“First lunch, then fun,” he promises, but that doesn’t keep him from sliding his hands over my ass and grabbing it for good measure before tumbling me back off onto the comforter.
“Mr. Burke, you don’t play fair,” I grumble.
“No, Mr. Montague, I do not. You’re just now figuring that out?” His blue eyes twinkle at me before he buries his face in my neck, blowing raspberries in the skin. He knows that never fails to make me laugh, and today is no exception, as he reduces me to helpless giggles under his touch. God, how I love that man!
We end up cuddled together, just lying there comfortably, relaxing, just holding one another, content, so very, very content….
I doze off a little bit, and when I waken he has lunch already laid out, merely waiting for me. And he insists on feeding me everything with his own fingers, pampering me and spoiling me outrageously. The cheeses and the bread. The fruit. And the chocolate. And wine. I eat it up, naturally. The attention, I mean, along with the food. And while he feeds me, he reads to me. And compares me to a summer day. How beautiful. How sublime.
But still I want more.
“When do I get my dessert?” I want to know.
“You want more chocolate?” he asks, giving me his innocent look.
“No, dammit, you know what I want.”
He reclines beside me, so much like a Greek god, one hand behind his head, the other holding a cigarette, one leg crossed lazily over the other. I have given him special dispensation to smoke around me today. Normally I don’t tolerate it, at least not in enclosed spaces. Not that he listens all of the time, but he tries, I’ll give him that much. And I try not to be quite so anal retentive, but it’s a matter of my heightened olfactory senses, the smoke is just very hard on my nose.
I never get tired of looking at him; he is just so incredibly gorgeous. Is it any wonder that I am also jealous? He can get anyone he wants, and I know it. They all— male and female—flock to him like moths to a flame. And yet he is with me. Go figure.
He takes a last drag from his cancerstick and stuffs it down the neck of the empty wine bottle, where it sizzles and drowns in the dregs of the wine we have left behind before opening the second bottle. I won’t allow him to toss it in the river or on the beach, and I made my feelings known years ago about not tossing butts out the car window onto the street, so now he doesn’t do it, at least not when we’re together. I can’t be sure what he does when I am not there.
I kiss each of his lovely knees tenderly, maneuvering in between them in one lithe motion, on my own knees. And then I bend my head and nuzzle his beautiful cock, running my tongue over his balls. He shivers. “Is that all you want?”
“It’s a start,” I reply before taking those lovely creamy balls, so firm, so nicely packed, into my mouth and lave them most lovingly.
“Yes, it’s a good start,” he concurs, his fingers lightly caressing my hair as I work on him.
This is what I have been waiting for. There is something about making love outdoors, and especially with the added element of possibly being caught at it, that serves to heighten the sensations that even now run rampant through me. Being with Richard makes me forget everything else. And everyone else. They all recede into that nebulous region of some other time, deal-with-it-later land. My mother, her bigoted boyfriend, Amy, her coquettish nephew—not here, not now. Now there is only Richard and me.
I move my attention now to his big lovely cock, and my tongue makes patterns on the shaft, swirls and loops and numbers and such. He tightens his grip on my hair, so I know that he is pleased. “If you get that wet enough, we won’t need lube,” he murmurs softly. My own erection grows even bigger at that, knowing exactly what he means, what he intends to do. I reach up and twist his nipples, not too gently, not too hard. He groans his appreciation.
I make sure now that my tonguing is getting his cock nice and juicy, so it will slide smoothly inside of me—not that it doesn’t always do that, it does; my Richard is a master cocksman, after all. And I go no further with that thought, determined not to let anything spoil this day. I make sure to tongue his slit, ’cause I know he likes that. I know everything my baby likes. After more than twenty years together, I should, after all.
“Yes, oh yes, Max,” he moans, “suck on me, my little wolf, suck harder,” he encourages, and I oblige, more than willing to do that for the man I love so much. I tickle all his favorite spots and even graze my teeth along his length, just the way he likes. But just as I feel that he is on the brink of his orgasm, he pushes my head off. “No, Max, stop, not like that, I have other plans.”
