by Quin Perin
Unlike Caleb’s delicate, musical cry, Baxter came with a roar. Grinding deep, balls clutched tight. The way he held on to Caleb was sure to leave bruises dusted across his skin. Ones that would stay for a while. His hips jerked, come filling the condom in long, hard spurts. Fuck, he wished he could properly pump him full of come and watch it trickle from his hole. Lick it as it leaked. Make him writhe in surprised pleasure. Show him off to these men circling them. His head spun, lips on Caleb’s shoulder as he grunted and gave a final, brutal thrust that made the boy yelp.
They stayed like that through the aftershock of his orgasm and longer. Things were drawing to a close, and it was time to return Caleb to his Master. But Baxter really didn’t want to give him up. His fingers idly stroked across the boy’s stomach as he nosed at the side of Caleb’s neck. “You’re such a good kitten,” he murmured.
“Meow.” It was soft, sleepy; a sound Baxter would never forget.
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by Quin&Perin
Abstract Love
Sara Dobie Bauer
Abstract Love
He was in no way a fashion expert, but Donovan Cooper knew a ridiculous ensemble when he saw one. The kid had to be from some delivery service because no one in corporate advertising wore skinny jeans tucked into their socks. No one at Stoker and Steele could get away with an oversized sweater with blue and yellow birds flocking its shoulders. And nope, no one at Donovan’s office sported bedhead to work.
The sound of high heels on marble foreshadowed Donovan’s assistant’s arrival. “Oh, there’s Sam Shelby,” she said.
Donovan glared back at her. Monica had been his assistant for ten years, ever since he landed his first advertising gig, post-college. “That’s our new graphic designer? What is he, twelve?”
She smiled the way a mother smiles at a small, misbehaving child. “He’s twenty-six, although I see what you mean. All the interns are already going crazy.”
Donovan glanced back at the kid … er, man in question. “Why? Because his sweater is so ugly?”
Monica clicked her tongue and shoved a file in his direction. “Because he’s pretty, Donovan. Women like pretty things.”
What did that even mean? Men weren’t supposed to be pretty. Men were supposed to be butch, beefy, nerdy, ugly, et cetera—but not pretty. He backed into his office, but Monica followed him in and pressed a cup of coffee in his hand.
“Drink up,” she said. “I want you chipper for the Progressive Field meeting.”
He groaned into the chair behind his desk. From there, he had an excellent view of downtown Cleveland with a frozen Lake Erie in the background.
“Chipper!” Monica ordered.
Even though the morning’s meeting was only interoffice, it was still a big deal. Landing the Cleveland Indians as a client was no small feat, but Donovan had made it happen. He’d worked really hard to make it happen.
He couldn’t remember why.
He sipped his coffee and muttered, “Chipper,” before thumbing through the list of companies who sponsored the Indians. His advertising team would have to work with all of them, and apparently, that team now included a lauded, award-winning graphic designer who dressed like a hungover frat boy.
Donovan liked being the last person into the conference room. He felt it allowed his colleagues to quickly talk about him behind his back before he got there. They deserved as much, considering how grumpy he’d been since his wife started moving forward with their divorce—not that anyone but Monica knew about that.
Everyone hushed and sat up straighter when he entered. Donovan was hard to miss. Not only did he prefer expensive suits, but he’d also been a college-level track star at Ohio State University years ago.
“Hello, everyone,” he said, tossing papers onto the long, lacquered table. “I hope you’ve all come prepared. We have a lot of ground to cover today, as you know. Progressive Field wants a whole new look for the upcoming baseball season. They want the outfield to shine with sponsor billboards, so we’ll start by going over each sponsor one by one and assign teams.”
Monica, annoyingly, cleared her throat. “You might want to introduce Sam?”
