Summer Lessons

by Amy Lane

  Terry laughed and, in one of those movements that made Mason think of squirrels, leaped into Mason’s arms right there in the garage. Mason barely stood firm as he wrapped his legs around Mason’s waist and started to plunder his mouth. Oh! God, his kisses—so bold, so exciting. They had only gotten better from that first grope in the bathroom. They had only become as essential as breathing, like water in the desert, those kisses in Mason’s soul.

  Mason braced him up under his thighs and kept kissing, so glad his ankle had finally healed so he could do things like this, hold him, be strong and larger than life. Fiercely he cupped Terry’s ass through his shorts and kneaded.

  Terry pulled away for a moment and rested his forehead against Mason’s.

  “I’ll look for an apartment tomorrow after work,” he breathed. “You know what I wanna do now?”

  “Come back to my place and have more sex?” Yeah, the day before had been Sexy Saturday—but it had also been Cookout in Skipper’s Yard Saturday and Be Horribly Defeated by a Bunch of Twenty-Year-Old Art Students on the Soccer Field Saturday.

  Now that their last job was done, Mason really wanted Sweet Sexy Sunday to follow Saturday.

  Just this once.

  “God yes,” Terry murmured. “I’m gonna go get my clothes for work tomorrow and tell Mom.”

  Julie hadn’t said much about Terry’s bid for independence—but then, Terry hadn’t given her much of a chance to.

  They went inside, where she was sitting in the small, recently refloored living room, watching television with dead eyes.

  “Mom, we’re done with the eaves and I’m taking off,” Terry said, acting for all the world like he did this all the time.

  “It’s Sunday!” she protested, looking up from the TV. “Who’s gonna make dinner?”

  “Well, Mom, since there’s all those nice soups in the fridge and some salads in a bag, I figured you could do it. Dinner’s been made!” He sent Mason an exasperated look before trotting up the recently repaired stairs to his eight-by-eight bedroom. Mason had been in it a couple of times while they’d been repairing the house, and each time he looked in vain for something, somewhere, some indication of who Terry was becoming. Mostly he saw a green-and-blue comforter and pictures of soccer teams on the walls. And those were recent.

  But then, there wasn’t room for much more than the bed and a dresser with his computer on it. Maybe, like a lot of tech guys Mason knew, all of Terry’s personality was in the little box on his drawer.

  Or maybe he wasn’t the kind of guy who posted pictures and looked up porn.

  Mason was very much looking forward to finding out.

  “I don’t know where he thinks he’s going,” Julie Jefferson grumbled. “He’s got work tomorrow.”

  “He can leave for work from my house,” Mason said neutrally. “I don’t mind.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you don’t. You just love having him over there so you can make him all fucking gay. You think you’re a big man, right? With the fancy clothes and the car. You’re a fuckin’ pervert, and you’ve made my son one too. Fucking pansy-assed pervert. I can hardly wait until all this shit with the house is done—he won’t have any excuse to hang out with you no more.”

  Ouch. Well, it was no more than Mason feared—but it hurt, and he was goaded into cruelty with his response.

  “Whether he hangs with me or not is between us. But he’s certainly not going to be hanging here—not after he finds an apartment.”

  “He’s going to what?” she shrieked, and Mason winced. Well, apparently Terry had saved this little tidbit for later, not that Mason blamed him.

  “Uh—”

  “Hey, Mom—taking off. See you tomorrow night. Late. Got stuff to do after work.”

  Mason and Julie both turned toward his voice as he pattered down the stairs, a duffel bag with the logo of his tech company slung over his shoulder.

  “You’re moving out?” she demanded as he approached the landing. “And you didn’t tell me?”

  Mason glared at him too. “You didn’t tell her?”

  “I told you months ago,” he snapped.

  “That wasn’t real!” she yelled.

  “Oh!” Mason stopped glaring. “I’m sorry. I should have known better. Yeah, c’mon, Terry. Let’s let her calm down.”

  “You think you’re so high-and-mighty,” she snarled at Mason. “Talking about me like I’m not right here!”

