by J. M. Snyder
Colby raises his mug and nods. As a slow smile eases across Van’s face, Colby’s whole body flushes with sudden lust. This evening suddenly got a lot more interesting.
Two bottles clank onto the bar in front of Colby, who turns to find his cousin glaring at him. “You know we play tomorrow,” she says.
Colby laughs. “I haven’t even met the guy yet, Meg. Chill out.”
With one hand on her hip, she warns, “Well, I don’t plan on losing. I’ll cut off your booze if I have to.”
“Megan!” Colby shakes his head, grinning. “I’ve been gearing up for this damn tournament all summer, same as you. Don’t threaten me. I’m a big boy. I can handle myself.”
Her gaze flickers over his shoulder and she scowls. “Yeah, but can you handle him?”
This time when a warm hand claps him on the back, Colby’s expecting it. He turns and finds himself face to face with Vander Byron. “Don’t tell him I told you that,” Vallery warned earlier. “He hates his full name. Just call him Van.”
“Hey,” Van says, one corner of his mouth rising in a sexy smirk. His gaze drops to take in Colby, a sweeping once-over that leaves Colby feeling giddy. This close, Van’s eyes are a pale color—green? grey?—so translucent, they seem to reflect the lights shining above the bar. His blond hair is trimmed short on the sides and back but left thick in the front, hanging in wavy bangs that fall to one side of his face. Every now and then he shakes his head to the left in a poor attempt at trying to push those bangs out of his eyes.
Colby’s hand clenches around the bottle before him, his fingers numbing over the cold glass. His other hand rests on the pocket of his shorts where his keys bulge; his fist closes over the keys, holding tight as he stares into those washed-out eyes. He wants to brush that errant hair aside, tuck it behind Van’s ear, and he knows if he moves forward to do just that, nothing will stop him from leaning in closer until he falls right into the man beside him. His voice sounds breathy to his own ears as he sighs, “Hey yourself. Thirsty? I bought you a drink.”
“Sam Adams,” Van says with a grin. “My favorite. How’d you know?”
Van’s laugh is deeper than his sister’s. Colby feels it in his head, his chest, his dick. It curls through him like warm milk, settling somewhere just above his groin, where a steady throb has begun to pulse in time with his heart. Van eases onto the barstool beside Colby and, for a brief moment, his hips thrust forward as he steps up, pushing his crotch against Colby. Something hard and uncompromising hides in the front of those cut-off jeans—it brushes over Colby’s hand that still holds his keys, and he relaxes just enough to trace the outline of Van’s budding erection with his knuckle.
His barely-there touch makes Van’s smile brighten. “I’m Van.”
“I know.” Colby takes a quick swig of his beer, embarrassed. “I mean—I’m sorry. I’m Colby, but I’m sure you already know that. Does your sister often screen guys for you?”
“Nah, man.” Van dips his head down, hiding behind that wavy hair, but Colby sees the color pinking his cheeks and grins. So cute, this one. Same nose as his sister, same wide smile, same expressive eyes. Colby bends a little to peek up under those bangs and notices a dimple on Van’s left cheek. Yes, he decides. Damn cute.
Van sees him looking and busies himself with his own bottle of beer to buy himself some time. “We have the same taste in men. I wasn’t the only one checking you out when you came in.” He brushes his bangs aside to meet Colby’s gaze, smoothing the waves of hair behind his ear, but the moment his hand is gone, they spring back. “In Philly there’s really no need to do a bait and switch like that, but you got to be careful here. She called it right away—she has wicked keen gaydar—but hey, her loss is my gain.”
“Philly?” Colby frowns—he’s not one for tourists. “So you’re not from around here?”
With a disarming grin, Van says, “Val lives in Wildwood Crest. She says you work on the boards. Are you just here for the season?”
“I’m not a shubie, if that’s what you mean.” Colby uses the local term for tourist so Van knows he lives in Wildwood.
Van slides forward on his stool, pressing his bare knees against Colby’s upper thigh. One rests on the fabric of his shorts but the other touches his skin and he feels giddy all over again. Boldly Colby lets his hand drop from the keys in his pocket down his thigh, to his knee, then over to Van’s knee. Pale hair stands up like peach fuzz beneath his palm. When Van doesn’t move away, Colby dares to rub a little higher, to the hem of Van’s cut-offs, then down again to settle on his knee.
