by Nya Rawlyns
Stepping to the side, he released a short length of leather. Angling his shoulder, he felt the bite of stitched edges buzz-sawing through his fleshy palm, registered the snap of air and a guttural grunt as cowhide and skin collided. He shook uncontrollably, his cock weeping, ready to blow.
The condoms and lube were in the night stand next to the bed. With trembling hand he managed to find what he needed without once taking his eyes off the flush blossoming on Jack’s cheeks.
His ass… Jack’s ass. God, I am so going to hell.
“Again. Harder.”
He obeyed. Just once. It was too impersonal. He needed to feel that warmth under his own palm, to hear the retort. He needed to own that recoil as it swamped his nerves, barreling up his arm, down his spine and straight up his ass and out his prick.
The slap and the “fuck me now, do it, do it…” echoed in his ears as he prepared himself and his lover for penetration. Jack moaned as the cool gel attacked his flushed skin. Alan found the opening, pressed in with one, then two fingers, scissoring and fighting for control.
The anticipation was nearly unbearable. Jack braced on his elbows, gathered fists full of blanket and buried his face, close to sobbing for release. The pressure ebbed and flowed, easing through his tender flesh, pressing inward and out, not a tease. It was gentle, loving.
And then it wasn’t…
He heard the slap, worshiped the burn. Sensed fullness and exquisite pressure as his inner muscles struggled to accommodate his lover’s cock. He moaned, “Move, damn you,” but his lover pinned him, groin to cheeks, grasping his hair and pulling until his back arched and warm lips trailed wet kisses over his shoulder and nape and pricked his earlobe, whispering endearments that made his cock weep for joy.
A hand reached around, clasped his prick, held it tight at the base, denying him. “Please.” It was all he could manage but inside his head, he begged, moaned and sobbed. He bit his lip, savored the hot wash of blood, watched it drip drip drip onto the blanket and still the man didn’t move.
He gasped, “Why won’t you move?” Why won’t you take me to that place, give me what I want, oh God, why?
The voice was close, so close he startled. “Tell me why I should.”
Are you nuts? I need to come, it hurts, fuck, it hurts so damn good to have you inside me, to feel you clear into my chest, fitting like a glove. Like you were made for me and me alone. Dear God…
“Because I love you.”
Alan moved, slipping past the walls, in full retreat, pulling away. Leaving him.
“Turn over. I need to watch your face, Jack. I need to see your eyes when you come.”
Wobbling like a drunk sailor, he managed to crawl onto the bed and turn over. Alan lifted his legs, positioning them on his shoulders. Jack reached up, removed the glasses and set them aside. Alan blinked, adjusted his vision, his eyes going dark with lust. Hitching his hips higher, he probed the opening.
“How much do you love me?” He pressed, penetrated, grinned.
“Fucking accountant.”
Jack wrapped his legs around his lover’s hips, following the motion, slow and steady at first, then increasing to punishing as flesh rammed flesh and he clasped his own prick and stroked, up, down, up. Alan’s hand covered his own, squeezing, releasing. His nerves fired, deep in his spine, into his ass, like fireworks erupting in sequence pow pow pow pow and he might have screamed Alan’s name as cum sprayed his belly. His muscles knotted and vibrated around Alan’s cock and he wished he could feel that hot gush of cum fill him, overfill, letting it run out his ass and coat his cheeks and his thighs.
Next time, next time because it’s forever. It has to be.
Alan found his mouth, their tongues picking up, extending the sensations in a tangle of demand their bodies couldn’t seem to meet. He sucked on his lover’s tongue, released, and felt the sigh inside.
“I love you. God, I love you so much.”
He pulled Alan onto his chest and wrapped him in his arms, the cum and sweat melding them together so tightly he was sure they’d never be able to peel apart. He didn’t want to. This was what he wanted. Alan in his arms.
“Love. Um, I need to, you know…” He nipped at Jack’s ear as he raised himself, sliding free. “Take a shower with me?”
Jack nodded, accepted Alan’s help, his ass still tingling, the cheeks aflame and as needy as ever. Following his lover into the bathroom, he paused at the doorway, feeling suddenly shy. For all his years of experience, he’d never done something quite so intimate, taking that next step, bathing with his lover, letting the hot water sluice him clean. Preparing him, them, for more.
Feeling more human than he had for weeks, months even, he slid into bed and pulled his man’s body in tight. The still wet curls felt familiar, sensuous against his skin. Alan’s lips nibbled at his collarbone, but before long his accountant had fallen into a deep slumber. As exhausted as he was, sleep evaded him. He feared if he shut his eyes it would be over, the dream nothing more than that … something he might recall, if he were very lucky, for a few minutes before reality set in and masked the one thing he wanted most.
“I do love you, Alan. I don’t understand any of this. Maybe I’m not supposed to…”
Chapter Seven
The Toast
“Please tell me there won’t be ham.”
“Turkey. Ted hates ham, so every holiday, it’s the same damn thing. Turkey.”
“Good. After that disaster…”
“Please don’t remind me. Effing cloves.”
Alan laughed out loud. “Serves you right.”
