“That’s so generous of you, Professor Stone!”
“I don’t want you to get behind,” he said without looking up from the stack of papers on the lectern.
She scribbled something in her notebook, then ripped out the sheet of paper and laid it on the lectern right beneath his eyes. Her phone number.
And just like that, autumn breezed into his life before summer was even officially underway.
On Thursday when Garrett met Mara at her off-campus apartment, a book was never cracked open. He kept waiting for her roommates to barge in, but the whole place was dark and quiet. When she invited him to relax on the couch, he let his guard down, settling his 6’3” frame into the sinking cushions.
After a mere two minutes of silence, during which Mara was in the kitchen fixing them something to drink, she returned to the small living room. She set the two glasses on the end table, then moved to stand directly in front of Garrett. She wore a short, flouncy, tiered skirt with a floral print and a cropped off-the-shoulder top. He guessed she was either braless or was wearing a strapless bra. As soon as she swung her leg over his hip and planted herself boldly on his lap, he realized he would soon learn which one.
“Is this okay?” she asked with a flippant little giggle, as if she could not imagine a world in which it was not okay.
With his erection straining up through his cargo shorts, seeking the heat of her core, he didn’t feel obligated to reply. He pulled her toward him until their mouths crashed together, their lips and tongues tangling as they set off on an exploratory mission.
It had been a few years since Garrett had two women simultaneously dump him: one, a beautiful sociology professor named Sarah, who taught at College Park; and the other, a pretty young blonde sub he’d met on a fetish site. After that, he swore off romantic relationships. Not to say he had been completely celibate. There had been hook-ups. Mostly men.
Garrett had discovered long ago, when he was a teen, that he was bisexual. His first experience with another boy had been backstage during his high school’s spring musical. Garrett learned not only that he could effortlessly carry a lead role, but also what it felt like to touch a cock and stroke it until it exploded in his hands.
But those memories were far away as Mara’s fingers trailed down his chest until she gripped the hem of his shirt, lifting it toward his head. He helped by pulling it the rest of the way off, then went to work on giving her a matching shirtless look. No bra, that question was handily answered.
He nearly paused to dwell on the curiosity of how Mara knew he was interested. Maybe she just assumed. With a face like hers and a curvy body built for fucking, she was likely not used to rejection. Maybe she had a thing for older men, for seducing professors. In any case, who was he to argue?
She bit down on his earlobe as she fumbled for the button on his pants. He threw her off his lap and onto the soft, squishy cushion beside him as he scrambled out of his shorts, leaving his clothes in a messy heap on the living room floor. He saw a sleek gray cat slink behind the armchair next to the sofa as he sat back down in his original position. He glanced over to Mara, awaiting her reaction when she saw his cock jutting proudly off his body, curving toward his abdomen and reaching nearly to his navel.
When he first came of age, he assumed his gift of massive endowment was meant to make up for losing out in the hair color lottery. He’d been called every red-headed slur in the book, from Ginger to Carrots to worse, much worse. But puberty had been kind to him, and by eighth-grade gym class, he remembered strutting around the locker room like a peacock, not caring in the slightest about the fiery shock lifting from his scalp when he had such a nice-sized tool growing out of his mound of matching red pubic hair.
As if on cue, Mara gasped at the sight of him. Garnering awed gasps and wicked grins since eighth grade, Garrett snickered in his mind as she collapsed between his legs, her breasts pressing against his thighs as she eagerly ran a tongue up his length. Her mouth stretched to accommodate his thick, bulbous head as she tried to choke down a few inches. A tear formed in the corner of her eyes as she struggled to gain more ground. This was a visual that turned him on like no other. There was something unbelievably sexy about watching his partner take on the challenge of sucking his cock. It was so exhilarating, he felt his need surge through him, and he wondered if he would be able to last.
He threaded his fingers through her honey-colored tresses as he urged her on. “Come on, that’s it. Suck my cock, baby.”
