Scared Stiff

by Laura Baumbach, William Maltese, Josh Lanyon

  "I don't know. Partly, I think."

  I thought it was funny how easily he spoke of love and caring and commitment. He didn't look like a guy who would waste five minutes on mushy stuff, let alone be able to articulate his feelings. Of course, he didn't look like a world-class kisser, either, but he was that all right. My mouth still tingled pleasantly from our after dinner encounter.

  I started to speak but caught sight of Berkeley House through the trees. I stopped stock still. “Look!"

  Sam followed the direction I pointed. In the distance we could see hazy lights moving eerily from window to window on the upstairs floor.

  He was silent.

  "You see that?"

  "Yeah.” He let go of me, automatically reaching up with his free hand, and I knew he would ordinarily have been wearing a shoulder holster. “I need to check that out."

  The last thing I wanted was him investigating the house and finding my equipment. I said, “Unless someone's using a trampoline, I don't understand how that can be of human origin. The staircase has rotted through and the dumb waiters are wrecked."

  He snorted. “What, you think that's David Berkeley looking for a lost sock or something?"

  "Maybe he's looking for his head."

  He glanced at me. “Now that's a gruesome thought, professor."

  I shrugged.

  "It might be some kind of refracted light. Ships off the ocean?"

  I didn't even bother to answer that one.

  "Okay, what do you think it is?"

  "You can't even consider the idea that it might be a paranormal phenomenon?"

  He opened his mouth, and then apparently rethought the first words that came to him. “I didn't say that.” His spoke painstakingly, and I realized that he was making a conscious attempt not to offend me. “But I need something more than—"

  He fell silent as the light vanished. We waited for a few moments but the windows stayed dark.

  "The moon reflecting off something maybe,” he said doubtfully.

  "Whatever it is, it's over for the night.” I said. “Let's go back to Oliver's."

  He thought it over. “Come on,” he said, and to my relief—and pleasure—he put his arm around my shoulders again.

  As we continued on I was thinking about my assertion that supernatural forces had to be at work, but what about the lozenge of candy I'd found?

  I knew I should tell Sam.

  If local kids were fooling around in that house, it had to stop. The place was a death-trap.

  But maybe I could wait ‘til tomorrow; ‘til after whatever was going to happen tonight had developed. We'd have a better chance of weathering Sam's discovery of my deception if things went well tonight. And if I could get my stuff out of the house tomorrow without him finding out, maybe I could find another way to let him know about the house's other trespassers.

  "What are you thinking about so seriously?” he asked.

  "About the way things work out. I'm glad Oliver invited me to stay."

  His hand rested lightly against the small of my back, warm, possessive. “Me too."

  When we got back to the house, Sam poured us each a brandy and then called Oliver. It was a brief call, and Sam was unusually curt with his uncle. At least, that's how it seemed to me, listening in.

  He said finally, “Maybe you should tell Thad then."

  He listened to Oliver, and then said with great finality, “Then I guess it comes down to trust."

  Trust. A little frisson of alarm unfurled down my spine, and I was glad I'd kept my mouth shut about sneaking back inside the house. In fact, I was definitely going to get my stuff out of that house without Sam finding out. I could probably pretend to leave tomorrow and then swing back around and park in the woods again.

  Sam concluded his call with Oliver. For a moment he gazed down at the phone; his head raised, he met my gaze. “Feel like a moonlight swim?"

  "A ... swim?"

  He smiled—and I found myself smiling too.

  * * * *

  We swam naked in the warm buoyant water of the pool behind the house, our voices quiet in the cool empty night air. A tear in the canopy of thick cloud cover revealed the dusting of stars glittering high overhead. Sam had turned on the living room stereo and the music drifted out from the window, a lazy seductive saxophone flirting with a sexy-shy piano.

  After a couple of lazy laps, I floated on my back and stared up at the sky. The fleecy black clouds looked low enough to touch. Steam rose from the water. Sam swam up beside me; he moved like an eel in the water, smooth and fast, the water barely rippling around him.

  "What time are you leaving tomorrow?"