  “Well, you don’t talk to us like we’re human,” Mason said back. “I’m just returning the favor.”

  Terry came to where he was standing and bobbed his head toward the door. Back in January this exchange would have destroyed him, rendered him helpless, negated all of the strength and personal growth he’d worked so hard to achieve. But now he managed to ignore her, to hold himself together, and to function in the face of her vitriol.

  Mason turned and followed Terry out, her ranting echoing at their backs.

  Terry’s composure didn’t slip until Mason went for his car and Terry went for his. Terry paused and looked at Mason beseechingly.

  “Look, I know this is a lot to ask,” he started, and Mason’s heart melted.

  Four months ago he had barely accepted a ride from IHOP.

  “Sure I’ll take you to my place and drop you off,” he said. “I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do.”

  Terry climbed into the SUV then, and Mason gladly pulled away. Terry kept his eyes on the house, though, like he was searching for an answer in the freshly painted siding and the newly sealed eaves.

  MASON STARTED up the barbecue while Terry was in the shower, and Dane came out to help. Marinated chicken and vegetables—Mason was determined to get that weight off, and Dane… well, he wasn’t eating much these days.

  “I hate that you’re obsessing about fifteen pounds,” Dane sulked, setting the plates out on the patio table. They’d bought basic furniture—the table was the same glass-topped, white-painted one every family in America had. But something about eating outside for the Battle of Mason’s Bulging Stomach while the weather wasn’t apocalyptic and the bugs hadn’t yet regrouped made the day feel special. The oak trees that dominated the uneven terrain beyond the porch and the pool fence cast a soothing shade—a lying shade, Dane had called it last August, because it hadn’t seemed to cool down a blessed thing—but the shadows were pretty.

  Mason wanted to enjoy the shade and the idea that the home improvement projects in Carmichael were done, and he and Dane could start working on the porch on their house in Fair Oaks. He wanted to think about having Terry in his arms that night, and he didn’t want to think about how it might be the last time for a while, or the second to last, or even the third to last—it didn’t matter, because the word “last” was in there, and it hurt.

  What he didn’t want to do was spar with his brother.

  “It’s harder to play soccer with the weight on,” Mason said evenly. “It’s not all about vanity, okay?”

  “Yeah, I know,” Dane said savagely. “It’s about health. I’ve heard it often enough from Carpenter. I think it’s bullshit.”

  Ugh. Upon careful consideration, Mason had decided that Carpenter’s disclosure at lunch that Monday was privileged information and that Carpenter was going to have to tell Dane himself.

  But that didn’t mean Mason couldn’t say something about this.

  “Carpenter’s not trying to lose weight—or to attract you. At this point I think everyone pretty much knows you’re his for the taking. He does want to be healthy. And I think that includes being healthy inside, where the bad eating was coming from.”

  Dane grunted. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “Yeah, I know. Privileged info,” Mason snapped. “I’m a fan.”

  “What are you so upset about?” Moodily, Dane picked up a twig that had fallen to the table from the big oak tree nearest the house and hurled it off the porch. “You don’t have to be in love with the asshole.”

  “Who is amazingly wor
ried about you. Please tell me you’ve taken your meds—”

  “All weekend.” Dane held up his hands. “Don’t get your nuts in a twist.”

  “Tell me you’ve kept your fluids up and your blood sugar too.” Because forgetting to eat and drink hadn’t helped the past four months.

  “Pure like an angel,” Dane said, but his usual sarcasm was missing too. “Grilled cheese and an apple for lunch, sixty-four ounces of water, chocolate milk as a snack.”

  For a moment they regarded each other soberly. The wounds from March and April were still raw.

  “Good,” Mason said, mollified. He had to remind himself not to take his impending grief out on his brother. “Sorry. I’m just….” He smiled greenly at Dane. “I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

  Dane shrugged, deliberately not taking the bait. “You’re going to grill chicken on the barbecue. It’s been marinating all day—it’ll taste great.”

  “Right. And as soon as Terry’s out, I’ll jump in the shower. That’s what’s happening next.”

