by Неизвестный
That makes me laugh. My reply is another kiss, but it's not enough for Luke, he presses his body against mine, pins me to the beam, his hips grinding into mine. "How do you like me, Marcus?" he wants to know. "I see it in your eyes when you look at me, I feel it when we touch but I want to hear you say it."
I love you, I think, but when I open my mouth, the words don't come. I've never said them to Kent, it's been years since I've heard them in my voice, I can't just blurt them out to this runaway boy. As we kiss, he stares at me, my own eyes flutter open to meet his violet gaze and then I have to close them again, I can't watch him while we make out, not if he reads the words in my eyes. I love you. They burn in me, a fire that sets my body aflame.
I love you.
He shrugs out of his shirt, lies it down on the hay where he slept. "Sit here," he tells me, patting the shirt. Before I can comply, he unzips my jeans and I let him push them down to the floor. "Damn, Marcus," he laughs, seeing my still-hard erection poke at the front of my boxers. "My kisses do this to you?"
A thin blush creeps into my cheeks, heating my face. "I was sort of already ..." I trail off, embarrassed. "Kind of in the middle of ... when you came in ..."
Luke nudges me and winks. "Good thing I stopped by," he jokes, and then my boxers are gone, around my ankles with my jeans. "Down, boy."
I sit on his shirt, the hay crunching beneath my ass, my legs spread in an undignified pose. Luke doesn't seem to care, though -- he kneels between my knees, rubs a hand along my stomach. "Lie back," he says, and when I comply, propped up on my elbows, he nods encouragingly. "Like that, good." His hands stroke my inner thighs, massaging them, making my cock stiffen again, how's he do that? Without even touching me there, he has me aching and ready all over again. "You're beautiful, Marcus, has he ever told you that?" I lean back, let my head loll between my shoulders, moan softly in reply. No, Kent's never told me that. I'm good, I've got a great ass, I'm tight, but beautiful? It's up there with love, another word I'll never hear him say.
Those hands, they knead my thighs, parting my legs until the shirt is clenched between my buttocks. Those fingers caress my throbbing flesh, tracing circles around my balls, rubbing the skin at the base of my shaft. I thrust up into the slight touch, wanting more, needing more, and I'm just about to beg for him to do whatever it is he has in mind and get it over with, I'm dying here, when I feel a drop of hot saliva course down my length. Through half-closed eyes I see him hovering above my erection, mouth open, salivating for me, and he waits until he knows I'm looking before he goes down.
His lips are like velvet, soft and firm. His cheeks suck at me, his tongue swirls down my cock, licks my balls, twirls back up to run circles around the tip. Down again, all the way in, I thrust into him so hard that I rise up off the hay and his hands cup my ass, his fingers part my cheeks, rub me until I cry out, I want him in me. I clench my fists into the hay as he sucks at me, saliva dripping down my balls and cooling on my fevered skin, he takes me in completely and hums until I'm close to tears, I need release, I need him. Then he pulls up, his lips leaving a wet trail that ends at the tip of my dick, he sucks on the spongy head and hums again and my God but it's mind-numbing, for once everything is completely blank, all I know is this sensation, these hands, this tongue, nothing else exists, nothing even comes close.
His tongue licks below my balls, rims around his own fingers that press into me, I arch into his hands and mouth and sob his name. I rake my hands through the hay as I rise to meet him, each thrust of mine met with his wet lips, his hot mouth. He takes me in again, his fingers in me, me in him, and I can't help it, I want it, I want him and I buck beneath him, scream his name to the rafters, my voice startling the bats that roost there. For the first time in forever, I hold nothing back, and when I come, it's in an explosive rush that leaves me as weak as a newborn kitten, mewling his name.
He drinks me down, every last drop, then sucks until I'm half-hard again, finger-fucks me until I start to thrust back. I'm ready for more. But he slips out of me, lets me go, smoothes a hand across my stomach as he crawls on top of me and presses me back against the hay. His kisses are sweet with my cum, I taste myself in every corner of his mouth, and I feel his own erection bite into me through his jeans. "Tell me, Marcus," he murmurs between kisses, and I nod -- right now, the state I'm in, what he's reduced me to? I'll tell him anything. His lips form the words against my mouth. "Does he do that to you? Can he make you feel like this?"