  "I should probably be on the road by lunch time. I have an evening lecture."

  He sank down, swimming under me, slick body brushing my own, surfacing so that I was lying across him. His genitals bobbed against my backside; he was half-hard—and now so was I. The languid graze of hands and legs, the bump of bodies, the glide of water on sensitive skin: it was playful and erotic at the some time.

  "Do you—?” I wanted to ask if he ever got down to L.A., but he interrupted quietly, “Yeah, I do.” And his hands slid under me, turning me without effort so that I was lying on top of him.

  He kissed me, his lips cool and tasting of chlorine and Sam. I kissed him back.

  His legs wrapped around me, his arms slipped under my own, holding me tight. His mouth fastened on mine again and we slowly submerged, the water closing softly over our heads.

  I realized I was out of my depth in more than one way.

  * * * *

  I breathed out a gentle stream of bubbles through my nose while Sam's breath filled my mouth and lungs. I opened my eyes as we sank past the pool lights, the underwater world washed out aqua and bright as daylight. It was like being in our own sphere, warm as the womb; I let go, let Sam control it, relaxed in his arms as we drifted down. His mouth exhaled softly into mine. Our feet touched against the floor of the pool and he pushed off. We shot back up again in a silver spill of bubbles.

  Our heads broke the surface, the night air cold against our wet faces.

  It was black as pitch. It took me a moment to realize the house lights were off and the music had stopped.

  "Hey,” I said to Sam, wiping my face. “That was some kiss. The fuses just blew."

  The pool water swelled like ink around us as the wind rose again. Sam's feet and legs brushed mine as we tread water.

  "It's an electrical storm,” he said, staring up at the clouds.

  Sure enough, as we watched, lightning forked against the night. The air around us seemed to crackle with a charge—followed by the boom of thunder.

  "Oh hell,” Sam said. “Swim, Rhys."

  I didn't need to be told twice. We raced for the steps, reaching them as the night flashed white—followed by another ear-splitting crack of thunder.

  Sam was up and out, reaching back for me. With one hand he practically lifted me out of the water and onto the cement—and I realized exactly how strong he really was.

  "It's close,” I gasped, as another flare lit our way across the bricks to the back door of the house.

  "Too close,” he agreed. He kept a hand fastened on my upper arm, guiding me through the blur of wooden patio furniture and potted plants.

  The wet slap of our feet left footprints that vanished on the paving behind us like ghost steps. Sam felt for the door knob and pushed into the kitchen. The curtains billowed in the wind from the open windows, shadowy and indistinct in the darkness.

  "Stay there and I'll find candles,” he ordered.

  I didn't bother to answer, stepping back outside, finding my way to the table where I'd left my glasses. I slipped them on and stood there for a moment beneath the vine-covered pergola watching the lightning flash above the ocean. The air snapped with electricity. The hair on my arms prickled with it.

  "Rhys?” Sam called from inside the house.

  "Right here,” I called back.

  Sam ap
peared in the kitchen doorway holding a thick candle. The flickering shadow cast sinister angles across his face.

  I said, “This would seem to limit the evening's entertainment options."

  A slow and wicked grin crossed his face. “I wouldn't say that,” he said.

  * * * *

  "You're beautiful,” Sam said huskily. His big warm hand stroked my belly like he'd stroke a cat. It felt extraordinarily nice, and if I'd known how to purr, I would have. Instead I laughed huskily, as my cock filled, twitching like a witching wand.

  "So are you."

  "You're right. That is funny."

  I shook my head, but it was hard to concentrate. I just wanted his hand around me. I dug my heels in the mattress of his bed and thrust up a little. Instead his hand slid upwards, stroking my chest, scratching my nipples with his thumbnail. I groaned.

  He murmured, “Beautiful and funny and smart—and a liar."

  My eyes flew to his face. “I'm not lying,” I said—and because my conscience was guilty, I sounded abrupt and defensive.

  "I'm teasing you,” he said. “I know you're not lying. You're trying to be nice. You don't have to bother. This mug of mine is useful in my line of work."

