Office Romance Box Set

by J. M. Snyder

  “I appreciate your cooperation,” Bill says, withdrawing his hand. “Let me give you a gift card for your trouble—”

  “We good, man,” Jamal says.

  Tyrece slaps his cousin’s arm. In a harsh whisper, he says, “Ask how much.”

  But Jamal silences him with a look. “I said we good.”

  When Tyrece opens his mouth to argue, Jamal takes him by the elbow and drags him from the store. Bill stares after them—stares at Jamal, and those damn sweats that hang so well on his lean frame—then glances at his watch. A half hour to go, maybe another half hour to straighten up after closing…no time at all, really.

  Behind him, Angie clears her throat. She’s ringing up a customer but looks at Bill as she completes the sale. “So I was wrong?”

  Oh, honey, you don’t even know. Bill doesn’t say that, though—he doesn’t want to discourage her from doing her job. How was she to know Jamal and he are together? Returning to his leakage notebook, Bill offers, “Maybe he saw you watching him and got scared. He must’ve put back whatever he swiped, I don’t know. He was clean, though. Nothing on him.”

  “He let you check all his pockets?” Angie asks, doubtful.

  Remembering the feel of Jamal’s cock in his hands, his mouth, his ass, Bill gives her a wicked grin. “I definitely checked him out.”

  * * * *

  By quarter to ten, the carpet is vacuumed, the sound system silent, and the cash register drawers tallied and locked in the store safe, located under the countertop in the back room. Bill thinks the place reeks of sex—he still smells Jamal’s cologne in the air—but neither Angie nor the other two employees seem to notice. If they do, they don’t mention it. Bill grabs his coat off the rack and digs his cell phone from his pocket—there are Jamal’s missed calls, and there’s a recent text that just says one word: Outside.

  At this hour, with the store entrance gated and locked, they use the exit that leads down the back hall and outside. The other two leave but Angie holds the door while Bill carries out a bag of trash. As they head down the well-lit corridor, Angie admits, “I was so sure that guy was shoplifting. Now I feel stupid.”

  “Don’t,” Bill tells her. “You were just going by instinct. If I’d seen him watching me and hadn’t known better, I would’ve thought he was casing us, too.”

  “What really happened in the back?” Angie asks, curious. “I mean, it didn’t get too nasty or anything, did he?”

  You have no idea, Bill thinks. Aloud, he mimics Jamal’s words. “Nah, we cool.”

  Angie walks ahead to grab the door leading outside. It opens on a trash receptacle secreted away in a screened-off nook. Bill hoists the bag into the trash and almost runs into Angie, who’s frozen at the edge of the wall. “What’s wrong?”

  Her eyes are wide and scared. Staring into the parking lot, she asks nervously, “Can you walk me to my car?”

  “Sure.” Bill starts across the lot, but stops and glances back when she doesn’t follow. “What is it?”

  She’s looking at a spot past the overhead lights, a darkened area of the lot where only two cars sit side by side. One of them is Bill’s—when he came in earlier, that was the only spot available. The other is a silver Nissan Altima he remembers from the summer. It’s an older model that had belonged to Jamal’s sister and was his only when he was home from college. A twinge of anticipation runs down Bill’s spine.

  As if her voice will carry that far, Angie whispers, “Who’s car is that?”

  Bill shrugs. From here, shadows drape the car’s interior, obscuring anyone inside from view. “Probably someone on the cleaning crew,” he lies.

  Angie’s navy Honda Civic is nearby—she managed to get a good spot when she arrived for work earlier. Bill walks with her to the door and waits until she’s inside, the motor running, before he gives her a jaunty wave and starts across the lot to his own car. Angie revs her engine, probably to get his attention, but Bill ignores her. After a moment, he hears her radio turn up and her tires squeal as she pulls away.

  The engine in Jamal’s car roars to life, then settles into a quiet purr. The passenger side is a good two feet from the driver’s side of Bill’s aging Toyota Corolla. Skirting around the back of his car, Bill stops at his door but raps on the window to Jamal’s instead. The window glides down soundlessly and warm airs wafts out, tinged with the scent of Jamal’s cologne. Bill has to peer into the darkness to make out the form in the driver’s seat.

  Then Jamal smiles, his teeth like stars set in the black night. “Yo, homie. Wanna ride?”

  The invitation in Jamal’s voice is all the encouragement Bill needs.

