by Clare London
“No,” Connor said. “Don’t be.” He put his warm hand on Scot’s arm. “Whatever you want, you can have. It was acceptable to me. I will have plenty of time with you by myself. And now Jerry is with the others, yes? So you can join me properly.”
Scot felt a strange tug of emotion. Connor’s touch brought a frisson of delight, but also the slightest stab of fear, something he didn’t fully understand. “Hey. We’ve only just met, Connor. You hardly know me.”
Connor took hold of Scot’s chin, turned his head around to face him and kissed him. His lips were firm and possessive.
=yes I do=
Scot moaned and his tongue forced eagerly against Connor’s. He’d dreamed of this kiss—this taste! He’d been only hours away from it, surely? But he wondered how he could bear life without it. His tee shirt was wet with sweat almost immediately and his cock pressed impatiently at the lap of his shorts. He put willing arms around Connor’s torso, and deepened into the kiss. “Jesus, Connor.”
=hush, hush= whispered the voice that spoke and probed into his mouth. Connor’s hands slid up under his tee shirt, and Scot was pressed back onto the bench, his feet lifting up off the ground.
=I’ve known you for a long time=
Connor drifted between verbal and mental communication. “I’ve been in your head. I know how you felt when you arrived, and why you wanted to escape. What you really thought of Jerry, and of Oliver and Vincent. I know what you dream of, Scot. What you lust for.”
No! Scot gasped around the furious kisses, arching ecstatically against the pinching of his nipples. He tried to turn his head to clear his mouth, but the angle of the sun shone into his eyes, and he had to twist back. Connor’s mouth claimed him again.
I’ve never met you before!
Connor tsked aloud but his answer was silent, his mouth still occupied with the kiss.
=no, I haven’t lived in your town, visited your house, lived your life. But I know you better than that, because I’ve been with you in your mind. You’ve reached for me—you’ve felt me—you’ve called to me= The tone sharpened. =don’t pretend you don’t know. You recognize it too=
“Not sure I want you to know all about me,” Scot mumbled, only half-joking. An answering ripple of tension ran through Connor’s body. “How the hell can you see all that about me? Are you some kind of medium?”
Connor laughed, and pulled his mouth away, though his breath still brushed Scot’s face. “I see you through their eyes, Scot. Through their hands, through their bodies. You and Jerry—you were both ready for this place, you see. Ready for us. But you… you are much more than a refugee. You carry a strength within you I admire, to match my own. Sometimes… sometimes I can’t even see it all.”
“This is a trick—”
“No!” Connor turned on him angrily, Scot felt the sudden tightening of his body; his hot, impatient breath. “It’s no trick, and you know that, don’t you? Because you have the same feelings I do. Because you’ve felt that strength in yourself, and used it too, ever since you came here. Don’t be a fool, now! Something about this place develops us, gives us a heightened awareness of our guests—”
“You have no other guests!”
Sharply, Connor pulled away from him. The dark blue eyes fired flashes of anger, the pupils beyond depth, the irises a well of sapphire distress. “There have been many! Do you think the three of us arrived together, one dusty day? No, we arrived separately. As others have. We are able to guide people here who will benefit from our attentions. Who are looking for someone—as we ourselves are.”
“I’m looking for someone?” The intensity in Connor’s eyes scared Scot. His skin was already cooling from where Connor’s body had been lying on him. “I’m not—”
“Of course you are! You’ve been looking for someone for many years. Your passion… you need someone to share it with you.”
Scot realized Connor was becoming more distraught. His hand shook where it lay on Scot’s chest. Was Scot being cruel, challenging Connor like this? But there were still so many unexplained things.
Scot eased out from Connor’s touch and pulled himself to sitting. “I had Jerry. I came with Jerry.” He could hear his voice and he didn’t sound as bereft as he thought he probably should. It was difficult to remember what emotion he’d invested in his naive little love affair with a fellow fugitive.
“You did. But he was never going to be enough, was he? Not when you found your need growing. And it has been, hasn’t it, Scot Salvatore? You can feel it inside you. The restlessness. The desire. The agony of not being able to be yourself!”