  And that suddenly, he knew how Terry had been thinking for the past four months. One thing to the next—the good things got you through the incipient fear of being rejected by someone you loved. He’d had practice with Dane, but this? This was the real thing.

  THEY STAYED out, sipping iced tea and eating bites of melon from a bowl. They talked about silly things: what kind of frogs were chirping from the stream that ran in the ravine beyond, how hot it was going to be that summer, how stupid you had to be to run your library card through the credit card machine at a gas station. They laughed an inappropriate amount for people who had consumed no alcohol.

  When the mosquitoes got too bad, they went inside, Terry pulling at Mason’s hand until they vanished up the stairs, leaving Dane, knees drawn up to his chest, moodily flipping through channels.

  When they got upstairs, Terry surprised him, though. Instead of devouring Mason, stripping him naked, and blowing him from the get-go, Terry started with a simple kiss on Mason’s cheek.

  Mason smiled in the shadows of the bedroom, as always ridiculously pleased by that gesture.

  Terry traced the curve of Mason’s lips. “Why you always smile like that?” he asked, close enough that Mason could feel every puff of breath.

  “Because it’s not about sex,” Mason said back, running his lips gently along Terry’s temple. “You don’t kiss someone like that unless you care.”

  Terry pulled back, peering at Mason’s face carefully in the dim light. “That’s true,” he said, sounding surprised. “Is that the only way you know I care?”

  Mason couldn’t make himself laugh like he should. “There’s others,” he said. “Practice on Thursday, lunch on Friday, sex on Saturday—”

  Terry’s fingers on his lips stopped the recitation. “You don’t think that’s… that’s all you are to me, right?” he asked anxiously. “You… you know you’re more to me than a thing to do on a certain day, right?”

  His eyes were unreadable in the darkness, but Mason took a risk and hoped there was sincerity there. “I want to be everything,” he whispered, just so Terry knew where they could go. “You have a lot on your plate. You don’t have to go there until you’re ready.”

  Terry gasped and traced delicate, tender lines on Mason’s face with his fingertips. “Why?” he asked, confused. “Why would you want to be so important to me?”

  The word ached in Mason’s throat. “I’ll let you know why if it happens,” he said. He claimed Terry’s mouth then, that sweet, wide, impudent mouth, and slipped his tongue between Terry’s lips.

  Their dance was gentle, giving and taking, Mason baiting Terry until Terry gave back in assertiveness, intensity.

  When Terry took over the kiss, cupping Mason’s neck, body hard against Mason’s and imposing in his space, his taste, his passion, his assertion—it was the lovemaking of someone who meant it.

  Mason allowed himself to be swept into the fantasy, to be overpowered and led. Terry kissed him backward, pulling down the covers and pushing him to the bed, then kissing along his neck until he got to the collar of his T-shirt.

  He paused for a moment, sprawled across Mason while he played with Mason’s sensitive nipples through the thin microfiber.

  “You know, right?” he asked, sounding plaintive and lost.

  “Know what?” Mason asked back.

  “That… that you’re important. The way I feel about you—that’s… that’s not how I’ve felt about anybody. I mean, you’ve had relationships and boyfriends and—”

  “And nobody like you,” Mason said simply. He couldn’t think, now, about other times he’d said I love you to someone. They made him want to hide his head in shame, because he couldn’t have possibly meant it, not then. He figured that maybe the reasons all those other times failed was because never, not once in all those years, had he felt like this.

  Like he’d die if Terry didn’t feel the same.

  “Why?” Terry sat up and helped Mason out of his T-shirt, and then they both kicked off their shorts and flip-flops. “Why? What’s so different about me?”

  “You don’t obsess about which wine goes with which meat,” Mason said, rolling over so his naked body covered Terry’s. He kissed to Terry’s ear and bit softly, then continued. “You learned golf when you thought you’d hate it.” And down that smooth-shaven throat to a vulnerable collarbone. He nipped a couple of times. “You didn’t ask questions when my brother lost his shit.” No. He hadn’t. He’d just let Mason fuck him blind. “You are kind when you don’t need to be, and funny because you like to laugh, and you don’t humor me in bed, you just take what you want and give back.”