  THE END

  Knocking Boots

  The sun has already begun to slip behind the barn by the time I ride in off the trail. I don’t rush—I can hear the clamor of plates and utensils amid the rising voices calling to each other from the supper table set up outside the bunkhouse, but here at the barn it’s just the sound of my horse’s shoes on the hard-packed earth and the whine of a mosquito hovering at the back of my neck.

  My boots scuff in the sand as I ease off the old mare. She whinnies, and I keep a hand on her withers to calm her. Sweat dampens her coat; I need to brush her down, bust a new bale of hay, and fill a trough with fresh water before I think about my own dinner. By the time I’m through, the other ranch hands and cowboys should have had their fill, and I’ll be able to savor a quiet moment to myself by Cookie’s fire.

  I’m in the stall with the mare, stooped down as I wipe her legs with both hands to check for nicks or burrs, when I hear the barn’s side door open. The hinges on it squeal in protest every time it swings one way or the other. Our foreman Hank Jolson threatens to remove it completely if we don’t keep the damn thing oiled, but it’s a hard chore to remember after a day spent in the fields under the sweltering sun. Most of us cowpokes use the barn’s front double doors, riding in on our horses or leading them out into the stunted grass just outside and ignoring the other entrance entirely.

  Hank’s the only one who uses it, him and Mr. Swanson, who owns the ranch. I suspect Hank gets so bent out of shape about the squeak because Mr. Swanson mentioned it once, and he’s the boss.

  The hinges squeal again as the door is shut. I stay squatting in the stall, concentrating on the mare’s foreleg, which she seems to favor a little, but I’m all ears. I pick up the shuffle of boot heels in the dirt, the jangle of spurs—Hank, I know it’s him. He’s the only one of us who favors those dandy silver bells on his boots—then I hear an accented voice ask, “You wanted to see me, Mr. Hank?”

  It’s one of the Mexicans, I can’t place who. Lupe or Pedro or Jose, whatever the hell the others’ names might be…they all seem the same to me. They came on the ranch as a group and keep to themselves, talking in rapid Spanish I can’t follow and watching the rest of us with laughing eyes, as if we amuse them. On days when Hank gets a burr up his backside, he tells us he’d rather have a whole ranch of Mexicans than us surly white boys, as if we’re that much younger than he is himself. I’m twenty-three, I work hard, and I keep to myself. Hank lumping me in with the rest of the beer-swilling, whore-loving hands turns my stomach.

  That’s part of the reason I’m here now, off on my own. I’m not one of those guys and never will be. Alcohol only makes me sick, and I’d rather have a man’s rough hand on me than a woman’s soft touch any day.

  Not that I’d dare admit it out loud. I keep my head down, my tongue quiet, my mind to myself, and one day I plan to have enough money saved up to start a ranch of my own. Then I’ll give into my baser needs. Then I’ll find a man to love.

  God knows it won’t be any one of these bastards.

  The footsteps come closer and I raise up a little, just enough to peer around the mare’s neck. Hank comes into view, his blond hair tamped down around his scalp in the shape his Stetson left behind. He runs a hand through the tangled strands, tousling them. The other hand tugs at the bolo tie he favors, loosening it to unbutton the
collar of his shirt. “Delfino,” he says in a slow drawl that sounds like smooth bourbon poured into a chilled glass. “Don’t act dumb, kid. You know exactly why I called you out here.”

  Behind him comes Delfino—Hispanic, maybe my age, maybe a year or two older, with dark eyes like pools of liquid ink and black hair that falls straight across his forehead in a blunt cut. He has pouty lips that look too red to be real and cheekbones that hint at native blood. Why hadn’t I noticed this one before? He stands out from the others, from all the others, white or otherwise. He has an insolent air about him, a slow grin and sly eyes, that makes me wonder if Hank’s really the one in charge here or if Delfino has a secret or two he keeps hidden from the foreman.

  He wears a threadbare work shirt, the chambray worn shiny in spots where the fabric rubs over his muscles, at his shoulders, his elbows, his biceps. He glances around and I duck down, hands flat against the mare’s withers to keep her quiet. She nickers gently into the bucket of feed I gave her when we first entered the barn and swats at me with her tail, threatening to dislodge the hat hiding my face. I push it down further over my eyes and hold my breath, waiting.

