by Clare London
Jerry smiled as if knowing that would be enough answer.
Oliver groaned and rested his head on Jerry’s shoulder. His lips caressed the base of Jerry’s neck and his hand slid in a reach around Jerry’s waist, to grasp his cock. Oliver thrust much more quickly than Vincent, and his skin was smoother and slicker as it moved against Jerry’s ass.
Scot had never fucked Jerry in that position. Dammit, he’d never fucked Jerry at all, not like that. Jerry certainly seemed to like it.
A lot.
He cried aloud when he came, and no-one was shocked or horrified by it. Oliver laughed along with him, and stroked his back to soothe him, and thrust only a few times more before he shuddered as well, releasing the burst of his seed into him.
Vincent leaned over and lifted Jerry’s head, hand on his chin, and kissed him deeply.
For a long, long time.
Scot was too deep into his own reluctant pleasure to think straight. His heart hammered in his chest and the jerking of his hand rippled the water around him. When Connor slid his free hand around Scot’s waist, Scot let him. And when Scot came, he leaned back into the harbor of Connor’s arms.
It added a brilliant piquancy to it all.
Chapter 10
The evening filtered slowly and lasciviously into night. Scot lay on the ground on a blanket, propped on a couple of cushions. He wasn’t sleepy, but his limbs felt heavy, his eyes tired. He was still in the courtyard—in fact, he hadn’t tried to leave at any time.
With a splash, a head broke from the pool’s surface. Scot saw short hair plastered to a smooth skull and water flowing down over slim, narrow shoulders as the bather pulled himself easily out of the pool. He stretched his arms and shook off the excess water. Oliver, of course. Vincent was standing by the pool wall and Oliver put his hand on Vincent’s shoulder to steady himself. His laugh was a loud, musical sound in the sultry air. They were both still naked, as Scot was. As Oliver stretched again, Scot could see the profile of his half erect cock.
Jerry was resting in the pool, leaning back against the side, his eyes closed. Oliver had been in the pool with Jerry, under the water. Naked. Scot examined the confusing, disturbing feelings that brought. Without a doubt, he knew that Oliver had been pleasuring Jerry. With his hands, his mouth—whatever else he could use.
Scot had heard Jerry’s cries of delight, hadn’t he?
He stared at the trail of wet that Oliver had left in his wake. He still marveled that the pool was now full of water. When the hell did that happen? How the hell did that happen? Why, in God’s name, was he worrying about such stuff?
Jerry stood up in the water, balancing on the top step. Vincent took his arm and helped him balance. As one of his feet slipped, Jerry laughed loudly and gazed up at Vincent. Vincent leaned into him and they kissed. Very deeply; tongues fierce and hungry. Scot heard the soft, hungry sounds as clearly as he heard Oliver’s sigh on the still night air.
Oliver stopped at the side of the pool to steady a half empty wine bottle, propped beside a selection of cups and a bowl of soft fruit. He trailed his fingers in a puddle of spilled wine, lifting them up, trickling the dark-shadowed drops back onto the ground. Then, with his wet hand, he reached for Jerry’s chest and slowly painted a meandering pattern across the pale skin. It was in mimicry of Oliver’s tattoo, high, elegant loops, glistening in the dim light of night. Then he leaned forward and licked at the liquid, his tongue flickering against the dark nub of Jerry’s nipple.
Scot had done that himself: he knew Jerry liked it. He certainly did now, his back arching and his eyes closing tightly.
Scot wondered why he wasn’t as distressed as he probably should be. His boyfriend—the man he thought he was having a relationship with—was in an intimate, sexy ménage a trois, yet all Scot could think was how gorgeous they looked together. To his mild astonishment, he felt the stirrings of arousal between his own legs.
Was it because of Connor?
Connor sat beside him on the blanket. He was almost silent, but his breath brushed across Scot’s bare shoulder as he picked up a piece of fruit from another of the bowls provided. He’d been watching the tableau in front of them both. And yet Scot knew he was really watching him.
=of course I am, Scot Salvatore=
No one had called Scot by his full name for a long time and it still startled him. No one had ever considered him a man in his own right, rather than someone’s kid, someone’s errand boy, someone’s tagalong companion. The smell of citrus was very sharp around Connor now, tantalizing Scot’s senses.
