by Amy Lane
Was damned hard leaving you, kid. Be good until I get back.
Yeah. Until the fish and the shark got here, it was gonna be okay.
Temple Fish
ELLERY’S PHONE alarm went off and Jackson lunged for it, crawling over Ellery’s body to kill the alarm before Ellery could even wake up.
As. If.
“Jackson, what the… mmm….”
Jackson started by kissing his neck.
They were warm, they were in bed, they’d showered the night before. All that was sweet and soft and warm about two men in bed on a cold January Saturday, that’s what they were right now. And while Jackson was a man on a mission, he had a very clear goal in mind, and he knew he could not accomplish what he wanted to if he rushed things.
Besides. The faint salt tang of Ellery’s skin tingled on his tongue, and while he’d started out with an Ellery-centric goal in mind, he was remembering reasons this was good for both of them.
“Really?” Ellery mumbled as Jackson made his way down Ellery’s chest, rucking his shirt up so he could latch on to Ellery’s nipple. He pulled gently at first, then teased with his tongue, and Ellery grunted, knotting his fingers in Jackson’s hair and tugging rhythmically.
Jackson didn’t answer his question; he figured it was rhetorical anyway. He just kept his mouth busy, busy, busy… sucking, arching his own hips against the bed, reaching down to slide his hand under Ellery’s sleep pants to find him more than halfway erect. He pulled away long enough to shove at Ellery’s pants, then his own sweats and shirt, but as soon as he was done, he went back to what he wanted to do—skin on skin.
He kept sucking and started squeezing gently, his own arousal growing more intense as he thrust against the bed. Damn, this was better than he’d planned—he’d been so focused on his intent he’d forgotten that this wasn’t a chore, had never been a chore, should never, ever be anything but a pleasure.
Ellery’s groan vibrated in the pit of his groin. Jackson let go of the stiffened, wet nipple reluctantly, but it was time to move down to little-head-quarters, as it were.
As he squeezed Ellery’s erection, stroking up to the mushroom head, he found himself relaxing.
It used to be, when he was pleasing a lover, he’d treat this part of sex like the hardest part of the obstacle course—the wall. He had to do well here. He had to bring his lover, male or female, off here, in the most spectacular way possible, before they moved on to actual penetration.
He owed them. They were sleeping in his bed to save him from the terrible silences in his head, in his heart, and he needed to pay them up front, in the best currency he had.
Ellery wouldn’t let him do that.
Ellery had started to recognize “power blow job” and protest against it. Nothing killed a mood—or made Jackson feel more inadequate—than “Jackson, stay with me!”
Jackson still had a goal here, but he needed to enjoy this, needed to move with it. Ellery had made it crystal clear that all Jackson owed him in bed was his own enjoyment.
Jackson did so enjoy pulling Ellery’s cock into his mouth. Slow, slow, slow, slow… he allowed the head to stretch his throat. He’d had lots of practice doing this, but none of those lovers were as important to him as Ellery Cramer.
Ellery hit bottom and Jackson swallowed, allowing his tongue and palate to caress Ellery’s bell and his lips to squeeze the shaft at the base. Ellery groaned, so loudly, so uninhibited, that Jackson’s cat, who had been asleep on the other half of Jackson’s pillow, jumped off the bed with an affronted hiss.
They both ignored Billy Bob, and Ellery beat at the bed with his fist as he bucked and arched into Jackson’s mouth.
Oh yeah. Jackson had him right where he wanted him.
With a satisfied slurp, Jackson pulled off Ellery’s cock, spread open his cheeks, and spat on his hole a couple of times. This act—wanton, filthy in its way—was new to the two of them, and it seemed to send Ellery whimpering out of sheer eroticism.
This time was no exception, and Ellery was starting to make little pretend words interspersed with gasps. Jackson ignored him and instead sucked his thumb into his mouth, getting it nice and slick, and then thrust in, just the end, while he engulfed Ellery’s prick again.
Ellery screamed into his bitten palm and then, pushy bastard, made a demand.
“Fuck me, goddammit! Stop screwing around and fuck me!”
