Hot Jocks

by J. M. Snyder

* * * *

  As they eat, the back room gradually fills with other diners, until they are no longer alone. Trey’s foot nestles alongside Greg’s. Every now and then, his hand disappears under the table and drifts to touch Greg’s knee. The way he watches Greg makes Greg feel as if he’s the only person in existence—everything he says earns him one of Trey’s sunshine grins, and there’s an infuriatingly cute flush coloring Trey’s cheeks. He stares at Greg, a hunger shining in his eyes that has nothing to do with the two sirloins sizzling on the plates before them. I want you, he said—the words hang between them like music drifting in the air. I’ve always wanted you.

  How can Greg say no to that?

  Their conversation is tinged with suggestion. Carla was right, golf is full of sex talk. At one point Trey sets his knife and fork aside and rests both elbows on the table, hands steepled in front of him, as he watches Greg eat. Greg glances up, sees pure, unadulterated lust staring back, and chokes down the mouthful of food he’s chewing.

  “You know,” Trey purrs, “I’ve been thinking…”

  If it’s about you and me retiring together after dinner, I’m thinking the same thing. But Greg doesn’t know if the words would sound as suave if he said them aloud, so he just sips at his wine and asks, “What’s that?”

  Trey’s Cheshire cat smile is intriguing. “Do you still caddy?”

  With a shrug, Greg turns back to his steak. “Occasionally. Mostly I’m on hand for private lessons—”

  “I’m sure you could teach me a thing or two,” Trey murmurs. “How about I show you my swing after dinner? I have a private room.”

  Greg listens to himself in disbelief as he answers, “I’ve got an eight wood perfect for a long drive.”

  One of Trey’s eyebrows arches in surprise. “Okay, after a comment like that? There’s no way I’m letting you out of my sight this evening. That’s an eight wood I’ve got to see.”

  Greg laughs. Who said golf was a solitary game?

  Swirling his fingertip around the mouth of his wine glass, Trey says, “If things work out, maybe I can have you on my bag tomorrow, too.”

  At first Greg thinks he’s being asked out a second time, and he hopes he looks nonchalant when he shrugs. “Sure. Sounds good.”

  “Can you caddy for me?” Trey asks, his grin fading. “I mean, it’s not against the rules or anything, is it? Just because you work here…”

  Too late, Greg realizes they’re really talking about golf now. “Oh! No, I can. No problem. The staff here is on hand for any guest who needs us. Most of these old guys don’t bring their own caddies, you know? The registration fee’s too high. So yeah, if you want me with you on the green, we can work something out.”

  “I want you all right,” Trey sighs. His gaze drops to Greg’s mouth and his tongue darts out to gloss over his own lips. “I’m ready to see this eight wood you mentioned whenever you’re ready to show me.”

  * * * *

  Between them they split two bottles of wine, but Greg thinks he drank more than his fair share. By the time they rise to leave, he wobbles unsteadily on his legs and Trey slips an arm around his waist to help him. His closeness is more intoxicating than all the glasses of Cabernet Greg downed. Greg leans heavily on his old friend and lets himself be steered toward the bank of elevators off to one side in the lobby. There the two men are alone; after Trey presses the UP button to call a car, he wraps both arms around Greg and pulls him near. “I’m on the seventh floor,” he murmurs, his breath hot against Greg’s neck.

  “I’m on the second,” Greg answers, but he doesn’t know why he bothered—these public elevators don’t stop at the staff’s quarters. That lift is off limits to guests. They could try the stairs…

  But a metal door opens before them and Trey guides Greg inside. The chance to ask if he’d like to come to Greg’s room is gone.

  Inside the brightly lit elevator, Greg leans back against one mirrored wall, eyes shut. His head is swimming and, when the lift moves, the world threatens to drop away from him. They’re alone. Finally, alone.

  Greg isn’t quite sure what he thinks about that.

  Part of him wants Trey—wants him so badly his balls ache. It’s been a while since he’s been with anyone, and the prospect of getting lucky has his blood humming along with the alcohol that sloshes through his veins. But the moment he starts to play out the night ahead, picturing Trey naked beneath him, feeling the hotel bed rocking under their combined rhythm, the image of that surprised twelve year old flashes in his mind, dousing his ardor. Greg knows Trey’s father, or did, once. After tonight, how will he ever be able to look at the man again? Every time he hears the name Johns, he’ll think of bedding Trey.