“What? You distracted me.” He shuddered. “Cripes, last thing I need is to be sued. Again.” Jack finished patting the scallops with a paper towel. He moved to the other side of the counter, bumping hips with Alan. “Speaking of. I’m not sure I can ever thank you enough for your help.” He brushed his lips over Alan’s ear. “Not kidding, love.”
Shrugging, Alan muttered, “It was nothing. Lawyer’s a friend. It’ll take time, but if anyone can sort it out, Lou will.”
“Well, time I’ve got. Thanks to you.”
Alan felt his insides turn to jelly. To take his mind off how he was going to ask the question, he concentrated on their dinner. Jack was fussing with the toaster oven.
“They almost done?”
As luck would have it, their big oven had blown a heating sensor so they were forced to be creative in cooking their Christmas Eve meal. Asparagus and cherry tomatoes in EVOO, sea salt, cracked pepper and dried basil were baking at three-fifty. That temperature was an approximation, so keeping an eye peeled as to doneness was essential. Jack’s job for the evening.
“I say go ahead with the scallops. If we’re lucky we can plate everything at the same time.” He chuckled. “You can’t imagine what it was like, running a kitchen, having shit fall out of the sky. Losing orders. Having waitstaff serving appetizers after the salad. Damn, sometimes after the entree. Geez.”
“You miss it, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do. But since the college put me on staff for next semester, no complaints here. I’ll have both evening and day classes. It’s a fresh start.” He planted a kiss on Alan’s lips. “All things considered, I’m a lucky man.”
Alan drizzled EVOO into the saucepan, added a large pat of butter and watched until the olive oil started smoking. He carefully added the scallops, salt and pepper and Old Bay seasoning.
“Don’t you need lemon?”
“Shit. Yeah. And the grater. Lemon’s in the fridge.”
Jack rustled around in the refrigerator, then laughed out loud. “You want to explain why you have a mummified lemon in a plastic Ziploc baggie?”
Shrugging, Alan said, “It’s our lemon. Doesn’t seem fitting just to throw it away.”
“Not like I almost threw us away that night. Damn it…” Jack’s voice caught.
“It’s over, babe. Past tense. Gimme the capers, let’s get this meal plated up. Don’t know about you, b
ut I’m starving.” He pinched Jack’s butt. “But let’s eat first.”
They carried the dishes to the living room and set them on the coffee table. They were brand spanking new: pure white Mikasa plates, a complete place setting for twelve. It was a gift from his family, thanks to Esther, and meant for both of them. Jack had uncorked the wine, a local apple cider wine that paired well with the sweet scallops and tang of tomatoes and asparagus. The wine glasses and champagne flutes were from Jack’s family.
It was clear they had their families’ blessings. His gut told him they were both terrified about that…
As was their habit, they slid to the floor, extending their long legs under the coffee table, and watched the image of logs burning in an old fashioned fireplace on the flatscreen.
Jack asked, “Christmas tunes?”
“Sure, why not?”
They ate in silence, listening to the melodies of the season. Tension ate at Alan’s gut, but it was Jack who finally broke the ice.
“I have something to ask you.”
Alan smiled. “That was going to be my line.” He stood and pulled Jack to his feet. “I want to show you something.” He led the way into the bedroom.
“What’s this?” The small space was cluttered with cardboard boxes. Two suitcases sat on the bed. “Is this…” He pried a lid open. “This is my stuff.”
“If you want to… I mean, it’s really small, but I think, since we both work such long hours. We won’t be here that much…” He extended the key to his apartment to his lover.
“Does Marie know?”
“Who do you think packed the boxes?” Alan chuckled. “Your nephew and niece muscled this stuff up the stairs.”
“I-I…”
“Listen, Jack. I know this is a big step.” He sat on the edge of the bed. Jack joined him, the key held lightly between thumb and forefinger. “Marie said… She said if it doesn’t work out, you can go back to her place anytime. Except…”
“Except what?”
“The four-poster stays.”
“Then I guess I can’t go back.” He set the key on the nightstand and sank to his knee. “Can I ask my question now?”
“S-s-sure.”
“What’s your name?”
“W-what?”
“It’s a simple question. What’s your name?”
Alan blinked, confused. “I don’t understand.” For once he hadn’t drawn a blank so he spit out, “Alan Randall Liebowitz.”
“You’ll pass.”
Jack fished in his pocket and pulled out a small box. He set it on Alan’s thigh and cautiously opened the lid. Alan hissed a breath.
“I’m not sure about the future. All I know is how I feel right this minute. I’m hoping for yes. I’ll take maybe.”
“What if I couldn’t remember my name? What then?”
“I would have fucked you senseless until you gave in.”
“Good plan.”
“So, what’s your answer?”
Alan held his hand out. “Who helped you with the sizing? Esther?”
“Uh-huh.” Jack held up his cell phone and flipped through dozens of photos, all of Alan’s sister at a jeweler’s, displaying one ring after another.
“Put it on.” Jack slipped the platinum band on his ring finger. “I assume plans are in the works?”
“Oh, yeah.” Dark eyes sparkled with deviltry. “Your nephew recommended we elope. Smart kid you got there.”
