by Lanyon, Josh
There had to be some reason he wasn’t already taken. It couldn’t be for lack of offers. Maybe he really did have trust issues.
The movie ended and Dan said he had some paperwork to catch up on before bed, heading for the spare room, which he had turned into his makeshift office. Through the wall I could hear the indistinct rumble of his voice on the phone while I did Pilates in the weight room next door. Kind of late for phone calls, I reflected, but cops don’t work regular hours.
I finished working out, took a quick shower and retreated to the bedroom to watch some TV and make notes on the Charioteer screenplay. I refused to think that I wouldn’t get the part. I knew how persuasive Steve could be when he wanted, and if Peter Grady was pushing for me to co-star, I knew I still had a shot.
Dan joined me in the bedroom as I was idly surfing through the channels.
“One thing I never noticed about The Charioteer,” I told him. “A lot of the misunderstandings between Laurie and Ralph and even Laurie and Andrew could have been so easily resolved if they’d just talked.”
“That’s true of most relationships, isn’t it?”
“I guess so.”
Of course, Laurie hadn’t asked questions because he hadn’t been ready to hear the answers. He had been afraid of the answers.
“Hey, go back,” Dan ordered, pulling on a pair of plaid sleep pants, and staring at the TV.
I groaned.
“Turn it back.”
I flipped back to the cheesy horror film.
He bounced down beside me on the bed. “That’s you!”
“Don’t remind me.”
We studied the on-screen mayhem in silence.
“Your hair,” Dan remarked finally.
“Yes, it’s the scariest thing in the film.”
We watched for a few more minutes.
“So…you’re actually the star of this? Do you get the girl in the end?”
“Please, Dan,” I said, “This is heterosexual romance. The girl does not ‘get it in the end.’”
His laugh sounded surprised—and I could guess why. I slanted a look his way and he shook his head. “You’re asking for trouble, chief.”
“How many times do I have to ask before I get some?”
He raised his brows and then lunged. I fell back in the nest of pillows, bringing my knee up—but watching where I put it because the last thing I wanted to do was really put him out of action. I planted my foot in his chest and he rolled over, taking me with him. We wrestled around, laughing. I liked the fact that though I was tall—six feet—Dan was taller. And I liked the fact that—although I was strong and worked out regularly—Dan was stronger. It didn’t threaten me and I didn’t feel any of the competitiveness I usually would have.
He got one arm around my waist and the other around my thigh and managed to flip me over onto my back. The Swedish mattress swallowed my frame a few obliging inches.
“The bed is having me for dinner,” I said, laughing up at him.
“And I’m having you for dessert,” Dan said, his voice deep and velvety. He was braced over me, knee between my thighs, one hand keeping both my wrists pinned above my head—not easy to do to another healthy adult male.
I didn’t have to glance at his crotch to know he was as excited as I was—though admittedly neither of us was as excited as the guy on TV behind us selling cleaning products at the top of his voice.
I said, in a very bad imitation of James Cagney, “Okay, copper. You got me fair and square.”
His lean cheek creased in amusement. “Oh? You’re going to come quietly?”
“I always do,” I whispered.
His eyes darkened and he shifted his weight back onto his knees. The hand formerly holding me prisoner was now stroking me, feathering down from the outside of my wrists to the insides of my elbows. I generally didn’t like anyone to see—let alone touch—the scars on my arms. “No hesitation marks,” Dan had said the first time his fingertips had brushed over the ugly tracks of scars. “You weren’t kidding around.”
Now my arms went relaxed and heavy under that delicate touch. I murmured my pleasure. His free hand slipped inside my boxers.
I sucked in a breath, arching blindly into his caress, reached up and yanked the soft flannel pants down, running my hands down his lean flanks. His skin felt warm and smooth.
“Open your eyes,” he ordered huskily.
I lifted my lashes. Every muscular inch of him was brown and supple; his black hair, thick and glossy, fell boyishly into his eyes as he gazed down so seriously at me.
I raised my head and kissed him, a little nip of a kiss. He kissed back, wanting more as usual, wanting it slow and deep and sexy. His lips were so soft. I stilled, opened to him. Our tongues slid together, sweet and spicy. Dan groaned in the back of his throat as though it were too good to bear, sending a little shiver down my spine.
I pulled him down on top of me and we settled into each other, his hand fastening on my hip, tugging me into that fierce bulge against my belly. My own cock throbbed in time to the pound of my heart as his hand found the elastic of my boxers and I raised my hips enough for him to hitch them off. The feel of bare skin lowering on bare skin was satisfying. Our dicks scraped up against each other, old friends and good neighbors, rubbing shoulders.
“What do you want?” His breath was hot against my ear.
I shook my head. Too hard to form the words when I was having trouble forming the thoughts. “You,” I got out.
“How?”
“Suck me?” It came as a little plea. I was a lot more comfortable giving than receiving, but tonight I craved the idea of burying myself in that wet heat. “Please.”
He chuckled at the “please.” Maybe it was funny. He lifted off me, resettled and ran a light possessive hand down my tummy, fastening on my shaft. I murmured encouragement. He bent, kissed the head of my cock and took it into his mouth.