"No." The word is lost in our kisses, but it's there, it's audible, it flashes in my mind like a neon sign and if I didn't realize it before, I know it now -- in this instant, whatever I had or thought I had with Kent is over.
There's only Luke.
PART 3
I help Luke load the loose hay into a wheelbarrow, then he takes the handles and, with a smile, tells me, "Get in." And because it's silly and childish, because I'm still high from him, because I know Kent will get pissed if he finds us goofing off like this, I clamber on top of the hay, pull my legs up under me so they don't dangle, grip the sides of the wheelbarrow and lean back to look up at Luke. He grins down, kisses the tip of my nose, wiggles the unsteady cart in his hands and says, "Hold on, sexy." Sexy, I like that. It rekindles the fire that smolders deep inside of me, fans the flames of my lust, makes me burn for Luke. If Kent only knew what a word like that does to me, he'd never use my name.
I hold on tight as Luke races through the fields, the ride bumpy over gravel and uneven grass, and by the time we reach the plot behind the sunflowers, we're both giggling like little kids. Skidding to a stop, Luke skirts the wheelbarrow and plops into my lap, his arms around my neck, his naked chest and dusty jeans hot against my hands, his lips on mine. "Marcus," he sighs as he climbs onto me, trying to find a comfortable position, his hands fisting in my collar, my hair, my hands on his denim-clad ass and easing between his legs. Right here, in the middle of the damn field, far enough from the road to avoid being seen but what if Kent decides to come check up on Luke for some reason? What if he catches us out here in the open?
Something shifts beneath me and without warning, the wheelbarrow lurches to one side. I hear a thin snap, one of the wooden legs breaking away beneath our combined weight, and then we're dumped unceremoniously to the ground, a jumble of arms and legs and hay. Luke's beneath me, the blue grass seed like a lint-flecked blanket under his tanned shoulders, and his eyes sparkle wide with mirth. "Oh shit," he laughs, toying with the collar of my shirt. "You broke it."
"You broke it," I giggle. When I try to sit up, though, he pulls me to him for a hungry kiss. "He's going to be pissed," I whisper.
Luke picks hay from my hair and murmurs, "You said we don't talk about him when it's just us, remember?"
"Him who?" I ask playfully. Luke kisses me again, his knee rising between my legs to press at another erection already coming up.
Here in the heat of the sun, it's hard to pull myself away from the boy, he's more intoxicating than all of Kent's bottled spirits combined. But I know my lover, all too well -- after two years of living with the man, I know the anger from this morning has simmered in him all day and sooner or later he's going to come looking for someone to take it out on. Probably me, he'll head for the barn because it's closer than the fields and he'll want to know why I'm still not finished sweeping out that damn horse stall, he'll wonder why I'm not there when I'm supposed to be. And he may be drunk as a fish already but he's not stupid. He'll know I'm with Luke, even if he doesn't suspect what it is we're doing, and then he'll come out here to get me and I don't want that. I don't want him ruining this.
Still, it takes everything I have to pull away from Luke, and his eager lips, his insistent hands. Together we splint the wheelbarrow's leg -- not broken, thank God, but badly cracked, I'm already thinking maybe I'll tell Kent I caught it in a rut going too fast and it just snapped, he's already mad at me anyway. "You go on back, Marcus," Luke tells me as he starts to spread the hay over the seed. "This won't take long. Ma
ybe you can glue that and he won't have to know --"
"He'll know," I say, frowning at the wheelbarrow. "He's not blind, Luke."
With a laugh, he winks at me over his shoulder and jokes, "Could've fooled me." Before I can ask what he means by that, he takes my hand and tugs gently. I step closer and lean down for an offered kiss. "He can't see you, Marcus," he whispers, his words warm against my cheek, and I have to close my eyes to keep back sudden tears. Can't see me ... "He's blind if he can't see how much you need to be loved, Marcus, and if he can see that, if he knows, then he's a goddamn fool not to love you like you deserve."
