by J. M. Snyder
Trevor was only too happy to oblige, running his hand along the cleft between Zack’s round buttocks to find his snug hole. When he strummed across it, he felt Zack’s cock jerk against his, and Zack’s teeth closed tight on Trevor’s upper lip. Soon Zack began to rock back into Trevor’s palm, rubbing both of their dicks and kissing Trevor’s mouth, his chin, his cheeks, anywhere he could press his lips. Just beneath his breath, he chanted, “Yes, oh yes, God yes, please, yes, yes.” Then Trevor slipped his middle finger into Zack’s tight ass, and Zack came in a rush of hot jism that slicked Trevor’s belly and triggered his own thundering orgasm.
* * * *
Afterwards, they shared a smoke and the rest of Trevor’s beer. “I thought you said you quit,” Trevor said as he passed the lit cigarette to Zack.
Taking a deep drag, Zack breathed out a perfectly shaped smoke ring. “I’m easily addicted,” he teased. “You’ve got me hooked.”
By the time they untangled from each other and got up off the sofa, it was well after eight o’clock. The only light filtering through the blinds came from the street lamps in the parking lot outside. Zack, unsteady on his feet after the alcohol, kept bumping into Trevor as they dressed, giggling for no real reason and kissing Trevor in odd places—his elbow, his stomach, his knee through the material of his pants once, when Zack bent down to retrieve his sandals. Somehow they had gotten pushed up under the sofa, and when he leaned down in search of them, he fell solidly on his butt. “Get up, silly,” Trevor admonished, unbuttoning his shirt for a second attempt at buttoning it right.
Zack tugged on Trevor’s shoelaces and laughed. “I can’t,” he sighed. “I’m not even all that drunk, really. I mean, really.” He gave Trevor an earnest look. “Really.”
“How are you going to get home?” Trevor wanted to know. He stooped down and felt around beneath the sofa until he located the sandals, then dropped them into Zack’s lap. There was still a faint stain of dampness across his crotch. Trevor checked to make sure that he didn’t have one, too. “You look like you wet yourself.”
“You got me wet,” Zack accused. Slipping on his sandals, he pulled himself up using Trevor for balance but halfway to his feet, he buried his face into Trevor’s pillowy crotch. “Take me home,” he murmured, his hot breath curling through Trevor’s pants to excite him again. “I can’t drive like this, can I? Take me home with you.”
With a laugh, Trevor lifted Zack up and held onto his arms to keep him from swooning. “You only had what, two beers?”
“I’m a light-weight,” Zack admitted solemnly. Hugging Trevor around the waist, he snuggled up against him and sighed. “I am not going to make it down all those flights of stairs.”
Trevor had suspected as much. Rescuing his blazer and tie off the floor, he wrapped an arm around Zack’s shoulders and led him from the office. The fact that Zack wouldn’t let him go was quite flattering—Nathan had always claimed Trevor was cold and distant after sex, but this…he could get used to this. Out in the lobby, he held Zack as they waited for the elevator. When the doors opened he hesitated, but Zack stepped inside the small lift and pulled Trevor in after him. “Kiss me,” he demanded. Trevor obeyed, pressing Zack against the mirrored wall as the doors shut behind him. He was only vaguely aware of Zack fumbling for the elevator buttons, then the bottom of his stomach dropped as the elevator ascended. “Oops,” Zack murmured against Trevor’s lips. “Wrong direction.”
“You just wanted to get me up again,” Trevor teased. He kissed Zack again, concentrating on the way their bodies responded to each other and trying desperately to ignore the whine of gears as the elevator continued to move.
Zack brushed a hand across the front of Trevor’s pants. “I think you’re already up…” he started as the elevator ground to a halt. As the doors opened, Zack’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh shit.”
From behind Trevor came a man’s harsh voice. “Zachary Taylor Jackson!” Trevor turned to find an imposing man in a three-piece suit blocking the doorway. Older than Trevor by a good twenty years, with a receding hairline and ruddy, apoplectic cheeks, the man swelled with indignation until he seemed to block out the rest of the world. “Just what is the meaning of this?”
