Country Mouse

by Aleksandr Voinov

  The kink seemed to be completely gone, which was fine. Right now, he felt mellow enough to kiss and explore and accept what Owen did to him. Which was to keep him relaxed and drifting in this very aware yet almost sleepy state, with some arousal thrown in. He pulled Owen close for another kiss, half-turned toward him, noticed him getting aroused too, Owen’s dick brushing against his thigh.

  He glanced down, and Owen grinned, knowing exactly what he was thinking. “Do you only top?” Owen asked.

  Malcolm hesitated. That tended to be his chosen role these days. First, tops got a lot more play. A lot. At least from the casual hookup sites, so he’d slowly dressed up his profile to make himself look like an exclusive top. He wasn’t. Had never really been. It was just simpler, played into his image. And he really never wanted to encounter a business client who frequented the same sites and saw him being anything but in control.

  “I’d really like to fuck you, but it’s okay if you don’t want to.”

  Nothing’s too intimate for a stranger. Malcolm’s heart was suddenly pounding. No risk here with Owen. The Yank would be gone soon enough. And if he really wanted—well, it was a way to say “sorry” for the first part of the performance. “Sure.”

  He reached out to the nightstand, opened the top drawer, pushed the dildo to the side (yeah, such a top in private too, eh, Malcolm?), and dug out the lube and a strip of condoms. He placed them to the side on the mattress, within easy reach for Owen.

  Owen smiled faintly, seeming to pass no judgments at all. He placed a short, sweet kiss on Malcolm’s lips, and then . . . tended to him.

  Malcolm was confused at first—Owen kissed the side of his neck, down his collarbone, between his gym-bunny pectorals, and Malcolm writhed. It was seduction, and for an absurd moment, he wanted to laugh. The deal’s sealed, mate. Take me already!

  But Owen didn’t. Each kiss was hard and purposeful and necessary, enough that he craved more and harder, and with every movement—his sensitive ribs, the soft skin and hard muscles of his stomach, the divot between his hip and his groin—he wanted more. He knotted his hands in Owen’s hair, thrilled there was enough of it to grab, with the solid intention of bossing this Yank around and making him head for ground zero, damn it, when Owen knelt at his side, teasing his inner thigh.

  Owen’s left hand covered Malcolm’s chest, smooth, hard palm against all of that newly nibbled skin; and the right hand rubbed his thighs, behind his knees and, with a reach, his shins. Malcolm, aroused and humbled and a little frustrated, was suddenly being petted, and the sensation was so bloody fucking marvelous he wanted to cry.

  Then Owen traced his length very gently with a pointed tongue, and he cried out. His erection, which had been returning in its own time, was suddenly very hard and very urgent.

  “Oh God,” he panted, writhing from the playful touch of Owen’s tongue around the ridge of his uncut cock. “Oh God . . . are you just going to tease me to death?”

  Owen lifted his head and Malcolm whimpered. Shame threatened to creep up and stall things, just when they were going so well, but . . . Nothing’s too intimate for a stranger. It became his mantra.

  “I love your noises,” Owen confessed, and then made up for deserting Malcolm’s cock with his mouth by seizing it in his fist. His fingers were long and bony and hard, and reminded Malcolm of why he liked this side of bi sometimes more than the other. “It’s like you groan with a British accent.”

  “Oh bloody—”

  Owen engulfed the head of his prick with a hot, wet, tight mouth, and Malcolm didn’t even have the wherewithal to finish swearing. Owen chuckled with Malcolm deep in his throat, and Malcolm grunted and thrust deeper.

  Owen wet two fingers then, sliding them inside his mouth at the same time, getting a little bit sloppy which usually Malcolm abhorred, and then skated them down the predictable path, over Malcolm’s testicles, down into his crease.

  Malcolm bent his legs at the knees, spread them wide, feeling vulnerable and needy and all sorts of unaccustomed things. He felt those two fingers rubbing at his rim, softening it, getting ready to enter, and he shuddered, made another helpless animal sound, and spurted a little in Owen’s throat.

  Oh shit. He pulled away, panting, “You almost made me come!” accusing and a little panicked—you didn’t do that to a stranger without permission. Quickly, because God, he was ready, so goddamned ready, he rolled over onto his hands and knees and raised his ass, snapping, “Now stop fucking around and put on the bloody condom!”