Donovan sighed at her. “Oh.” He searched the long table, and the graphic designer was easy to spot, considering he was the only person not wearing, at minimum, business casual. He also had a sketchbook in one hand, pencil in the other. Sam’s dark eyebrows went up at the mention of his name. “Right. Uh, this is Sam Shelby, the newest addition to our graphic design department.”
Sam leaned forward in his seat. He smiled and gave a little wave to everyone but didn’t say anything.
Great, so Donovan could move on with the meeting. “I guess we should start by discussing Progressive Insurance, since they own the field.” Donovan slid into a leather chair and started talking. Everyone listened and remained motionless, because Donovan Cooper was frankly terrifying—everyone but Sam Shelby, who drew in his sketchbook and occasionally tilted his head this way and that. Donovan already had a short fuse, shorter now with his imminent divorce, so he finally snapped, “I’m sorry, Sam, are we interrupting something?”
“No,” Sam said, totally nonchalant. He had a surprisingly raspy voice for a guy who looked … pretty. Okay, so maybe Monica was right; dudes could be pretty. “It’s just …” He leaned his head back and tapped the pencil on his sketchpad. “With Progressive’s ad campaign, I feel like we’re all tired of looking at Flo.”
Flo, a snarky fictional character, had been the face of Progressive for years, and Donovan was loath to admit that, yes, he was sick of looking at Flo. Not that he was going to give Sam the pleasure of being right. Donovan opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, Sam kept talking.
“There’s this new abstract art exhibit at the Cleveland Museum. It’ll be there for the next six months, so I was thinking we could, like, add a local twist to Flo that would link Progressive to Cleveland in a visual way and give some free press to the museum, making Progressive look artsy and shit and cool at the same time?”
Nobody cussed in Stoker and Steele meetings, which Donovan was about to point out when Sam leaned forward, put his sketchbook on the conference table, and pushed, sliding the damn thing the length of the room until its edge smacked into Donovan’s elbow.
The entire table blinked.
If the table had eyes, the table would have blinked.
Donovan wanted to grimace and glare—his usual resting facial expression—but when he looked down, he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. It was a picture of Flo with her brown hair, glittery grin, and red lips … but Flo if Picasso’s more talented brother had gotten ahold of her.
It was …
It was …
Goddamn it.
It was brilliant.
Donovan looked up, and Sam Shelby smiled.
He heard Monica scurrying behind him to keep up in her high heels. Donovan waved the abstract picture of Flo in the air. (Sam said he could keep it; it’d only taken him twenty minutes.) “Why did we hire this kid again?”
“Not a kid,” she huffed. “Twenty-six.”
“Why did we hire this arrogant twenty-six-year-old again?” He slammed through his office door and didn’t bother holding it for Monica, who basically tripped in behind him.
“Because he’s so sought after.” She gently pushed hair out of her face, her artful up-do now a mess thanks to their sprint down the hall. “Come on, Donovan, you were in those hiring meetings. You interviewed fifteen candidates, and he was the one everyone wanted!”
Fifteen candidates? Donovan barely recalled. Sure, he’d been there physically, but he’d been distracted lately. He was always distract
ed, mostly by images of that slimy architect fucking his soon-to-be ex-wife.
He slumped into his office chair and tossed the drawing of abstract Flo toward the corner of his desk. “Let me guess. Did he wear a hoodie to his interview?”
Monica sighed. “Are you okay?”
“What?” he snapped.
She sat in the chair across from him and placed her palms on his desk. “Donovan, you’re always wound tight, but you’ve been wound really tight lately.”
“Yeah, well, you try going through a divorce.”
“I did. Twice.” She pressed her lips together.
He rubbed his fingers across his forehead and closed his eyes. “Jesus, I know. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not all right, Donovan. You need to acknowledge that you’re not all right. Maybe you should take some time off.”
He snorted. “Right, we sign Progressive Field, and I take time off? Are you nuts?”
“It’s been suggested. I do work for you.”
“Har-har. I’m not taking time off.”