  I stared up at his face; there was strength and character in his harsh ugliness. In fact, he no longer seemed ugly. I liked the fact that he didn't look like everybody else. He seemed familiar and increasingly important to me. Too important to lie to.

  "Sam,” I began hesitantly.

  His mouth touched mine, stopping my words as though he knew what I was going to say, as though he didn't want to hear it, as though he didn't want the moment spoiled. And because I didn't want the moment spoiled either—because I needed this moment—I let his lips press me into silence, opening to him in another way.

  Sam's kisses made me feel like I'd never been properly kissed before, like it was the first time—like the best of all the firsts: the first giddy swoop of alcohol in your bloodstream or the first sweet bite of dark chocolate on your tongue or the first time you saw a shooting star or felt a man's mouth close on your dick.

  His hands gathered me close, hard and competent but cherishing too. I could feel every beat of our hearts echoing in my veins and nerves, beat and answering beat. I felt safe and complete in Sam's arms.

  His mouth lifted from mine. “What would you like?” His soft words gusted moist and warm against my ear.

  I said with simple certainty, “I want to be inside you."

  And he nodded, surprising me with an astonishingly sweet smile. “Sure. How?"

  We angled around, knees and elbows bumping, but it was relaxed and easy, as though we were already used to each other, comfortable with each other. Sam stretched out before me, long strong and bronzed in the candlelight. Everything in beautiful proportion, the ripple of muscles beneath supple skin, the black dusting of hair over limbs and genitals. His hands and feet were carefully groomed, the nails trimmed and buffed. His hair was neatly cut. He took care of the details, so he did care to some extent about appearances. I felt unexpected tenderness for him, a desire to make up for things.

  Bending, I kissed the back of his strong neck, and he shivered.

  There was a tube of sunscreen next to the bed, and I squeezed a dollop of creamy white smelling of sea and sand on my fingers, separating the globes of Sam's tight buttocks with one hand and probing that tight little hole with the other.

  I pushed one delicate finger in and Sam uttered a long, low groan, his body clenching.

  I smiled. “All right?” I leaned forward, pressed a damp kiss between his shoulder blades. The ring of muscle pulled at my finger as I slid in and out.

  "Believe it,” he grated.

  I took my time, although I could tell he didn't really need it, and then I pressed a second finger in, stretching him, seeking that nub of nerves and gland. Sam pushed back at my hand, drawing me in deeper.

  "You're so gentle...” He raised his head, smiling. “Knew when I saw those long, sensitive fingers of yours ... fuuuck ... “ His back arched as I found his P-spot.

  I moved forward, trying to find his mouth at that awkward angle, massaging the spongy bump with careful fingers. My own cock was rock hard, my balls aching. Sam shuddered and moaned as I lowered myself on top of him. I loved the hard heat of his body down the length of mine.

  "This feels so good,” I said into his muscular shoulder. “I think I've wanted this practically since that first night."

  "You're killing me here, professor,” Sam muttered. His buttocks humped back against my groin, and I pulled my fingers out, replacing them in that moist heat with my dick. So ... good. I whimpered as his sphincter muscle contracted around me. Began to push and slide in that hot darkness. I couldn't have stopped to save my life.

  Sam let out a deep sound, something between a groan and a growl, and began to rock back hard against me. I thrust back at him, closing my eyes, just concentrating on that welcome velvet grab, trying to push deeper, needing to feel joined, united. Heat on burning heat. His fierce silence in contrast to my own wounded sounds as I pumped into him, reaching further and further for that desperate release—

  And finally ... after delicious and due diligence ... at last ... there it was. Rolling up out of the yearning struggle of hungry cock and willing ass, slow sweet climax that pulsed through me, warming me with every heartbeat.

  "Sam ... Sam...” I couldn't help it. Couldn't help the helpless noises as I began to come, pouring out stupid emotional things while my muscles turned to rubber and my cock spurted sticky relief into the clench of his channel.

  I collapsed on top of him, gasping for breath, quivering head to foot. I'm ashamed to admit I didn't even know if he'd come. Although the linens felt soggy enough for several orgasms.

