Maybe he didn't have to wonder how Eli felt about him. Suddenly, he couldn't hold back any longer. He'd been holding back words, waiting for a perfect time to say them. Instead, the words came tumbling out, the careful rehearsals forgotten.
"I want to see you after this. After I leave. I want to ... date?” He gasped as Eli gripped his cock and began a slow, sensuous stroking. The man's eyes never left Mason's face and the tenderness in the caresses never faltered as Mason's rushed, stumbling words and emotions got the better of him. “I think I love you."
Eli smiled and increased the tightness of his grip on Mason's dick. “You think you love me? Only think it?"
Mason groaned and bucked up into the slick, sliding fist. Eli leaned down and licked the crown of Mason's cock as it popped through the clenched hold. Mason gasped and shimmied his hips while Eli's wet tongue explored his slit and hot breath turned the warm spit to cool, wet goodness that dripped over the leaking head.
"Because,” Eli continued—as if Mason wasn't writhing and moaning between his bent thighs—"I was thinking that I definitely love you.” He sucked the bulbous crown into his mouth and massaged the flared head with his lips before pulling off Mason's cock with a wet, thrilling hungry sound. “But if you're only thinking—"
"God, no! I mean, yesssss.” Mason was momentarily distracted as Eli fondling his balls, rolling and tugging gently on the sensitive sac. Mason sighed and surrendered. Declaring lasting love while making love wasn't the best place time to do it convincingly. But it was going to have to do. “I love you!"
Fists knotted in the sheets at his side, Mason stared up into Eli's face and knew this was the right time, the best time. He could actually see love, love for him and only him, in Eli's eyes. “I was just ... I didn't want to say it now ... you know while my dick head is doing most of the thinking ... but it just rushed out.” Realizing how uncertain he sounded, he rushed to add, “I think the head on my shoulders got tired of waiting for its turn to be in control."
They had been spending more and more time in bed than out enjoying the bracing autumn and the joys of Ruby's company. Good thing winter was approaching and the days were getting shorter. They had an excuse to go to bed earlier. And they had taken every advantage of the excuse.
Eli laughed out loud and Mason had to join him. The laughter ended in a long, lingering, deep kiss. Eli pulled back enough to look at Mason. “I'm glad that's settled. We'll work on the rest of things later. I think this is the important part."
"You think right."
Eli fumbled a condom and lube from the bedside table drawer and tossed it to Mason, who tore open the packet with trembling, eager hands and worked it over his lover's stout dick, layering it with slick, sensual goo. Mason stroked the swollen shaft, loving the feeling of thick power the cock's girth and hardness gave him. His asshole fluttered at the thought of it sliding into him, breaching his outer defenses and filling him, until his ass ached sweetly and his own cock strained with need.
Pulling his knees up, Mason exposed his opening to Eli's hands and ravenous gaze. Mason couldn't decide which one made him hotter—the Eli that touched his body or the Eli that touched his soul.
His lover entered with measured ease, gauging each thrust against Mason's moans and jerky little nods of eager need. Eli's cock hit Mason's prostate and with just an arch of his back or a twist of his hips, he could ignite bursts of white light behind Mason's eyes and send pleasure to ripping along his nerve endings.
Mason fumbled for Eli's hands, gripping their wrists as Eli supported himself on them. He felt bound to Eli, destined to be here. He felt full again, real.
Eli maintained a slow, steady rhythm of deep, powerful thrusts, every loving stroke aimed to rub over his lover's prostate. Mason was reduced to babbling incoherent half sentences and incomprehensible grunted syllables. With each thrust, Eli tried not to press his full weight onto Mason, but Mason gripped his shoulders and pulled him down, wanting to crawl inside the man's skin when he eased back.
As Mason neared his orgasm, Eli sensed his need and intensified his thrusts, stroking deep and slow, striking at Mason's prostate and stretching his opening so that he was battered by burning pleasure both in his ass and deep inside his groin. It was a seesaw of sensation that had yet to fail to send Mason into orbit. His orgasm began to build behind his tightening sac and the rocking rhythm took on an urgent, primal beat. Their orgasms ripped through them, first Mason's, then Eli's close behind.