Jackson went back to his original plan—mouth working, thumb opening Ellery up, his own body amped to the point of torture, and then Ellery pulled out the big guns.
“C’mon, Jackson. You know you want it. Want my ass. The only way to shut me up is to kiss me, right? I’ll talk you into orgasm if you don’t get up here and fuck me. Bet your cock’s aching, needs touch. Can’t grab it yourself, right? Too busy blowing… ah…. God, come on, baby—come here and fuck me!”
Jackson had every intention of staying strong. He did, but something about the endearment. The begging. The emotional security of someone who, spread out, at Jackson’s mercy, could beg for Jackson to make him more vulnerable—it awed Jackson.
He was sliding up Ellery’s body, his cock leaving a streak of precome on Ellery’s thigh, before he was aware of making the decision. Ellery cupped his neck when he got there, pulling him down into a kiss, undulating his hips, grinding them both together.
Jackson lost himself, forgot why he’d started this, caught up in their bodies twining against one another and the pressure mounting in his groin.
Oh damn, but he wanted to possess Ellery too. Ellery fumbled under his pillow and pulled out the lubricant. He didn’t hand off to Jackson, though. Instead, he snicked the top of the bottle open and handled Jackson, reaching down between them and oiling Jackson’s cock, squeezing him, running his thumb over Jackson’s head until Jackson buried his face in the hollow of Ellery’s neck.
“You’re gonna make me co-ome…,” he sang softly.
“Then fuck me,” Ellery demanded.
“Fine.” Ah… he found Ellery’s entrance, positioned himself, and drove in.
Ellery arched his back and sighed, like Jackson was the missing puzzle piece of his body, the one that made him complete, and then relaxed into the sort of dreamy acceptance he employed sometimes to let Jackson inside.
Jackson pushed up to start a rhythm and—damn. His arm almost gave. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He’d destroyed that shoulder—twice—the second time not more than two months ago, and he forgot sometimes how far he had to go to heal.
With a growl he pulled back so more of his weight was on his knees and hauled Ellery’s legs up so his knees were bent over Jackson’s shoulders. It was blatant, it was porny, but God, Jackson could really get some traction as he drove himself into Ellery’s ass.
Ellery was making sounds again, begging, gasping, pleading sounds, and Jackson was so damned grateful he could put out, answer those noises with a savage thrusting, an insatiable physical howl of desire.
Jackson felt his climax building, fast and hard, surprised into action in the same way Jackson had been surprised into fucking, and damn if he didn’t need Ellery to come first.
“You ready?” he panted, not letting up.
“Nungh!”
“C’mon, Ellery—you wanted fucking, you got it. Now give me your climax!”
“Augh! God! Don’t stop!”
“Come, dammit, come!”
“Yes!”
Yesssss…. Ellery’s body convulsed, practically seizing as Jackson kept rutting away inside him, trapped by the way he clamped down on Jackson’s cock as he climaxed. He started to shudder, orgasm sweeping away his control as his blood boiled and his breath stopped.
He pumped inside Ellery’s body, vision going black, and then fell forward, supporting his weight on his good arm as he tried to pull himself together before he’d even finished coming.
“All of you, Jackson!” Ellery demanded.
Jackson’s good arm buckled and he fell on top of Ellery, still rutting, still pumpi
ng come into the haven of his lover’s body, breathing so hard he saw spots.
“Sh….” Ellery slicked his hair back from his face and whispered to him as he collapsed limply, Ellery’s long limbs sheltering him from the cold outside their little bed.
“Sorry,” Jackson said, blinking hard, irritated at himself for losing sight of his plan. He was supposed to keep control, dammit. He was supposed to blow Ellery’s mind, not get swept away in the sexual tide himself!
“For what?” Ellery asked tenderly.
“Was trying to make it holy,” Jackson told him, lost enough to tell the truth.
Ellery struggled out from under him, pushing Jackson to his side while Ellery rolled over to face him. “Tell me this wasn’t!” he demanded.
Jackson grimaced. “Do you have to?” he asked. “I mean, if our sex is holy and shit, doesn’t that mean you don’t have to go?”
“Nobody is holding a gun to my head! Goddammit, Jackson, do you not get why I have to do this?”