Spurred on by his encouragement, her mouth flooding with saliva, she managed to successfully take another inch, all while he thrust his hips toward her. She bobbed up and down a few times, but he could tell cock-sucking was not her forte, and well, she had given it a valiant effort. He preferred having his cock in a man’s mouth anyway. They usually had a much easier time accommodating his girth.
It was her turn. There was no way he would be able to wrangle that thing inside her without a lot of prep work. He stood up with her still attached to him, her legs clinging to his hips. Then he laid her down on the couch, more or less gently, taking his place on the floor where she had been. He lifted the ruffles of her skirt to expose her smooth, bare pussy, closed up so tightly he could only see a faint line delineating each side of her labia. He knew getting her rosebud to open up its petals would be a fun challenge, and it had been ages since he’d been down on a woman. He gave Mara a devilish smirk before running the tip of his tongue between her folds as she nearly squirmed off the couch.
“Spread your legs, baby,” he commanded, but shoved them apart before the words were even out of his mouth. He licked his finger and stroked it down her sex, parting her lips so he could survey the soft pink flesh concealing her entrance. Not wanting to wait any longer, he held her lips apart with his fingers so he could fuck her hole with his tongue.
She went from gripping the couch cushions to clenching his shoulders so tightly, he thought she might bruise him. His efforts were rewarded by a huge gush of juices that coated his tongue with her sweet taste as he continued to stroke it in and out. Get ready, baby, he thought, because my cock is about a hundred times bigger and harder than this. When she began to whimper with desperation, he replaced his tongue with two of his fingers and went to work on her clit: nibbling, sucking, teasing, working it over with everything he had.
As she grew ever closer to climax, her grip on his shoulders strengthened. He put everything he had into his endeavor of getting her off without sustaining any damage to his musculature. Her hips wildly bucking against him, his chin dripping with her desire, and his lips almost numb from overuse, she finally screamed at the top of her lungs that she was coming. Minutes later he remained frozen between her legs as her spasms continued to throb against his mouth.
An hour later, Mara was begging him to come, just when he felt he was hitting his stride. “Please, please,” she whimpered beneath him. She still wore the skirt, but the rest of her skin was saturated with sweat as their passion had overcome the power of the small window A/C unit some time ago. Her mascara was smeared beneath her eyes, and her lips were dry and cracking from her constant gasps for air, not to mention the shrieks of ecstasy erupting at frequent intervals.
“Please, what?” Garrett growled as he pulled her legs up and threw them over his shoulders. He’d already had her bent over the couch and doggy style. He was considering how he wanted to finish. Pulling out, ripping off the condom, and spurting his load all over her chest was the most appealing option at the moment.
“I’m getting sore, baby. You’re so big. I’m not used to it,” she squeaked out between pants.
“You’ll get used to it,” he assured her as he pulled nearly all the way out and slammed back in, stealing her breath before it could fill her lungs. She couldn’t even muster the volume to answer, so he took pity on her.
His hands buried in the soft flesh of her ample hips, he railed into her. Jaw clenched, veins popping, beads of sweat sliding down his face, he put every ounce o
f power he had behind his thrusts. Everything went black, black, black until a burst of light cracked the shell, raining fireworks down in his line of vision. His explosion rocketed out, landing all over her creamy golden skin. And a few seconds later, after he regained his bearings, he was pleased to see she had weathered his storm.
“I think you’re going to do well on the test,” he said when he could speak again.
“Me too,” she smiled, stroking her hand down his sweaty, tattooed back. “Me too.”
That first hot June night he’d spent with Mara seemed like a million years ago now that the sun was setting earlier and the winds were blowing in cooler, blustery air. His apartment was cold and damp, and there was nothing in his refrigerator or cabinets. He ran his fingers through his greasy hair, unable to remember his last shower. It had been two days since he was escorted off campus and given orders never to return again. He was banned. Banned. The word itself sounded so final. So damning.