Both men lay spent and sweaty on the sheets, amidst wrinkles and wet spots. Eli rolled off Mason, disposed of the condom, and pulled the covers over them before he drew his drowsy, pliant lover back into his arms.
Mason sighed and rolled over, spooning up to Eli's chest and planting his ass in Eli's groin. He liked the sensation of the hot, wet, and still half-hard cock against his burning ass. His opening clenched and spasmed, renewing the pleasurable burn, the burn of being filled and stretched.
An arm dropped around his waist and hot breath whispered over his neck. “Think you can deal with this on a regular basis, lover boy?"
"For once, both my heads are in agreement.” Mason reached up and laced his fingers through the fingers of the strong hand on his waist. “I think this will work out."
END
Josh Lanyon
A Ghost of a Chance
Like the philosophers say, the line between genius and stupidity is a fine one.
Actually, it wasn't the philosophers, it was Nigel in Spinal Tap, but the point is still a valid one. Which is why what seemed like a perfectly good idea at the time—namely, prying off the screen and crawling through the open window of Oliver de la Motte's front parlor—turned out to be a really bad decision.
It's not like I hadn't tried to use the key Oliver sent. I'd tried for about two minutes, turning the damn thing every possible way—not easy in the dark of three a.m., and not pleasant either with that clammy sea breeze on the back of my neck—and rustling the overgrown shrubs. Not that I'm the nervous type or I wouldn't hunt ghosts for a living—well, for a hobby. No one hunts ghosts for a living.
When I couldn't get the key to work I jumped off the porch and walked around the side of the house till I found an open window. Pulling out my pocket knife, I pried loose the screen, hoisted myself up and climbed through...
And that's when all hell broke loose.
Something rushed out of the darkness and tackled me around the waist, hurling me to the hardwood floor. The very hard wood floor. My tailbone, elbows and skull all connected painfully. My glasses went flying.
"Christ!” I yelped, trying to get away.
"Guess again,” growled a deep voice.
Human.
Definitely human. And male. Definitely male. I was wrestling six feet or so of hard, lean male. Naked hard, lean male. Definitely not Oliver who is sixty-something and built like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. And no one else was supposed to be here. Was my assailant a burglar? A naked burglar? The guy had muscles like rocks—speaking of which: I brought my knee up hard.
His breath went out in an infuriated whoosh. His weight rolled off me. I rolled over and tried to crawl away, but the rug beneath me bunched up and slid my way. A small table crashed down just missing my head, and I heard glass smash on the floor.
"You little son of a bitch,” said the burglar who was probably not a burglar, looming over me.
I tried to scoot away, but a knee jammed into my spine pinning me flat. He grabbed my right arm and yanked it back so hard I thought he'd dislocated it. The pain was unreal. I stopped fighting.
For a minute there was nothing but the ragged sound of our breathing in the darkness. Then he reached past me and turned on the table lamp.
I had a blurred view of a forest of scratched claw-foot furniture, miles of parquet floors and a herd of dust bunnies. I could make out my glasses a few feet away beneath a wide ottoman.
"I don't understand what's happening here.” I got out.
"What part do y
ou not understand?” he inquired grimly.
"Who are you?"
It must not have been the question he expected. “Who the hell are you?” He didn't ease up on my spine, but there was something in his tone ... a hint of doubt beneath the hostility.
"Rhys Davies. I'm a—a friend of Oliver's."
He made a disgusted sound. “Yeah, you and every other cheap hustler in the greater metropolitan area—"
"Cheap hustler!” I'm sorry to say that came out sounding way too much like a squeak. The squeak factor was partly due to the fact that with every shallow breath I inhaled his hot-off-the-sheets scent. He'd had a shower before bed, and that sleepy soapy skin smell was even more alarming than the fear he was going to crack my vertebrae.
"Oh, sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “Cheap is the wrong word. These things are never cheap."
