Bluewater Blues

by G. B. Gordon

  Mark’s lease ran to the end of the year, but they’d agreed to bring his clothing and other personal stuff over as soon as the mattresses arrived. They had ample time to deal with the rest, and Mark seemed relieved to have a grace period in case there was a hitch. Jack squeezed his eyes shut and crossed his fingers like he had as a child when he badly wanted something to go well, then he raced outside as soon as the mattress truck was parked. He couldn’t wait to get started and had no idea how he was going to make it through the rest of the workday.

  He closed the store on the snap of the minute hand, then went upstairs to move both the cot and Mrs. Williams’s old double bed into storage in the spare room. The latter not without difficulties, because he had to flip it to get it through the door.

  Mark showed up as Jack was clearing the dinner table. “Thought you might want a hand with the bed,” he said with a wink that drove a flush of heat through Jack’s body.

  “Mind reader, eh?”

  “I do what I can.”

  They had torn down the wall the day they’d brought the bed monster home, and taken all last weekend to drywall and paint. Jack had kept the windows open 24/7 since to get the smell out as quickly as possible.

  The huge headboard had to go upstairs first, and they skinned more than one knuckle in the process, but managed to avoid any severe injuries. The actual beds were easier, as were the mattresses, though by the time everything was in place, they were both breathing hard.

  “Hmm,” Mark said. “Something’s missing. Hold on.” He disappeared, and Jack heard him running down the stairs, then the back door opening. When he came back, he was carrying two large bags, which he unceremoniously upended on the bare mattresses, revealing two sets of sheets, comforters, and pillows.

  “Holy hell,” Jack said. “You are efficient.”

  “Wouldn’t want your bare ass on those brand-new mattresses now, would we?” Mark’s face didn’t change, but his eyes were suddenly intense.

  For once it was Jack who didn’t know where to look. “Better get these on, then,” he mumbled.

  Putting on the sheets together was a weird mix of domesticity and foreplay. At one point Margaret walked past their door on her way upstairs into her own domain, and Jack felt as if he’d been caught doing something salacious.

  His skin tingled in anticipation; he wanted Mark to touch him, no, to kiss him. That special Mark brand of kiss, long and languid and sweet, and raising the heat to impossible levels oh so slowly.

  He folded the edge of the sheet over the comforter, then, when he saw Mark turn his cover down all the way to the foot of the bed, did the same. Not hiding under the covers sure as hell worked for him. He wasn’t going to touch Mark, but he sure as hell was taking every chance he got to admire him, especially without a thread on his body.

  He pulled the nightstand closer to the side of the bed, then dug the condoms and lube out of the drawer and lined them up on top.

  Mark kicked off his shoes and closed the doors. When he came around to Jack’s side and saw the display, he nodded. “Somebody’s got plans.”

  “Well, somebody mentioned my bare ass,” Jack shot back.

  Mark leaned in, brushing Jack’s cheek with his. “I don’t see it being bare,” he murmured in Jack’s ear.

  Jack really wanted to change that, but his brain had suddenly struck deliberate action off the menu.

  Mark touched his forehead to Jack’s, then his nose. His palms wandered up Jack’s arms and shoulders, then his neck and into his hair.

  “Do you want me to kiss you?” he asked against Jack’s lips.

  Jack tried for something witty and nonchalant like, I thought you’d never ask, but all that came out was a low, appreciative moan.

  He closed his eyes and gave his brain the rest of the evening off.

  Mark’s laugh ghosted over his lips, then nimble fingers undid the buttons of his shirt and stripped the suspenders off his shoulders as Mark kissed the corner of his mouth, and then along the jawline to his ear and down his throat to his shoulder.

  Hands in his waistband, and then Mark’s mouth was catching the moan off Jack’s lips. Jack laced his fingers behind his back, to keep them from wandering, and only briefly opened them to let go of the shirt that had fallen onto his wrists.

  Mark pushed the jeans off his hips, then all the way down, breaking the kiss and kneeling to remove every last piece of Jack’s clothing.

  Jack had to open his eyes so he wouldn’t lose his balance when lifting his legs, then stood there awkwardly as Mark sat back on his heels, looking him up and down.

  “You’re perfect,” Mark said.

  “Hardly. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m quite short.”

  “Not from my angle, you’re not.”

  Jack grinned, Mark’s admiration warming him from the inside out. “Question of perspective?”

  “Always.”

  “Okay. I’m taking it.”

  Mark ran his hands up Jack’s legs from ankles to buttocks, then he rose to his knees and pressed his lips to the edge of the dark curls at Jack’s hip. Sweet Lord. Jesus!

  Jack wanted to burrow his hands in Mark’s hair so badly, he had to lock his fingers hard.

