by L E Franks
“We never got skunked!”
“Never?” I made my tone as sly as possible. A flustered FatBoy was a delight, and I wanted to play with him some more. “Do I need to pull up your stats?”
“Not skunked—at least not that I remember…. We lost a few…”
“A few? Tsk tsk… How the mighty hath fallen. No wonder you have to cling—”
He grunted a little when he tackled me, throwing me down on the enormous sectional that took up half the space in the room.
It felt better than good having his full weight bearing down, pressing me into the micro-suede couch. I let my hand pet the nap of the fabric, and FatBoy caught the motion. “Are you… petting my couch while I’m feeling you up?”
“Umm… maybe?”
He huffed and sat back, still pinning my lower legs beneath him.
“You were feeling me up?” I’d totally missed that.
“Apparently not if you couldn’t feel it!” FatBoy groused.
“It’s a really good couch—” I defended myself. I was still running my hand over the hickory-colored fabric.
“It is.” FatBoy stood.
“And it’s really comfortable…” I lay back, sighing in contentment. It was long enough to stretch out fully, my arms, extending above my head, hadn’t run into the other end. I was in heaven.
“Yes. It is.”
He was smiling down at me like I was short a few bundles of straw from my bale.
“My mother bought it for me when I graduated from UT. I don’t even want to know how much she spent on the damn thing—part of her making me into the proper heir. She wanted to buy me a Memphis Colonial and send me to law school. I drew the line at the couch and joined the military. It’s spent most of its life in storage until I moved in here. ”
“Knowing what I do about you, I’m surprised you kept it.”
“Are you kidding me? It’s a fucking great couch. Besides, by the time I was ten I’d learned how to cut all the strings she left behind with her gifts. She’s never forgiven me for that particular sin.” He settled a hip against the back of the couch, a soft smile playing on his lips.
“So she doesn’t know you’re gay?” I was almost reluctant to broach the topic with him. He was so relaxed and I could easily fall asleep where I lay.
The smile stayed, but it had morphed into chagrin. “None of them do. I think I joined the military to put distance between us…between me and the truth.”
“That you’re gay.” It wasn’t a question.
I rocked upright, leaning on my elbows so I could see him more clearly.
“Yes.”
“Good to know.” I hoped my smile was reassuring as I patted the cushion next to me. He moved, sliding in next to my hip as I eased over onto my side to accommodate him.
“It was never really in doubt—just inconvenient in a million different ways, both large and small. Growing up in the South made that a given, though UT was fine. There were a couple of friends who knew and kept it to themselves, for which I will be forever grateful.” He leaned over to pick up the football I’d left next to a stack of 'Sports Illustrated’ on his coffee table, holding it up so I could see it clearly.
“This would not have been possible if anyone on the team even suspected. There was more than one reason Gran’s place was home. She’s the only one I trusted enough to tell… and even then, she already knew. Apparently, I’m not the first one in the family to find company on the wrong side of the ballroom. She wouldn’t say for certain, old habits die hard, but I suspect my great uncle was gay and she’d been keeping his secrets for a very long time.”
I snagged FatBoy’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
“Back then she told me… she told me… ‘Don’t say anything to your kin. It won’t end well’ and I knew she meant my father. She was afraid I’d be kicked out of the family and stripped of my share of the estate—not that I cared. But she did, on principle.
“My grandfather left trusts for us all, certain he’d spawned a dynasty even if he only had the one when his will was made… but he was a man of his times, and when he passed, the running of it fell to his only son. A gentle-bred woman like my gran apparently not fit for the task, even though her son at the time was a boy of nineteen and an idiot, even then. Gran had been running the family business and the farms for thirty years—everyone knew it, but my grandfather had his pride. She’s still pissed—so please don’t ask when you meet her. Last time someone mentioned her late husband—my mother, by the way—it took half the night and a bottle of port to calm her down.”
As his words flowed, they became thick with the accent of his youth, and I was enchanted. I could listen to him all day, particularly if his couch was involved.
