by Lou Sylvre
“I was scared, but I killed people anyway. Soldiers, civilians. A woman. I remember all the time. Your mother, she made it so I could forget sometimes.” He got up and headed for the bathroom.
At first Beck worried he’d do something crazy in there—his razor was right out in the open. But tiny apartments dismiss the notion of privacy, so Beck knew John was only taking a piss.
When he returned to the table, Beck said, “Dad, you need to stay here awhile.”
“It’s too small. You don’t have room.” And then he got up and shambled toward the door.
“Damn it, Dad!”
They both jumped at the sound of the buzzer from the com. To Beck’s great relief, the voice on the other end of the com was Oleg.
After buzzing him in, he turned back to his stepdad. “Sit back down. You need to stay.”
John tried to push past him, and Beck stood in his way. When Oleg knocked, he opened the door while trying to block John from access to it.
He didn’t even have a chance to greet Oleg before he was practically shouting again, “Just sit down, damn it!” Resisting the urge to be rough, Beck took his stepfather’s elbow and guided him back to the table.
In the quiet moment that followed, Beck introduced Oleg to his stepfather and briefly summed up the events of the last few days.
“So that’s where you were the night you were supposed to meet me at Trinity.”
“Yes,” Beck said. “This morning, on the phone—”
“There’s no room for me here, son,” John interjected.
All the tight knots Beck had used to keep himself together snapped, and he spat, “You don’t get to call me son! You kicked me out into the streets when I was fifteen and never looked back! I never was your son to begin with, and you made it clear I never would be.” He took a deep breath, glanced helplessly and hopelessly at Oleg—what must he think of him now? More quietly, he said, “I don’t want you to go, Dad. I want you to get your life back. But never, never, call me ‘son’ again.”
John just looked at him blankly. After a time he repeated, “There’s no room for me here.”
“It’s okay,” Beck said, but he’d just about run out of the steam he needed to continue fighting this uphill battle. He went to the long window and stared out, amazed that he’d ever thought the bleak gray of December had faltered. “I don’t mind,” he said. “Really.”
He heard Oleg and John speaking very quietly behind him, but he let his interest slip away, feeling tired. Maybe the four hours’ sleep he’d had each of the last two nights hadn’t been enough. When Oleg came up and stood beside him, he sighed, but he didn’t turn to look.
Oleg rested his hand on Beck’s shoulder. “I had an idea. I talked to him. He’ll do it.”
Beck felt nothing at the news except confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“He’ll stay here if he doesn’t think he’s crowding you.”
“I told him it was okay!” A fountain of frustration welled up in him and came out as tears. Great. This will do wonders for Oleg’s opinion of me. “Fuck!” He lifted an arm to angrily swipe at the tears, but Oleg caught it and, apparently stronger than he looked, used it to pull him around to face him. For a fractured second, Beck looked into Oleg’s gilded dark eyes, and then he found himself wrapped up in the man’s arms, his head cradled in the crook of Oleg’s neck.
Lavender, sex, and sweat.
FOR EACH of the last several days, three o’clock in the afternoon had brought Seattle a brilliant sunbreak, rays streaking across the city streets, striking gold from puddles and dirty piles of remnant snow. This afternoon, the moment came while Oleg and Beck were on the bus on the way to his Greenwood home.
As the sun bathed Beck’s face, he gripped Oleg’s hand as if he feared drowning in the light. No trace of tears remained, but Beck remained unsettled. Wherever their bodies touched, Oleg could feel the nervousness coursing through Beck like a shaky aura. And he kept talking, saying the same things in different ways.
“He’ll leave.”
Oleg tried not to sigh in exasperation. “He said he’d stay as long as you had someplace comfortable to be. I promise, my place is comfortable.” He’d told Beck earlier about the deal he’d worked out with John—that if the older man stayed at Beck’s, the young man could stay with Oleg. He had almost, but not quite, lied to Beck about where he lived.
Beck had asked, “You live by yourself?”
“Yeah. I have an over-the-garage apartment. Like what they call a motherin-law suite.” But Oleg’s answer hadn’t included the fact that the garage belonged to his family’s house.
