by J. M. Snyder
“You know.” He scoots even closer, lowering his voice further, and his hand brushes my wrist again, his fingers cool, the rasp of skin drowning out everything else. He lets his gaze roam down my chest until it lingers on the knotted strings of the apron at my waist, just above my crotch.
I wonder if he can see how hard I am for him, how I ache to touch him, how my cock throbs at his fingers on my skin. Then he raises his eyes and that damn half-smile dries up my throat. I can’t breathe, I can’t think—he’s looking at me like he’s famished and I’m today’s special. I’m dying to know what he’s about to say.
“Hey guys,” Joe says, pushing through the swinging doors.
Deon steps back and I can breathe again and, fuck, but the moment’s gone. I glare at Joe and think Deon can’t be right. I’ll never get used to him.
* * * *
The night passes in a blur of customers and dishes and sandwiches. By the time Deon locks the doors a little after nine, I’m exhausted. My feet are killing me, my legs hurt, my shoulders and back are tense from all the work…who would think running a deli could be so much work? My arms ache from mopping the floor. I don’t know how I’m going to survive this summer. Already I’m thinking about going home and collapsing on my bed and just sleeping until it’s time to come back here tomorrow. And I stink, a miasma of grease and frying meat and burnt bread that clings to me like a cloud of bees, humming and buzzing around my nose until my head throbs with a steady rhythm. I just want to leave already.
Deon is in the back room, washing the rest of the dishes before we go, and Joe’s scraping the grill with this horrid cleaner that fills the kitchen with dingy smoke and an acidic odor like burning vinegar. After mopping the floor, I wheel the mop bucket inside the tiny storage closet, making sure to prop the door open with the block of wood set aside just for that purpose. The door is on heavy metal hinges and Joe has already warned me a hundred times tonight about being careful about it, since it locks from the outside automatically. The way he thinks he constantly has to tell me I have to prop it open or I’ll get trapped inside makes me feel like I’m six and can’t tie my own shoes. The fact he said it in front of Deon just makes me want to crawl up in the corner until those bright eyes turn my way and he laughs as if everything is all right.
As I guide the mop bucket to the back of the closet, I sense someone behind me. I know it’s Joe, come to pick on me again. Jesus, what did I ever do to him, you know? All night long Joe’s been nudging Deon and nodding at me like I can’t see the gesture. Then Bree called to remind Deon to pick her up and Joe gave me an infuriating wink.
He’s just begging to be punched. He knows what I’m thinking when I look at Deon, I just know he knows, and he thinks it’s a fucking riot. It’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen, and I have no idea why he thinks it’s funny I like a boy who’s got a girl, a boy who has been flirting with me all night long. Who has me so damn hard, every time I move, my jeans chafe the erection in them. I just want to scream in frustration and lust and desire. I need to go home and jerk off, is that asking too much?
I hear the shuffle of footsteps behind me, and I sigh as I fight to stand the mop up in the corner of the closet. Without looking, I call over my shoulder, “Stop busting my balls, Joe—“
“James,” Deon says, surprising me.
I whirl around, wiping my hands down the front of my apron. “Hey.”
He stands inside the closet, leaning against the shelf, eyes vivid and bright. “You did a great job tonight.”
I feel a slight blush pink my cheeks. “Thanks.”
He takes a step closer. Suddenly the closet is impossibly small. He isn’t touching me but every nerve in my body anticipates his nearness, like his aura is brushing mine and I’m drunk on the mere thought of his hands on me. “What do you think?” he asks, his voice low.
I’m not sure if he’s talking about the job or himself. The job’s okay but I’m sure he knows what I think about him. It’s in my eyes, my smile, every little thing I did all night long, every glance, every sigh, every schoolboy trick in the book. And Joe’s said something to him, I know it. If Deon doesn’t know I think he’s all that and a bag of chips, why has he been so damn blatant tonight?
But I just shrug and say, “It’s okay,” like I’m just talking about the job and I won’t think about him in the shower tonight. His eyes, his smile, his scent, his full ass I can’t stop staring at every time he turns around or bends over.