FatBoy paused in his recitation, shifting a little to catch my eye. “I’m parched.” He stood, heading for the kitchen behind me. “Want something?”
I heard the refrigerator door open and closed my eyes, letting the sounds of the man in his natural environment settle over me as I waited. “I’ve got tea… it’s a little early for beer and Cam’s drunk everything but the six-pack of generic I bought him as a hint that he should buy his own damn beer.”
“Is it sweet?”
“Are you even from the South?”
“Nah… not really. Do you have water?” I actually exerted myself just enough to peek over the back of the couch. FatBoy stood in the open door, sweet tea in hand he tilted his head back and drank straight from the jar. I watched the muscles of his throat undulating as he swallowed, and my mouth went dry. He wiped his lips on the back of his hand, then flushed in embarrassment at getting caught in such a juvenile act— he hurriedly poured the rest in a tall glass. I shuddered and dropped back down, suddenly hot.
All that golden skin and the act of swallowing was lighting every receptor I had in entirely the wrong brain—now was definitely not the time to be thinking about what else he could be doing with that throat…
I rolled back over on my side, hiding my lap behind a dark blue throw pillow. FatBoy just smirked, handing me a bottle of spring water before settling next to me. This time, he ran a finger down my spine, causing me to choke on my first sip.
“Steady on, Princess, don’t die on me now.” He patted my leg, raising his glass to his lips while I twisted the cap back onto my bottle. I wasn’t taking any more chances with him so near.
“Now where was I…”
“I believe your gran was pissed.” I moved the throw pillow away from my crotch, which got me another broad smile, and placed it behind my head, settling back to enjoy story time with FatBoy.
“Ah, yes. My father.” He finished off his tea and stood to set the empty glass on the coffee table along with my water, then walked over to the same built-in that housed the football. He came back, clutching a framed photograph—one of those generational shots with everyone standing in front of the old family homestead.
Handing it to me, he nudged my legs up so he could slide under them before taking it back. He pointed to a woman seated on a white wicker chair in the middle of the group. “My gran.”
Even faded, I could see her eyes were the same deep blue as her grandson.
“She looks like you.”
“I look like her—I’m the only one who does… Well, I guess she shared those genes with her brothers as well, but I never knew them.”
I took a closer look at the photograph, noting that most everyone else pictured had brown hair of one hue or another. There was a scattering of light colored eyes, but none had the intensity as those of the matriarch who was the focal point of the shot. A younger Davis was crouching at her knee. Even a frozen pose like this one couldn’t hide the affection displayed by the hand curled over her grandson’s shoulder.
“Are these your folks?” I pointed to the couple standing directly behind her.
“Mmm. Yeah. And this is Cam.” He pointed to a towhead tucked to the side in the front row. He looked about twelve. He set the picture down and closed his eyes.
I watched him settle the quiet around himself like a cape of protection for a moment before surrendering to the inevitable with a deep sigh. “Yeah, my father….” FatBoy paused then started over.
“I believe Gran’s brother—the gay one, not the hillbilly tucked away in the Smokies making moonshine—took my father under his wing and sent him off to Harvard in hopes of smoothing off some of his pompous self-righteousness.
“It didn’t work. Apparently even the Yankees found him to be a pretentious prig of the first order—Gran’s words—and he tucked tail back to Tennessee. All his hopes and dreams of making his fortune at a big-city Boston law firm dashed. He came back home with nothing but a law degree from one of the most prestigious law schools in the nation and a knocked up diner waitress named Lillian.”
“Wait—what? Shotgun wedding time? Were there real shotguns? Do they even have shotguns in Boston?”
“I’m sure they do, Princess,” he said dryly, “but no. No wedding, shotgun or otherwise. The baby was miscarried and my great uncle paid her off and sent her back home, much to my father’s relief. Remind me why I’m telling you all of this?”
“Cuz, there is no bedtime without a bedtime story, and you still want to bed me—right?” I fluttered my eyelashes at him, and he groaned, leaning down to kiss me. Briefly.
“You have no idea.”
“So all those cousins of yours come from the bootlegger uncle?”