Scot stared back. What the fuck? He didn’t know whether to be angry at Connor’s arrogance, or admire the truth of everything he spoke. “Jerry was my escape, Connor. I made the choice to leave with him. To leave it all.”
Connor flinched as if disturbed by the words. “But that’s not how he is now, Scot. He has decided that he belongs here. That he wants to stay here.”
Fuck you! Scot’s anger suddenly flared. “You shouldn’t keep him!”
Connor looked puzzled and now wary. “It’s not a question of keeping him, Scot. It’s his own decision. It has to be that way, because no-one can force anyone else here. But if we can offer what he wants—”
“And that’s his true one, that phrase you use so much?” Scot sneered. “Meaning Vincent? Or all of you? Looks to me like Jerry’s spoiled for choice. Guess you all get to stick it up his ass!”
“Maybe.” Connor was unfazed by Scot’s vulgar aggression. “It may be just one that he wants. Or more than one—a group, to belong to. Whatever he wants, it’s his choice. His interpretation of the thing we all seek. The thing that will release us from our burdens.”
He reached again for Scot’s face, but Scot wrenched his head away. The damned sun poked angry fingers into his eyes, making them water.
“Release from burdens. It sounds like the opposite to me. Like you’re a prisoner here.”
Connor had begun stroking him again with a palm that was wet with sweat, his fingertips brushing against Scot’s nipple. The tip was painfully erect and the touch was agony at the same time as it brought joy. Scot felt limp, as if his whole body was melting in the sun; melting under Connor, so that they would become a single body. It was like a Dali picture that he once saw on a discarded magazine cover. It reminded him he’d wanted to visit an art gallery one day. He’d also wanted to spend time in a library. He’d wanted money of his own, and a room where he could leave his stuff without it being broken or hocked for booze. He’d wanted his own company, and friends of his choosing, and to wake up of a morning without the sick feeling of depression and the wince of new bruises.
He felt suddenly, terribly, alone.
“Scot, don’t think this way.” Connor’s voice wheedled. He licked at Scot’s neck and slid his hands inside Scot’s shorts, caressing the swelling flesh there. “A prisoner… well, I can see how it might be seen like that. But it’s by my own device, Scot. My own choice. It’s a place of sanctuary here.”
=and that’s what you want, isn’t it?=
This time, when Connor reached for Scot’s face, Scot let himself be touched. He opened his mouth for Connor’s tongue; he grasped Connor’s shoulders and pulled him down harshly. Connor gasped into his mouth, his teeth grazing Scot’s lip, drawing the smallest drop of blood.
Yeah, Scot thought wildly—this was what he wanted! And maybe he believed this stuff about Connor knowing him from the inside of his mind, and maybe he didn’t— but that was all academic when he was with the guy, and his heart raced, and his mouth went dry, and he wanted to be every minute with him…
Kiss me, Connor. Fuck me!
Their tongues battled for minutes more until Scot arched under Connor in desperate frustration. He wanted the man—now! Here, on the hard, stone bench: now, on the dust-red ground. He didn’t care where! He wanted to spread his legs and open his arms, and let Connor have whatever he wanted. Because it would be what he wanted, too.
; Make me forget everything else.
“Wait.” Connor smiled, and Scot could feel the vibration of his heart racing in his chest. “You need food first. We’ll fetch some, and you can come back to my room. I want you there. You can be with me there.”
“Room?” Scot’s body was so painfully aroused, he thought he might combust. One tiny spark of sunlight on the appropriate trigger would be all it took. “What room? Where do you sleep, Connor?” God, but he’d never considered it. Did he think the man slept in the kitchen? In some cloud somewhere, like a celestial being?
Connor laughed. His eyes were bright with fever, but he was in control of himself now. “You know that’s ridiculous, Scot. I don’t sleep much, but I’m a man as well, I have my own place that I return to when I wish. I have room number 4….”
Scot didn’t care what number room. Didn’t care what or where. He grasped Connor’s hand and, sharing Connor’s laughter, dragged them both back to the courtyard gate.