Another step, and his shoe kicks against mine ever so slightly. He reaches out and touches my arm, his fingers tracing through the hair on my skin. Chills run up my shoulder and down my spine, tingling my nipples erect. “You know,” he says again. He says that a lot.
He’s right, I want to know, I’m dying to know what it is he keeps trying to tell me but never seems to get the chance to say. “Yeah?”
Out in the kitchen, Joe interrupts us. Again. “Hey, Deon?”
I groan, and a smile flickers across Deon’s face. I want to tell him not to say anything but it’s too late. “In here, Joe,” he says, raising his voice, but his hand stays on my arm.
Joe peeks into the storage closet, sees the two of us, and grins wickedly. His eyes twinkle merrily. “I’ll get Bree for you, if you’re busy.”
“Busy doing what?” Deon asks with a laugh. My cheeks heat up even more. Fuck Joe.
“You tell me.” Joe gives me that wink I’ve grown tired of tonight and, without warning, knocks away the block holding the door open with a swift kick.
The heavy door begins to swing close. “Hey!” I cry, pushing past Deon.
From the other side Joe pushes the door. His laughter curls into the room, settling around us like dust as the latch catches, a loud sound in the small room. My hands land flat against the door, and I ball them into fists to pound on the wood. “Hey! Not cool!”
“Joe,” Deon warns. He sounds incredibly close, mere inches behind me, and when I draw back my fist to hit the door again, my elbow brushes his stomach. He sounds like he’s grinning when he says, “This isn’t funny!”
“It isn’t supposed to be!” comes the muffled reply from the other side. Joe’s words sound mocking. “I’ll be back.”
With wide eyes, I turn toward Deon, anxious. “What the hell?”
Seeing the discomfort on my face, Deon smiles sadly and calls, “Come on, Joe. Let us out.”
“I’ll be back,” he says again. From far away I hear the tiny tinkle of the bell above the front door as Joe leaves.
“Fuck,” I whisper, biting my lip in frustration. I’m so filthy; I need a shower. I need to lie down, stretch out, ease this ache coiled in my groin with my hand…fuck. Instead I’m trapped here with the man of my dreams, whose hand still rests on my arm, his touch warm on my skin. I’ve been wanting to get him alone all night and now that I finally have him to myself, I’m afraid I’ll say or do something to make him think I’m the biggest fool in the world.
And Joe’s gone to pick up Deon’s girlfriend. What happens when he brings her back here? She’ll find us locked in here together and the moment she meets me, she’ll know the million sinful thoughts I have about her boyfriend. Her gorgeous, sexy, incredibly exciting boyfriend.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
Deon laughs, the sound soothing in an odd way. “He’s just playing around,” he says with a gentle tug on my arm. “You’ll get used to him.”
“I don’t think I will.” I let him lead me to a couple boxes stacked against the wall. When he sits on top of them, I sit down beside him. His hand trails along my arm until it rests on my wrist, then his fingers slip into my palm, an unconscious gesture that sets my blood pounding. “How long will he be?” I ask, keeping my voice soft so he won’t hear it shake.
Deon shrugs. “He said he’d be back,” he says, as if that’s enough for him. Right now, with his hand in mine and his hip pressed against me warmly, it’s enough for me, too.
For a long moment we just sit there, the sounds of our
breathing the only thing between us. What am I doing? I’ve been waiting all night for a quiet moment of just us two, and now that my wish has come true, I don’t know what the hell to say. How long do we have before Joe returns? Suddenly it doesn’t seem like long enough.
Finally I get up the nerve to ask, “What were you saying before?” I turn to see Deon smiling slightly. “You said you know and then Joe…”
“I was just saying,” he says, his voice trailing away as he looks at his shoes, a small frown on his face. “You know Bree?”
“Not really,” I admit. I don’t really want to know her, either, not when she has a part of him I’ll never be able to touch.
He laughs softly and pulls my hand between his knees, holding it in the warm envelope of his own hands. His thumb rubs my wrist with slow gentle strokes, and when he looks at me, his eyes are sparkling, intoxicating.
I barely notice—my mind shorted out when he tucked my hand between his knees. I watch his lips twist as he tries to put into words something he wants to say.