He pulls me up toward him and rolls me over on the blanket, his hardness pressing wetly against my stomach, where I have juiced it up. He leans down; his breath is warm in my ear, and his voice alone is making me tingle.
He brushes his fingers over my lips, exploring their contour, maneuvering around each and every curve, even though he knows them so very well. “Suck on these, baby. Do your thing to me,” he moans, and I take his fingers inside my mouth and moisten them for him. Suck on them like they are mini-cocks. When they are wet enough he pulls them out, kisses me sweetly, and then moves his hand between my legs. “Spread your legs, honey-child,” he murmurs, “daddy’s got somethin’ for you….”
I would tell him to forego the stretching, but I know he won’t listen, so I save my breath. Richard is always a considerate lover, not wanting to harm me in any way, not physically anyway. He insists on making sure that I am prepared to take him. Today is no exception. He pushes his fingers inside of me carefully, one at a time, pausing to let me adjust to the feel of each one, to relax that ring of muscles that stands guard against unwelcome intrusion at my entrance, which he is not and never could be. And at the same time, he moves his finger around inside of me, trying to ring my bell.
Which he almost always manages to do.
“Richard!” I gasp, jumping when he finds my prostate. Again. And again. I am arching my back now, pushing against his three fingers, which fill me so completely, although I know there is more to follow. My hand goes to my painfully hard cock, but he pushes it away with a small growl. “No, mine!”
I whimper, but I don’t argue. I never do; I allow him to do as he will. It is the nature of our relationship. It is and ever has been our way.
He pulls his fingers out now, and now he is positioning himself between my legs. He takes my legs and moves my hips up so that he can gain better access. I shiver in delicious anticipation as he pushes his cock just to my opening and pauses. “Richard,” I whimper.
“What, my little studmuffin?” he teases me, running his fingers over my chest, across my hardened nipples, squeezing them briefly.
“In me, please,” I moan rather needily, not caring at the moment how I sound, only knowing that I want to be filled with him—now.
As if this is the sign he has been waiting for, he pushes completely into me with one swift move, skewering me with his cock. I gasp as I receive him. No matter how often we might do this—and I assure you, that we do this often—the first feel of his cock inside of me produces the same reaction. The same sensations wash over me as they did the first time that my Richard made love to me, if anything, heightened over the years, with practice. “Is this what you need? What you want? What you crave?” He punctuates each sentence with his cock, thrusting into me again, and again, and again….
“Yes,” I manage to get out, “yes, what I want… unhhhhhhhhhhhhhh….” I simply lose my words and give myself over to the pleasure of him inside of me.
Sometimes making love is tender and sweet and drawn out, while at other times it is fast and hard-hitting and almost pleasurably brutal. It doesn’t matter which it is, as long as we both agree on it. We always seem to be of one accord, one mind, when it comes to most things, and sometimes no words need to be spoken to communicate what and how we feel. We are truly one soul with two bodies; this I do sincerely believe.
Sometimes it is both ways in a single day.
He pulls himself nearly completely out, only the very tip of his cock remaining inside of me, then suddenly slams back inside in a move that is calculated to take my breath away. And it does! “Like that, baby?” he coos as he feels me jump.
“You know I do,” I moan. “More, Richard, more!”
He slams back into me again, so hard that his balls slap against my ass with a wet sound. God, how good that feels.
“Want that, baby?” he croons throatily.
“Yes, yes!” I beg and plead for more.
Again he pistons inside of my tight channel, setting a frantic pace, a driving rhythm. His hand wraps itself about my cock, and he strokes my hard-on in time to that same driving rhythm. His blond hair falls in a veil across his face, his eyes closed in concentration now, as he works at pleasing me, and a light sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead. That motive alone would be enough to please me, much less what he is doing, the wonder that is him inside of me. It’s a feeling that never grows old, never grows stale, and at moments like these, I know we will last forever.