  He shouldn’t do this. He shouldn’t be here, in this lift, with Trey. He should drop the guy off at the seventh floor, thank him for a good meal and great company, and head back to his own solitary suite. Jerk off thinking of what might have been before he falls asleep. Show up tomorrow on the putting green with a clear head and a clearer conscience, all business once again.

  Before he can suggest any of that, a hard body leans against his, pinning him to the wall. Greg moans, his lower lip caught between his teeth. “Trey.”

  A warm, soft mouth covers his. Strong hands take Greg’s, fingers lacing through his own. Trey’s lips part, opening Greg’s mouth; his tongue licks just inside Greg’s lower lip, along sensitive skin that tingles at his touch. Then he delves in, insistent, as if Greg were another glass of wine to be sipped, savored, and swallowed. Greg moans again, louder this time, and one of Trey’s knees eases between Greg’s own to press against the ache throbbing in the front of his jeans.

  “Trey,” Greg tries again, but the word is lost in their kiss.

  “I want you,” Trey murmurs. It’s the headiest thing Greg’s heard in a while, more potent than the wine, more seductive than the dinner. He arches his hips and pushes his crotch into Greg’s, their erections singing sweetly together. “In me, tonight. Now. God, I’m all yours.”

  A bell sounds, interrupting them. When Trey steps back, Greg leans forward, following—he doesn’t want the kisses to end. But the hand in his tightens as the elevator door opens, and Greg finds himself stumbling out into an empty hallway. “I’m down a ways,” Trey says.

  He places a hand on the small of Greg’s back to steer him down the hall, then grabs a fist full of his shirt to reel him in when they reach his door. “Right here.” Trey leans heavily against Greg, his chin on Greg’s shoulder as he smiles up at him. When he speaks, his voice is low and breathy. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I haven’t yet,” Greg says. The alcohol buzzes in his brain, fizzles through his veins, and invigorates his dick. Given the erection he’s sporting now, he knows it won’t take much to set him off.

  With a laugh, Trey tucks his keycard into the lock and opens the door to his room. Greg follows him inside, both hands holding onto one of Trey’s. The door closes behind them with a soft click.

  The room is spacious, with a king size bed facing a flat screen TV. It’s more hotel than apartment, though, and not as cozy as Greg’s quarters. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he kicks off his shoes and bounces a little on the mattress. “This is nice.”

  “Just you wait,” Trey promises.

  As Greg watches, Trey unbuckles his belt, unzips his khakis, and pulls his undershirt free from where it’s tucked into his pants. With nimble fingers, he unbuttons his red, see-through shirt. Greg watches, mesmerized, as each undone button reveals more of the man beneath the fabric. A flat stomach, the hint of definition to the muscles around his navel, the thin trail of brown hair that dips into his pants and disappears. The shirt is shucked off and falls to the floor; the undershirt is pulled off over Trey’s head and follows suit. Then he crawls onto Greg, laying him back against the mattress as his legs slip free from his pants. One knee comes up beside Greg’s right leg, an arm hems Greg in on either side—he lies down with Trey above him, dark eyes alive with a flickering hunger t
hat dinner wasn’t able to sate. “I want you,” he breathes.

  Greg lets his hands play across Trey’s smooth chest. The skin is dusky, tan and firm. “Yes.”

  “I need you,” Trey purrs. “In me. Now.”

  “Yes.” Greg’s thumbs brush over Trey’s nipples, which stiffen in response. There’s a bulge at the front of his briefs that strains the white fabric, hanging like a promise above Greg’s crotch. “Please.”

  Trey’s lips find Greg’s again, silencing him. With both legs on the bed now, Trey lets his knees slide apart until he’s flush along Greg’s body. All that separates them are Greg’s clothes and Trey’s briefs. His hands fist in Greg’s hair, pulling Greg close as their kiss deepens. Trey’s mouth is hot on his; his breath is a fire that fans over Greg’s skin, and his touch burns like the sun. Greg would love to melt in Trey’s embrace. To feel the press of flesh, these lips on every inch of his body, Trey’s ass clenched tight around his cock. He fumbles with his belt, his hands caught between their bodies, eager to strip and lay himself bare before this young god above him. “Yes,” he sighs, unzipping his jeans. Trey kisses the words from his lips. “Yes, please. Trey, yes.”