Oh, hell yes. He takes another swallow of ale. All the weariness he felt when he first wandered into the O off his shift is gone now, replaced with a humming desire that trills through him like electricity through wire. Leaning a little on Van’s knee, Colby props his other arm up on the bar and rests his chin in his hand, his eyes focused on the man beside him. “So,” he murmurs, accentuating his words with a squeeze on Van’s knee. “You visit your sister often?”
Van winks, a gesture so quick, Colby almost thinks he imagined it. “I’m always looking for a good excuse to come down the shore.”
* * * *
Three beers later, Van has scooted his bar stool closer and turned his knees out so his hip rests alongside Colby’s. The distance between them is gone; Colby’s hand now rests high up on Van’s thigh and he toys with the frayed fringe on Van’s pocket, his fingers dangerously close to Van’s crotch. Every now and then his pinkie finger touches the bulge at the front of Van’s jeans, which looks like nothing more than the curve of his zipper, but Colby feels the hardness sheathed there and knows he isn’t the only one sporting wood.
Van leans back against the bar, his cheek resting on his shoulder as he laughs at something Colby says. Bar lights flash in his eyes like stars and his lips glisten where he’s licked them a time or two. His bangs fall casually to the side. His laughter ignites the night.
Colby’s no longer hesitant—he reaches out, brushes back that curtain of curls, and twines one corkscrew around his forefinger. His whole body buzzes with booze and lust. Time has slowed to a crawl, and with each minute that trickles by, his hand moves closer to the promise coiled in Van’s shorts. Without looking away from his new friend, he signals for another beer.
When the drinks arrive, the bottles slam down on the bar. The sound jolts them upright, startling them. Van grabs Colby’s wrist and holds it against his thigh as if to keep it from disappearing. He gives Colby a furrowed look, then frowns at Megan, who glares at them from the other side of the bar. “This is it,” she snaps. “Drink up.”
As she storms away, Van stares warily at the bottle. “What’s her problem?”
Colby admits, “That’s my cousin. She’d rather I was home and in bed already.” When Van waggles his eyebrow, Colby clarifies, “Alone.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Van’s pout disappears when he raises the bottle to his lips. He takes a long swallow, then sets it back on the bar, half empty. “What is she, your mother? Can’t you have a little fun now and then?”
“Big day tomorrow.” Colby sips at his beer, torn. Meg’s right, he needs his sleep. But Van is charming and cute, his hands so warm where they rest on Colby’s body. All summer long, it’s been the pitching booth and volleyball—no time for himself, no time for fun. No time for this, he thinks, daring to poke at the erection straining the front of Van’s shorts. With a glance at the clock above the bar, he makes himself a deal. It’s just after eleven now. Another hour and I’ll get his number before heading home. It takes less than ten minutes to walk from the boardwalk to the duplex apartment he shares with Megan, so if he leaves at midnight, he’ll still get a good seven hours’ sleep before he has to be at the tournament in the morning.
Seven hours. Hell, he lived on less than that his whole senior year at Rutgers. If he leaves at midnight, he’ll still be on his game tomorrow.
Van touches his face, one forefinger tracing the curve of Colby’s jaw. “Where’d you go,
sexy? I lost you.”
Colby lunges as he fakes a bite at that finger. “I’m right here. You want to go someplace a little more…I don’t know, private?”
Van’s eyes widen, as does his smile. “Where do you have in mind?”
“The beach.” Colby nods past the bar at the exit gate, which leads down a short flight of wooden steps to the shore. One of the O’s employees stands guard, a tough-looking guy with a buzz cut whose tattooed arms are crossed before a barrel chest as he stands beside a sign that reads No Alcohol Beyond This Point. Van glances at the guy, then back at Colby, his eyes alight. Colby prompts, “You want?”
Throwing back the rest of his beer, Van purrs, “Lead the way.”
Colby leaves a twenty on the bar for the drinks, then takes Van’s hand in his to pull him off the bar stool and into the crowd. Together they bump through the bodies blocking their way to the exit, Colby in front, Van’s fingers curled warmly around his. At the gate Colby flashes the O guy a grin, which isn’t returned, but since they left their beers at the bar, they’re waved through.