***
In room 4 several hours later, Scot lay alone and naked on Connor’s bed, the sweat cooling on his body and his heartbeat gradually returning to normal. There were empty, crumbed plates on the floor; a fork rolled up against the leg of the bed; a knob of butter smeared on a discarded towel. An apple core lay on one of the plates, turning brown since its exposure to the air. On the dresser there was a jug of water, half-empty, with two glasses beside it, their edges smeared with lip-prints and the lap of laughing tongues.
Scot knew he’d never felt better than he did now. Too much sex! He grinned to himself. Wasn’t that what he’d said before? But it was more than that. Something had been brought out in him—something that warmed and thrilled him, every waking moment. His life was awakening.
He curled up his fingers on the sheet beneath him. This was the same as the bed he shared with Jerry in room number 4. Where they were both running away: where he was hiding from his miserable life. Yes, that’s what he’d been doing—hiding.
But not anymore!
When he and Connor left the courtyard, they’d half-staggered back to Connor’s room, Scot gasping with need and Connor teasing him playfully. Connor kicked the door shut behind them and pulled Scot to the bed, peeling the clothes off both of them far too slowly for Scot’s liking.
Yeah, Scot sighed to himself, savoring the memory. He wriggled his toes against the crumpled sheets. Teasing!
They’d laughed and growled and been equal to each other in their desire. Connor stripped him and caressed him, and licked his way all over his body until Scot almost wept. He begged him for more; begged to be able to touch him in the same way!
Connor then pushed Scot off the bed and onto his knees. He clasped Scot’s head to his naked groin, and Scot had gone down on him with a hunger he never knew he possessed. He heard Connor’s yelps of pleasure, mixed with groans of anguish as his cock swelled in Scot’s mouth and his thighs strained with the anticipation of climax. Scot had felt the throb of delight throughout Connor’s limbs; felt the veins of Connor’s cock shudder in his mouth, and tasted the spurt of semen that flooded across his tongue. It had been both sweet and sour, and tastier than any food he could think of.
He’d swallowed every glorious, sticky globule until Connor’s cock was dry, and he winced with sensitivity against Scot’s licking. And still Scot ached for more.
“Scot.” Connor had moaned. “Show me what else you can do. What else you want to do to me. You cannot disappoint me… you cannot shock me.”
So Scot had licked the crinkled sacs of Connor’s balls, trailing warm saliva and mouthing explicit, sexy words across the thin, sensitive skin between them and Connor’s ass. He’d sucked the sweat and bitten his mark on Connor’s inner thighs. He’d been impatient and aggressive, but also soothing and seductive, until Connor’s body had relaxed and some life had returned to his cock—a stirring arousal that could be tempted to more by Scot’s wet mouth. Then Connor rolled Scot over onto his back, spread his legs, and entered him.
It had been as amazing as the first time they fucked. And the second—and the others. Scot could still feel the memory of every thumb print on his flesh, and the warm slap of Connor’s balls against his ass. The trickles of sweat were still lingering on his heaving chest—also the slick, crusty remnants of Connor’s come on his legs where he’d not wiped them clean well enough.
He shifted on the mattress, his heartbeat speeding up again. His cock was half hard again, though he felt too lazy to do anything about it. After a deep, steadying breath, he stilled and just stared at the ceiling. The mirror tiles were in better condition here than they were in room 6. His own, bright blue eyes stared back at him through the blades of the fan, his arms slung carelessly up behind his head and his legs fallen wide apart as he lay there. The dark bush at his groin was reflected back at him. He could make out the heavy imprint on the mattress beside him, where Connor had fallen off Scot’s body after climaxing and lain curled up for a while, still panting.
Scot wondered idly what time it was in the real world. Light eased through the curtains so he assumed it was still day. But of course, time had no importance at all, not here at the motel. It had taken him long enough to realize that. Why should time concern him, when he could lie on a bed and touch Connor Maxwell? When he could kiss, and suck, and fuck without restraint?
