again, tongues dueling and exploring.
He lowered himself carefully down on top of me, knowing it was my favorite position. I loved to feel his body resting on mine, the way our skin touched at so many points, the pressure of his weight against my chest making me work harder to breathe.
He arched his back, planted his arms on either side of me, and began to move his body slowly over mine, rubbing his dick against my thigh, my dick against his belly. I loved looking up at him from below, watching his chest rise and fall, feeling that exquisite pressure against my stiff dick. His strength was a powerful aphrodisiac for me, and my heart rate quickened, my blood simmering in my veins.
“I love you so much, babe,” he said, his voice husky with lust.
“Probably just as much as I love you.” I raised my body up to meet his, feeling the strain in my legs and ass but not caring, just desperate to stay as close to him as possible.
I liked to say that there was a lot of free-floating testosterone in our household. Mike and I were both alpha males, accustomed to being in charge, to being right. It was hard to force myself to compromise sometimes, to give in and let Mike win. I knew he felt the same tension.
But that was everywhere except the bedroom. When we made love, his strength empowered me—I could submit to him without feeling like I had given up anything. Letting him take charge in bed makes me feel like I’m the one who controls things, setting boundaries, giving in only when I chose to.
“You’re making me crazy,” I said. “I need to feel you inside me.” I pushed up against him and shifted position to my side.
Mike reached down to stroke my hole. “Already wet,” he said, nipping at my shoulder with his teeth. “You really do want me, don’t you?”
“More than anything,” I said into the pillow. He lifted my leg and scooted right up to me, and I felt the rubbery head of his dick against my hole. We had committed to monogamy years before and stopped using any protection, preferring skin-to-skin intimacy.
I took a deep breath as he moved inside me, pushing past my anal ring with a brief starburst of pain. Then it was all good—he filled me up, his skin pressed against mine, he rested his body against mine, letting my ass get accustomed to his dick.
I started to move against him by millimeters, and he picked up my cue and began sliding in and out of me in synch with my movements. He reached around and grabbed my dick and began fisting me, and I whimpered and gave up all pretense of control. We moved together like cogs in a machine, ratcheting up the passion until we had to give in. He exploded in my ass, sending electric shocks to my dick, which spurted into his hand.
He stayed in me, our bodies locked together, his breath warm on my shoulder, my legs tingling from the feel of his hairy ones against me. Finally he pulled out and slumped back against the pillows, and I turned to face him.
“How would you feel about a vacation?” he asked.
“Anywhere with you, babe,” I said, curling up beside him like a contented cat.
That was how I ended up on a plane to Colorado a few weeks later, once again waking to find Mike next to me, though this time we were both clothed and slotted into narrow seats.
Yawning and stretching as morning sunlight leaked in through the airplane window next to me, I pushed up the shade and looked out at an endless vista of snow-shrouded mountains. I was an island boy, born and bred. Even the four years I’d spend at college on the mainland had been at UC Santa Cruz, and I’d picked it for the climate and the ease of surfing. I had tried skiing once in college, but it was just too damn cold.
But after that awesome morning sexcapade, I was willing to give in to anything, and when Mike asked if we could join his college friends on a ski vacation, I’d said yes easily. Since he’d made it clear that this trip was important to him, I accepted that I’d be cold for a few days. Mike could keep me warm. Through the window, the white tents of the Denver airport came into view like an Indian encampment surrounded by mountains.
“This is great,” Mike said as he leaned over me to look outside. “We should be able to make the next shuttle to Beaver Creek. We may even get some time on the slopes this afternoon.”
We retrieved our luggage without difficulty and were waiting at the shuttle desk when a man and woman approached us, dragging matching suitcases and skis in long narrow bags. “Hey, look, it’s Chris and Jenny,” Mike said. He hurried forward to embrace the man, while the woman looked on sourly.
I trailed behind. “You remember Chris, don’t you, Kimo?” Mike asked. “He was at Vinnie and Phil’s wedding. And this is his wife, Jenny.”
We all shook hands. Chris was a serious-looking guy, mostly bald, with dark-rimmed glasses. His wife wore a long-sleeved purple dress, and her flowing dirty-blonde hair gave her a hippie look. “This is great!” Mike said. “We can all ride together.”
“For three hours,” Jenny said. “As if we haven’t traveled long enough. I told you we should have gotten a flight direct to Vail.”
“For a thousand dollars more,” Chris said.
“You aren’t going to pick at every penny we spend, are you?” she asked. “Because that’s no vacation.”
I looked at Mike. We were going to be sharing a condo with this couple from hell? He avoided looking back, which told me volumes.
The clerk announced that our van was ready, and we walked outside. The sky was a bright blue dotted with puffy white clouds, and it was like stepping into the refrigerator case at the grocery. The cold reached out and slapped me on the face, and by the time we climbed into the van I was chilled through.
Mike and Chris sat together in the middle seat, and Jenny and I climbed into the back. The guys launched into a conversation about old friends, and Jenny pointedly plugged in her earbuds and turned on what sounded like the Allman Brothers. Her earbuds were cheap ones, so the sound leaked out. After listening to tinny renditions of “Midnight Rider” and “Ramblin’ Man,” I gave in and put my own earbuds in and listened to some classic slack-key guitar.
I must have dozed for a while, because when I woke we were approaching the outskirts of Beaver Creek, the ritzy suburb of Vail where we were staying. Jenny and Chris were arguing about their plans for the day; she wanted to nap, and he wanted to get right out on the slopes.
“Excuse me,” I said, interrupting them. “But you’re not the only ones in this van, or on this vacation. You need to either stop arguing, or turn right around and go home, because this trip is important to Mike and I’m not going to let you screw it up.”
“Kimo!” Mike said.
Surprisingly, it was Jenny who came to my defense. “He’s right,” she said. “Christopher and I have no right to make the rest of you uncomfortable.” She turned to me. “You must be a teacher. You have that kind of voice.”
“Police detective,” I said. “Same thing. It’s just I deal with adults rather than kids.”
She laughed. “I’m an artist. Polar opposite. I don’t react well to organization or structure.”
“You just have to look at our house to know that,” Chris said. He shifted suddenly to the right, and I realized Mike must have punched him in the arm. “What I mean is that our house is beautifully decorated. Jenny has a great eye.”
Jenny curled her lip but didn’t respond, and she and I started to talk. She was a photographer and collage artist, and she was hoping to take a lot of pictures in Colorado.
We passed a sign that said “Welcome to the Ironwood Lodge,” and the van pulled into a circular driveway in front of a five-story building of natural stone, double-paned glass, and copper piping turned green by the elements.
The snow had been brushed from the sidewalk and was piled in big heaps alongside the building. We stopped beneath the porte-cochere, and a swarm of green-jacketed valets surrounded the vehicle, opening doors and beginning to unload luggage and gear.
We trundled our bags inside and the concierge told us that Vinnie and Phil were already in the unit, and gave us each a key. When we got upstairs, I recognized them both right away. Vinnie was a lot like Mike, a big, hearty Italian-American guy with dark wavy hair and muscular forearms. His husband Phil was smaller and slimmer, a few years older than the rest of us, wearing a bright green sweater with a reindeer on it. After a brief reunion, Vinnie, Phil, Mike and Chris were ready to take off for the slopes.