  Why are they here? Hank says Delfino knows, and something in the air between them tells me they think they’re alone. If they find out I’m here, hiding, what will be said? I should’ve stood up as soon as they entered, cleared my throat, dropped the curry comb, something to announce my presence. Maybe if I stand suddenly, pretend I don’t even know they’re here, I can still get out before…

  I start to stand, rising my chin to peek out from under my hat, and what I see stops me in mid-stretch.

  Hank’s shirt is completely unbuttoned now, hanging open to expose a firm chest covered with thick, graying hair and the start of a slight paunch above his belt. Delfino has closed the distance between them, his hand flat against Hank’s belly, the fingertips lost in the tufts of hair. He’s staring into Hank’s face but the foreman doesn’t see him—Hank’s eyes are shut, lips parted slightly. As I watch, Delfino rubs his hand up Hank’s furry chest, the tip of his middle finger finding a hard, pink nipple amid the hair. Hank gasps, both hands dropping to the buckle of his belt. “That’s it,” he sighs as Delfino plucks his nipple, squeezing and teasing it erect. “God, yes.”

  Holy shit.

  I need to get out of here, now, I know it, but suddenly my knees have locked up and my hands are fisted in the saddle blanket still tossed over the mare’s back. A sudden heart beat throbs at my crotch, and in the confines of the tight jeans I wear, my cock swells with eagerness. My mind is a whirl—Hank, here, Delfino, here, with me not ten feet away and watching.

  Here.

  Thank you, God, I pray silently. For this, here, now. For letting me see it. For letting me know things like this do exist between men. Can exist. For me.

  Carefully I ease around the mare and, staying hunched over so I won’t be seen, I come up against the side of the stall. There are knotholes in the wooden slats, wide enough for me to peer through without being seen. Please keep doing whatever it is you’re doing, I pray as I squat in front of one of the larger knotholes. I have to tilt my hat back so I can press my face to the wood and look through.

  Hank’s belt is unbuckled now, his fly open, his dingy gray underwear gaping through the fly with an obscene bulge. He leans back against a stack of hay bales and sighs Delfino’s name as the Mexican trails a hand down Hank’s belly, seeking the package beneath it. When Delfino grips the bulge, I see his fingers encircle Hank’s cock through the thin material and almost come in my jeans at the lusty moan that escapes Hank’s throat. “That’s it, Delfino. You know what to do.”

  I watch, wide-eyed and breathless, as Delfino kneels in front of Hank. With both hands, he peels the underwear down, exposing a long, thin, hard dick that curves at the end like a question mark. Delfino ducks below it and, tongue out, licks at the tip of Hank’s hard shaft.

  Yes, my mind cries as I rub my hand over the straining crotch of my jeans. Yes, yes, yes.

  The underwear are jerked down, pulling Hank’s jeans with them, just enough to expose the pale white skin of his balls and upper thighs. One of Delfino’s hands slips between Hank’s legs to rub under his balls—the gesture makes him bleat, a series of tiny little sounds that tug at my growing erection and make me want to jerk off into the hay. I can only imagine what Delfino’s fingers are doing between Hank’s legs—fondling the back of his nut sack, maybe, or tickling along the stretch of his taint, or, God forbid, rimming his tight, puckered asshole…

  Hastily I unzip my jeans and unbutton my briefs. My cock surges forth on its own, harder than its been in a long time. It butts against the smooth wooden wall of the stall and I press it down, between my spread knees, down against the sweet ache rushing along its length.

  With my eye to the knothole, I watch Delfino take Hank’s long cock into his mouth, swallowing it down to the root. Jesus. Absently I begin to stroke myself, matching the rhythm Delfino sets—in as far as it will go, then slowly out again to the tip, then down in all the way once more. Languid movements, drawn out, exquisite. I picture those full lips around my dick, that hot mouth taking me in, and knead my erection as I watch. Delfino’s gaze is on Hank’s face, gauging his reaction to each lick. I see Delfino’s cheeks pull in, his Adam’s apple work, and I can’t even begin to imagine what it must feel like to be suckled like that, an orgasm milked up from the bottom of my feet through to the pounding, pulsing, throbbing bulb of my dick.

  Hank’s hands are on his chest, tweaking his nipples. He leans back against the bales of hay, moaning softly. His hips thrust into Delfino every time the Mexican takes him in, forcing his cock deeper into Delfino’s throat. “Yes,” Hank murmurs, pinching his teats as he fucks into the willing mouth before him. “Yes, God, yes.”