"Luke," I sigh, my throat tight with emotion. I don't want to hear this.
His hand tightens on mine and his lips brush my mouth in a soft kiss. "All my life I've searched people's faces, Marcus, looking for something I could never find. Love, maybe, acceptance, lust, I don't know. Something more than a drunk's hate and anger staring back." I look into his shimmering eyes and can't imagine anyone hating this boy, not when my whole body trills with the thought of loving him. "I know you must love some part of Kent, and I'm cool with that. I'm not asking you to give him up, that's your call. But don't turn me away, please." His lower lip trembles, I feel it against my chin, and I squat down to envelop him in a tight embrace. "I like the way you look at me," he breathes. "Don't close your eyes. I've been looking for something like you for so long, I'm not going to lose it now."
Rubbing my hands across his back, I promise him, "You won't."
I know how he feels, I've done the same thing myself, searched forever for something I was almost sure I'd never find. Until now. He's what I see when I look at Kent, he's what I want when I think of the boys in my magazine ads, the cowboy I had begun to believe no longer existed. But it does exist, it's him, him, and I'm not letting that slip away.
It doesn't take long to sweep out the horse stall, but with each move I can feel bits of straw working down the back of my shirt and beneath my sleeves until I'm itchy and raw from scratching at myself through the thin material. I need a shower and something to eat, it's almost dinnertime, and probably a nap wouldn't hurt either. I'm not used to this physical labor, sitting under the tent by the register day in and day out. I wonder what business was like today, how many plants and vegetables Kent sold, how much profit he kept and how much he'll give me at the end of the day. If he gives it to me -- I have a feeling that remark I made this morning, about getting out when the getting's good, I think that might have shaken him up more than he'll care to admit. I know it scared the hell out of me.
With the barn out of the way, I retreat to the cool house, unzipping my jeans before I'm even through the screen door, shucking them down in the hall, tearing my shirt off over my head and stepping out of my boots, my pants, my boxers. By the time I reach the bathroom I'm naked, my clothes strewn out behind me like shed skin, and I don't even pull the shower curtain closed before I turn the water on. The spray is hot and hard against my tired skin, like solid sunlight hitting my back and shoulders and ass, and I stand beneath the downpour, let the water trickle down my face, over my closed eyes, into my partly open mouth. It tastes clean like Luke, and I remember his words, don't close your eyes, don't turn me away. How could he think I'd be able to do that? After the few stolen moments we've had together, how could he possibly think I wouldn't want for more?
And what the fuck am I going to tell Kent?
I love him, but somehow I don't think that'll be enough, because Luke is right, part of me still loves Kent too, or whatever it is I see when I look at him. I love who I think he could be, and that's not something I'm ready to throw away just yet. He's given me two years here in his house, he's been good to me. The drinking I've learned to live with, it's not like he gets mean or violent, he's never hit me. He just ... how did Luke put it? He just doesn't see me, he can't, he won't, and somehow that neglect is worse than any abuse I might have suffered at his hands. How many nights did I lie alone in my bed and pray for him to come to me? How many days did I sit in the heat of that tent and long for a touch, a wink, a smile? Would that have been so hard?
He's not affectionate, a voice inside me whispers. No, he's not, I know this. My first night here, I was the one who made the move, after I grilled steaks on the barbeque out back. It was me who looked at him from across the picnic table, me who smiled slowly, me who reached out to cover his hand, and he was already half lit, of course he responded to my advance, how could he not? I knew he'd been drinking, that made it so easy, just a few soft words and my thumb along the back of his wrist, and we didn't even make it into the house. We did it right there on the table, paper plates pushed aside and the evening sun shining low on the horizon as I stood with my legs spread, my jeans around my ankles, my upper body lying over the polished redwood. He's always been a quick lover, a selfish man, but that first time, outside? After the way those women gawked over him all day? As he thrust into me then, I thought this was it, this man, this cowboy, he was mine and that was all I wanted, all I came west to find. He pulled out of me as he came, hot juices trickling down my ass and thighs, and I came just at the thought of him, the image I had in my mind of the two of us together, him behind me and me bent over the picnic table, his strong hands on my hips, his cowboy hat cocked back at a roguish angle.