“Aren’t you too late to go this week?” Jackson asked hopefully.
Ellery laughed, grim satisfaction in every syllable. “I set the alarm early so we could have breakfast.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And you know what? We still can.”
Jackson grimaced. Dammit. “But….”
Ellery’s expression softened, and he reached out to brush Jackson’s cheekbone with his fingertips. “Baby, why does this bother you so much?”
Jackson scowled. “Because if you’re thanking God for me, God’s going to show you what a mistake that is, and I like it here.”
With a groan and a heave, Ellery rolled off the bed. “There is no talking to you about this! Now get in the shower, and I’ll make pancakes. And no! You can’t wear jeans!”
“But you said I didn’t have to get out of the car!” Jackson hollered, finding a clean set of boxers in the dresser Ellery had set aside for him.
“I lied! You at least have to visit the outside, dammit!” Ellery grabbed his sleep pants and his sweatshirt from the folds of the covers and started dragging them on.
“But won’t I burst into fire?” Jackson asked, only partially kidding. His past… oh God. His past wasn’t checkered, it was chicken-pocked! “I mean, won’t you get kicked out and excommunicated if you show up with me next to you?”
“No, Jackson, they’ve got a big ol’ reformed-slut alarm that sounds as soon as you step foot on the ground, and then a force field shoots up, separating us and catapulting you to purgatory for the length of the service. After your first six visits, they give you the option of walking there on your own while a sorcerer whispers arcane words and tries to set me up with a doctor, because that’s just how Jews roll.”
Jackson stared at him, cheeks flushed with color, fine brown eyes sparkling with righteous anger, and like it usually did, the thing in his chest melted into a gooey little puddle.
“I can see your sarcasm is functioning well this morning. Isn’t that going to taint the pancakes?”
Ellery struggled to keep his mouth firm. “I can make my pancakes both strawberry and sarcastic. But if you want whipped cream, you’re going to have to shut up, get dressed, and let me have this. Understand?”
Jackson let out a sigh. “If I see anybody there in jeans, I’m not wearing slacks next time.”
“That, too, is understood.”
“And if anybody gives you shit about the gay—”
“We shall find a temple that has no shits to give. Also understood.”
“If you find someone there who’s better than me….” He scowled and stared at the picture of them Ellery had put up on the end table, Jackson looking uncomfortable in his best dinnerwear and Ellery smiling charmingly for his father, who was perhaps the dearest man Jackson had ever met. The picture had been taken outside Ellery’s parents’ house in Boston over Thanksgiving, and while Jackson could say for certain it had been a good time, every single memory he had seemed to be tempered with the stomach-churning anxiety he was dealing with now.
An Ellery Cramer and a Jackson Rivers did not make sense in any way, shape, or form. The longer they were together, the more Jackson looked for the chapped, palsied hand of fate to try to rip them apart. And every time Ellery said he was being ridiculous, Jackson had to walk away, because the fact was, he had almost died—twice—since the two of them had gotten together in the summer.
If that wasn’t God trying to tell Jackson the facts of life, Jackson didn’t know what was.
So Ellery going to temple out of some sort of weird deal he’d made with the big guy—on the one hand, it never hurt to suck up to the person in charge.
On the other hand, Jackson was a fan of the old Irish saying “May you be in heaven half an hour before the devil knows you’re dead.”
In this case, he would just as soon nobody, God or devil, even knew he was on the planet. He’d had forces bigger than he was meddle in his life, and he had the layers of scar tissue to show he’d barely survived.
“If I find somebody who’s better than you,” Ellery snapped, bringing him to the present, “I’m not the one he’ll be hitting on.”
Jackson scowled at him. “You’re being stupid.”
Ellery’s thin lips curled up into a smile. “So are you.”
“Fine. Fine, I’ll go. I’ll even be a grown-up. But Ellery, those had better be some damned good pancakes.”
Ellery rolled his eyes and grabbed his robe, swanning out for his exit, singing “My pancakes bring all the boys to the yard…” as he went.
After he left the room, Jackson allowed himself a fond smile. God, he really was being ridiculous. Who over the age of twelve pitched this big a fit over church, or temple, or whatever?