  It’s awkward, wriggling under Trey as he tries to undress, but once Trey realizes what he’s doing, he helps. Rolling onto his side, he cradles Greg’s face in both hands and turns it toward him, his tongue tasting Greg’s numb lips before licking into him again. As fast as he can, Greg wrestles free from his jeans, tugging off his briefs, as well. His cock stands from a thick thatch of dark hair, and his hands drift to massage his own length as he drowns in Trey’s kisses. Yes.

  A hand tickles up his belly to stroke his nipple. With his pants around his ankles, Greg awkwardly mounts Trey. He wants this, he needs it, yes. Strong hands cup his ass, spreading his cheeks—one exploratory forefinger rims his puckered hole and he gasps in delight. “Yes.”

  Reaching for Trey’s briefs, he watches his own hand strum over the taut material. He traces the outline of Trey’s thick cock, then hefts Trey’s balls in the palm of his hand. Closing the distance between them, he finds a sensitive spot on the underside of Trey’s chin and kisses his way along Trey’s jaw to his ear. “Fuck me,” Trey whispers with a lusty moan. “God, Greg. I’ve always dreamed of you fucking me.”

  Always.

  The word is a dash of cold water on Greg’s libido. Always calls to mind a twelve year old Trey changing in the bathroom when Greg walked in on him. Always is a young boy with a bag of toy clubs following Greg around as he caddied for Mr. Johns. Always is the sullen glare that had greeted him at the door the day he left for college, when he had swung by to say goodbye.

  Always reminds him of the history they share—this isn’t a one-night stand with a random guest. This is Trevor Johns, Junior, who Greg has never thought of in any sexual way until today. Trey, who had been a brother to Greg while growing up. Trey, who wants Greg to caddy for him tomorrow.

  Trey, whose bright smile and warm eyes Greg knows he won’t soon forget once this weekend is over.

  Who he knows he’ll want to see again.

  He can’t rush through this. He wants more; they deserve more. His voice sounds foreign to his own ears when he murmurs, “No.”

  Trey’s hands clench Greg’s buttocks harder. “Hmm?” he asks, kissing a tender place behind Greg’s ear.

  “I can’t.” Somehow, Greg manages to push himself up, away from the willing man beneath him. Trey’s chocolate eyes are dulled, drugged on desire, and Greg runs a hand across his own face to keep from falling into that gaze. “I mean…”

  Now Trey sits up, and Greg falls back. His legs feel cold, exposed; between them, his dick stands stiff, poking at his stomach.

  “Can’t what?” Trey asks.

  Skirting the question, Greg glances at the alarm clock on the bedside table. “It’s getting late. I have to go.”

  “Wait.” Trey reaches for him, but Greg pulls back and tumbles over the edge of the bed to land heavily on the floor. “Greg, what is it? Tell me. What did I do?”

  “It’s not you.” Standing, Greg hauls up his jeans and tucks his erection down into his briefs. It takes two tries to get the zipper up over that bulge. He feels unclean for some reason, like he’s taken advantage of Trey in some way. Greg always saw him as a younger brother and this sudden intimacy is too much, too soon. He made that mistake with Antoine. He doesn’t want to do the same with Trey and risk losing whatever they could have together. He can’t take that chance.

  But it’s so hard to see Trey lying there, his mouth wet with Greg’s kisses, his chest and legs bare. There’s a translucent spot on the white fabric of his briefs, to the right side of the fly, where he’s started to come, just a little, and his juices have seeped through. Greg resists the urge to lean down and lick the spot, taste the cottony tartness of Trey’s cum. To strengthen his resolve, he says again, “I can’t.”

  “Greg,” Trey starts. When Greg scoops up his shoes from the floor, Trey reaches for him and his fingers brush over Greg’s backside. “Let’s talk about this. Don’t just leave. Things were going so well…”

  Too well, Greg thinks. His head spins as his thoughts reel out in a dozen directions at once. He needs to think about this, about Trey. He shouldn’t have drunk so much. What time is it again? He has to go.

  “Wait!” Trey calls as Greg heads for the door.