  One hand still on Jack’s buttock, Mark closed the other loosely around Jack’s cock, pushing it toward his belly, then tracing around it with a trail of licks and kisses across Jack’s abdomen. Every touch zinged against every nerve ending in the area like a pinball. Only, instead of racking up points, with every zing his body was pumping blood.

  “Mark?”

  He felt the answering “Mm-hmm?” against his skin more than he heard it.

  “You keep that up, my knees are going to give out.”

  Mark rocked back onto his heels and stood in the same motion. “You’d better lie down, then.”

  He was out of his clothes and had joined Jack on the bed, before the coolness of the sheets had been absorbed by Jack’s heated skin.

  “I love looking at you,” Jack said. “All long lines and sharp angles. And those collarbones are killing me.” He’d stretched out a hand, but curled the fingers inward and pulled back before actually touching Mark.

  “Give me your hand.” Mark held out his own.

  Jack was going to take Mark’s hand as if in a shake, but Mark grasped the back of Jack’s hand, then, keeping his eyes on the point of contact, touched Jack’s fingers to his clavicle. His breath hitched as if he’d touched an ice cube to his shoulder, but he didn’t stop moving Jack’s hand over his skin. Jack felt the bone under his fingertips and the thin layer that covered it, from the shoulder to the little hollow in the middle and all the way across to the other shoulder. Mark pulled his hand higher and kissed each fingertip, then moved them against the silky softness of his lips. No touch had ever been as intense as Mark’s deliberate indulgence and concentration made these. Jack forgot to breathe. Then Mark let him go, and he was gulping in air.

  Mark pushed him onto his back and for a while did nothing but follow every contour of Jack’s body lightly with his fingers. “You truly are perfect, my love.”

  Jack’s brain latched onto the last words like a homing beacon. “Your love?”

  “Mm-hmm, shouldn’t I call you that?”

  “No, I mean, yes. I mean, I just didn’t know.”

  “That I love you? And here I thought I was being blindingly obvious, even cheesy about it.”

  “Cheesy?” Jack echoed, stupid and happy at the same time.

  “You know? Long walks on the beach, holding hands, that sort of thing?”

  “It’s called romantic.”

  “Sorry.” Mark’s fingers had wandered to Jack’s face, tracing eyebrows, nose, cheekbones, jaw, lips. Jack lost his train of thought.

  “I should have told you,” Mark said. “It’s one of those rules I theoretically know, but that my brain doesn’t always supply at the right time. The convention is that you say it back when someone says, ‘I love you.’”

  “I don’t
want convention,” Jack mumbled.

  “No,” Mark said. “I know. It’s one of the things that make you so amazing.” His index finger tickled the top of Jack’s lip. “You just love, and don’t ask anything in return. But I do love you.” He kissed the spot he’d just tickled. And his lips and tongue, and the words and their truth mingled and turned Jack’s insides to jelly. He was all surfaces, there for Mark to kiss and touch. The rest of him melted into the mattress. Everything was perfect now, even if he wasn’t. He could let Mark take over and give himself up to the man he loved and trusted without reservation.

  Mark kissed his jaw, right below the ear. “I love you,” he whispered. A succession of quick kisses fluttered across his shoulders and chest, each one followed by, “I love you.” Silly, and funny, and cheesily romantic. Then his teeth found one nipple just as his fingers found the other. A nip of teeth and pinch of nails seared along Jack’s nerves to his navel and beyond. Through his own shout Jack thought he heard another “I love you.”

  Mark rolled him onto his side, making him the little spoon, pressing against him, his cock swelling against the small of Jack’s back.

  Jack pulled his knees up all the way to his chest.

  “You want me,” Mark said.

  “Always.” He couldn’t think, but wanting Mark wasn’t something he needed to think about.

  Mark fucked him like that, both of them on their sides, with that lazy, slow blues rhythm of his that had by now engraved itself so deeply into Jack’s body that every time he improvised alone, his sax fell into the rhythm of Mark making love to him. The rhythm of hot summer days by the river, the leisurely beat of a heron’s wings above the water.

  There was nothing mellow about this measured cadence, though. No hard and fast fuck could raise the urgency of Jack’s body to quite the same peak, nor release with quite such intensity or exquisite relief.

  This time when Jack woke up in the dark, Mark was there, only an arm’s length away. And the rhythm of his breathing followed Jack into his dreams.

  They don’t know what hit them. I can see it in their faces.

  I’ve listened to Jack playing his saxophone a number of times now, and as good as his performance was on the band sax, this is in a different league. He doesn’t play his sax so much as he makes love to it. It’s an intimate, sensual thing, Jack and his sax.

  It’s the first time we’ve come back to one of the band’s practice sessions. We’ve been too busy renovating. They oohed and aahed when he took the Keilwerth out of its case, but shut up quickly enough when he started playing. I don’t know if they see what I see when he plays, but I’m conscious of a brief, greedy moment of wanting to keep him to myself. It’s true, though, what they say, that sharing joy doubles it. It echoes back to me from every one of them.