Unbelievable.
It was like stepping into a golden bath—whatever the hell that means. Wet and hot and intense. Was it the warmth or the wetness or the pressure that felt so good? Maybe the mind-blowing combination of all three? This was where all that experience came in handy. He’d obviously been on the receiving end enough to know the little things that made all the difference. Where I offered style, he gave substance and the wonder was I didn’t shoot my load in the first five seconds.
“Oh, my God,” I groaned, and it did indeed feel like a religious experience.
That crazy mix of glib tongue and soft lips and the graze of teeth: sucking, nibbling, licking—but it was mostly the sucking that felt so shatteringly good—hard and then easy and then hard. I couldn’t help making abject sounds as he brought me to the edge, then tilted me back, then tipped me forward into the moment.
I spilled over into pleasure, moaning and tossing my head on the pillow like I was in a high fever.
Afterwards I just lay there spent and a little stunned, and he lapped up my cream, the rough rasp of his tongue reminding me of a cat—a big eat-you-alive cat—like a panther. He braced himself over me and when his mouth took mine, I could taste myself. “Fuck me, Danny,” I begged him huskily.
“Yeah?” He kissed me again, hungrily. “Sure?”
I nodded, moving against him restlessly, blindly. “I want it. I do.”
I could feel him hesitating. I didn’t want him hesitating; I didn’t want to have time to think. I wanted to ride this wave of sensation all the way out. Eyes closed, nerves still quivering in the pleasure ringing through my body, I urged, “Fuck me. Please fuck me.”
There was a dreadful little delay, cold air over my body, the slide of a drawer, a liquidy squirt. I opened my eyes. He was solemnly rubbing gel over his fingers. Lashes flickering on his cheek as he studied his slimy fingers. Oh, right. Preparation F. I closed my eyes hastily.
He moved next to me again, his hand brushing my dick. Just that accidental touch had my breath rushing in and out of my lungs, my heart pumping like mad. I sco
oted over to give him easy access.
He stroked and feathered, and then his well-lubed finger pushed into my tightly puckered hole. My eyes opened wide, breath catching. “Oh.”
I tried to make it sound pleased because if there’s one thing I’ve learned both from therapy and from acting, if you pretend strongly enough and consistently enough, eventually the thing you project will become real.
He smiled, but there was a little frown between his brows. “You’re trembling.”
I gave him a twitchy smile. Not so bad. I could do this. It almost felt good in a too-much-sensation-crawling-through-my-guts kind of way. He slid his finger in and out in a tame parody of fucking and my breath quivered in my chest.
It wasn’t hurting. It felt…exciting. Alarming, but exciting.
He finger fucked me gently awhile, and then said, “You want to take it to two?”
I nodded jerkily. I did. He wasn’t pushing for anything more than I wanted myself.
He pressed his other finger in slowly. Sweat broke out all over my body. I bit my lip against a yelp. It wasn’t that bad really, my body was accommodating him, it was just strange. So intense. So…familiar.
“Relax. Try not to tense.”
I laughed unsteadily. Yeah, right. I had what felt like a steel pipe jammed up my ass and I was supposed to relax? Then he did something with his fingers and I stopped laughing. A thrill of pleasure rippled through my body. What was he doing?
“How’s that?”
I grunted.
He did that thing with his fingers again. I moaned—even I could tell it was an encouraging moan.
“This is nothing,” he said softly. “It gets a lot better than this.”
I risked opening my eyes again. He was smiling, enjoying my reaction.
He knelt into the mattress, guiding my legs up to my stomach. I tucked my legs up—not a really comfortable position. I felt awkward and exposed, my butt hanging out. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I couldn’t reach him at this angle. I couldn’t read his face. My heart started pounding hard with anxiety. My breath caught in my chest. His hands were big, like fetters around my ankles. His dick swung around like a cudgel, sweeping against my ass and thighs. He positioned himself, the head of his prick nudging against my anus like a torpedo lining up to fire. He prodded. A flare of pain went through me. He was too damn big.
The bigger the better, if you were a chick. Not so great for a tight-ass like me.
“Wait!” I got out.
Dan waited, expressionless. A wave of cold sick panic flooded my gut. I brought my legs down and rolled away from him.
“I can’t do it,” I said. Way melodramatic, crouching on the edge of the bed in this flight-or-fight response, but I was aware that by now he must be ready to throttle me.
He sat back on his haunches. No need to fight. No need for flight. He was frowning but his body was at ease. He wasn’t coming after me. His voice was dispassionate.
“We don’t have to.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. Sorry was not necessary. “Not everyone likes it.”
“You do, though.”
Instead of answering, he said slowly, “We could try it the other way around.”
“God, no!”
He gave a funny laugh. “Or not.” He reached out, touched my cheek. “It really is okay, you know.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to…”
He got that speculative look—the very thing I wanted to avoid. “It can be painful the first few times. Especially if your partner isn’t experienced.”
I shook my head. “There was no first time. No one hurt me. There’s no drama here. I just—I can’t explain it.”