  The only response he got was something that felt like a rugby tackle, even if Owen would probably call it football. It involved a lot of strong body covering him and taking all his limbs and wrestling him over onto his back before he could protest or put up much of a fight.

  “Shit, Owen,” he grunted. “Fuck me already.” He wouldn’t say “please,” although, granted, he might. Not far off, that. Shit.

  “I will, but not like that,” Owen said close in his face, close enough that his vision blurred. Owen shifted again on his bed and opened Malcolm’s legs, pushed against his shins and moved between them.

  At this point, Malcolm really didn’t care which way things were going; the only thing he cared about was watching Owen tear the foil packet and roll the condom over his dick. While Owen was busy with that, he grabbed the lube, squirted some in his hand, and was about to get himself ready when Owen stopped him, took the lube from him, and then pushed two slick fingers into him.

  Malcolm hissed with pleasure, and the stretch a bit, but he really didn’t want to hear any more—

  “You all right?”

  —of those. “Yeah. I’d tell you if I weren’t.”

  Owen grinned. “No doubt.” He put more lube on the condom, and for a moment, Malcolm thought he could watch Owen touch himself like that forever. If he didn’t want that cut cock more. He lifted his legs, watched Owen fit between them.

  Owen pushed into him slowly, gently, and Malcolm was just so grateful for no slow one-two-three finger routine. He hated that. Finger-fucking wasn’t the same. He liked to see his partners lose control, too.

  Owen thrust in further and Malcolm moaned. He fully expected Owen to stay on his knees and fuck him from there, but instead, Owen moved forward, toward him, very nearly covering his body, one strong hand resting near his head and the other encouraging him to tilt his hips.

  Yeah. Malcolm nearly choked on his next breath. Perfect. Oh, this was good, despite the unfamiliar intimacy. He hadn’t been fucked face-to-face in like ever. He reached up and twisted Owen’s nipples. “I feel you,” he whispered. “And you’re fucking beautiful.”

  Owen was glowing with something far beyond desire and sex. He glowed with life, enthusiasm, something pure and intoxicating, and if Owen wanted to fuck him like this, then, well, he’d better remember fast how to be a good bottom. Not that it would take much.

  “Me?” Owen grinned that quiet, cocky grin and thrust his hips—Oh yes! “I’m just a . . .” He closed his eyes as something exquisite happened, and Malcolm scritched blunt nails across his nipples, wondering if the conversation would ever end. “. . . barbaric Yank,” Owen breathed.

  He thrust again, his back and backside making a curiously graceful undulation, one that put him just . . . Malcolm closed his eyes, turning his attention inward because what was going on in his ass was just fucking at its finest.

  Kisses, soft ones, under his eyelashes, made him open his eyes. “Don’t stop now, idiot!” he snapped, writhing, needing more of that steady, hard movement.

  “Look at me,” Owen whispered. “Look at me until you can’t anymore.”

  Malcolm opened his mouth to protest, but then Owen thrust again and withdrew, and he gasped instead. He closed his eyes again, so close, so on the edge of something truly tremendous . . . until Owen stopped, his long, muscular arms barely trembling as he held the pose.

  “Please, Malcolm?” Owen asked, and Malcolm had to. It was the first thing Owen had really begged for in a n
ight that was supposed to have him on his knees. His eyes opened, and he saw that sweet grin again, and then Owen really started to fuck him, hard, steady, slamming long and nice into his sweet spot, and Malcolm had to fight to keep his eyes open because . . . oh God . . . oh God . . .

  “Ahhh!” He was shaking with the need to come, with the perfection of it. His eyes closed because he couldn’t keep them open anymore, and Owen’s position shifted, all his weight on one arm while he reached between them and grabbed Malcolm’s cock and squeezed.

  Everything went up in lights, fireworks, blazes of nerve endings, violent, aching, slow and tearing pleasure, and Malcolm dug his fingers into Owen’s shoulders and wrapped his legs around those lean, almost skinny hips and shouted, begging, gibbering, because, oh God help him, it was glorious.