“Fine.” She stood and adjusted her pencil skirt. “I know you’re a jerk. I’ve always known you’re a jerk, but promise you won’t make Sam Shelby your next victim. The company is stagnant and needs fresh blood—and nobody in advertising is fresher than that kid.”
Donovan cleared his throat. “I thought you said he wasn’t a kid.”
“Well, he is to me.” She winked. “Buck up. Things could be worse. You could be dead.”
“I wish,” he muttered too low for her to hear.
The door swished shut behind her, and as much as he did not want to, Donovan leaned forward and picked up Sam’s drawing.
At Ohio State, Donovan had majored in advertising when not running track. What people didn’t know? He’d minored in art. Once upon a time, he’d fancied himself a painter until one of his business professors told him there was no money—no future—in art.
In the privacy of his own home, though, Donovan still painted, but it was his secret thing. Even his wife, Anna, had known very little about what her husband did in the far back room of their condo in downtown Cleveland. Donovan knew art, so he knew something special when he saw it.
“Damn it,” he said, because insubordination notwithstanding, Sam Shelby was what Stoker and Steele had been waiting for.
Over the course of the next week, Donovan purposely avoided the new hire, which was easy physically but not so easy, gossip-wise. Monica hadn’t been kidding: most of the young interns were feet over tits for the guy.
Whispers floated like ghosts in hallways and corners.
“He has the cutest ass.”
“Those eyes with that hair? Oh, my God.”
“He smells so good. I want to bathe in it.”
It was an HR nightmare.
There were the unavoidable meetings, of course, when Donovan had to be in the same room with Sam, and it was annoying. More than annoying, because even Donovan was beginning to see it—the fact that Sam Shelby was not only pretty but also a knockout. Sure, Donovan was straight, but he was an artist, too, who knew aesthetics. As a painter in particular (even though he did abstracts), he knew bone structure was important, and Sam Shelby’s pale face might as well have been carved from marble. Bright blue eyes offset the severity of his shaggy, brown hair. Maybe that wasn’t true. The severity of contrast made him look more interesting, ethereal, like maybe he rode a unicorn to work.
The clothing choices, however, were unforgiveable. True, the skinny jeans did portend what the women called a “cute ass,” but Sam also had a penchant for hideous sweaters in loud patterns. Then, there was the socks thing. He must have owned dozens of different socks, all in bright colors and designs, and he showed them off by either tucking his jeans into them or rolling his jeans up. Might as well have shouted, “Look at my socks!” Bad. Just … bad.
Donovan had just arrived home after a long day of phone calls to Cleveland Indians sponsors. He lived in a fancy condo near the baseball field in a skyscraper called “The 216,” in homage to Cleveland’s area code. He’d lived there for years with his wife, but according to her icy voicemails, their marriage would soon officially be over.
He walked past the doorman and into the brightly lit lobby before a big guy in a long coat ran right into him. The guy was young, mid-twenties, with a shapely beard and woolen cap. “Shit, sorry, dude.” He dragged someone behind him.
He dragged Sam Shelby behind him.
Sam giggled—and stopped immediately when he recognized Donovan. “Wh—hi? You live here?”
“You live here?” Donovan growled.
“Uh …” He turned to the bearded man. “Hey, could you give me a second?”
“I’ve given you all fucking day.” The guy whined and went in for a kiss like it was no big deal. Just kiss, kiss, before Sam shoved him away, laughing.
“Go wait outside.”
“It’s cold outside.” The bearded guy pouted.
“Just go. I’ll be right there.” Sam grinned and had the teeth of someone with either a great dentist or great genes.
“Anything for your highness.” The guy bowed and backed away.
“Oh, fuck off.” Sam laughed at his retreating friend—boyfriend?—before turning to Donovan. Despite being skinny, he was Donovan’s height, which was a foreign feeling for the ex-Division 1 athlete. “So … you live here?”
“So you’re gay?”