Now, on the bus, Beck said for the third time, “He won’t feed Parcheesi.”
Oleg refrained from saying again that Parcheesi was a weird name for a cat, and went straight to the refrain. “He likes the cat. He promised.”
Beck surprised him then, bringing up a different subject. “I’m sorry,” he said, seeming quite sincere. “I should have told you about my family before, when we talked.”
Oleg turned from staring straight ahead, tilting his head to meet the taller man’s direct gaze. He smiled, reflecting on how happy he’d been to discover he’d been wrong about the meaning of the phone conversation he’d overheard that morning, to learn what a deeply kind person he was, this man who’d been occupying his thoughts and fantasies for days. He wasn’t sure he understood why Beck hadn’t wanted to tell him about John, but heavens knew, it didn’t matter. “You are so totally forgiven,” he said, smiling.
Beck rewarded him with one of his dazzling grins in return, so Oleg leaned forward and planted a kiss—more than a peck but not by much—on his luscious lips.
When they got to his place, he marched Beck straight past the big house, knowing and not really caring that at least one sister would be looking out a window and would see. He closed the door behind him, and instantly all the welcoming, here’s-the-tour, make-yourself-at-home speech he’d planned was simply gone. The man, Beck, this tall, sexy male who was lovely inside and out, stood right there, mere feet from the bed Oleg had fantasized him into several times over. And all that compelling hunger that had been building inside of him—yes, for sex, but also for extra—clamored for his attention.
“Beck,” he said, breathless.
Thanks and praise to every Russian deity and saint, Beck understood. All the tension left his tall, trim body, and when Oleg slipped a hand under his open jacket to pull him close, Beck’s entire being seemed to hum with desire. Oleg couldn’t be sure, but he convinced himself in that moment that the other man’s desire was like what he felt—that Beck wanted him more than he wanted sex.
Beck moved first, stepping close and pushing long fingers through Oleg’s hair, grasping it firmly and pulling it back to tilt Oleg’s face up. Kissing him, Beck slid his lips over Oleg’s willing mouth, sucking and nipping, pushing in with his tongue, keeping it going for long moments until his breathing came hard and fast. He stopped, crushing Oleg against him and gulping air.
“Oleg, damn! I want you!”
To Oleg’s ears, the words straddled the line between a demand and a plea—and when their eyes met, he saw uncertainty among the heat. All of it made Oleg want Beck more, and he answered by holding Beck’s gaze while grinding his hips against Beck’s thigh. The hard evidence of Oleg’s arousal—his want—couldn’t be missed, and he soon saw the light in Beck’s eyes change with recognition. Then the man’s gaze burned into his, and they slipped and slid together into pure abandon.
They stripped and scattered their clothes about in the hurricane wind of their lust for each other. Oleg landed on the bed naked, hard, and pleasantly pinned by Beck’s weight, and then Beck started kissing him again. For an unknowable length of time, Oleg felt like all he was, all they were together, was made of sliding lips and sucked tongues, licked ears and love bites. As Beck rolled a little to one side, he gazed down at Oleg with a knowing expression—although Oleg wasn’t sure what that meant.
&n
bsp; Beck licked his lips, gathered breath, and said, “You are so much more than beautiful, Oleg Abramov.”
Oleg groaned in sudden heat, shocked and reeling. No one had ever said his name during sex before. He’d had no idea it could change things so much.
Beck raised his hand to squeeze and flick over one of Oleg’s nipples, using his mouth on the other—biting and teasing and sensitizing the nub until Oleg could hardly stand the touch, could hardly stand the thought of being without it. Impatient, Oleg slid his hand along the narrow path of hair that started just below Beck’s navel, and when he reached Beck’s firm cock, took him in hand. Beck’s erection—long, straight, strong, flawless—looked and felt just as Oleg had imagined it would. His hand slick with precum, Oleg stroked, loving the smooth hardness of it, rejoicing in his lover’s sweet moans.
My lover.
Oleg was unused to the term, and it struck him like ringing a cathedral bell. Every part of him shivered at the combined sensation of such a thought, his hands on Beck, and Beck’s mouth and hands on him.