The door of the bathroom creaked open, and Connor entered. He was still naked. That seemed to be Connor’s natural state—it was when he was clothed that he produced surprise and interest. In one hand, he held a bottle of sparkling wine, or perhaps champagne, though Scot had never seen any supplies in the motel kitchen or dining room. It was pale through the green glass of the bottle, and already open, its bubbles softly hissing. Scot had never had champagne before. Perhaps that was another experience he’d always wanted to have.
In his other hand, Connor held clean glasses and a box of something that looked like soft fruit. Redcurrants… the recognition glimmered in Scot’s mind. Soft, plump berries, bursting with taste. His taste buds watered and his cock stirred again, ready for more play.
“Hey,” he called softly, and sat up on the bed. “So is that where you keep your wine cellar?”
Connor smiled. “There’s ice in the basin—it kept the bottle cold. But we should drink it quickly before it warms up.” He paused at the dresser, pouring out two glassfuls.
What kind of decadence was this, drinking champagne in the afternoon? The residual afternoon heat seeped through the curtains, making the sheets sticky against his body.
Connor squeezed a handful of redcurrants into their glasses with a soft plopping sound. The liquid turned a soft blush-pink. Scot’s mouth watered even more, anticipating the sweetness mixed in with the sharp, dry taste of alcohol. Connor brought the drinks over to the bed and sat down next to Scot. He didn’t clink the glasses together, but he raised his as if in a toast. “To us, Scot. To what we all want—to our true selves. To each of us, our true one.”
“Yeah.” Scot was embarrassed by such sentiment, though obviously Connor wasn’t. He assumed Connor would always speak his mind, and others would, of course, listen. Scot sipped the drink. It was gorgeous, rich and rare to him.
Maybe I’ll cultivate a taste for it.
He laughed at himself. How many years would it be before he could earn enough to treat himself to that? He’d finished high school but with very little merit, and he’d left home without any real idea of a job he could do in the city. It was a massive risk, yet an adventure too. His whole future was open to him—every opportunity!
Or none.
“Connor.” He put his glass carefully back on the dresser. “Were you the first one here? How did you come here? Why?”
The questions unsettled Connor, who shifted uncomfortably on the bed beside him.
Scot instinctively gentled his voice. “Please tell me about yourself. You said you would.”
Connor was silent for a long moment. He sipped some more wine, his gaze fixed on his glass. Then he dipp
ed in a hand and rolled one of the fruits out between his fingers. The dripping, reddened drops looked like blood on his skin. His voice was very soft. “You don’t need to know that, Scot.”
With his free hand, he reached out and pushed Scot backward. Scot lost his balance, startled, and fell heavily back onto the pile of pillows behind him. He started to speak, but then Connor pressed the fruit against his stomach and dragged it down to his navel. Scot sucked in his breath at the weird sensation. The redcurrant was damp, and left soft, wet, ruby red stains on the trail of dark hairs down to his groin. His whole body shivered, and words were hard to articulate.
“But I want to know. You know about me, but I don’t know enough about you.”
Connor’s hand didn’t press any further. The redcurrant stuck to Scot’s skin, and started to feel messy rather than sensual. There was a strange, stricken look on Connor’s face, though he hid it quickly. Perhaps he’d grown used to that maneuver in his past. “I can’t remember, Scot.”
“Huh?”
He was obviously drawn to Scot—his eyes were hungry on Scot’s face and body—but he twisted his head away at the same time as if in pain. As if there was something in Scot’s searching gaze that disturbed him. “I don’t remember my past. I don’t remember myself.”
Scot frowned. “Surely your family…?”
“I have no one. I know that much—I was running from that. I can remember pain, and a terrible loneliness, and the knowledge there was no one left for me.”
“What happened? Haven’t you got anyone you can ask?”
“There’s no one!” Connor’s sharp tone brooked no argument. He had accepted his loss somehow, and wasn’t prepared to search any further. “There’s no one out there that knows me. Even my name is my own creation.”
“What the hell?”
“This motel was abandoned when I arrived, but it had been called Maxwell’s, so I took the name for a joke. Then I stayed. I was the only one here at that time, so in that way, I suppose I was the first. I brought in some supplies—I survived on little enough. Then the others arrived, one by one. We made our own lives here. Our own arrangements.”
