Sweet Summer Sweat

by Clare London

  Now he was trying to learn another kind of relationship, and it was all too new to know how he should be, what he should expect. And he was starting to think that Jerry didn’t know any better than he did. The sex was hot—yeah, it was very hot!—but after that, what else did they have? Scot had been in Jerry’s company for virtually every hour since they ran away, but it was strange how he didn’t feel any comfort in that. Instead, the tension just grew. Every conversation outside of bed was fraught with misunderstanding: they were arguing a lot of the time. Scot had never questioned Jerry’s lead in bed before now, but even that was starting to pall. He realized that Jerry mystified him—his secrecy, his need to be in control, his dismissal of Scot’s ideas. His very obvious reaction to the good-looking men at the motel.

  If Scot was really, truly honest, he knew what he was feeling was resentment. He didn’t think he should feel it so strongly, not with the man he wanted to trust with his love. But why shouldn’t he have more say in his own life? In his relationships? The two ways weren’t exclusive. Scot didn’t have much experience, but he knew enough to realize that control meant way more than who was top. He reckoned he was learning more since he left home than he’d learned in all his life before.

  “Scot?”

  Oliver called to him, lifting a hand to his eyes to shield them from the sky. The shadow was dark across the young man’s face and neck, but the sun was brilliant on the top of his head. The bright reflection from his sweat-damp blond hair was almost painful on Scot’s eyes.

  Scot remembered the lobby on the day they arrived—Oliver’s unfocussed gaze and panting breath, as Vincent slipped long, strong fingers up inside him. And caressed him with them.

  Scot knew what that felt like. He knew how he could be stimulated from within; how he could be brought to a gasping, sobbing climax with fingers on that sweet spot inside him. But now he wondered how it would feel to reciprocate.

  It made him shiver, despite the heat. Dear God, what’s going on in my head now?

  But he couldn’t help it. He wondered what it was like, to be in that kind of position—to top a man. The only times he’d mentioned it, Jerry didn’t like the idea, and that had been the end of the subject. But how would it feel? To finger a lover, making them ready. To handle their buttocks, parting them so he could see the entrance; to take someone, to push slowly into their ass and thrust in and out, your cock sheathed in a tight, warm channel, so much firmer and more responsive than a hand…

  =delicious=

  The voice was back. A sigh reverberated in his head. Scot didn’t want to listen, and wondered how he could block it again. But he didn’t think it took any notice of him. He was discovering that it liked these thoughts in his head—it liked listening to his naked needs, the dark desires and desperate dreams. It was as if it liked to play amongst them. But despite understanding so little about it—not even where it came from—he knew he didn’t dare let it roam freely through his senses. Not yet.

  He huffed out a breath, let it be caught on a brief wisp of wind and blown away in the otherwise still air. And always the desire, hot in his belly. What was with this constant horniness?

  “Scot!”

  He realized Oliver was still calling to him and he focused quickly on the other man. Oliver’s blond, dusty head was turned in his direction and his gaze fully on Scot. It was a blatantly sexual, hungry look. His eyes lingered at Scot’s crotch, then trailed up to his nude chest: Scot had abandoned his vest top some time ago. With an answering sigh, Oliver lifted his hand to his own bare chest and stroked the skin almost aimlessly.

  Where’s that tattoo? It seemed higher on Oliver’s shoulder today. Scot had given up trying to read the ornately scripted words. Sometimes it looked like another language entirely.

  Oliver ran his fingernail down the middle of his ribcage, fully aware that Scot’s eyes followed it. Then he walked over to where Scot stood.

  A trail of sweat trickled down Scot’s face and over his jaw, running into the hollow at the base of his neck. Oliver reached out for it, wiping the moisture away gently with his finger. He lifted his damp digit and, holding Scot’s gaze, sucked it into his mouth right up to the knuckle.

  “Tastes good,” he said softly. “I bet all of you tastes good. Real good.”

  “Jesus, Oliver.” Scot knew he was dirty and sweaty, but he also knew without a doubt that Oliver would be happy to take him that way. Here and now, if Scot said the word. He also knew he was aroused himself: he somehow took this for granted these days. He noted Oliver’s greedy gaze, seeking out the bulge under his shorts. But he wasn’t going to do anything about it at the moment.