“Nope, that branch of the family is lost to us… I think.”
“Wow.”
“Yep. Which is one reason why she won’t say for sure he was gay. He was married off in his teens, and was eventually credited with having three kids, though only one of them has the family coloring…” FatBoy grinned. “Talk about your shotgun wedding…”
“You little gossip!”
“Sadly, that one child is Cam’s mama, I can’t even pretend he’s not related to me by blood.”
“Hmmm… so Lillian-from-Boston got away. Where did your mom come from?”
“She is one of the Memphis bluebloods. It was her daddy’s firm that my father joined when he returned home, eventually buying a partnership for himself by raiding the trusts. At least that’s how Gran puts it. She threw a snit fit about the time I started attending UT to have it all put back with interest, which my father did. He offered to double it if I attended law school after graduation and found a suitable… wife. I declined.
“My brother, however, took him up on it, married the debutante my mother picked out for him, and now works at the firm. Baby number three is on the way. I still get calls from my mother every year, hoping to tempt me with the latest batch of debs. If she’s not careful, I’m going to hold my own ‘coming out’ ball.”
“You should.” I stifled a yawn, enjoying the slow circles FatBoy was rubbing into my leg with his thumb. It’d been a long stressful week already, and it wasn’t half over. “God, this is a great couch…”
“So you said…” I could hear the smile in his voice.
I was so relaxed now that I barely noticed FatBoy had stopped talking about himself, letting me ramble on.
I resumed petting his couch. “Why have you kept this creature of delight all to yourself?” I was almost whining. I couldn’t believe a couch could be so… so… fucking perfect. My eyes slipped closed.
“Hmmm… I’ve been waiting for just the right man to appreciate her.” FatBoy continued his slow stroking up and down my leg.
“So you brought in Cameron-The-Man-Whore? Seriously?” Despite my words, I couldn’t bring myself to care about Cam one way or another, but I felt compelled to point out his obvious flaws. I was ready to melt and become one with this heavenly piece of furniture.
I turned my face, snuggling into the back cushion and murmured, “Don’t worry, honey, I’ll save you from the bad, bad man. I’ll take you home, and you can live with me. I have a nice Italian sofa that’d love to meet you, the two of you can make little suede and leather ottomans and live out your days bathed in morning sun and my undying adoration…”
“You’re not stealing my couch,” he said, poking me hard in the back.
“Oh?” I rolled over to look FatBoy in the face. “I think that’s between me and your couch… and my powers of seduction.”
“Do ya have powers, Nicky?” He’d dropped down to sit at my feet, picking up the left foot, he dug his thumb into my arch. I almost squealed.
“Super powers,” I gasped. Fuck, that felt good. FatBoy was riding that line between tickle and pain—turning it into an evil cocktail of pleasure. Both thumbs were now working the pad of my foot, and the groan escaped.
“Is that right?” If I wasn’t in his thrall, I’d kick him.
“Y-y-y-you seem to have powers of your own,” I gasped, toes curling.
“You have no idea, Nicky.” My eyes were still closed, but I could imagine he was wearing a smug smirk.
Bastard.
He moved to my ankle and slid his thumbs under the cuff of my sock, peeling it off me like I was a banana. I opened one lid halfway, to watch him inspecting me up close.
“You have pretty feet, Nicky.”
“Fuck you!” I jerked my foot away, and FatBoy just laughed, grabbing the other one to strip it as well.
With both feet naked, FatBoy slid all the way onto the couch, facing me, with my toes propped on his chest where he resumed his massage.
“God, that feels fucking great. Where did you learn to do that?”
“The Army.” I felt his hand slide under the hem of my jeans.
“Seriously? What? You guys all sat around the barracks giving each other mani-pedis and braiding hair?” I scoffed.
“That would have been a lot more fun… except we didn’t have hair…”
“Not to mention ‘Don’t Ask Don’t Tell’,” I reminded him.
“Not to mention,” he agreed.