To Trevor, Zack muttered, “Don’t say a word.” Suddenly he didn’t seem quite so drunk. Taking a step forward, Zack started, “Dad, look—”
“How many times do I have to tell you?” Zack’s father shouted, cutting him off. “Not in the goddamn elevators!”
Dad. Trevor glanced at the floor indicator and almost groaned. Top level, eighth floor,…so Zack and Mike L. Jackson, CEO, were related. He should’ve known. “I’m dead.”
Over his shoulder, Zack assured him, “He doesn’t know who you are.”
“Who are you?” the CEO demanded of Trevor.
“Quiet,” Zack cautioned. He hit the lobby button as the elevator doors started to close, hurrying them along. By the time his father thought to stop them, the doors were already shut. “Shit,” Zack cursed. He banged a fist against the mirrored wall and turned away when Trevor looked at him. “Don’t worry,” he said, his earlier mood gone. His voice sounded dull, morose. “He doesn’t know you work here. He doesn’t even know who you are.”
“And who the hell are you?” Trevor wanted to know. It made sense—the casual clothing, the computer games, the lack of actual work in Zack’s office. He felt slightly used now, unclean, alone. “You do this often?” he asked, unable to keep the anger from his words. “How many times has he told you not to fuck around with the hired help in the elevators?”
“You’re not—” Zack tried.
But Trevor didn’t want to hear it. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Zack whirled to face him, eyes livid with hurt and rage. “Why?” he asked. “You want to know why? I’ll tell you why. What would you have said if I came up to you outside and was like hey, I’m Zack, my dad owns the company? Or hey, come on up to my office, my dad signs your paychecks. Would you have bothered with me? Tell me the truth, Trevor. Would tonight even have happened if you knew? No.”
He was right. Trevor frowned at the lit indicator above the door, watching it tick through the floors down to the lobby, and he knew Zack was right. If he had known Zack’s father was the CEO, their whole dynamic would have changed. He would have kept his distance, been polite of course, but deferential, aloof. He wouldn’t have dared come upstairs after work. He wouldn’t even look Zack in the eye if he could help it.
In the mirrored wall, he saw a single tear course down Zack’s tanned cheek before being brusquely swept away. “No,” Zack mumbled. “You want to know how many others there have been? One. A guy named Adam, a college roommate of mine who stopped in one evening to visit me. I’d just been hired and thought I’d be cool, show him around the place, and yes, things got a bit frisky in the elevators. I mean, damn. You know me, I move fast.”
With a grunt, Trevor said, “Tell me about it.”
“It was nothing serious,” Zack assured him. “Adam was an old friend, neither of us were involved with anyone else, and you’ve got to believe me, I don’t fuck around when I’m committed to someone. I don’t. We were just riding the elevator up and down, getting it on, and same thing happened—door opened and my dad’s standing there glaring like the angel of death. He hasn’t ever let me forget it.”
Because Trevor didn’t know what else to say, he tried, “I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” Zack whispered. “I can’t date guys from work. They use me to move up in the company, or try to get away with shit because they’re tight with me, and I don’t want to deal with that hassle. But I saw you like three weeks ago? Out front smoking. I agonized over how to approach you—”
“Stop it,” Trevor said. He tried not to smile, but the thought of someone as confident as Zack being afraid of him made Trevor grin.
Zack insisted, “I’m serious! Should I tell you outright look, my dad’s the CEO but go out with me anyway? Or should I just play it by ear, se
e what happens? In the end I just said the hell with it and hoped you wouldn’t be too mad when you found out.” In the mirror, their eyes met. “Are you mad?”
The elevator rumbled to a halt and the doors opened. Trevor thought a moment, then realized that he wanted to wake up beside this guy, he wanted to kiss him again, to hold him and discover the myriad of other pleasures they could find together. It didn’t matter who his father was—or wasn’t. With a shake of his head, Trevor promised, “I’m not mad.” He slipped his hand into Zack’s and squeezed. “Did you still want to come home with me?”