  There were more important answers to be sought.

  Chapter 7

  “What about the pool, Oliver? In that little courtyard.” Scot kept his voice calm but couldn’t mistake the way Oliver’s eyes narrowed.

  “The pool?”

  “Yeah. Why don’t we fix that up, instead of these old fences out back? It’d be a great facility, especially in the summer. And you could renovate some of the rooms. Why do you let this place get so seedy?”

  “We’re fine.” Oliver’s expression shifted. It was more than a little sly. “And the pool is fine as it is.”

  “What do the guests say about the motel?” Scot persisted. “The other guests? Where are they, Oliver? What sort of place are you running here anyway?”

  “Questions, questions.” Oliver sighed, giving an exaggerated shrug. “The other guests have moved on, Scot. They always do. And you saw the name on the signpost.”

  “Maxwell’s?”

  Oliver shrugged again. “Yes. I just work here.” For a moment, his mouth twisted in a greedy smile. “I just take orders.”

  “Connor Maxwell’s orders?” Was the mystery man in charge of everything?

  =Scot=

  Did the voice sound concerned? Should Scot be asking him about the motel? So many damned questions! Scot felt more tired now than when he was working on the repairs. There were too many odd things here. Too many mysteries, too much damned heat—too much damned sex. “So what about you, Oliver?”

  “Me?”

  “How did you get here? To this motel. And why stop here?”

  The blond flushed but he answered quite smoothly and, it seemed, sincerely. “Nowhere else to go, Scot. I had plenty of guys wanted to know me at home—plenty of them got to know me well, you know? I was good at what I did, and I didn’t cost them anything but a few drinks and sometimes a hit. Everyone enjoyed it.” He looked very proud of himself.

  With a shock, Scot realized Oliver must have been a whore of some kind, whether officially or just an easy lay around his home town. He looked at Oliver’s pretty, gamine looks, and the sexuality oozing out of his every exaggerated move, and saw how that might be. He wondered what it’d be like to buy Oliver a drink and have him smile and whisper lewd suggestions in his ear: to touch his skin, rub at the young man’s crotch with a possessive hand. Then take him around the back of the bar at closing time, unzip and pull down his pants and bend him over a flat surface, just ready for Scot’s use.

  Fuck! Scot flushed, shocked at his unruly thoughts.

  Oliver was watching his expression carefully. “Then they got jealous. The women, the wives. Didn’t want their menfolk sticking it up my ass. When they were the ones rationing it out in the first place, driving the guys mad with horniness! Anyway, they threw me out. Dumped me at the far end of town with a bus fare and a jacket and fuck all else. Worked my ass through the state until I got here. And then… well, I found this place. Maxwell was here too. We took care of each other. We still do.” He smiled with a broad, almost childlike grin.

  For a moment, Scot wondered what age he really was, and how long he’d been here at the motel. “But you never went back?”

  Oliver shrugged. “Why should I? No one wanted me there. Even though for a while, they all did. Everyone knew me… I was like a celebrity, you know?” His eyes darkened. “You don’t forget that easi
ly.”

  “And Vincent?”

  Oliver grimaced, his expression of pride fading. He sucked in a sharp breath and folded his arms protectively across his chest. “That’s something else. He was messed up when he came here, running away from it all. He wanted to forget. But we… took care of him as well.”

  “What did he do? What was he running from?”

  Oliver hesitated. “It was a mistake, okay? He never meant to hurt the man. There was a fight, someone had been stealing some of Vincent’s stuff. He had a right to retribution. But he was much stronger, and the other guy’s skull cracked when he fell. I mean, Vincent’s not a dangerous person, you know? It wasn’t right he should face any charges. It was just a mistake….” He saw Scot’s expression and frowned. “Everyone has secrets, Scot. Everyone runs from something or other. It’s just that we’ve found a sanctuary here. With Maxwell.”

  “But who the fuck is Maxwell?” The heat was nagging at Scot’s head again, giving him a headache. His neck was stiff and his limbs were weary. Everything confused him. “Does he own this place? How come we don’t see much of him?”

  Oliver frowned at him. “You see enough, Scot, surely? Especially you.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Abruptly, Oliver leaned in toward him and placed his sweaty palm against Scot’s chest. He spoke into his ear: very close, very breathlessly. “He’s inside your head, isn’t he, Scot? Directing you. Claiming you.”