  A long, long time later, Sam stirred, tipping me off of him and pulling the covers over us. I wrapped my arms around him, still wanting the closeness, quietly delighted when his arms wrapped around me again, cradling me against his warmth. He kissed my brow bone and my nose, and I smiled, opened sleepy eyes.

  Over his shoulder I could see the candle on the bedstand, hissing and guttering hot wax. “Does that candle look funny to you?” I mumbled. “Kind of green and glowing...?"

  He half-rolled away, blew the candle out, and pulled me back against his body.

  * * * *

  The storm had passed.

  I slipped out from under Sam's arm. Slid out of the warm bed, found my glasses, stuck them on my nose. The clock next to Sam read half-past midnight. For a moment I stood there watching Sam sleep in the moonlight, the hard planes of his face relaxed, his hair tumbled, his mouth soft. He was snoring, a tolerable buzz. I found my jeans and tiptoed out of the room while Sam slept deeply on.

  Making my way along the hall, I headed downstairs, retrieving my shoes in the hallway.

  I was moving fast, refusing to acknowledge any unease. I needed to make this fast, needed to get back in case Sam woke and wondered what happened to me. I didn't know how heavy a sleeper he was and I didn't want to find out the hard way.

  So if David Berkeley was lurking in the trees, I didn't see him as I ran through the woods. I came out on the edge of the sunken garden, paused, hands braced on thighs, to catch my breath. The moon, reflected in the black windows of the house, gilded the eucalyptus trees and the broken statues. Cautiously, I made my way down the moss-slick stone stairs, finding a path through the weeds and brambles.

  Skulking along the side of the house, sticking to the shadows, I drew near the library window—and froze. Were those voices I heard? I inched closer, trying to see through the shadows and darkness.

  I reached the library window and listened.

  Silence.

  No—there is was. Echoing down the hallway. It sounded like something heavy being dragged along the floor.

  Hands on the window ledge, I hesitated. Leaned in.

  I heard it again. A voice. Masculine. I couldn't make out the words. I swung myself up, ducking unde
r the shattered window, and the roof crashed down on me....

  * * * *

  Cold.

  Bitter cold. I shivered—had been shivering if the ache in muscles was anything to go by.

  My head ached too, the sick pounding of my temples seeming to rebound through my entire body, pulse hammering, heart thudding too hard. Shell bursts flared behind my eyelids.

  What was wrong with me? Was I ill?

  I pried my eyes open. Pitch ... black ... nothing.

  Panic washed through me. Was I blind? What had happened to me?

  I made an effort to sit up. Sweat broke out on my body, nausea roiled through my belly. I twisted to the side and threw up. I groaned. Threw up again.

  When the worst of it seemed over, I scooted back painfully, dropping back shaking onto the cold stone. Why was I lying on the floor? What floor?

  What ... the ... fuck ... had happened to me?

  For a few moments I lay there shuddering, fighting the sickness bubbling in my guts. My head throbbed in time to my heavy heart beat. The cold of the stone floor seeped...

  Cold stone?

  Where the hell was I?

  I forced my lids open again. Passed my hand in front of my eyes. I could just make out a pale glimmer.

  It wasn't my vision. At least ... it wasn't only my vision. I was somewhere very dark, somewhere with a stone floor...

  It didn't make sense. I tried to remember.... I recalled swimming with Sam. Warmth washed through my body. I remembered making love to Sam.

  That was the last thing I could recollect. It wasn't a bad place for memories to end, but...

  I pushed myself up, having to wait on my hands and knees for the next wave of nausea to subside. I dragged myself the rest of the way to my feet, and hands outstretched, tried to get an idea of the size of the room that held me.

  Three steps forward and my hands touched wood. Old wood. Rough and splintered. A door.

  Dizzily, I closed my eyes and leaned against the wooden surface.

  No way.

  No. This had to be a nightmare. I was lying next to Sam right now. Dreaming. And hopefully he would wake me up any minute.

  I waited in the unstable blackness. My balance was off and I needed the support of the door to stay upright. I needed to lie down again. But not here. I needed out of wherever here was...