“Oh,” he said, and Beck groaned in response. “Oh,” he said again, and added Beck’s name. It tasted sweet in his mouth, whetting his appetite. He moved swiftly, pushing Beck away and down onto his back to give himself access to Beck’s beautifully formed, steel-strong, wet, erect penis. He leaned over, took the tight crown into his yearning lips, then slid down the length of Beck’s cock, opening his throat to draw in the last inch. With his lips nested in the hair at the base of the shaft, he massaged and sucked rhythmically with his tongue and throat.
Beck’s belly muscles tightened, and in a rush of air, he said, “Oh fuck!”
Oleg took that for approval, feeling his own cock jump and twitch at the rush of new desire that coursed through him from knowing he was giving true pleasure to his lover. My lover, he thought again. My lover, Beck. He continued with the treatment he was giving Beck’s dick until he thought of Beck’s hands—his beautiful hands, how they glided and teased over the guitar strings, coaxing just the right sounds.
God, I want those hands. He rose up and moved his mouth to Beck’s fingers, sucked and licked for a short minute, then slid his body up until his own cock touched Beck’s left hand. Beck did something Oleg didn’t quite have words for, sweeping up over his cock and, rather than grabbing at it, gathering him in. He lost himself completely in the sensations of Beck’s lovemaking, shocked as hell to find himself thinking that word, but with no interest in analyzing it at the moment. Beck used his hand on Oleg’s cock, his fingers long enough to stretch the length of it and include Oleg’s balls—which had begun to sweetly ache. Oleg wanted more, was planning to beg for it if he had to, but first he wanted to savor Beck’s touch. Strong fingers, pulling, stroking. Smooth fingernails, rough calluses, Beck’s fingertips playing over Oleg’s cock and balls.
When Beck moved his hand to the tender perineum behind Oleg’s testes, Oleg opened wide, gratified when Beck followed up by continuing the next caress down to his ass. The muscles around Oleg’s hole convulsed at Beck’s touch, and then loosened as Beck massaged. Oleg had so little awareness of anything else at the moment, that he was surprised when he felt Beck’s tongue lap at the precum pouring from his slit. The sensation overpowered him, and he said something wordless but loud.
Beck laughed, a low, sweet, sexy chuckle that made Oleg’s cock jump even though Beck had moved both hand and mouth away.
Beck asked, “Shall I make you come now?”
The words almost did just that, but he shook his head. “Fuck me, Beck?”
The groan that came from Beck then burned itself into Oleg’s mind, a sound so sweet and hot, Oleg knew he’d never forget it, would crave it over and over, possibly for the rest of his life.
He said, “Wait,” and rolled off the bed. He’d never had any man in his rooms before, never taken a man to his own bed, so, regrettably, no condoms and no lube were stashed nearby. He hadn’t thought about it until just that moment.
He came back from the bathroom with the goods in hand and held them out.
Beck said, “Thank God. Or somebody,” and by the time Oleg was back on the bed, he’d sheathed his cock. Beck made a sweet game of lubing Oleg’s ass, taking his time around the perimeter, teasingly ducking in, stretching and massaging. It was another first for Oleg. He hadn’t known any man would ever do sex the way Beck was doing it, taking his time. He damn near wanted to tear up over the thought of everything he’d been missing, but he was too busy digging the way it felt.
“Ready?” Beck asked, then kissed Oleg’s lips before he could answer.
Oleg nodded into the kiss, said, “Mmmm.”
“You sure?”
Again Beck covered Oleg’s mouth with his, and Oleg couldn’t answer aloud.
“I can’t fuck you,” Beck finally said, “until you say yes.”
This time Oleg saw his opening and almost shouted, “Yes! Beck, please.” Please? Where, Oleg wondered, did that come from? He never had to say please to get someone to fuck him.
“Baby, you damn sure don’t have to say please. Because, the truth is, I’ve never needed anything, anyone, like I need you now.” With that, Beck pushed his cock against Oleg’s opening.
The burn felt sweet to Oleg as Beck just kept pushing in one steady slide until he was all the way in, filling Oleg perfectly and making him too anxious for what was yet to come.