What he comes out with surprises me. “You probably think she’s my girl.”
I laugh, embarrassed. “Yeah, I guess I do.” Damn, just color me transparent tonight. But seriously, what else am I supposed to think?
He takes his hand out of mine and eases his arm around my waist, the fire in his fingers burning along my hip. When did we get like this? I don’t know, but I sure as hell don’t want it to stop. His other hand presses mine against the inside of his thigh. My breath catches in my throat—all of a sudden I’m hot and cold and trembling for him, and he knows it, I know he knows it, there’s no way I can hide it now. I stare into the desert of his eyes and can’t pull away. Not that I’d ever want to.
His lips barely move as he whispers, “She’s not.”
“Not what?” I can’t remember what we’re talking about. His face is mere inches from mine—when did he move so close? His breath is hot against my cheek, a fan of heat I want to feel all over my body.
Those lips curve toward me. “She’s my roommate, and my best friend, but she’s not my girlfriend. I’m not like that.”
“Like what?” Please, I pray. Please, please, please.
“Like that,” he says, widening his eyes to emphasize his point. The hand on my hip slides up to my waist, snakes into my lap, and touches me there.
Oh, sweet God in heaven above. That’s what I’m talking about, what I’ve been thinking about ever since I first saw him and knew I wanted him.
Still, I want to hear it in words. Clean-cut, no misunderstandings between us, no ifs or maybes. Clearing my throat, I whisper, “What are you like?”
Jesus, the press of his hand against my crotch is almost too much. I’m shivering and tense and sweating and I want more. I want everything I can get—I want him more than I should want anyone, more than it’s healthy to want someone. I want him like I want the air I breathe—I want him in me.
His hand closes over the bulge in my pants, a gentle squeeze that shatters my lust and sends the shards ricocheting through me. “You tell me,” he says, that half-smile on his lips the moment before he catches my own mouth in a tender kiss.
Closing my eyes, I let the softness of his tongue part my lips, exploring, tasting, delving inside me. He tastes sweet like peaches and cream in the hot summer sun, and right this moment, I don’t care if Joe never comes back.
THE END
Pleasure Cruise
It was Andy Helman’s first cruise. Two weeks spent on the USS Jewel of the Sea, cruising the calm Caribbean waters and hopping the Virgin Islands with his roommate Reese Thompson and their friend Palmer. Reese’s friend, to be honest—Andy didn’t know Palmer too well, but the vacation had been his idea. A week away from campus and the mainland, some fun in the sun during Winter Break. “Let the freshmen go to Myrtle Beach or Nags Head,” Palmer had said, trying to convince them to go. “Seniors take cruises.”
“Senior citizens,” Andy muttered.
“Hey!” Palmer cried, wounded. “Who invited you?”
With a laugh, Reese pointed out, “You did.”
“I can uninvite you, too.” Palmer frowned at both of them, waiting. Reese caught Andy’s eye and shook his head, amused. Finally, Palmer sputtered, “Well? We going, or what?”
Palmer’s parents were huge cruise freaks, taking every boat that left Key West throughout the year, and they paid for the trip as part of Palmer’s upcoming graduation present. The fact that a guy like Palmer was even close to graduating from college was reason enough to celebrate—he was the first to admit he was at State for a degree in their accelerated partying program.
The three guys had known each since the start of the fall semester, when Andy answered an ad Reese put in the paper for a roommate and he met the two friends. He had to admit he was a little stunned when Palmer asked him to come along for the cruise, as they didn’t know each other very well, but he had no other plans for the break and Reese talked him into going. “It’ll be fun,” he promised with a wink. “Two weeks of sun and relaxation and bikinis. Oh, wait, that’s not your style.”
Andy shot him a dirty glance, but after a semester and a half of rooming together, Reese had grown immune to them. “Well, Speedos then. It’s one way to meet guys, you know?”
“It’s not a gay cruise,” Andy reminded him.
Reese shrugged. “So? You’re going, aren’t you? I can’t imagine you’ll be the only one on board.”
Under his breath, Andy muttered, “You’d be surprised.”