The moment Colby steps out, he feels a cool breeze across his face, lifting the sandy hair from his brow. Though the O’s patio is open to the elements, the press of the crowd had kept him from feeling the wind before, or hearing the soft surf crash against the shore. The sound soothes him now, calming his racing heart, and the alcohol in his veins seems to ebb and flow with the tide. At this late hour, the moon shines like a bright sliver high above them, a scuttle of gray clouds scurrying across its face. The beach is dark, illuminated only by the scant moon above and its ephemeral reflection on the churning waves in the distance. The tide line is a good mile from the O’s pier, the sand heavy and thick to walk through, and still hot from the heat of the day. It slips between Colby’s toes, the bottoms of his feet and the sole of his sandals, fine grit he has to shake off every few steps to keep it from chafing.
He doesn’t get far before Van stops behind him. Their interlaced hands stretch taut between them, then Colby stumbles back, turning to laugh at his new friend. Van’s arms come up around him, hemming him in; Colby finds himself in a tight embrace, one he’s imagined all evening. With his forehead pressed against Van’s, he stands a few inches taller than Van and has to look down into those mercurial eyes. “Hey,” he whispers.
“Hey yourself.” Van’s eyes slip closed and Colby’s heart hammers in his chest, his ears. He waits, not daring to shut his own eyes and miss the moment. Van angles his chin up until it brushes alongside Colby’s cheek, then he turns ever so slightly and his lips touch Colby’s in a barely-there kiss.
The faint press of Van’s mouth on his nearly takes Colby’s breath away.
So soft, those lips. After their first taste, they part to take Colby’s lower lip between them, and he feels Van’s teeth nibble gently. He tastes the beer, and salt from the pretzels they had at the bar. Van’s arms tighten around Colby, hips jutting out to thrust the front of his cut-off jeans against Colby’s shorts. There’s no mistaking the hardness at Van’s crotch—it rubs against Colby’s own erection, warming the cloth that separates them. His lips open, forcing Colby to do the same, and Van’s tongue licks into him, hungry. “Please,” Van sighs before Colby kisses the word from him.
A loud laugh behind Van reminds Colby they’re close to the Oasis, probably too close. Someone with a seat near the edge of the patio might be enjoying the view they offer, and Colby isn’t one to put on a show. He rubs down Van’s arms and plucks Van’s hands from his hips as he takes a step back. Another, and a third, and one more to distance himself, trying to pull away from the sexy man before him whose divine kisses taste like ambrosia itself…
Van doesn’t let him get far. Instead of breaking their kiss, he follows Colby into the shadows, away from the patio and its noisy crowds, away from the neon lights stuttering on the boardwalk, away from the tourists and games and rides. The beach is dark and quiet, a place where the two of them can be alone for a moment. Have to be home by midnight, Colby reminds himself, but the thought conjures up an image of Cinderella racing home from the ball, her gown deteriorating into rags as she runs, and he snickers against Van’s lips.
Colby feels Van smile as he asks, “What?”
“Nothing.” Colby kisses the corner of Van’s mouth. When he glances down, he can’t see the watch on his wrist and knows he’ll probably miss his own self-imposed curfew. Ah well. There’s no way he’s stopping now. Leading Van another few steps onto the beach, he asks, “This private enough for you?”
“Perfect.” Van’s hand is warm in his. “If you’ll just stop running away from me.”
With a laugh, Colby backs up farther. “I’m not running away. I’m getting out of sight.”
“Afraid your cousin might watch?” Van teases.
“What about your sister?” Colby shoots back. He stumbles another step, tripping over the sand, and grabs Van’s wrist to keep from falling.
Strong hands clasp his upper arms, holding him. “Careful,” Van warns. Then he returns to Colby’s question, only partially asked in jest. “She’s already moved on, I’m sure. Found someone else to take her home tonight.”
Colby laughs. “I’m not that easy to forget.”
Van moves closer, his body brushing along Colby’s, his hands smoothing up Colby’s arms. His touch gives Colby goose bumps and he shivers in the stiff breeze blowing off the waves. As Van leans in, Colby sees the moon above reflected in those pale eyes of his, giving them a preternatural glow. Warm breath fans his cheek, heady with hops. Even in the darkness, Colby can see the shape Van’s lips make when he mouths the words, “Show me.”