But as he jumped in the shower and started to wash, he just couldn’t shake the unease that knotted in his stomach.
For much of his life, things like food, shelter, basic safety—things Ellery had taken for granted every day of his life—had been dreams to Jackson Rivers. Now, living with Ellery in his posh American River Drive house with cavernous rooms and real wood floors, Jackson had food and shelter and, God help him, emotional safety on a daily basis.
He was just waiting for God to stop helping him and rip it all away.
But Ellery seemed to think Jackson was worth keeping. Jackson wasn’t going to dissuade him, because frankly, that hadn’t worked at the beginning of their relationship, and after what had gone down before Thanksgiving, it certainly wasn’t going to happen now.
THE PANCAKES were wonderful, and Jackson dressed in his courtroom suit and tried not to be a bigger pain in Ellery’s ass than he had been that morning, when Ellery had been begging him to be a pain in his ass.
They’d already planned their day—the visit to the synagogue wasn’t the only thing they were doing Saturday. Ellery, who worked as a defense attorney at the firm where Jackson worked as an investigator, had a client who had been released on bail for vehicular manslaughter the day before but would need to be deposed before her arraignment on Monday. Ellery and Jackson had gotten lots of time off after Jackson had been injured. Ellery had gone back for the month of December, while Jackson had tried, again, to get to the point where he could run five miles without hauling wind like a trucker hauled ass.
He was feeling pretty fit as he and Ellery parked Ellery’s beloved Lexus in the small side lot next to the impressively modern brick-and-glass building set on the small lawn.
“Hunh,” he said as Ellery locked the car and they looked for people heading toward some sort of entrance for the service.
“Hunh what?” Ellery asked, caution in his voice. He seemed to think that was a scary word coming from Jackson. Jackson had no idea why.
“It’s all new and shit. I mean… that shitty architecture of twenty years ago but, you know… not….” He made gestures indicating pointy things and bulbous roofs and something you’d see in a Russian fairy tale.
“It’s a Reformed synagogue,” Ellery said dryly. “That means a modern beli
ef system and a modern building. Not an ancient mosque. Wrong religion, cowboy.”
“Oh.” Jackson’s face washed with heat. Way to showcase his ignorance. “Sorry.”
Ellery grimaced and walked around the car to take his hand. In public. Which they never did. “I can’t blame you. In my neighborhood we had maybe twenty synagogues in a five-mile radius—Reformed, Reconstructionist, Orthodox, Reformed Orthodox, you name your flavor, you had three to choose from. I checked. You have maybe ten synagogues in fifty miles. It’s not a thing you’ve grown up with all your life, Jackson. Nobody is expecting you to know.” He crimped his mouth. “I’ve told you repeatedly to stay home.”
“It’s important to you,” Jackson muttered, finally admitting why he was here, even if he was being a big baby about it.
Ellery dropped his chin to his tie and rubbed the back of his neck. “So. Are. You.”
“Which is why I’m here. Now go. There’s sort of an entrance hall and shit. Go introduce yourself. Do what you do….”
“Mark my Torah for the reading, use the program to mark the hymnal so I can find the songs when it’s time, and….” Ellery grimaced, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, plain, disc-shaped skullcap. “Remember to put on my goddamned yarmulke.”
“How does that thing stay on?” Jackson asked, squinting.
“Honestly? I usually use pins. That’s why I’m going to put it on after I go in and sit down.” His face softened as they approached the front door. The place had big windows in the front, and there seemed to be a sort of reception anteroom in front of the sanctuary. People were filtering through there, taking programs from ushers standing on either side of the inside doors. “There’s a bench here. You can come in or wait for me here.” He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out his keys. “Or, if you get cold, go wait in the car.”
Jackson looked around the neighborhood, which seemed primarily residential. He took the keys and asked, “Can I go get coffee?”
“Sure. But text me so I know where you are.”
For a moment Jackson was going to retort, “Sure, Mom,” and then, like it always did, memories of November smacked him in the face. He didn’t get to be a smartass about Ellery worrying. He just fucking didn’t.