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to look. And the change of scenery would be nice—something different from the cold, wintry weather of upstate New York, where another snow storm threatened to fall the day they were scheduled to leave. So he said sure, he’d go along, and he paid for half of his ticket even though Palmer said he didn’t have to, because he felt bad about mooching off him. When Palmer turned to Reese, their friend held up his hands. “Don’t look at me. I ain’t paying you back.”
After they’d boarded the ship and Andy unpacked his bags in his small portside room, he met his friends in the dining room for an early lunch. The food was exquisite, plate after plate of exotic dishes he’d never heard of and would probably never eat again. As the evening wore on, he retreated to one of the pools on the upper deck of the ship, but he didn’t know what Reese had been talking about because he didn’t see any guys in Speedos, cute or otherwise. The only men his own age were either obviously half of a happily heterosexual couple or working the poolside bar.
Well, he thought, heading back to his room to change into something appropriate to wear to dinner, at least it’s two weeks out of the cold. Two weeks away from school and who knows? Maybe I’ll find someone to share it with. But he and his friends appeared to be among the few single people on the ship, and the women who glanced his way and giggled when he passed weren’t what he wanted.
Day melted into night, studding the clear Caribbean sky with stars like jewels suspended above the ocean. The evening found Andy and his friends at a small, cramped table in the ship’s bar, drinking spiced rum and slushy piña coladas as the room spun dizzily away. Reese sat beside Andy, snickering at everything that was said, and Palmer flirted shamelessly with the waitresses who passed by, but none of them stopped to talk to him.
“See anyone you want to hook up with?” Reese asked.
Palmer chugged down the last of his slushy drink. “That chick with the tattoo—”
Under the table, Reese kicked Palmer’s foot. “I was asking Andy.” He turned, gave his roommate a drunken grin, then frowned as a sobering thought struck him. To Palmer, he asked, “Tattoo where?”
Palmer touched the left side of his chest. “Right here, it’s a little pink rose. When she bends down, you can see it.”
“Really?” Reese’s eyes widened. “Call her over here again. I want to see it.”
Andy elbowed his roommate in the ribs, hard. “You two are horrible.”
With a braying laugh, Reese
teased, “You’re just feeling left out. Come on, join in the fun. Any sexy guys turning you on tonight?”
“He’s already sitting with the two hottest men here,” Palmer joked. “Everyone else pales in comparison. Too bad we’re not queer.”
“Yeah, right,” Andy muttered. “Too bad you’re not my type.”
“Shit,” Palmer drawled. “With the lights out, they’re all my type.”
Reese snorted into the remains of his drink, and Palmer leaned across the table, lowering his voice. “Listen you two, if I can’t get a honey here soon, I’m taking you both back to my room and saying the hell with it. I’m getting laid tonight, and beggars can’t be choosers, you know?”
Andy shook his head. “I ain’t sleeping with you.”
Palmer’s grin was a challenge. “Then who’s caught your eye tonight, Romeo?”
Andy kept quiet. The last thing he needed was to point out the cute Hispanic guy behind the bar. Damn, but he wanted a taste of that boy, with the gauzy white pants that clung to his round buttocks, the firm legs hinted at beneath the pants, the rolled sleeves that exposed his lanky forearms, the tight vest all the wait staff wore that looked painted onto his narrow chest. His dark, curly hair had been pulled into a short ponytail at his nape, but a few strands escaped to frizz around his thin face. When he smiled, his teeth dazzled against his dusky skin, and the lights above the bar shone in his black eyes, making them look depthless.
Hell yes, Andy was all about that guy, and if he were alone, he’d sidle up to the bar, strike up a conversation, feel the man out. But he wasn’t about to do that with an audience, and he’d known his roommate long enough to know Reese would think it insanely funny, his hitting on the waiter. His stupid laughter would chase away any chance Andy had with the guy.
But Andy had been watching the waiter all night long. He had already imagined those large hands on his body, that guy held tight in his arms…in his mind he pictured the two of them entangled in the sheets of his bed, lost in each other and the moment and the steady rocking of the ocean below them a rhythm they would easily match during sex.