Maybe not totally accurate. I closed my mind to the memory of my father’s enraged face. The memory of spit-flecked words screamed in my face. “Gay? There’s nothing gay about queers. There’s nothing gay about taking it in the ass, getting butt-fucked by another queer. Men don’t take it in the ass. Queers do. Are you telling me that’s what you are? My only son is a queer?”
Dan said quietly, “Whatever is making you look like that, let it go. This isn’t a problem for me, and I don’t want it to be a problem for you.”
I nodded.
A smile tugged at his mouth. “It’s not like we can’t find other ways to amuse ourselves.”
Sunday started out every bit as beautiful a day as Saturday. Dan and I woke up early, made love, went for a swim—although it was starting to get too chilly for swimming. Summer was truly over and autumn was in the air. I could smell the wood smoke down the beach from Mrs. Wilgi’s cottage.
Dan suggested we have brunch at the Chart House, which, despite being the place in Malibu where all the tourists go, has good food, a spectacular view of the ocean and a casually romantic atmosphere. I admit I hesitated. I was a little wary about my personal life getting into the tabloids. I thought a person’s private life should be exactly that, even if you were a “celebrity.” And the idea of photos of me and my gay lover in the National Enquirer or the Star took my appetite away. But I didn’t want Dan to think I didn’t want to be seen with him in public. More, I didn’t want him to think that being with me meant he couldn’t have a normal life, so I said, sure.
To my relief none of the dogs from the “Hollywood Hunt Club” lurked in the crowded parking lot. Inside, the restaurant was packed, but one of the perks of being a celebrity is that we were seated right away. People at the crowded tables looked up and leaned over to each other as we wound our way to the table by the window. To my amusement, I realized that they were looking at Dan, wondering who he was, what they’d seen him in. Even in jeans and a sports shirt he had presence, style—not to mention striking good looks.
He would never make it as an undercover cop, I thought.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, glancing at me over the top of his menu.
I shook my head, smiling. He raised his brows and went back to his menu.
We ordered our meals, and the waitress brought our wine and warm sourdough bread crusty with garlic, thyme, and butter.
I looked across the table at Dan and he was smiling.
“Happy?” he asked.
And I realized I was. Very. And if that fullness in my chest meant anything, I was pretty close to falling in love.
He held his wine glass out and we clinked rims—and I didn’t give a damn who saw.
“Excuse me.”
I glanced up. There was a scarlet-faced kid with terrible skin hulking beside my chair.
He threw a nervous look over his shoulder at a crowded table taking up the center of the room. “Hi, my name is Sam Bowers. You came and spoke at my school last year and I just wanted to say thank you. It…meant a lot to me to…” His voice cracked nervously. “To hear about how it was for you.”
I said, “You’re welcome, Sam. I’m glad I could help.”
“I want to be an actor too. I’ve been in some school plays. This year I played Judd in Oklahoma and Iago in Othello.”
“That’s great.”
“I got great reviews in our local paper. Well, for Judd.”
I said, “That’s excellent. Hang onto those clippings.”
“Everybody makes fun of me, but I don’t care. They make jokes about the way I look. They call me queer bait. They’re all a bunch of pricks.”
I wasn’t sure what I could tell him. I hadn’t been out in high school; I’d thought being dead was preferable. His courage awed me.
“It gets easier as you get older. You won’t care what people think.”
As much.
“I don’t care what they think now!” His face got redder, his eyes were too bright. He glanced at Dan and seemed to recollect himself. “Anyway, I just wanted to thank you. You’re my hero.”
“You’re…welcome.”
He suddenly reached down and hugged me awkwardly, meaty arms clutching fiercely. I patted his back. Sam let me go and walked quickly back to his table, which
was now staring our way and whispering.
I glanced at Dan and was startled at his grim expression. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
I couldn’t understand his tension. He couldn’t be jealous. Did he view Sam as a potential threat? According to him there was no real threat—not anymore. “He’s just a kid,” I said.
“I know. It’s cool.” He gave me a quick smile that didn’t quite soften the blue steel of his eyes.
The waitress brought our meals, sea bass for Dan and swordfish for me. We drank more wine. Sam Bowers and his family left, Sam glancing back at me several times—which did not go unnoticed by Dan.
“You can’t think that kid’s a threat.”
“I don’t.” He said, in answer to my obvious puzzlement, “It’s just…you’re very…accessible. Even after what you’ve been through this last year, you’re not…”
He didn’t finish it, and I realized he didn’t want to make me self-conscious. Or afraid. He said instead, “You were great with him. Patient, kind. You’re good with everyone. No star tripping with you; that’s one of the things I noticed right off the bat.”
“I’m not exactly A-List.”
“The biggest assholes in this town are not the A-Listers.” He smiled. “You’d be the same regardless of the roles or the money. You don’t take it seriously.”
That troubled me. “I take it seriously.”
“I don’t mean the work. You’re a professional. You don’t take the celebrity thing seriously.”
“Oh. Right.” That was true. I wasn’t that crazy about being a “celebrity.” I liked my privacy.
The waitress arrived with a dessert tray. Dan went for coffee. I chose café glacé.
Dipping my spoon into the coffee-flavored ice cream, I asked, “What did you mean Friday night when you said you had been through therapy?”