He was supposed to defend his dissertation in the spring. He was supposed to finally get his PhD and prove he had made something of himself.
Not that anyone would care. Not that anyone was left who would care.
He was doing it for himself. He had made something out of nothing, because nothing was what he’d been after he left his hometown at eighteen. Ever since that day, he promised himself he’d show them. He’d show everyone he would rise above.
But now he had been kicked again, banned, and his head hung low with shame. With self-loathing. And for what? He didn’t even know. He didn’t understand how Mara could have said those things about him. They weren’t true. All lies. She had told him she loved him.
He was just unable to say it back.
Where could he go from here? How could he start over yet again?
Two
Two more days passed, and Garrett couldn’t account for a single hour, a solitary second. It was all garbled and jumbled, tiny inconsequential particles suspended in a thick, muddy toxic muck.
Each particle represented a second of wallowing, self-loathing, throat burning from every last drop of alcohol he could get his hands on. He drank his apartment dry. He had no idea how many bottles he had stashed away here and there...saving for a rainy day. A shitty day. A shitstorm of epic proportions kind of day.
And this was a shitstorm of epic proportions if there ever was such a thing.
There were times he believed her—moments of doubt so strong, so intense that he nearly left his pit of doom, if only to stumble through the darkness and throw himself at her feet. He could beg for her forgiveness, grovel for a chance at redemption. But then the reel would start up again in his mind, and he’d see her hands on his chest, her hips grinding into him. Her sweet words tumbling from honeyed lips.
The truth didn’t matter because he had lost everything.
Everything. Absolutely every fucking thing he had ever worked for, worked toward, was gone. Vanished. Evaporated. Decayed and buried in a hole so deep he could never dig himself out.
He wanted to be in that hole too, chained to his misery as it sunk to the bottom of a deep, dark sea.
There were flashes of memories that came to him between long periods of blackouts. Hands on his ass. A dim light. A searing pain. Violation. Long, dark hair twisting around him. A classroom buzzing with voices. Brown eyes shining like hope. Stage lights. A swelling melody. A soothing laugh. Arms around his neck. A soft kiss. A flogger striking. Ropes strangling.
Suspended with a birds-eye view of the world...just move that rope up...reposition it...slip it around his neck. He could hang there, looking down on the wreckage. Swinging like a pendulum between living and dead. No longer a victim. But not a survivor.
Merely an escape artist.
After those 48 hours, he wasn’t sure what was truth and what were lies. He walked a tightrope of the surreal. Throbbing pain. Heart racing, then slowing down to where it might just stop beating. Stop forever. And he’d welcome that, if only it meant he hadn’t failed himself.
But he had. And there was no way to atone. No appeals. No pardons. He was a prisoner in his own mind, his own body.
Yet somehow the sun still rose.
There was little money in his savings account. He assumed he’d still get his last paycheck from the university, the part of his assistantship stipend that was deposited into his checking account on the first day of every month, but he wasn’t holding his breath. Where did summer go? he wondered as he stepped outside into the brisk late September morning. Never had he craved Indian Summer more than he did at that moment.
He looked back at his apartment building, its stalwart brick edifice looking more like a prison than a home. It was only lacking the bars on the windows; otherwise, all the elements of incarceration were present and accounted for. If the money failed to appear in his account the following week, an eviction notice would arrive soon after. Even if he got a roommate, there was no way he’d be able to stay. Not without a job.
He’d spent the last four years pursuing his dream of earning his doctorate. Some boys dreamed of playing in the NBA or winning American Idol. Not Garrett. He had known from the first time he aced a social studies test back in fourth grade that he wanted to be a professor. It was the only thing he had ever wanted to do, besides maybe his brief fascination with the law and cooking. But he figured his past was too dirty to pursue a career in law enforcement, and his outlook too idealistic to pursue law school. Academia was the sweet spot in the middle.
