Sweet Summer Sweat

by Clare London

  =desire is a strong beast, Scot, not always a servant. Not easily tamed=

  Scot went rigid on the bench, knowing what he was watching—knowing what this evening might bring. The men were all fantastic, he knew that, of course. Each of them… No, all of them.

  They could all be mine.

  He had been Jerry’s lover, and he knew that Oliver lusted after him. He believed Vincent would also be a spectacular lover. And he had known Connor Maxwell in a way that he’d never thought possible outside of dreams. He still felt the evidence of Connor, all over his body: the tight soreness in his ass; the tart remains of seed in his mouth after sucking him off. Instinctively, he reached up a hand and wiped his lips. The moisture there may have been water, or fruit juice, or Connor’s come. He licked at whatever was there, savoring it.

  Looking back at Connor, he felt the man’s love calling to him. The others added their devotion, too. He felt them all tonight; their clamoring cries, their desperate needs and desires.

  They were all one in him.

  He knew how he felt. What he felt.

  =you can have it all. We can have it all=

  And what he felt was pain.

  “Connor!” His voice rang out in the quiet courtyard, where for several minutes there had been only whimpers and moans. “I don’t want to share you! Do you understand?”

  The gasps and the groans quieted; the humping bodies slowed. The air tightened with tension, and even the water seemed to fall silent against the walls of the pool.

  “Is this all there is?” Scot’s voice sounded desperate, even to himself. He stood up abruptly, though his legs were weak and he was afraid he’d fall.

  Is this all there is?

  Chapter 14

  Scot stood in the front yard of Maxwell’s Motel in the hot, dry morning air, at the driver’s door of the rented car.

  It was still very early. He’d thrown on a simple vest and the pants he wore when he first arrived at the motel. His traveling bag was on the ground beside him. Yanking the car door open with a yawning creak, he tossed the bag onto the back seat. The door slammed shut, and the tired old vehicle shuddered on the ground beneath it.

  Scot stared at it.

  So this is how it is.

  The delivery guy had never come. The delivery guy was never going to come, was he? Or perhaps he’d already been, and yet his visit had been hidden. Many things were becoming clearer to Scot. And yet—so many others were more confused.

  He didn’t know anything about cars, he knew that, except how to drive one.

  Memories tugged at his mind, demanding he remember the man he’d just left in Room 4. The man who’d taken him away from the courtyard last night after his sudden outburst. The man who’d hushed him, and reassured him, and in whose eyes he thought he’d seen an answering warmth and tentative devotion. A match to his own, overwhelming passion. A meeting of minds and, perhaps, the beginning of a commitment. Then Connor Maxwell had wrapped his body around him and kissed him, surrounding him yet again with the thoughts and physically ecstatic feelings of lovemaking.

  And the moment had passed.

  They’d shouted against each other’s bodies, never seemingly sated. They’d clung onto each other; Scot knew he’d cried with pleasure again. Then Connor laughed with satisfied joy, wiped sweat from their bodies with a clean towel, and fell into another exhausted sleep beside Scot. All night.

  It’s not enough. It never has been.

  There had been no more talk of Scot’s ideas and wants.

  Scot realized there might never be the chance again. He had been effectively, albeit deliciously, distracted. In his outburst, he knew he’d spoken the real truth; that’s all there was here. The luscious, sexual chemistry. The lovemaking—the anguish and the ecstasy. Marvelous, seductive, consuming.

  But that’s all there was here, for him and Connor.

  That’s all there’ll ever be.

  Even now, he wanted Connor. Scot would probably always want him, or at the very least, the wonderful anticipation of a future with him. He’d known him only for a matter of days, but Scot knew there was no-one in the world like Connor Maxwell. Not for Scot Salvatore, anyway.

  But the time had come for another escape. A bitter one, already regretted, but inevitable.

  What the fuck else can I do?

  He heard the slow steps behind him at the motel door a little before the figure spoke aloud. “Scot?”

  Scot let out the breath he was holding, and his body relaxed a little. At the same time, a thread of pain snagged his heart. But when he turned to reply, he made sure none of that showed on his face. “Oliver.”