"Things?” I repeated. “I'm not ... you've got this all wrong."
"Is that right?” He seemed unimpressed.
I requested with an effort, “Could you ease up on my arm?"
He let go of my arm. It flopped weakly down. I flexed my fingers, surprised that they still seemed to work.
"What are you doing here?” he asked. “Oliver's out of town for the next month."
"I could ask you the same question."
"Yeah, but I asked first.” He patted me down with brisk, impersonal efficiency. “If you're not one of Oliver's boy toys, what are you? Reporter? You're not a burglar, that's for sure."
And neither, obviously, was he. So who the hell was he?
"I told you who I am,” I bit out. “I'm a friend of Oliver's. He invited me to stay."
His weight shifted off my back, and he ran his hands along the outside of my legs—then the inside. He seemed to know what he was doing, but it was invasive to say the least. “Ever hear of knocking?"
"I didn't know there was anyone to hear me knock. I tried my key—the key Oliver sent. It didn't work."
"Your key?” He felt over my crotch with what felt like unnecessary familiarity. And in a tone I didn't like, he said, “I see."
"Hey! Then what's with the Braille!” I recoiled as much as you can with two hundred plus pounds of beef pinning you to the floor.
He hesitated, but only an instant, before pulling my wallet out of my back pocket. He thumbed through it, taking his time.
"Rice Davies,” he said.
"It's pronounced Reece,” I retorted, muffledly. “Like in Reese's Pieces."
Now why had I said that?
Amusement threaded his voice as he continued, “1045 Oakmont Street in West Hollywood. You're a long way from home, Reece."
Yes, apparently I had turned left after The Outer Limits. “Can I get up?"
"Slowly."
He stepped out of range as I sat up, wincing. I looked up—a long way up. He was a big blur, I had an impression of dark hair, big shoulders narrowing to more darkness, and miles of long brown legs.
"Can I get my glasses?"
The blur stepped away, bent, retrieved my glasses and handed them to me.
I moved onto the settee and put them on. My hands were a little unsteady. I haven't been in many fights. Not that academia isn't a jungle, but generally we don't end up brawling on the floor.
The man now sitting on the giant ottoman across from me came into sharp focus. He was not entirely naked after all. He wore cotton boxers with little red and blue boating flags, thin cotton very white against the deep brown of his tanned skin.
He stared back at me with equal curiosity.
His black hair was unruly—which could have been the result of an impromptu wrestling match. His eyes were very green in his tanned face. His features were too harsh to be good-looking. He looked ... mean. But he wasn't quite as burly as he'd seemed in the dark. About six feet of strong bones and hard muscle.
"You're Oliver's nephew,” I guessed, rubbing my wrenched shoulder. “The cop."
Something changed in his expression, shuttered.
"Bright boy. That's right. Sam Devlin."
I didn't know what to say. This was an unwelcome development, to say the least.
"I didn't know you were staying here."
He cocked a dark brow. “I didn't know I needed your permission."
"It's just ... I'm here to work."
"What did you have in mind?” he asked dryly.
I remembered the leisurely way he'd groped me earlier and felt an uncharacteristic heat in my face.
"I teach a course in paranormal studies at UCLA,” I said. “I'm working on a book about ghost hunting along the California coast. Oliver invited me to stay here for a few days while I researched Berkeley House."
I'm guessing most people never saw that particular expression on Sam Devlin's face. After a moment he closed his jaw sharply. He studied me with narrowed green eyes.
"Well, well,” he said mildly. “A ghost buster."
I hate that term. I hate that movie. Well, okay, there are funny bits: Rick Moranis as Louis Tully is a scream—but really. Not good for the image.
"Parapsychology is a science,” I said firmly.
"Yeah, weird science.” He considered me without pleasure. “This oughta be cozy,” he said finally. Planting his hands on his muscular thighs, he pushed up to his feet. “Okay, Mr. Pieces. I can't see anyone making up a story that dumb. Help yourself to one of the bedrooms. I'm upstairs on the left. There are clean sheets and towels in the cupboard at the end of the hall."