Colby tries to be cute by taking one final step back—this is a battle of wills here, and he doesn’t want Van to think he’s easy. But his heel lands on something hard and brittle, a piece of driftwood maybe, or the discarded shell of a horseshoe crab. Whatever it is cracks beneath his weight, startling him. With a small gasp he grabs for Van as he sidesteps the object, but his feet get tangled together and he finds himself falling to the sand. His hands fist in Van’s shirt sleeves, pulling them along with him as he falls. “What the hell?”
Laughter pierces the night as Van shrugs out of his shirt, letting it fall along with Colby. He lands with a thud on his ass and scurries back, away from whatever he stepped on. In the night, the sand looks white, sculpted into waves by the wind, and Colby can’t see anything where he’d been standing. Above him, Van stands with arms akimbo, his bare chest darker than the white shirt now draped across Colby’s lap. “Look to me like you’re still running away.”
Tossing the shirt aside, Colby jokes, “I’m getting comfortable. Want to join me?”
Without a word, Van drops to the sand before Colby. There’s a smolder in his eyes that burns away the alcohol fuzzed around Colby’s brain, a look of hunger that speaks of a need only Colby can fulfill. As he watches, Van crawls toward him, between Colby’s raised knees, one hand on the ground at either side of Colby’s waist as he moves over him. Colby’s legs drop to the sand in submission and Van crawls closer, climbing atop Colby. His left hand finds a spot by Colby’s head; his left knee rests alongside Colby’s thigh, the weight of his body hovering over Colby’s like a promise. His right hand comes up beside Colby’s head, his right leg moving up into place. He leans forward, touches his lips to Colby’s mouth, then rocks back and sits squarely on the bulge at Colby’s groin.
Colby grunts in pleasure and writhes beneath Van. “Please.”
“Touch me,” Van commands.
Colby obeys, running his hands up over the thin muscles that line Van’s tanned arms, over his shoulders to cradle his neck, under the silver chain that dangles from his throat, down the firm planes of his chest. Colby thumbs Van’s nipples, both at the same time, eliciting a delighted hiss from the man above him. Down farther, he traces the taut muscles of Van’s abdomen, fingering his navel, then finally finding the snap at waistband of his denim shorts. Without urging, Colby pops open the s
nap and the zipper opens beneath the weight of Van’s cock as it strains the front of his crotch.
Then Van’s mouth covers Colby’s. There’s an urgency between them, as if this is the last night of summer vacation and they have only a few minutes to draw it out forever. Expertly Van kisses Colby, pinning him back to the sand as their bodies move against each other. Colby dips his hand into Van’s open zipper and isn’t the least surprised to find Van wears nothing under the shorts. A heavy dick falls into Colby’s palm like steel wrapped in velvet, nestled in a bed of downy hair. The rasp of Colby’s fingers along Van’s skin is muffled by the crush of their bodies.
Van’s attention turns to Colby’s neck. He kisses down Colby’s jaw to his ear, then licks behind it as Colby gasps his name. Van humps into Colby’s hand, his hips moving in quick little thrusts that thrill them both. With his free hand, Colby tugs down the front of his own shorts and grabs his hard dick through the jock strap he wears. It takes some finagling, but he manages to pull the jock down enough to let his erection swing free. His balls ache where the strap on his underwear cuts across them—they pulse in time with his heart and the material feels like a hand around them, squeezing, kneading, egging him toward release.
“Yes,” he sighs as Van burrows into his neck. Tiny kisses flick over Colby’s collar bone and along his throat. He thrusts against Van, eager in his need. “Yes.”
Another kiss silences him. When he rubs his cock alongside Van’s, his gasp of lust is lost in Van’s hot mouth. The two hump against each other with a rhythm that matches the pounding surf, Colby’s hands ringed around their twin lengths, his fingers smeared with pre-cum. He plucks at the tip of his dick, giving it a little tweak, then does the same to Van’s. Above him, Van shudders and rocks, his kisses sloppy as he moves faster. “God,” he breathes, and “yes,” and “uh uh uh yeah,” a litany that echoes through Colby’s head in time with the waves against the shore.
Colby feels Van’s cock shudder in his hand two seconds before his palm fills with sticky ejaculate. The orgasm triggers his own, and his lower belly warms beneath the mingled juices. For a moment Van rests above him, spent, his weight cloying as it traps Colby against the sand. “Gah,” Van sighs, unable to speak. He tries to kiss Colby and settles for a half-hearted buss along the cheek. “Fuck yeah.”