“Max, your finger!” he moans, and I know what he wants. I touch my fingers to my cock, where the pre-cum is already oozing, and I spread it over my digits, lubricating them, before moving my hand behind him. He leans closer over me to make it possible. I slide between his asscheeks, feeling for his pucker, thrust my finger in, without warning, all the way to the knuckle. Which is what he wants.
“Max!” he screams my name, and I am gratified by the deep lust in that voice, the pleasure that is derived from me and me alone. “Harder!” And I push in more, until one whole finger is engulfed in his tightness.
He grabs my mouth, pulling my lower lip almost brutally into his mouth, biting it so hard he draws blood. I move my hips in an effort to match his pace, twisting my finger, touching his pleasure zone. He arches against me, in me, around me. We are so firmly enmeshed that we are one. I am oblivious to all around me, and I’m glad that none of our friends ever come down here unannounced, for they know they do so at their own peril.
He sucks at the blood as it spills from my lip, a little harder than usual, and when he throws back his head, it trickles down his chin. He locks eyes with me, and they blaze with the heat of the moment, and with love, yes, I know that’s what he feels for me, true love. This is something that cannot be faked, something that is truly hard to find.
“Tell me who you love, Max?” he whispers in my ear warmly.
“Richard,” I moan, pushing in again with my finger.
“Louder!”
“Richard!” I raise my voice.
“Again!” he commands.
“Richard!” I howl his name to the skies as my orgasm strikes, my pulsating cock shooting all over his hand in great sticky ropes.
“Max!” he echoes as he releases his own passions within me, flooding me with his ejaculate deep inside. If I were a woman, the way we go at it, I’d have been pregnant a long time ago. I guess it’s lucky for me I’m not, or we’d have a lot of children by now. Or not.
And when he is done, he collapses upon me, and we are a tangled sweaty heap of limbs, tired but sated as we kiss now, softly, gently, tenderly, the way it could not be done during our wild coupling.
He whispers terms of endearment to me, croons love’s tunes, and his hands are soft and tender as they push back the hair from my brow, while I in turn caress his face and gaze lovingly into his eyes.
“Pretty baby.” He nuzzles my face, rolling me over, reversing our positions so that he is on bottom, and I am cradled on top of him. “Close your eyes, take a nap,” he encourages me, wrapping the comforter over us, just in case someone should float by while we’re unable to hear anything.
And there we lie, taking a siesta ’neath the drowsy afternoon sun. Only Richard and me, in love to the max, and no one else to disturb this idyllic interlude.
Chapter 16
The Dance Begins
THERE’S a thick mist swirling around me in a most annoying fashion, a foggy condensation which is almost palpable, obscures my vision, and makes it difficult to see where I am going. Not that I exactly know where I am going, or where I even am. All I know is that I am searching for Richard, and I am unable to find him, which only increases my anxiety as I move frustratedly through this cloud. Faces swim in and out of my consciousness—Juliet, Rachel, Cat, Maggie, Diana, Sebastian—disembodied heads that appear and disappear, moving their mouths like a badly dubbed Japanese film, but I never hear their voices before they dissolve into the void once more. And none of them are the one I seek, my Richard, my love.
I can hear music playing. No heavenly choir this, it sounds like a dance band. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. I just want to find Richard, make sure he’s okay, and get out of this place. Now.
I try to center myself and determine what is up and what is down, so that I don’t lose my sense of being and fall. I keep my hands outstretched before me at all times, cautiously.
Ahead of me the light appears to be shifting, the density of this mass surrounding me is decreasing, and I move eagerly in that direction. I feel something in my hands, but I don’t bother to look at it; my attention is given solely to finding my missing lover before it’s too late, before I lose him forever. I can see a gap in this mist now, a definite hole taking shape within the darkness. Almost there now, almost….
And then, as if a switch has been thrown, the fog is gone, dissipated in one fell swoop, offering perfect visibility, and there before me is a most heinous tableau: there is Richard, my Richard, my one and only love, and he is with Amy’s horrible nephew, the wannabe model. They stand together, lips locked—I can only imagine their tongues are plunging together in the depths of my lover’s mouth—their octopusian hands engaged in exploration of rapidly growing areas of mutual interest. I can’t move, frozen in place by how surreal it all is. I watch them, transfixed as they writhe and grope, and all I can see is the two of them, and all I can hear are their animalistic moans, which fill my ears even as the sight of them fills my eyes, and oh my God, I just want to die, just want to die…. And when I look down into my hands, I see that it is my bleeding heart that I am holding.