I stopped massaging my shoulder, gazing up at him doubtfully. “That's it? You're going to bed?"
"Did you have other plans, Professor?"
That was going to get old fast. I said a little sarcastically, “I thought you'd demand to see my teaching credential at the least."
He said through a yawn, “Is that what they call it these days? I think it can wait ‘til morning.” Heading for the hallway, he tossed over his shoulder, “Impressive though it may be."
I was treated to a final glimpse of his long brown legs vanishing up the staircase.
* * * *
A cheap hustler?
Now that was a first. Pretty funny, too. Sort of. C.K.—my ex—would have thought it was a riot.
After a moment or two, I pulled myself together and went outside to get my bags from my car.
The distant moon hung soft and fuzzy above the sharp tips of stiff and silent pine trees. I cut across the lawn, unlocked my car and hauled my laptop and suitcase out of the back of the Volvo, setting them on the gravel drive. I was re-locking the trunk when I caught a flicker of light out of the corner of my eye. I turned.
Beyond the tall wall of pine trees stood the cliffs overlooking the ocean. And on the cliffs perched Berkeley House. It looked like the illustration on the cover of a Hardy Boy's novel—or a smaller version of Cliff House near Ocean Beach, which was where C.K. and I had been dining when I first got the idea to write the book.
As I stared, light drifted across one of the upstairs windows.
I removed my glasses, wiped them, and looked again.
The house sat in total darkness. But as I watched, that eerie glow appeared once more in the corner room window on the second floor.
Interesting.
In ten years of researching the paranormal I'd never yet come across something that couldn't be explained by natural causes or human intervention. I had to admit, though, this looked pretty authentic. Not Marfa Lights; this illumination really did seem to be inside the house, hovering from window to window. Probably too powerful to be a flashlight beam—the house was about half a mile away. Maybe a reflection off the sea below, or some trick of moonlight? I was pretty damned tired, maybe I was dreaming....
Fascinated, I started walking toward Berkeley House, watching for that mysterious light. It seemed to float from window to window, then disappear—only to reappear on the other end of the house.
I rounded a bend in the road and the house vanished from view. I kept walking. The night smelled of the pines a
nd the sea. It was quiet except for the sound of my footsteps on the dirt road; I was a city kid, and not used to that kind of quiet. It should have been nice. People always talk about the peace and quiet of the country, but it made me a little uneasy.
I looked back and Oliver's house was now lost to sight. The woods crowded in on me.
I shook off my disquiet, focused on my destination.
It couldn't be a coincidence—a physical manifestation practically the moment I arrived? But who, besides Oliver, knew I was coming to investigate Berkeley House? Not even the nephew, apparently.
Just supposing the ghost lights were for real? As unlikely as that was, I decided I couldn't wait for morning. I needed to check this out now.
I hurried along the dirt road as quickly as I could safely go without risking a sprain or a fall.
When at last I emerged from the copse, I found myself on the edge of what must have once been a formal sunken garden. The hedges were overgrown with brambles and berries, an oblong pool filmed over with scum. A couple of wind-bent eucalyptus dotted the grounds as though placed there by Salvador Dali. Broken statuary littered the weeds like bone fragments.
I stared across the ruins of the garden to the house. The upstairs windows were unlit. Nothing moved. It could have been a painting—maybe one of those gloomy efforts by Atkinson Grimshaw.
I continued to wait for ... something.
But nothing happened. The woolly moon sank further down the sky.
Something swooped over head and I ducked. A bird? A bat? Or—the way my night was going—a flying squirrel?
I peered at the luminous dial of my watch. Four-fifteen. The sun would be up soon. I rubbed the grit from my eyes and decided to call it a night.
Starting back for Oliver's place, the woods were even darker and creepier, pine needles whispering underfoot, the sea breeze sighing through the tree branches. My night vision was never great and it was especially bad when my eyes were tired. The shadows seemed to shift and slide. I kept my attention on the mostly overgrown road, having zero desire to spend the night in the woods with a sprained ankle.
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