Oleg was glad that the time for pillow talk was apparently over. Beck wrapped his arms around him and brought his mouth down to Oleg’s for a long kiss, sucking and releasing and setting up a rhythm for his thrusting hips.
The beat was slow. Strong. Unrelenting. Fucking perfect!
Tension and heat climbed steadily, and then all at once, Oleg crested the rise into a climax unlike any he’d ever experienced—or maybe endured was a better word. It went on and on with aftershocks as Beck drove into him, faster and harder now. Breathless and senseless, he came back to full awareness just as Beck’s rhythm broke. Holding him impossibly tight, Beck said Oleg’s name, low, slow, and sostenuto. As Beck’s orgasm subsided, he kissed Oleg again, so hard and deep this time Oleg thought he might lose himself in Beck forever.
Chapter Seven
BECK HADN’T had a man for quite some time, but he didn’t think that explained the way Oleg pulled at his mind and body before they made love. And he didn’t think it explained the way Oleg’s pleasure made Beck feel like he’d found some special purpose in life, above and beyond anything mundane. And he was certain it didn’t explain the way he’d wanted to cry out Oleg, I love you after he came, which had led to a hard and deep—maybe profound—final kiss. He’d undertaken it to keep himself from speaking the words, but he thought they’d possibly made themselves known anyway. Regardless, the kiss he buried them in seared him down to his soul.
Soul. If there was such a thing. If he kept the idea separate from any concept like God, he felt inclined, now that he knew Oleg, to believe that yes, soul might be a thing. But if that were so, did that mean he and Oleg might be soul mates? Beck decided not to go there yet, but thought he might entertain the notion further at some future time.
He’d just realized his musings probably meant he was going to fall asleep when his stomach growled, loud and rude. Oleg laughed—also loud and rude, but sweet nevertheless. The growl recalled to Beck’s mind the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything since oatmeal at dark thirty that morning.
“You’re hungry,” Oleg said.
Beck only smiled.
“Me too. We should eat.”
Beck realized then he hadn’t seen a kitchen in Oleg’s apartment. No microwave, no refrigerator. Not even a hot plate.
He must have looked puzzled, because Oleg said, “Yeah, no kitchen.” After a minute he continued. “Listen, remember how I forgave you for not telling me about John and stuff?”
“Mm.”
“Well, maybe you can forgive me for not telling you the whole truth about my living arrangements.”
Be
ck raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“You know that big house up front? It’s my family’s. That’s where the kitchen is.”
Beck nodded, then said, “Okay,” but he put a question mark on the end of it, because it seemed like there might be more that Oleg wanted to say.
“Only my dad and Lara really live there now—well, and Vic, but he’s a merchant sailor, and when he’s in port, he tends to land in jail so he’s not around much. But Lina and Bill live next door, and Kati and her family have the house that butts up against the back of this lot, on the next street over.”
“You all stay pretty close,” Beck said, because he felt as though something was required. Then he got up and headed the few steps to the bathroom for a piss and a quick rinse—lube remains had started to get sticky—and to toss the condom.
Oleg raised his voice to be heard over the sounds Beck made in the bathroom. “And Alex and Pete live in the duplex across the street—they each have half.”
Beck came out of the bathroom, nodding to show he’d heard. He wanted to kiss Oleg some more, but the man just kept talking, so he decided to get dressed.
“We’re like our own mini-Moscow, here.”
Beck stared, because what could one say?
“Do you forgive me?”
At the exasperated sound of Oleg’s question, Beck realized he’d been waiting for absolution all along.
Stopping with his pants halfway up his thighs, he offered the needed assurance. “Oh! Yeah. Yes, of course. What’s to forgive?”
Oleg took a deep breath and without further ado moved on to the next thing on his mind, which seemed to operate along his own peculiar logic. “So, if we’re hungry, and we want to eat, that’s the kitchen we go to—in the house.”
“Okay.” Beck said, shoving his jeans back down and kicking them off. “Can I borrow your shower, then, so I won’t smell like sex? I’ll be quick so we can go get food.”