  Owen’s hand was coated in cum, and he kept up a gentle pressure, but his hips started to buck, to heave, and he let go of Malcolm’s cock and started his own thrusting frenzy, growling, “Yeehaw!” which almost made Malcolm laugh because Owen’s eyes twinkled with mischief and humor too. Before long, Owen lost all pretense of a rhythm and fucked Malcolm to a gasping, begging pulp. He was deadly accurate, nailing Malcolm’s prostate unerringly, and Malcolm spurted, and again, tiny little shudders that didn’t seem to quit until Owen shouted again and heaved one last time before shuddering and collapsing on top of him, burying his face in Malcolm’s shoulder and sobbing breath into his ear.

  Malcolm couldn’t help it; he gentled the man, touched his shoulders and hair, whispered inane things like, “That’s a good boy . . . God, you did yourself proud,” first with irony, but he was oddly raw and meant it.

  Owen’s shoulders shook a little with laughter, and when he caught his breath, that grin appeared again. His face was sweaty and his hair was a mess from Malcolm’s fingers, but that grin was undimmed.

  “Hooray for the red, white, and blue,” he said, and Malcolm closed his eyes and laughed helplessly, their bodies still locked together.

  Owen woke with Malcolm still nestled against him, resting on his arm. He glanced over, looked at Malcolm’s dark hair standing up this way and that, and then the eyebrows next, oddly graceful, well-defined for a guy. Short, strong nose and dark stubble more visible now than yesterday, covering his cheeks and chin and throat, framing those lean lips that seemed made for sneering but rarely did. Not recently. Or, at least, not once things got to sex.

  What a night. He turned, careful not to wake Malcolm, and studied him from a closer angle, watched his chest moving, breathing, all peaceful right now. He remembered being inside him, remembered the way Malcolm had looked at him, almost shell-shocked with pleasure.

  He’d bet whatever cash he had left that Malcolm had been surprised at his own responses. So much for the trained and practiced Dom act. Malcolm had a much softer side, but how many people saw it it? God, how tightly wound was that, to hold back the best of himself? For what?

  Owen leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, pleased when Malcolm smiled sleepily. He pulled his arm from under Malcolm’s neck and sat up. Malcolm shifted on the bed, then flopped over to fill up the now-vacated space.

  “Going, Yank?” Malcolm mumbled, and Owen rolled his eyes.

  “Cleaning up and coming back to bed. I’m not leaving you until I’m sure you know my name.”

  “Owen,” Malcolm murmured, burying his face into the warmth Owen had just left. “Not going to forget Owen.”

  Aw . . . jeez. You think you know a bossy British one-night stand, right? Owen walked to the washroom, appreciating the clean efficiency of it. And oh, nice big walk-in shower—wonderful. But not right now. If ever there was a man in need of a good night’s sleep, it was Malcolm—Owen would have to be blind to miss the circles under his eyes. The man was wound tight; letting him stay in bed was a kindness. Owen removed the condom and washed up, then wet the cloth good and long with warm water and padded back to bed.

  Malcolm barely reacted as Owen moved the cloth between his backside, washing away the lube and the evidence of their exertions. Then he nudged the man over, thinking he’d be a stout, scrappy little guy without his poise and confidence and all those pretty gym muscles to keep him lean.

  Malcolm moaned and squinted at him. Owen was starting to find that squint endearing: the last piece of the puzzle that needed to be flipped over before Malcolm became completely human.

  “Didn’t have to do that,” Malcolm said, and Owen bent forward and dropped a chaste little kiss on his forehead.

  “Nope. Didn’t have to at all. Roll over and go back to sleep, I’ll be right there.”

  He hurried this time, rinsing out the cloth and then going to the living room to find his boxers. He didn’t mind being naked, but when he slept that way things tended to get tangled. Malcolm had been right—it was damn cold at night—and Owen didn’t linger. He slid into bed behind Malcolm as quickly as he could and wrapped his arms around that sturdy chest and spooned.

  Malcolm grunted and relaxed into him, and Owen’s last thought was that he’d forgotten to text Jenny but would do that in the morning when he knew what his plans were. That he and Malcolm had more to do was never once in doubt.

  Wow, eleven o’ clock. Malcolm woke with a near-start that tore him from deep sleep. As groggy as that would normally make him, he was wide awake as he fumbled for his phone. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, listened to the tone for a few moments, then, when he heard rhythmic music in the background, hurried to speak. “Hey, Josh, sorry. This is Malcolm. Kavanagh. We kinda had a training appointment at, uh, eight.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” Josh said on the other end. “You don’t sound ill. Or dead.”