“You’ve been speaking to my mind, Connor.”
Connor chuckled, and it was like the ripple of wind chimes in Scot’s head. His words drifted gently around Scot’s thoughts.
=You can ignore me, Scot. Sometimes you do, don’t you?=
“But sometimes I can’t.” Scot sighed.
Connor was blurred in his peripheral vision, or maybe it was just the heat and the thumping of Scot’s heart that distorted things. Scot saw moonshine on Connor’s torso, dipping into shadow at the edges of his ribs. Connor wore a towel loosely around his waist which parted easily as he moved: Scot caught the flash of tightly muscled thighs and lightly furred balls. Connor’s hair trailed on his shoulders, long and curled, sometimes wet from the pool, sometimes dry, but always reflecting shades of black and brown that Scot wouldn’t have believed could exist in the semi darkness. Where they sat together on the blanket, Connor’s fingertips were close to Scot’s thigh. Slim, creative, supple fingers. Scot could feel the living heat from them, even though they weren’t actually touching.
The whole thing was a mess of emotion and desire and instinct. The whole thing that was Connor. And yet…
Scot drew a deep breath, the sharp fragrance still teasing him. Connor absorbed him like no one else ever had. He wanted to reach out and take Connor’s hand—to touch that skin.
=Do it. I want you to=
Lassitude seeped through him. Scot had never been so tired, yet so relaxed. Did he like the feeling, or despise it? Or, more likely, fear it?
“Sometimes…” Connor murmured. “Sometimes you can’t ignore me. Sometimes, you are more open to me.”
The words were startling, spoken aloud after Connor’s silence. His voice was low, rich and musical. And very, very seductive. It was surprisingly familiar to Scot, though he’d only met this man a few days ago. The tone was soft as velvet, comforting as a fresh, clean bed at night, thrilling as the day Scot met Jerry and was first allowed to touch his body.
“When am I more open to you?” Scot whispered.
Connor seemed to be moving toward him on the blanket, his skin a breath away, his hair brushing Scot’s cheek. “When you love, of course. When you fuck. When you care.”
“What do you mean?” Was Connor talking about him and Jerry? How the fuck dare he? “Are you some kind of a ghost?” Scot’s patience snapped. “You’re always there, in my head! And the smells—the aromas only I can smell. The sounds only I can hear. But always the voice, from the beginning.”
=always=
“It was always you, wasn’t it? Fuck it, it is always you.”
Connor wasn’t fazed. “Yes. It’s always been me.”
He leaned in front of Scot, obscuring Scot’s view of the embracing bodies by the pool. Scot looked into the man’s wide, dark blue eyes—saw the thick, lush lips smiling. His head swam.
“I’m not a ghost, Scot. This is no ghost house. Everyone is very much alive.” Connor paused. The look he gave Scot was like a warm hand, stroking down his back. “Very much alive. We’ve been waiting for you to join us.” Connor shifted on the blanket, always a tantalizing hand’s width away. It didn’t seem obvious, and he didn’t physically touch Scot. But he was with him, caressing him all the same.
Scot was still wary. “I guess I was interested to see what you looked like, too, in the flesh.” Fuck. Why did he wish he’d never used that particular phrase?
Connor quirked an eyebrow, his
gaze amused. “So now you see me.” Scot saw the skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “And so what do you propose to do with me?”
Scot scowled. He turned his head to the side, trying to avoid Connor’s gaze. You’re just here, Connor Maxwell. It’s not like either of us needs to do anything else!
“You have a voice too! I hoped… but I’ve never known that before.” Connor’s grin spread, an expression of pure delight. Something bright and feral shone in his eyes. He stood and stretched a hand down to Scot. “Come and sit under the trees with me. Talk to me. I know you want to learn about me. As I want to learn about you.”
Connor drew him to one of the benches and Scot sat, rather heavily. This whole bizarre situation left him stunned. Oliver moved away from the other men, and came to join them on one side of the bench. He didn’t sit down, but Connor did, sliding on to the bench on the other side of Scot. Scot found himself flanked by two gorgeous men. He knew his face was heavily flushed. His body raged, mocking him with its insubordination.