“Actually I was stationed in Japan for a while with a lot of down time. Keiko gave me my first massage…” FatBoy trailed off, and my eyes popped back open to study him. For a second, a small sting of jealousy slithered through me—his face was awash in memories, and I doubted he even knew what his hands were doing.
Or not doing.
I poked him with a toe to get him moving again.
“You’re stuck,” I pointed out. He’d gone as far north as possible, using the current route up my pant leg.
“So I am. I always had trouble sticking to the tried and true routes on the map.”
“Dangerous when you’re in a war zone,” I commented.
“Dangerous when the guy you’re courting doesn’t have a clue where he is. Maps don’t help you much there, either.”
“You’re talking about me, right?” I bit my lip, but it was too late to take back the words. My bottomless pit of self-doubt was trying to fill itself with a caustic green ooze of self-loathing.
FatBoy just huffed and powered me onto his lap, gripping me on each thigh.
“You’re an idiot, Nicky.” That’s the last I got from him before his mouth descended and he kissed me.
I lost all ability or desire to reason or fight.
I don’t think FatBoy had it in him, either. We’d been dancing around each other for so long that my body screamed for him, burned wherever he touched me. The firm strokes of his hand up and down my spine were ratcheting up my libido to the breaking point.
I crawled farther into his lap, grinding against him as we fought for dominance through our kiss—FatBoy gripping my hair kept me in place as he marked me with lips, mapping my mouth with his tongue, exploring every part that he could before drawing mine into his to do the same.
He tasted of breakfast and sweet tea, and man. And I hungered for him. We went back and forth until lack of oxygen had me jerking away, panting.
“Nicky, you’re so fuckin’ perfect,” FatBoy crooned in my ear, nibbling and teasing the lobe, and I just wanted to scream. I needed hard and fast. Not soft and sweet.
Someone needed to school Davis
“FatBoy” Newman in the fine art of “now”, so I grabbed his T-shirt, yanking it over his head.
Damn.
It was enough to freeze me in place for the beat of a heart. Two hearts.
I’d probably never be able to call him FatBoy again.
Reverently, I slid both hands from where they rested at his waist, moving them up across his abs. His skin shivered under my touch as I traced all the hard muscles, the slash of ribs, and the rise of his pectorals. I followed the trail blazed by my fingertips with my mouth.
Suddenly, I had all the time in the world for FatBoy. I wanted to crawl into his arms and stay there forever. I wanted to feast on his scent, taste his silky skin, and run my teeth across his collarbone. I settled for the ridge of hard muscle and tendon at his shoulder and worked it with my teeth, sucking the warm flesh into my mouth to mark him.
FatBoy writhed beneath me, pulling my legs to wrap around his waist, his hands kneading my ass, running up and down my spine, until I couldn’t stand it any longer. Ripping off my shirt, I fell backward onto FatBoy’s magic couch, pulling him on top of me. I felt like I was fifteen again in my neighbor’s basement. Back then, I didn’t know what I was doing, either. I only knew that it felt so damn good the whole world could stop and I wouldn’t care.
“Nicky…” FatBoy crooned my name, the question implicit in his tone. I answered him in the affirmative by moving his hand onto my belt, with my mouth on his, sucking his tongue while he pulled the leather free from my buckle.
“You feel so good…”
I groaned, and FatBoy popped the top snap of my jeans, loosening them just enough so he could slide his hand inside, wrapping it around my erection. I almost swallowed my tongue… then I tried to swallow FatBoy’s.
This time, he was making my toes curl without getting anywhere near my feet.
Surging in his grip, I began fucking his fist, wrapping a leg across FatBoy’s hip to keep him anchored there until I came. Or we came. I reached for FatBoy’s zipper as he tightened his grip on my penis—stopping me midthrust.
“Slow down, cher—we’ve got all the time in the world,” he promised.
He ran a callused thumb over my slit, harvesting my pre-cum, rubbing it over the head of my cock before starting a slow dance up and down my shaft. He leaned in, kissing me softly, his lips velvet over steel, and I lay back and went with it—sinking into the dual sensations, holding onto him as if my life depended on it. On him.