  “Er, no.” Shit, Josh’s no-nonsense attitude really didn’t encourage apologies. “I overslept.”

  “He worth it?”

  Damn Aussies, waltzing all over subtlety. “I don’t know yet. Figured it would be rude to kick him out of bed that early.”

  “Well, you know the policy. You gotta cancel 24 hours in advance or there’s nothing we can do about the fee. My hands are tied.”

  “Yes, that’s clear. I did read the contract. Sorry for not canceling.”

  “Well, I did try to reach you after sitting on my arse for half an hour.”

  “I slept like the dead.”

  “Sure thing, no problem. Maybe go for a nice little run when you’ve sent Romeo home, and keep watching the carbs. Next one same time, next Saturday?”

  “Sure, yeah. Works for me.”

  “Great, I’ll make a note. Have a great weekend, Malcolm. Watch those carbs.”

  “Will do.” He tapped the screen and sank back against the head of the bed with a groan. Josh would make him suffer for it. At five foot four, Josh paired a Napoleon complex with hardcore sadism. If anything, that had gotten even worse after his sex change.

  He pushed out of bed, found his boxers near the foot of the bed and ran a hand down his stomach. Damn hard work, that, and he really shouldn’t skip the training, but this was a real life issue, involving real people. He headed into the kitchen, started water in the kettle, rummaged through the fridge and grimaced. Nothing really all that edible or interesting. He returned to the bedroom. “I’ll just get those bagels. Wait here? I’ll make breakfast. Can probably even round up some eggs and bacon, if you’re interested.”

  Owen smiled sleepily and brushed his fall of brown hair out of his eyes. “Sounds amazing,” he said through a yawn, and then blinked, hard. “Oh crap—what time is it?”

  “Eleven.” Malcolm grimaced. “I know—it’s later than I’d planned too.”

  Owen sat up in bed. “I’ve got to text Jenny. Oh God—she had the day planned to a T—she’s going to be pissed.”

  Malcolm paused as he was pulling his jeans up his hips. “What did you have planned?”

  Owen looked a little self-conscious. “Tourist shit. But, you know—I really wanted to do it. Trafalgar Square, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace . . .” He cleared his throat. “Shakespe
are’s house. You know. Tourist shit.” Owen looked away, a faint flush blotching his neck and shoulders, almost like the sex-flush he’d worn last night. “Probably sounds stupid to you, doesn’t it?”

  “No, not at all.” Malcolm pulled up his jeans and then threw himself across the bed, stomach first. “Look—text your ex-bitch-harpy whatever and tell her to get on with her plans. I haven’t had a Saturday off in . . .” He shook his head and realized he was really close to those amazing brown eyes. Owen’s nose was long and straight—not too long, mind you, just unapologetic. For the eyes to overshadow it—well, they had to be something. Malcolm swallowed. “In forever,” he said quietly. “And my trainer is going to make me pay out the arse and bloody eyeballs for it. Let’s make it count, all right?”

  Owen’s smile was damn near blinding. “Really? You’ll take me to do all the tourist shit? That’ll be awesome. Wait until I tell Jenny—she’ll be green. She likes to think she knows Europe because she’s been here like a thousand times but . . . but you live here.”

  Owen scrambled out of bed, apparently taken with excitement, and rushed into the living room to start rooting for his cell phone. Malcolm watched him go with bemusement. He wasn’t sure he’d seen that much enthusiasm in anyone outside a schoolroom, and it was . . . charming.

  He pulled on a T-shirt and sweater and then socks and a pair of trainers, listening to Owen mumble over his texting in the living room. When Malcolm joined him, he was standing next to the couch in his underwear, frowning at his phone.

  “Dammit, Jenny, I didn’t mean to oversleep. Isn’t that what vacations for?” he muttered, and then sighed, hit a button, and put the phone to his ear. “I didn’t mean to.” He paused for a moment and sighed, letting some of the exasperation out. “Look—you found a hookup, I found a hookup, let’s just go with that. When are we taking the Eurostar to France?” The disappointment on his face was gratifying. “Monday morning? Really?”