Zack squeezed Trevor’s hand in return. “I told you, you’ve got me hooked.”
Trevor led the way to his car. Same here.
THE END
Lunch Break
I’m refilling the Cokes in the refrigerated case when he walks down the aisle.
He’s older than me by a good ten years or so, I’d guess, and his skin is the delicate shade of decadent milk chocolate—just the way I like my guys. He wears pale linen slacks with a crease ironed down the center of each leg and a sharp blazer open to reveal a thin, pink, silk shirt that clings to him when he moves. Just by looking, I can see he’s not wearing an undershirt because when he turns, the silk is pulled taut along his slim torso and a hard nipple strains the fabric.
Oh my. I freeze, hands full of soda bottles that don’t quite make it into the case, legs and arms pimpling with goose bumps from the refrigerated air. I’m staring, I know it, but I can’t look away.
The light-colored clothing only enhances his dusky skin. There’s a dark shadow of hair trimmed close over the top of his head, and his full lips are framed by a manicured goatee that looks penciled in. His brown eyes are large and bright, with lashes any Cover Girl would envy. As he comes toward me, his gaze flickers over the stocked shelves, first one side of the aisle, then the other. Then he sees me and flashes a quick smile that shows a glimpse of even, white teeth.
He is, in a word, perfect.
But then his gaze slides over me as if I’m just another display in the aisle—he turns toward the cans of fruit stocked behind me and, in that instant, I’m reduced to something less interesting than shelves of canned produce. Fuck.
I hear the sough of linen on skin as he bends down for something on a lower shelf, and though I shouldn’t, I look over my shoulder for another glance. His slacks are tight over a firm, round ass.
Damn.
I’m hard just looking at him. Suddenly my mind crowds with thoughts of the two of us together, naked and sweaty and just…damn. After he leaves, I’ll have to duck into the restroom, prop up a Wet Floor sign to keep customers out, and jerk off as I imagine guiding my thick, white cock between those dark, meaty buttocks.
With a squeal of his shoe on the tiled floor, he half-turns and squats by the lower shelf. I don’t realize he’s watching me stare at him until he clears his throat.
I jump as if goosed. The bottles in my hands clatter together when I shove them hurriedly into the case. Caught looking, how sad is that?
His smile is back, faint this time, and his eyes pin me in place. “Hey there.”
His voice is deep, throaty, with a twinge of the South in it. My mouth opens to reply but there are no words waiting to be said; I’m stunned, speechless. So I exist now, do I? Is he really talking to me?
His smile widens as his gaze runs up my body, taking in my battered Converse, my torn shorts, my faded T-shirt covered by a dingy apron. I wonder if he can see what he’s doing to me, looking at me like that, because my shorts were baggy two minutes ago and now the crotch bites into my cock, my boxers too confining, and I’m pretty sure the apron ain’t covering shit.
Once his eyes meet mine again, I manage to sigh, “Hey.”
I sound like a moonstruck schoolboy but right now I don’t care. I could spend the rest of my life just staring at him, he’s that beautiful. And he’s still smiling, still looking my way, so maybe he thinks I’m something, too.
A cold draft curls around my ankles from the open refrigerator case, reminding me I should get back to work. But at the moment I can’t move, I can’t think, I can barely breathe, and there’s no way I’m going to turn my back on someone like him. I want to say something, anything, to keep him talking to me.
But someone else enters the aisle, damn it, and his gaze flickers from mine to a beautiful woman wearing a short summery dress, one of the store’s hand baskets clasped in both hands. She wafts down the aisle with an airy grace, as if she’s picking flowers. She has coffee-colored skin and hair like honey, kinked into loose curls that tumble over her shoulders and are held back from her face by a pair of sunglasses propped on top of her head.
Before she even speaks, I just know they’re here together. Two perfect people like that? They’re made for each other.
“Kevin,” she moans, giving me a distrustful glance before she stops to lean against the shelf beside the guy. “I can’t find anything in this damn place.”