“Will you take wine, Scot?” Oliver asked, his voice a study in pretended innocence. “Or will you take me?” He laughed at Scot’s shocked face. “Wine it is, for the moment, then.”
“No.” Scot scowled again. “I—I don’t drink much. Water?”
Oliver raised his eyebrows and shot a quick, disappointed look at Connor. “Of course.”
Scot hadn’t seen any water jugs by the pool, but Oliver didn’t go back to the motel building—he just reached down beside the bench. His naked ass bounced, and pressed lightly against Scot’s thighs. His skin was cool and damp with droplets from his most recent dip in the pool. Scot shivered, and knew Connor was watching him.
When Oliver straightened, he held a glass and a jug of cold water in his hands. The sides of the jug were clouded with condensation. Vapor rose from the surface and ice cubes clinked against the side.
Scot drained half of the glass in one gulp. Connor’s eyes were on him; Scot imagined him watching the clench of Scot’s throat.
Oliver was also watching closely, and moved to stand in front of them both. Bracing himself on the wall behind the bench, he leaned between the two men and dropped his head down. His blond hair whispered against Scot’s ear, but his gaze was turned to Connor. And Connor looked back up into his eyes.
A smile teased Oliver’s pout. Behind his teeth, he rolled an ice cube with the tip of his tongue. The wet surface caught a gleam of reflected moonlight. Oliver put all his weight onto his braced arm and pressed his lips to Connor’s.
Scot leaned back instinctively, but he couldn’t resist staring at their wet, hungry mouths; the short little breaths that came from Oliver’s greedy kisses; the flickering of their probing tongues.
“More, Maxwell.” Oliver flicked the melting cube to the front of his mouth and wiped a cool trail across Connor’s swelling lips. “Take it.” Oliver’s voice was muffled as he spoke around the cube. “Lick it. Lick me, Connor.” His panting became harsh, and he rested his free hand heavily on Connor’s shoulder.
Suddenly Scot reached out and grabbed Oliver’s upper arm.
Oliver paused, surprised. He lifted his mouth away from Connor’s and turned to stare at Scot. “Huh?”
“Stop it.” Scot wasn’t sure what the hell he was doing, but he didn’t withdraw his hand. His voice rasped—he barely recognized it as his own—and his breathing was too shallow, surely, to support the throbbing in his chest? “I… want to do that myself.”
***
Oliver raised his eyebrows, pursed his rich little lips, and sucked the ice cube back in. With a slow smile, he straightened up, lazily pulling his arm back from the wall. He looked down at Connor to get his reaction.
Connor was now staring at Scot. His expression was entranced—greedy. His eyes shone like a hawk watching its prey.
“Maxwell? You were looking at me,” Oliver said, too loudly. There was no doubting the resentment in his tone. He swallowed the remainder of the cube quickly and clumsily—but no one was watching him now.
“Go,” came Connor’s low, slow command.
Oliver shrugged, obviously piqued. He turned and walked back to the others, swaying his hips. As he moved toward the pool steps, Vincent stopped him.
“Come here, bright one,” he said. His eyes glittered with something both affectionate and keen.
Oliver’s expression slid into something more pleasing. “Are you talking to me?” His animal-bright eyes flickered between Vincent and Jerry, side by side.
“Telling you,” came Jerry’s reply, smiling at the beautiful young man. Vincent turned Oliver in his arms and bent to kiss him. Hard. With possessive hands, he gripped Oliver’s slim hips, then Jerry’s hands joined in, massaging the muscles down Oliver’s back. Oliver was pressed firmly between them. When Jerry tugged Oliver’s hips back, he arched like a self-satisfied cat, then bent at the waist and spread his legs in anticipation. Jerry smiled at Vincent over the top of Oliver’s head, and Vincent grinned back and nodded.
Jerry teased almost carelessly at his cock, his arousal obviously responding enthusiastically to the sight of Oliver bent over in front of him. Then he parted the soft globes of flesh that were offered so willingly and, sighing, pressed his cock against Oliver’s entrance.
Oliver moaned. “Please….”
Vincent stroked his hair, tugging playfully at a lock of it, holding him still in his arms. From behind, Jerry began a slow and tantalizing penetration.