Richard sees me now; he breaks apart from the little maggot, turns to me, moves toward me in a slo-mo run. He is calling to me even as I turn from the scene and attempt to flee. “Ma-ax, Ma-ax….” His voice is growing louder, more insistent. Got to get out of here, got to get away, got to….
I sit straight up in bed, my heart thumping painfully in my chest, shaking violently. Richard is beside me, and it’s his voice that has brought me out of it, calling my name with concern. Damn, that was so real, so painfully real. I collapse against him, seriously shaken, and he envelops me in his embrace, soothing me, holding me.
It was so damn real. I gotta get it out of my head.
’Course it was probably a combination of too much to drink and having to put up with that damned Morgan’s presence at Daniel’s charity do tonight. What charity do, you ask? Okay, let me back up a bit here.
My editor, Daniel, and his lovely wife, Marti, now these two are truly the happiest couple I know. Childhood sweethearts, married young and still as happy and as much in love as ever, even after more than twenty-five years and three kids. It warms my heart to see them together, to know that such things are possible, and sometimes I steal surreptitious glances at Richard when we are all together to see if he sees what I see, but he never shows that he notices them or their happiness, so I sigh, and I leave it alone. As usual. The way that I ignore all the questions for which I desperately seek answers from him. What is Max’s specialty, kids? Playing dead, apparently.
Tonight Daniel and Marti hosted a private charity dinner at their stately mansion on Lindell Boulevard, four stories of pure elegance, one floor of which consists entirely of a ballroom. The dinner was given for patrons of the Tribune at a thousand bucks a plate, the proceeds to go to various children’s organizations. They engaged an orchestra for those who wished t
o dance, as well as sketch artists, a magician, and a photographer. And as star attractions they invited (read coerced) select members of the Tribune staff to attend to meet their adoring public. Which meant dressing up in my monkey suit and dancing for the organ grinder. If it had been a written invitation (read command), I would simply have ignored it, dismissed it, paid it no heed. But it came personally from Daniel himself, and as he is and has always been so very nice to Richard and me, how could I turn him down? I couldn’t, and I didn’t. And it was for a good cause after all; I’m a sucker for that sort of thing. Plus there was the added benefit of getting to see Richard in his tux. I splurged and bought us matching Armanis: his in midnight blue, mine black. My God, how beautiful he looked, so painfully beautiful. He took my breath away completely. His hair was tied back into a tail that rested at the nape of his neck with a matching hair ribbon. Damn. Just damn.
The pre-dinner reception was held in the aforementioned ballroom, which was decorated for the occasion to resemble turn-of-the-century St. Louis. World’s Fair time. Circa 1900, that is, not 2000. I have to keep reminding myself we’re in a new century now, as I don’t tend to exactly keep up with the times. Everyone coming into the ballroom was stopped in the doorway, allowing him or herself to be announced by a gentleman with a basso profundo voice, before being greeting by the host and hostess themselves with their own personal brand of warmth. Everyone simply loves those two. Rather old-worldish, but very effective. I could see the eyes that turned toward Richard as we entered the room together, and who could blame them? After all, he’s drop-dead gorgeous. I only clung to his arm a little harder in my possessiveness, while he didn’t seem to notice a thing. He never does.
I had known that my mother would be there; she had told me that ahead of time, and it therefore came as no shock to find her spiritual adviser/(lover?) clamped onto her like a vise. The minister was at his most charming tonight, I could tell, oozing goodwill and Christianity to the circle of people clustered about them. We approached this group cautiously—after all, she’s my mother, and I do love her, and I didn’t want to ignore her presence—and I could hear his oily voice pontificating on the merits of brotherly love. Damned hypocrite.
To the Max Page 21