Scrolling through the contacts in his phone seemed like a good distraction from making any decisions. Vodka had numbed so many brain cells in the past week, he wasn’t even sure making decisions was possible. He landed on the face of his friend Nigel, who had been an MFA student in theatre but had graduated a couple of years back only to start a second masters’ degree film studies. They’d met at some cheesy orientation program the university had for new graduate students, striking up an interesting relationship that gradually evolved into more of a friends with benefits situation—at least when Nigel wasn’t in a relationship. Garrett was fairly certain his old friend was flying solo at the moment. It was worth a shot, so he sent a text. Anything was better than continually wallowing in self-pity.
Not even a minute later, Nigel fired back: Look who the cat dragged in. Hey, Nav.
Nigel had one of those pretentious British accents, as he hailed from London. He had come on a student visa years ago and was still chugging along. Garrett suspected he’d keep earning degrees until the U.S. government forced him to return to the Motherland.
Garrett responded: Hey, now. It was a long summer. Would be good to catch up.
He waited fifteen minutes for Nigel to reply: Naked?
Garrett delayed enough time so as not to look desperate for company before answering: As you wish.
It was only an hour later that Garrett was knocking on the door of Nigel’s townhouse in trendy Fells Point. It was an ancient building that had been restored to its former turn-of-the-century glory. Someone had recently filled the two huge concrete planters out front with mums—yet another reminder summer had faded.
“Hey, man, how goes it?” Nigel greeted him, his accent as thick as ever. His wide brown eyes and glowing white smile were exactly the way Garrett remembered. And he had fond memories of other parts of Nigel’s anatomy too.
“Wine?” Nigel asked. He was not a beer guy. Garrett had not forgotten. He had never understood all the fuss over beer either, so he smiled and nodded.
With two glasses nearly full, they stepped out onto Nigel’s patio in the sinking sunlight. With every minute that passed, the bright orange orb glowed a bit more crimson as it slid toward the arms of the heather blue horizon. “Beautiful evening, isn’t it?” Nigel asked as he took a sip of his Pinot Grigio.
“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” Garrett replied. He’d already drained his glass, realizing too late it was the first thing he’d put in his stomach in a day or two. He’d run out of booze at his place, an
d there was nothing in the refrigerator. The alcohol had already started to seep into his blood, and his patience was thin. He wanted to fuck and run. Or fall into a greedy sleep on Nigel’s comfy memory foam mattress.
“I know what the chase is, Nav, but why rush things?” Nigel looked at him with growing concern in his dark eyes. He stroked his perfectly manicured fingertip down Garrett’s arm. “I care about you, man. I didn’t see you all summer. You could at least tell me what’s new in your life.”
Garrett grunted. He should have known Nigel wasn’t going to jump into bed with him without a little verbal foreplay. “I was dating a girl this summer; sorry I wasn’t around much.”
“I was really bummed you didn’t audition for Little Shop of Horrors at the DuPont this summer,” Nigel pouted. His lip literally jutted out so far that Garrett wanted nothing more than to snag it with his teeth and suck it into his mouth for a tasty little nibble.
“I was teaching two classes all summer,” he explained. He stretched his arms high over his head and yawned. The wine was definitely getting to him now that Nigel had poured him a second glass. Need to slow down, he chided himself. Or I’m not even gonna make it to the bedroom before I pass out. “I haven’t done a show since Anything Goes last summer over near College Park.”
“Don’t deprive your fans of your talent, Garrett Stone,” Nigel said in his director’s voice. That was what his MFA was in: directing. Garrett’s skin prickled with goosebumps at the way Nigel pronounced his name in his alluring British accent.
“You aren’t hiring over at the DuPont, are you?” he suddenly blurted out. The wine hadn’t been able to completely squash the memory of his current predicament.
“Surely you don’t have time for a part-time gig?” Now Nigel’s eyes grew even wider, as if he suspected there was something wrong but was even more surprised to learn he was correct. “Don’t you have a full load this semester?”
The Navigator (Mountains Series Book 5) Page 2