With a nod my way, Kevin says, “Ask him. He works here. What are you looking for?”
She glances at me again, the prettiest pout worrying her plump lips, as if she’s not going to ask me shit. Without asking what she wants, I turn back to the case, more bottles rattling loudly as I shove them into place. Of course, he’d have a girl. Of course, she’d be some damn bitch who’d look down on me because I stock shelves here. Of course…
Another guy enters the aisle, a white kid my age, maybe a little younger. He has short blonde hair and wears a long white T-shirt over baggy jeans as if he thinks he’s the next Eminem. There’s a wicked scowl on his face completing the image. “Teesh,” he sighs. “I can’t find those damn things.”
He sees me looking and eases a possessive arm around the woman’s waist, a clear message that says this is his girl, not Kevin’s. Then he plants a kiss on her cheek so I know she’s his. “Do you really need them now?”
“Hello? Roddy, I needed them yesterday. What kind of store is this?”
Kevin clears his throat as he stands, tossing a jar of peaches into her hand basket. “Just ask someone already, Tahesha.”
In the reflection of the glass door I see him look at me. I feel his hot gaze on my back and butt and thighs, and I resist the urge to bend over just to see if his eyes widen or not. Kevin tells her again, “Ask him.”
Roddy smirks. “Yeah, ask him.”
She crosses the aisle to where I am; this close, her honeysuckle perfume cloying and thick. “Tahesha,” her guy says, goading her on—there’s a small smile on his face and Kevin laughs like this is some kind of joke, and I’m almost afraid of what she wants to know.
“Sir?” she asks.
Now Roddy laughs out loud because I’m the same age as her and nobody’s “sir” by any stretch of the imagination. Still, I am on the clock, and if she’s not with Kevin then maybe I still stand a chance. I mean, hell. She’s obviously slumming it, dating a guy like Roddy. Maybe Kevin likes his guys a little common, too.
I glance at her friends, then focus my attention on her. Up close, she’s flawless. I wonder how much of that is make-up. “May I help you?”
Her smile is disarming, but her friends snicker and I don’t trust her at all. “Don’t you guys sell tampons here?”
God.
Kevin and Roddy break out in laughter and my face burns, but she’s still smiling slightly as if it’s nothing to ask a guy for tampons. Jesus, please. My voice squeaks and I have to clear my throat. “Um…”
Suddenly my mind is blank. Do we sell them? We must, but I don’t know—I’ve never noticed before. It’s not like I make it my business to know shit like this. “Did you look down the aisle with the toothpaste?” It’s the only place I can imagine they’d be.
But Roddy just laughs harder. “Toothpaste!” he shrieks, like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
In that instant, I hate him. He leans against Kevin, breathless with laughter and almost in tears because he finds this so damn funn
y. Beside me, his girl asks sweetly, “Toothpaste? What aisle is that?”
“Seven?” I don’t know.
Right now Kevin watches me, trying hard to suppress his laughter, and I don’t fucking care where the damn toothpaste is; I just want to crawl into this refrigerator case, close the door behind me, and hide until he goes away. The first guy I crush on in forever and this bitch makes me feel like an ass in front of him. “I don’t know,” I admit, my voice harsher than I intend. “Seven maybe.”
“Don’t you work here?” she asks, a slight peeve to her voice that sets her friends off again.
“I don’t know where that kind of stuff is.”
Silently, I add, Just go away already, will you? Take your scuzzy boyfriend with you; just leave the other one here with me.
She sighs and rolls her eyes. “Aisle seven?” Turning away, she mutters, “God, these places hire the most retarded people sometimes.”
Anger flashes through me and I clench my jaw but I ignore her. What can I say? Nothing that won’t make me look stupid and get me in trouble if she decides to tell my boss. Mr. Weeks likes me but he’s warned me before about shooting off at the mouth in front of customers. And I can already see from the way her boyfriend drapes his arm around her shoulders that he thinks I’m going to start something, so I just ignore the comment.