Sam shoved his hands in his coat pockets. “So you’re rude, and I’m bisexual.”
“Then you’re just greedy.”
Sam blinked his long eyelashes. “Wow, that is so ignorant, I can’t even …” He gave his head a quick shake, and his shaggy curls bounced around. “So, anyway, you live here?”
“So you live here?” Donovan repeated.
“Just moved in.” He sidestepped Donovan in an echo of dance. “I was just on my way out, but …” He spun on his heels and flashed two thumbs up. “Great to see you, neighbor.” And under his breath: “Fuck my life.”
Make that two lives, Donovan thought as he watched Sam traipse out into the night light of Cleveland where bearded guy scooped him into a hug, grabbed his hand, and dragged him away from the lobby windows of The 216.
Up in his condo, Donovan’s nerves were frayed. Frayed was too weak a word. His nerves were burnt, gone, merely ash.
The arrival of Sam Shelby not only in his workplace but also his living space made him feel like he was being punished—but for what? So he’d been a shitty husband. So he was a grumpy bastard. He didn’t deserve to be bothered by Sam. No one deserved Sam’s bothering, with his stupid socks and bedroom eyes.
Where had that thought come from? Bedroom eyes.
Donovan rubbed his own eyes.
He could admit Sam had bedroom eyes, right? At all times, the guy looked like he was about to fuck or had just been fucked. It was merely a descriptor: “bedroom eyes.” Didn’t mean Donovan thought they were special or anything.
He changed into workout gear and hit The 216’s super chic, modern gym. Ever since his college track days, Donovan knew running was his form of therapy. He managed five miles before returning home, covered in sweat.
He chugged water at his kitchen island and noticed that the running had done nothing to calm him down, so he headed to the bathroom.
Completely wired—and sort of in the mood to punch something—he peeled off his sweaty shorts and tee and stepped into the shower. Warm water poured down the tense muscles of his shoulders and down his back.
His hand accidentally landed on his dick.
Since Anna had left him, Donovan’s sex drive had been lost at the bottom of Lake Erie. However, running hadn’t helped him unwind like usual. This was his last recourse if he wanted to sleep at all.
He stroked himself once, twice, and slowly rolled his head back and forth beneath the welcoming spray. He closed his eyes, and although Anna’s face floated first into his imagination, he felt his growing erection flag immediately. No, that
would not do. He needed to picture someone imaginary with zero emotional attachment.
Since Anna had light hair, Donovan pictured someone with dark hair in his bed. Someone on their stomach, with pale skin covering a prominent spine. Oh, yes, someone slim—someone Donovan could throw around. Anna had always hated when he got rough in bed, but not this fantasy person. No, this fantasy person loved when Donovan flipped them around and pinned their hands above their head.
In the shower, Donovan’s hand sped up as he continued picturing his fantasy person—full, pink, parted lips, gasping as Donovan fucked and fucked, harder and harder. He pulled his lover’s hair, revealing a long neck that he sucked, definitely leaving marks.
Anna would have hated it, but his fantasy bedmate hummed at the attention.
In his imagination, Donovan lifted long legs over his shoulders so he could thrust deeper while his lover clung to his shoulders.
“Hell, yeah,” Donovan muttered to himself, hand flying over his own cock.
When he pictured wide, blue eyes staring up at him, he came with a long groan, spurting release onto the shower wall. He slumped against it, catching his breath, before drinking warm shower water and spitting it out.
Finally, he felt relaxed—and he congratulated himself. He’d never been very good at inventing fantasies. He usually used porn, but his imaginary lover had easily appeared as if they’d been waiting in the back of his mind for days.
Donovan successfully avoided Sam in his apartment complex. However, the following Monday, Donovan had no choice but to face his new coworker and neighbor, since Sam was the lead designer on not only Progressive Insurance—with his infuriatingly brilliant abstract art idea—but Great Lakes Brewing Company, too.