What happened to that image? That man?
It's my fault, really, this whole thing. I know it, I feel guilt wash over me like the shower spray. The drinking he did before we met but I could've been a better lover, I could've loved him more and made the alcohol unnecessary. He shouldn't need it in his life, not if he has me, not if I were enough ... and this whole thing with Luke, my fault again, I'm the one unsatisfied, I'm the one with the folder full of jerk-off boys beneath my bed, I'm the one who turned to another man to find what I should've been looking for in Kent all along. He deserves someone better than me, someone stronger. He works hard every single day, gives me shelter and food and sex, how horrible am I to turn my back on that for a boy with a sweet smile and pretty eyes? What more am I looking for, what more could I possibly need?
Love.
Kent loves me, he has to. But he doesn't say it and I'm not a fucking mind reader, I don't just know these things. That night he spent in jail, did he worry about me? Did he hope I was alright, did he care? When he's in town or in his market with his plants, does he think about me? Does his mind drift away to my touch, my voice, my smile?
If it did, would I still find Luke so irresistibly appealing?
Out of the shower, dressed, my clothes scooped up from the floor and shoved into the washer, I rummage through the kitchen looking for something to cook for dinner. This is my job, this is what I do in exchange for the food, the room, the job behind the register. I cook, and I keep the house clean, and I do the laundry, women's work but Kent doesn't do it, he had a girl who used to come in twice a week before I showed up. What's going to happen when I tell him about Luke? Am I going to tell him?
I have to. I have to.
But he's not here, it's just me in the house right now, I won't think about it. I find noodles in the cabinet, a jar of tomato sauce behind a bottle of Jim Beam -- spaghetti tonight. What will Kent do if I'm not here to cook for him? To keep track of his expenses, his profits? He survived for years before you came along, I tell myself. He'll manage when you're gone.
Has it come down to this? Am I leaving him?
I can't imagine anything else. I love Luke, I do, I want that boy so bad, just thinking of him stirs my groin. I want his kisses and his hands on me and his laugh, his smile, his eyes shining at me. At the sink, I look out the kitchen window to the market down by the road, and from here I can see Kent moving through the customers, his bare skin glistening with sweat, his jeans riding low, that hat ... Luke's right, I love him, too, or a part of him that I'm not willing to give up. How the hell have I managed to do this to myself? What the fuck do I do now?
Nothing, not yet. Not until I have to.
Okay, that I can do,
nothing at all, I'll keep the way I feel for Luke a secret from Kent, he doesn't have to know, at least not yet. Not until I figure out what I'm going to do, what we're going to do, Luke and I, we're in this together. So what do I tell Kent?
Nothing.
Somehow, it's not much of a comfort, but it keeps the fear at bay, it dulls the gnawing anxiety that eats away at my heart and makes my hands shake. I can do nothing, I've done it before. Hell, the last two years have been just that, me turning a blind eye to Kent's drinking, my unhappiness, and Luke is only a long overdue wake-up call.
I push both men from my thoughts and concentrate on making dinner. If I'm not going to do anything right this second, I'm not going to drive myself crazy worrying about what will happen when I finally tell Kent, I don't have any control over that. So for now I'll focus on getting through dinner to a time when my lover falls asleep and Luke is mine again. I've been doing it for the past few days, this routine is one I'm getting good at. I can do this, I know I can.
I have to.
Dinner is eaten in silence, as usual, tensions between the three of us strained because I was right, Kent's still holding a grudge against me for my harsh words this morning. He wants an apology that he's simply not going to get.
After he's finished eating, he stands and digs into his pocket, pulls out a wad of dollar bills, a handful of change that he scatters on the table in front of me. "That's it?" I ask, skeptical. Roughly a hundred dollars, maybe a little more -- I wonder how many twenties are folded into his back pocket, hidden in the space where his flask curves away from his ass.
"It's been slow," Kent tells me, the scowl on his face daring me to contradict him. I close my hand over the rolled bills and keep my mouth shut. He sits down again, picks at the noodles on his plate with his fork, and asks, "Did you get the barn done?"