  The blond young man came down the steps of the motel and approached, stopping a few feet away on the dusty ground. He wore the same denim shorts that had first greeted Scot when he and Jerry arrived, and the same thin shirt, unbuttoned as before. He looked cool and fresh, and yet sinfully ready for whatever fun may be on offer. His usual status, of course. Scot’s eyes flickered up and down Oliver’s body, and he pursed his lips.

  Oliver raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, sorry. It’s me. Not Connor Maxwell. Big disappointment, eh? You were expecting him.”

  Startled, Scot realized Oliver was in his mind. He could feel him teasing; provoking. Was he trying to seduce him as always? Sending the hot, lusty thoughts that rippled through Scot’s veins, and tented his own pants? But there were other things coming from Oliver now, things that had been invisible before. There was a maturity that Scot would never have suspected of the frivolous young man.

  What the fuck?

  Perhaps Oliver was something more than he seemed. Perhaps it was just that Scot could see so much more now.

  “You left him sleeping, I see,” Oliver murmured. His voice was sultry, but there was an edge of tightness that jarred, as if his role was momentarily confused. “He never heard you get up. Never heard you finalizing your plans.”

  “Plans?”

  “Cut the crap, Scot!” Oliver snapped, startling Scot again. His eyes flashed with something other than the habitual, careless lust. “I can see you, can’t I? I know why you’re here this morning, staring at this heap of mechanical shit. I know what you want, and what you don’t want. Your scene last night in the courtyard—do you think that only Connor heard you? That only Connor would care to listen?”

  Scot didn’t deny it. Instead, he asked, “How do you see me, Oliver? Connor has never explained it satisfactorily.”

  Oliver shrugged, but it was a poor pretence at insouciance. “I’m sure he tried his best but, fact is, it just is what it is. It’s something about this place. Though I guess we all have a talent, initially—a sensitivity toward others. Perhaps that’s why we’ve been the ones to stay, rather than the many others who have come and… left. This place heightens whatever abilities we have. When we’re here, we can listen to others, feel their feelings, hear their thoughts. We can come and go with a measure of illusion. And that means, of course, total freedom.”

  “Freedom?”

  Oliver didn’t reply directly. His eyes clouded over, as if he no longer saw Scot clearly. “It’s because we harbor pain, Scot. The freedom is compensation for the lives we have all run from. Lives of frustration and misery. Abuse, in many cases.”

  “I realize…” Scot halted, nor sure how he’d complete that.

  Oliver smiled, but with less than his usual mischief. He seemed strangely different this morning: somehow older. “You have the same affinity, Scot Salvatore. But to a far greater extent than any of us. You are a rare treasure. Jerry has a talent, true, but you are something else. For the first time, someone has influence over us. And far more than you ever imagined.”

  “Me?” Scot barked out an incredulous laugh. “I don’t think so.”

  Oliver’s voice was lower than Scot had ever heard it, even in passion. “You have influence over Connor Maxwell. You want to take him away.”

  Scot grimaced. He felt waves of pain from the young man that he’d never thought t
o experience. It didn’t compare with the connection he felt with Connor, or even the sharp headache when Connor and he were at odds. It was a swamp of aggression that scared him. “Who are you?” he gasped. “What are you?”

  Oliver pouted in response. “He might have been my true one, Scot. But you’ve weakened him. You’ve distracted him. And now you’re going to leave!”

  The air was sharp and bright and very still. Pregnant with words that were going to be spoken, even if they mapped out a path that would never allow turning back. Scot didn’t know if he should run for cover or stand his ground. He knew which one he had to do—just wasn’t sure he was strong enough.

  “Leave?” he said softly. “But I never agreed to stay, Oliver.”

  It was Oliver’s turn to grimace. He slid a hand down his chest, touching himself, pinching at a small, brown nipple, then gazed up at Scot from under pale lashes. But Scot wasn’t fooled. He knew the technique by now. He felt the soft, involuntary stirrings in his groin, but he ignored them.

  “Maxwell thinks you are staying. You can’t leave him.”