“We’re lucky sons-a-bitches. You know that don’t you?”
“I think we’re about to find out just how lucky.” Jack stood up. “Come on. It’s Christmas Eve. I want to make a toast.”
They wandered into the living room, hand in hand. Jack filled their glasses and held his up.
“To love at first sight?”
“To love. To us.”
The End
THE VALENTINE TOAST
Alan’s the numbers guys, the VP’s golden boy until a corporate shuffle leaves him downsized and at loose ends. It’s a hit to the wallet and his ego. When Alan turns to the kitchen for solace, no vegetable is safe.
With money tight and their options dwindling, Alan jumps at the offer from Jack’s brother-in-law, Ted, to run an audit on the QT. The dealership’s in trouble and Ted needs fresh eyes.
For his cooking class, Jack is faced with making comfort food sexy, not as easy a task as it sounds. Alan floats the idea of a contest, pitting the culinary arts students against the senior ladies. When the media find out, it makes a feeding frenzy look tame.
Dealerships and contests leave them little time to plan for their first Valentine's Day, but when it rolls around, they make a toast that will change everything.
THE VALENTINE TOAST
Copyright ©2014 Nya Rawlyns
First electronic edition published by PubRight
Published in the United States of America with international distribution.
Cover Design by Sessha Batto
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To Scott Burkett
Because he asked…
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Appendix: Recipes
CHAPTER ONE
The Carrot
Jack looked around at the beaming, fresh-scrubbed faces and wondered for the tenth time that evening what he’d done to attract a teeny-bopper fan club. An all-female one, at that.
“Mr. Lambert?”
“Yes?” He paused, drawing a blank on the name. “Um, Miss—”
“Regina. Reinhold.” She giggled and blushed. It was charming at one level, disconcerting at another. “My friends call me Ginny.”
Of course they do. Careful, Lambert, here there be dragons. Fire-breathing, shotgun toting dragons.
“Well, Miss Reinhold, what can I do for you?” Oh crap, rewind that one. “Uh, did you have a question about the Béarnaise sauce?”
Regina-call-me-Ginny snaked what looked like a highlighter around stubby fingers sporting purple nail polish. She grunted, “Uh-huh,” and waggled her fingers. Behind her, a tall, angular blond, runway thin with a sallow complexion, produced an electronic device. She set it on the counter, attached a keyboard and stroked her way to a screen over which three heads bent in solemn concentration.
Jack hung back, wary of getting too close to the gaggle of honey pots. He looked up at the emptying classroom. Only Mrs. McDonough remained. She was a repeat student from his last evening class—holiday ham and fixin’s. The diminutive woman was an acquaintance of Alan’s and now his new best friend and self-styled chaperone. He stared as she shuffled her laptop in and out of the bag, frowning as she ran out of excuses to linger behind.
He mouthed, “Thank you,” and waved for her to join them. The woman adjusted her skirt and sidled into the aisle, staying just far enough back to keep everyone in her line of sight.
Ginny giggled. The other two echoed her. The thin girl spoke first. “You said that the bear sauce…”
“Béarnaise.”
“Yeah, that one.” She shrugged. “We hafta take Spanish, like, instead of a foreign language.” Mrs. McDonough, a retired social studies teacher, bit her lip and kept silent. It was an admirable effort.
Ginny picked up the unravelling thread. �
��I don’t get the difference.”
“Me neither.”
“Fu— Um, yeah.”
Mentally cracking his knuckles, Jack launched into a brief explanation about the five French mother sauces, while trying to gage the girls’ attentions spans. The thin one was tapping away on the keyboard while the other two stared at his mouth. The term “rapture” crossed his mind. There was a striking possibility that the information highway was getting rutted with potholes. He needed help and he wasn’t too proud to ask for it.
“Mrs. McDonough?” Three heads snapped to attention. “I know you are particularly interested in this topic. Would you care to continue?”
“Of course.” Butter wouldn’t melt in the woman’s mouth as she folded her hands in full-on lecture mode. “The primary difference is in the flavoring. Hollandaise is made with clarified butter in an egg yolk emulsion with vinegar and herbs. As is Béarnaise.” Her eyes flicked toward him. He nodded. That was close enough.
Considering this, Ginny grimaced and mumbled, “Yeah, okay, I get that. But if they’re both the same, how can they be different?” The girl wore one of those truculent expressions Jack knew preceded a shut down. His teenaged niece, Mandy, was an expert at this form of manipulation.
“It’s in the herbs, Ginny.” He ticked the list off on his fingers. “Shallot, chervil, tarragon and peppercorn.”
“What the fu— Uh, what the hell is chervil?” This from the third member, a short, plump girl with an afro and a potty mouth. “We don’t gots none of that shit in our house.”
Mrs. McDonough grimaced. “You can get it from the market, dear. The one off of 512?” Three heads nodded in unison. “It’s along the right wall, next to the prepackaged veggies.”
The thin girl made a note, as did Jack. He was still trying to find his way around a strange metropolitan area without reliable public transportation and shopping centers sprawled all over the valley without rhyme or reason.