  Greg doesn’t wait. He hears the creak of bed springs and hurries out into the hall. He carries his shoes in one hand and uses the other to smooth his shirt down over the front of his jeans. His dick hurts, his balls ache. By the time the door latches behind him, he already regrets his decision. They had been so close.

  But Carla’s words come back to him. She’s right, of course. He doesn’t want just a weekend fling, not with an old friend. Not with Trey. Dinner and some wine, a little flirtatious talk, enough kisses to make him want more…a hell of a lot more. He’s doing the right thing, he assures himself.

  Then why is his heart hammering in his chest? Why are his palms sweaty, and the nape of his neck damp? Why does every nerve in his body tell him to turn around and go back?

  * * * *

  The next morning Greg wakes feeling like shit. There’s a stabbing pain behind his right eye that gets worse when he turns on the light, and his balls throb as if disappointed Trey isn’t sharing his bed. Now that he’s slept on it, he thinks he might have made a mistake. He needs to find Trey and apologize—is there anything he can say or do that will bring them back to where they had been the night before? Or did he just blow his chances with only the hottest guy he’s seen in a long time?

  He doesn’t know, but God, he hopes not.

  A hot shower invigorates him, and he takes a couple aspirin to chase away the headache. Then he dresses in light khakis and a dark shirt with the Hermitage’s logo on the left breast. Despite what happened between himself and Trey, he still expects to caddy for the guy, so he slathers on sunscreen and tucks a cap into his back pocket to protect his face when he’s out on the green.

  He needs something to eat—the aspirin are making him feel a little light-headed now, but at least the pain is receding. He’ll go down to the lodge’s dining room for their complimentary breakfast and a nice, steaming cup of coffee. Then he’ll find his way up to the seventh floor and hope he can remember which room is Trey’s. I was being stupid last night, he’ll say. This time he will be the one who asks if they can meet for dinner, and it will be his room they retire to afterward. He’s already wasted one evening. He isn’t going to let himself waste another.

  The dining room is downstairs off the lobby. Though the day is still early, the room is already crowded with golfers, their caddies, and a few disgruntled wives looking forward to taking the lodge’s bus into town later for some shopping while their spouses play. Greg gets in line at the buffet table, but he doesn’t take a plate; he wants a muffin, some butter, and the biggest cup of coffee they have. As he shuffles along in line, he glances around the room
, pleased to see it filled. Half the guests are scheduled to tee off today, the rest on Saturday, with Sunday reserved for any tie-breaking holes they might have to shoot. Winners will be announced at a banquet Sunday evening, and the golfers can choose to head home on Memorial Day or stay for morning rounds if they want. Greg hopes Trey decides to stay. More than that, he hopes he can work things out between them. He was such an ass last night…

  As he looks around, he sees Trey sitting by himself at a small table by the window. The morning newspaper obscures his face, but Greg recognizes his profile. Suddenly his heart jump-starts in his chest, his palms begin to sweat, and he almost misses the basket of muffins on the buffet. Shit.

  Trey doesn’t see him. While Greg fills his coffee mug, he watches Trey from the corner of his eye. The guy never looks up from his paper, and doesn’t look over to where Greg stands. The mug grows warm in his hand, then the first hot trickle of coffee splashes his fingers. “Shit,” he mutters, aloud this time. He sips the overflowing mug gingerly and shoves his burnt hand into the bowl of ice that chills the milk. He has to go talk to him, he’s decided. It’s good Trey is here, and not upstairs in his room. Things will go more smoothly if there are others around.

  Still, he crosses the dining room with the heavy steps of a condemned man. When he stops beside Trey’s table, the guy still doesn’t look up at him. Greg clears his throat—no acknowledgement. Pulling out the chair across from Trey, Greg asks, “Is this seat taken?”

  Now Trey glances up. His eyes are cold and hard, his mouth set in a tight line that isn’t quite a scowl but isn’t friendly, either. Though he doesn’t answer, Greg drops into the chair anyway. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  No reply.

  Greg forces a laugh. “Me too,” he admits, preferring to mistake Trey’s silence for a hangover rather than anger. “Woke up and my head was pounding, I’m telling you. Never again, man. I ain’t as young as I used to be.”

  “What do you want?” Trey asks. His voice is as hard and unforgiving as his eyes. He folds the paper and sets it between them like a barrier, then leans back in his seat, one hand tapping the front page of the paper.