Over on the bench, Scot stared at the scene as it unfolded. His breath hurt in his chest, and he was vibrantly aware of Connor’s hot body beside him, and the steady breathing that in no way matched his own. Yet he felt his pulse hitch and start to follow the same rhythm.
He moaned aloud. It was a strangled sound, as if it escaped him against his will. Connor laid his hand over Scot’s, pressing his fingers softly at the knuckles. Scot dragged in a fresh breath and felt heat begin to flow through his veins more strongly. He didn’t understand how that could happen, from just a touch—but he instinctively knew it happened because this was Connor.
Just because it’s him.
“Scot,” Connor said, just the one word.
It was enough to make Scot shudder through every nerve of his body.
At the pool, Jerry gasped slowly in rhythm with his thrusts into Oliver. He slid his hand around to the front of Oliver’s body and stroked the young man’s cock where it jutted up from his groin, shining wet and engorged, and bobbing with their combined movement. Vincent watched them both, gazing into Jerry’s misting eyes.
Scot was still fascinated by them, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Connor’s fingertips playing carelessly on the damp sides of a discarded water glass.
“Scot?” Connor whispered again, but Scot didn’t answer. He wondered if Connor would be annoyed, or see this as teasing. For that matter, Scot wasn’t sure how he meant it in the first place.
=Look at me=
Scot couldn’t help himself: he turned at last to face Connor.
Connor rolled a half-melted ice cube out of the glass and into his palm. Thin, silvery drips of cold water ran between his fingers, and he dropped the glass onto the blanket beneath the bench. It fell with a heavy, but muted thud. Connor reached up silently, and touched the cube to Scot’s cheek.
Scot’s chest tightened.
His senses swam with the sound of Connor’s deep breathing, the erotic scene being played out in front of them, rich in playfulness and pleasure, and the heady aroma of Connor’s particular blend of citrus and lusty body scents. Now, with the addition of the burning sensation of the ice cube against his taut skin—it was a shock to nerves already straining to hold together. And over it all, the deep, gnawing ache in his groin that would not let itself be ignored. It admonished him; it begged him for attention—or for someone else’s.
He groaned, but he couldn’t pull away.
Connor’s hand took the ice down, down, slippery between his fingers; down to Scot’s throat, sna
gging on its way at his dry lips. Down to the hollows at his shoulders; down to his chest. Scot shivered and goose bumps leapt up on his skin, marking the contrast between his sweat and the cold. His gaze darted like a rabbit’s, from the games in front of him to the almost naked body at his side; to the glinting moonlight in the sky above.
=so sweet. Trust me=
Scot sighed, and something relaxed in his mind, something he knew allowed him to take this. Something he was finally admitting inside him. He sat there, panting softly as Connor’s hand passed farther down. Two fingers pinched at his right nipple, while Connor’s other hand brushed the ice almost cruelly against the left. Scot winced with the combination of pain, cold, and ecstasy. He fought against the incredible feelings that swamped him—there was desire and a longing, and a desperate need, all wrapped up in Connor Maxwell and his teasing torment.
He slapped his hand down over Connor’s, stopping abruptly the progress of the caresses.
Connor’s eyes widened.
Scot peeled the other man’s fingers open from his grip and scooped the ice into his own hand. There was little left now—it had melted rapidly against the heated skin of Scot’s torso. Scot felt the trail of water it left, down between his nipples, down to the pool of his stomach, down to the ache of his groin.
He turned fully to Connor at last. He knew it was probably the most dangerous thing he’d ever done, but every inch of him wanted it. The wide, jewel-bright eyes caught him and sucked in his gaze.
=you wanted to do this, to me=
Yes. Panting, Scot lifted the last, sparkling shard of cool ice to Connor’s mouth and pressed against the lips. There was a soft, liquid sound, and they opened suddenly—the ice slipped in over thick, soft red flesh. Connor’s tongue flickered inside his mouth, lapping at the moisture.
=Kiss me, Scot=
But Scot’s reason still struggled with his craving. “Why me, Connor? Why didn’t Jerry feel you? Hear you? Why hasn’t he smelled the fragrances, heard the voices?”