  “No—”

  “It’s the same for all of us. We want him, we understand him.”

  “He’s inside your head as well?”

  Oliver blanched. “It’s different for each of us. But yes, he’s inside me. I hear his voice.” His hand slid slowly down his torso, hovering over his groin. “We’re very close, you know?”

  Scot stared at him, speechless. They were standing quite close to the outside wall of the main building now. He saw Oliver’s attention waver for a second, his head tilting back toward the motel as if he heard someone call him. But there was no other sound out here except for the wood crackling in the sun’s heat, and the occasional bird calling. Oliver took his hand from Scot’s chest and swung it toward the wall, touching his fingertips to the dusty brick. That wall was the outside access from the kitchen, but had nothing else to distinguish it. Oliver’s eyes closed for a second and his cheeks flushed red.

  “What’s up with you?”

  Oliver didn’t answer. Instead, he exhaled deeply and turned back to Scot. The smile was back on his face, though his eyes were a little misty. He put his hand back on Scot’s arm. “We can rest now, okay? Let me relax you, Scot, you’ve worked hard. Why don’t you let me clean you up?” His tongue slipped out of his mouth and ran smoothly around his full lips.

  Scot imagined, wildly, the effect of that tongue on his sweaty body: like a cat, a little rough, lapping at the skin, sucking at his nipple, nipping at his tired, stretched skin. Licking, cleaning all the grime and the aches away.

  =all over=

  Scot shuddered. He knew in that instant the voice had reached for Oliver as well. There was a light in the blond’s eyes signaling he knew the familiar call. They were together in this. It played with both of them.

  =Relax=

  And Scot had felt it, too, the sudden surge of sensuality in the air. How else could he explain this wave of lust threatening to consume him? He shook it off with difficulty: shook off the desperate desire to push Oliver to the dusty ground and wrench down his ridiculous shorts, and suck on his swollen dick until he screamed for completion…

  Shit! Where had that obscenity come from? And—more critically—where was it taking him? Scot pushed past Oliver, laying both his palms against the wall, leaning in toward it as if the bricks could speak.

  He needed to hear for himself.

  To see.

  His head swam, suddenly and strongly. He almost lost his footing. The bright sun faded, and the smell of the baked earth was replaced with the smell of food, sweet and savory. And somehow he found himself back in the kitchen and staring into Vincent’s dark eyes. From Jerry’s point of view.

  What the hell?

  Jerry was bent back over the counter, his hands pressing against Vincent’s strong shoulders and his mouth filled with the other man’s thick, probing tongue. He groaned and protested, but despite it all, he sucked eagerly and willingly. Again and again, the taller man thrust into his mouth in a parody of fucking. His teeth nipped at Jerry’s lip, breaking a small bead of blood from it. And Jerry gasped and arched and let the invasion continue.

  Scot gasped too. His groin tightened under his shorts, and he knew—he knew!—that Jerry’s did the same. When Vincent reached for Jerry’s waistband, Jerry sucked in a harsh breath. It was very obvious he welcomed the warm hand sliding inside.

  =such need=

  “Maxwell’s with us both now, Jerry,” Vincent murmured. “He’ll have us both, enjoy us both, we can all share this.” His teeth nuzzled at Jerry’s neck, scraping shallowly as if he played at vampires.

  Outside, Scot clung to the wall as if glued to it. How could he hear it all, see it all, as if he was there in person? Are you responsible for this? He didn’t know if the voice was listening, if it would answer. Are you in charge?

  Jerry’s body shuddered. Vincent’s hand was inside his shorts, sliding down the front of his boxers. Jerry groaned as if his flesh hurt to be touched, yet he didn’t pull away. “Do it,” he muttered. His back pressed against the edge of the worktop and he threw back a hand to take his weight. A cup tipped over on the counter, slid away from under him and fell to the floor with a crash.

  “Not yet.” Vincent was smiling. “You like to control it all, Jerry. But that’s not what you really want, is it?”

  “What?” Jerry’s knuckles were white, clutching the counter edge. His other hand pressed against Vincent’s chest, but his fingers reached for Vincent’s shoulder, as if he didn’t know whether to push or pull.