  Encouraged, Delfino places his hands on Hank’s hips, holding him back, and dives down again. I try to see if he’s as turned on by this as Hank is—as I am—but the way he squats obscures his crotch from my view. My pace picks up, fingers massaging my dick as I follow the length down. I dare to pinch the tender cockhead and have to bite my lip to keep from crying out in ecstasy. God! I want to push my cock through the knothole, fuck into it, imagining it to be Delfino’s mouth around me instead. I fist my dick, jerk it hard, and picture Delfino’s sleepy bedroom eyes looking up at me, not Hank. Me.

  Suddenly Hank places his hand on Delfino’s forehead, stopping him in mid-stride. “Dame ese culo apretado,” he says as he pushes Delfino away.

  My body thrills at the words. Give me that tight ass. Oh, God, I want to cry out. Take mine too!

  Delfino turns and stands in one fluid motion. His pants fall to his knees before I even notice he’s unbuckled them. His underwear follows suit, and the veined, dusky cock that pokes from between his legs makes my mouth water. Why doesn’t Hank take that in his mouth first? If it were me, I’d be on my knees before Delfino, worshipping his thick length. It’s not as long as Hank’s, but it’s fat and promising, and my sphincter clenches in anticipation at the thought of taking it in me. It’s all I can do to keep from vaulting over the side of the stall, announcing my presence and joining in the excitement.

  But Hank isn’t interested in Delfino’s fine cock. He wants the twin, firm cheeks curving out above Delfino’s dropped drawers. With both hands, he grabs Delfino’s ass, kneading the buttocks as he lifts and separates them. His cock rises as Delfino bends at the waist, hands gripping the nearby door of another stable, legs spreading apart. I’d love to see Hank bury his nose in Delfino’s ass, tongue licking inside the Mexican, making way for his dick, savoring every moment and drawing Delfino with him toward release.

  Unfortunately, it’s apparent Hank’s only about his own pleasure here. I shouldn’t have expected anything less. With Delfino’s spit still slick on his dick, Hank guides his cock to the tight hole at Delfino’s center. “Say it,” he warns.

  “Cogeme,” Delfino moans. “Cogeme duro, Mr. Hank. ¡Si, si!”

 
; I don’t follow all the Spanish, but I don’t need to—my body translates the meaning without knowing the words themselves. Fuck me, yes, yes. I spit into one hand and slather my dick with my own juices, then bite the meaty base of my thumb to keep quiet as I work my saliva into my erection.

  My gaze is glued to the men in front of me, Delfino open wide, Hank angling inside. He works his way in slowly, Delfino’s breath coming in short, pained bursts until Hank is fully in. Then he lets out a chilling, ululating sound from deep in the back of his throat, a mix between a laugh and a war cry that raises the hair all along my arms and nape. “Más duro,” he gasps as Hank slowly begins to fuck into him. “Duro, rápido, rápido, ay si!”

  My hand matches Hank’s rhythm, speeding up as he works at Delfino’s ass, faster, harder, as the Mexican goads him on. I stare at the place where the two men connect, where Hank’s cock sinks into Delfino, where they become one. I thrust into my palm, my breath hot and fast against the wooden slats before me, not daring to blink in case I miss anything. Delfino thrashes his head up and down, pushes his ass back against Hank; the barn fills with the sounds of sex, the slap of bodies, the moans of pleasure, the cries for more. Finally Hank seems to remember Delfino’s packing a cock full of jism, too—he reaches beneath the Mexican to grab the thick dick and pulls it as he pounds into Delfino’s backside.

  With one final thrust, Hank’s body goes rigid and he throws his head back, mouth wide. “God,” he moans, his hips twitching as he gets off deep within Delfino. A few hard jerks of Hank’s hand and Delfino’s climax erupts from him, as well, ropy strands of thick, white come splattering the stall door. At the sight of the two men locked in passion, I find release, too, my hand growing slick with my own juices as the musky scent of spunk wafts up to hit me in the nose.

  I’m just about to sit back when Delfino glances my way. Despite the distance separating us, despite the stall hiding me, his eyes meet mine for one heart-stopping second. The faintest trace of a grin slips across his lips and he looks back at Hank. I’m so sure this is it, I’m caught out, he’s going to say something and Hank will know I know his secret, Delfino has to point me out…