  He finished on a rush, the unabashed sentimentality making him want to hide his face, but the only place to hide was on the taut plane of Terry’s stomach, and only the skin was soft.

  Terry massaged his fingers through Mason’s hair in reassurance. “You… you could have anybody,” he said hesitantly.

  Mason laved his belly button and then lapped delicately at the sensitive underside of his cock, tasting soap and salt and Terry. He gave the bell a quick suck and then pulled away, regarding Terry seriously up the length of his star-pale body.

  “I don’t want anybody,” Mason said, knowing he sounded plaintive but unable to change it. “I want you. When you want me back like that, let me know.”

  He turned his head and sucked again, this time slow and hard, swirling his tongue at the end. “I want you,” he whispered, taking that sweet length into his mouth again, pulling until the head was lodged in his throat. He pulled back and wrapped his fist around it, squeezing the same way he sucked, the way Terry liked it, while he tortured the slit with his tongue. “You.”

  Terry grunted, pleading, and pulled his knees up, spreading his thighs, exposing himself to Mason’s lovemaking, trusting—as no one ever had—that Mason could do things right.

  Mason wanted to do all the things right.

  He shoved at Terry’s thighs and nuzzled, pulling one testicle at a time into his mouth while Terry battered his fists against the mattress. Mason spread his cheeks after that, and licked, finding him clean and sensitive.

  He sort of loved rimming Terry—he got vocal and encouraging as nobody ever had before. “Yeah, there. Love that. Like, stretch it. With your fingers—ooooh—that’s right. God, keep going. I’m lovin’ that—yes! Stretch, that’s right, wider! More! Hit that—augh, yes!—spot!”

  Mason would die to follow his orders.

  Finally Terry clenched his fingers in Mason’s hair, and his body started to shake uncontrollably. “Now, Mason—please, now!”

  They kept the lube under the pillow. Mason could slick up so quick, Terry didn’t even have to know he’d gone missing.

  This time Terry rolled to his side, pulling one knee up in blatant exposure and begging. “Hard, Mason. Hard. Just you inside me—just, just hold me and fuck me and make it hard!”

  Yes! Terry’s clench around Maso
n’s erection was all that heaven could hope for. Mason started pumping slow at first, but Terry couldn’t deal with hard and slow.

  “Faster—oh, dammit Mace, faster. Take me over, take all of me, fuck me till I scream!”

  He begged that all the time, but Mason had yet to make him scream.

  He didn’t want to make him scream now.

  So he paused in midstroke and did the unthinkable. Firmly lodged inside his lover’s body, he ran his hand playfully, warmly, down Terry’s flanks, his thighs, his stomach.

  He took Terry’s cock in his hand and squeezed from base to tip while Terry began to rock his hips frantically back and forth, needing Mason’s length and girth bad enough to cry.

  “Maaason!”

  “You want me?” Mason taunted.

  “Oh yes!”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No! Dammit, Mason, only you! Only you! You’re all I want! Mine!”

  “You sure? Sure no one else will do? Sure you don’t want someone younger?”

  “Mason!”

  Mason’s next few thrusts were unusually forceful. “What? Is that a no?”

  “Only fuckin’ you, dammit, now fuck me!”

  Mason rolled so Terry was facedown on the bed, then thrust his hips as hard and as fast as he could. Oh yes—full possession. Mine, dammit, mine!

  The slaps of their flesh filled the room. With a guttural moan and a scream, Terry convulsed without his own hand on his cock, orgasming fiercely and catching Mason in a vise so tight he almost couldn’t come.

  Almost.

  His climax rolled through him, slow and vicious, pulling shaking, shrieking pleasure from the pit of Mason’s balls. He screamed, muffling the sound in the sweaty skin of Terry’s neck, which he bit at the peak of his come.

  Terry moaned, shivering around the invasion of Mason’s body, an aftershock rocking him, and then another. Mason gave one last used and exhausted spurt before sliding to the side and pulling him into an all-inclusive, spent, and needing hug.

  They were a lot of things in bed—voracious, passionate, loud.

  But they had never been like that.