  “You can only tease for so long. Finally you must ask for what you want. And then you can receive it. I was reluctant once, you know. I didn’t want it to reach inside me—to saturate me like it does. You know how that feels, don’t you, Jerry? The fear of letting go?”

  Scot sucked in a breath.

  “Yes,” Jerry whispered, with a tone mixed from horror and desire. “But… I’m not ready for this. I don’t…”

  Vincent stared back at him, his pupils dilated. Then, raising his hands in a sign of appeasement, he stepped back a pace. It was just a gesture, because it was obvious he could have overpowered Jerry if he’d wanted to. Or if Jerry wanted him to.

  But Vincent just watched, his smile slow, though his calmness was belied by the heavy rise and fall of his chest. “It’s for you to call, dark one. You must learn to lose yourself in it. You must learn the joy of being victim as well as victor. That’s what Maxwell taught me. He made it the most glorious thing for me.”

  Jerry shook his head dumbly. He looked like he might cry. His gaze was fixed on the movement of Vincent’s torso, the shadow of the muscles beneath the taut skin.

  =I make it glorious=

  Then Vincent moved steadily back toward Jerry, smiling, always smiling. But now his eyes flared with something much fiercer. “Jerry?”

  Scot felt a stab of fear shudder through his body.

  “No!” Jerry snatched up a knife from the counter, a thick-bladed kitchen one. It didn’t look as if he knew exactly what to do with it, but he bent at the knees, growling and brandishing it vaguely in Vincent’s direction. “Stay back!”

  Vincent’s eyes narrowed and he shook his head slowly. He didn’t look worried or frightened at all. “There’s no need for that, Jerry. No one touches anyone without mutual desire. You’re not listening properly to Maxwell, are you?”

  Scot was shocked to feel tears in his eyes, but that wasn’t the only reason he missed what happened next. Vincent’s movement was faster than he could ever have imagined. His hand darted out and
plucked the knife from Jerry’s palm as easily as a thread of cotton on his sleeve. Then he moved with a fierce and shocking grace, gripping hold of Jerry’s outstretched arm and twisting him around, Jerry’s back against his chest. Vincent’s own arm clamped swiftly and tightly against Jerry’s neck.

  And the knife was now in his hand.

  Scot wondered if the pain in his chest was how it felt when your heart stopped from shock.

  The knife looked far more at home in Vincent’s grasp. He flexed his wrist comfortably, holding it loosely and easily. And the blade remained a few inches away from Jerry’s throat. Vincent held Jerry completely immobile, his forearm rigid, the muscles of his chest tight against Jerry’s back.

  Scot knew Jerry was helpless. He also realized he’d never known what fear really was: neither of them could have. It filled him with blind panic and nausea. He could feel the throb of the terrified pulse at Jerry’s throat. When Vincent leaned into Jerry’s neck, Scot could feel the hot breath, could taste the horror as Jerry tried to twist aside to avoid it.

  And, with an even worse horror, couldn’t he also feel the involuntary stimulation, a stirring in his groin?

  Vincent laughed softly into Jerry’s ear. “A victim, Jerry. That’s you, now. How does it feel? Does it thrill you? Does it scare you? Look at yourself! Your cock is harder than ever, and yet you don’t know quite how I will react. You want my food and my body and you want desperately to surrender to the need inside you.”

  “No!” Jerry whispered, but it was a weak protest.

  “Yes,” Vincent hissed. “I have you now. You’re powerless. I could take you. I could take your ass whether you wanted me or not, and then some. You should be fearful of that. And yet your mind is open to it, and your body wonders what it would be like. Do you wonder what it’s like to be taken, Jerry? Like you take him? Fast and hard? With your heart beating so quickly it may burst out of you, and your cock thick and slick with pre-come, and your balls tight, aching and swollen with need. But then there are hands gripping your hips, so fierce that they leave bruises. Spreading your legs and prizing open the cheeks of your ass. You’re pushed to your knees and your head is forced down to the floor—and then you’re filled with a thrusting cock that’s even harder, and even faster, and it’s tight up inside your barely stretched asshole, and someone’s balls are banging up close to your buttocks, as you’re nailed harder than you’ve ever nailed anyone else before.”