  “Holy smokes, man,” Tom says when Jack’s finished, and rubs the goose bumps off his forearms. “Where did you learn to play like that? Those soaring lines? It’s like angels singing through your horn. And that full, warm tone gives me goose bumps.” He glances at the band. “I don’t know about the others, but I wish you’d play with us.”

  Jack grins. “Well, that’s fortuitous, because that’s what I came for today.”

  Tom shakes his head. “I don’t mean practice.”

  Ray is nodding, and Bart says, “Yeah, Jack. Join the band.”

  “Guys!” Julie says. “It would be a fantastic break for us, Jack. But don’t let these louts pressure you into something you don’t wanna do. We all know you could play anywhere you want.”

  Jack’s wide-eyed gaze has been going from one to the other, like he’s following a tennis match. He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Tom claps him on the shoulder. “Tell you what, we’re playing a gig at Stomping Grounds tonight. In fact, we’re gonna go over to set up as soon as we’re done here. Why don’t you join us as a guest? See how you like it. We’ll cut you in?” He checks around for approval, and they nod.

  Jack laughs, but makes a tamping gesture with one hand. “Whoa. I am so very, very tempted, but I don’t know how much time I’ll have for practice on a regular basis, and I wouldn’t want to leave you hanging.” He nods at Julie. “You’re all amazing, and I’d be honored to play with you any day. I’d love to play with you as a guest tonight. No cutting me in, though. Please.” He grins. “I don’t need the pressure of a paid gig. Let me get back in the saddle and enjoy the night.”

  There’s a scattering of demur, but not much. While they do have day jobs, they also appreciate the extra income, and they seem glad Jack has accepted at all. They practice their set and tweak it to accommodate Jack, replacing two songs with a couple that really make the sax shine. Then they wrap it up to leave themselves enough time for setting up at the café. They’re a well-oiled team, and Jack has done this enough times with other bands to pitch in here and there, while I ferry out to the van whatever I’m handed.

  At the café Tom starts to introduce Jack, but it turns out, Tori, the Stomping Grounds’ owner, has shopped at Your Daley Bread on occasion, so they already know each other.

  He quickly merges into the team effort of setting up and is throwing around lighthearted quips and jokes, seemingly enjoying himself. But when he comes over to where I’m sitting with a cup of tea, he shows me his shaking hands.

  “Audiences always make them do this,” he says. “But tonight it’s worse. I haven’t played on a stage in years. I hope they stop shaking when I need them.”

  I get it. If this was me, I’d be obsessing over every single way a particular thing might go wrong. He clearly needs distraction. So, when he shifts to return to the small stage, I grab him by one shoulder and turn him back to me. There’s a question in the angle of his brows until I tilt his chin up. Then his eyes go wide.

  His lips taste of the coffee Tori’s supplied them with. He’s stiffly surprised for about a second, then he opens up to me, lets me taste him, lets me seduce him with these kisses, the potential of which I would never have guessed before I met him. His heart is beating in his throat. I can feel it against the palm of my hand.

  Around us they start to whistle and holler and offer rooms. When I break the kiss, he blushes and grins, but his eyes are faraway without a hint of the nervousness that lurked in them before. I love that I can do that to him. I love him for letting me do that to him.

  The little show certainly woke the crowd up, and the band takes advantage of that. Julie draws their attention to the stage with a short drumroll, before Tom steps up to the mic to greet them and let them know that Jack will be joining them as a guest. That draws another round of whistles, and this time Jack rolls with it.

  It’s a revelation to see him in front of an audience. He knows them. It’s like they’ve been friends for years. He plays, he shares mic time with Tom between songs. He’s the born showman. This is his thing. I know without a doubt, then, that he’ll be joining the band. He was born to do this, to play in front of an audience. And they know it too. They react to him, to his charm, forgetting their drinks, cracking up when he jokes into the mic, nodding and going “Yeah, yeah” when he picks up his horn again. They’re entranced by his playing. Song after song, the band garners thundering applause that only gets louder as the evening wears on. So much so, that the noise draws people from outside.

  I’m glad for my somewhat-protected corner between counter and wall, because the place is absolutely packed now. Jack’s throat is gleaming with sweat. He’s so alive he’s crackling with energy.

  And then his eyes find me, and all that life energy runs into me and fills me from the toes up. Fills me with plans and future and joy. I love this man with everything I have, and I can’t believe my luck that washed me into his store that evening back in August.

  But right now all I want to do is take him and fuck him until neither of us has anything left. I check my watch and, seeing that, he gives me the widest, sauciest grin. The one that says he knows exactly what I’m thinking, and to hold that thought until we get
home. Until he’s just mine again.

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  Valentine’s Day collection, featuring: SE Jakes, Amy Lane, Z.A. Maxfield, Anne Tenino, and L.A. Witt

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