  “Crap! I won’t accept that.” The tendrils of Oliver’s touch crept away from his limbs, and Scot experienced the faint aftertaste of someone else’s disappointment. The sun was hot on his head and shoulders, but he didn’t move away from the car. It seemed important to keep position. A trickle of moisture ran down between his shoulder blades—the atmosphere was very reminiscent of the day he arrived. But now he was so very different: now he had burdens in his heart that were almost too heavy to carry.

  “The car, Oliver….?”

  “Christ, you know about the car, don’t you?” Oliver groaned petulantly. His bare toes wriggled on the ground and his body tensed with anger. “So don’t play games with me! It’s been okay all along. Well, serviceable, at least. It’s no luxury limo, is it? But it never needed any serious fixing. It never needed a mechanic’s skills. And you know that. I can feel that you do. It was all just—”

  “Illusion,” Scot whispered, remembering Oliver’s earlier words.

  Oliver nodded reluctantly.

  “Yours?”

  Oliver laughed. “No! So you don’t see everything, do you? It wasn’t my doing, or Connor’s. Who do you think wanted it to be so? Wanted it so much that the illusion was cast? Who wanted Vincent’s attention for himself? Albeit in a very different kind of mechanics….”

  “Jerry?” Even as he spoke, Scot realized it was true. Jerry had been the one to discover the state of the car; to discover that they were stranded here for the time being; who was offered the chance to work around the place, and become close to the inhabitants. And accepted that offer.

  Jerry had brought them here, and Jerry had kept them here. Until he found his own place. Ironically, that had also been here.

  Scot wondered how much of that had been subconscious.

  “Illusion.” Oliver shrugged. “Like where and when we appear. Sometimes how we decorate ourselves.”

  For the first time, Scot noticed there was no tattoo on Oliver’s body at all this morning.

  Oliver walked right up to Scot and reached out to stroke his shoulder. Scot felt the soft fingers on his muscles; he felt the desire flow into him like slow, sticky treacle. “It’s like a lot of things here. Though a lot of things are real too, right? I wanted to feel you inside me, Scot Salvatore. I still do. You just need to relax, you know? Enjoy some more of us. Have Connor, by all means, but sample the rest of us as well. You can have days and nights of it—your skin, sweaty and sticking to mine. Your fingers tangled in my hair, pulling my head up and down on your cock. My legs wrapped around you, my ass offered up to you. Your cock, thrusting hard into me, deep and furious, claiming it all, tight and hot, and racing toward an ecstasy that will never be withheld from you.”

  Scot was giddy. Scot’s body wanted it all... he’d be mad not to! And yet….

  No.

  “I want to go, Oliver. I want a life outside of here. And I want Connor to come with me.”

  Oliver’s breath rasped, a harsh, painful sound like the slice of a blade in the white heat of the sun. He didn’t answer.

  Okay.

  Scot tried to clear his painfully tight throat. “You’ll... look after Jerry?”

  Oliver snapped back impatiently. “Jerry will be fine with us! He was always going to be. Vincent cares for him. We all care for each other, that’s always been the way.”

  “Thanks,” Scot said simply.

  Oliver threw his hands up in some frustration. “Go, Scot! Go, go quickly, but just you.”

  “Not yet.” Scot struggled with the words, his voice hoarse. “I must ask him. I must ask Connor. Give him the chance…”

  “But that’s only what you want, Scot, isn’t it?” Oliver’s eyes were hard and angry. “You want to go on to something you know so little about. You’re naïve and ignorant in equal parts! It’s a world of too-expensive apartments, crap cars and boring jobs, with angry, confused people around you all the time, and a background of sirens, arguments, and endlessly, mindlessly ringing telephones. Of noise and pain, responsibility and greed. Of materialism, and physical selfishness and other people’s misery—”

  Scot stopped him with a hand on his arm. “A world of other people’s lives, Oliver! Other ideas, other opinions. Yes, I guess there are risks and disappointments and cruelty and loss. But it’s also a world of opportunities, isn’t it? Of art, and books, and shows, of conversations, beauty, affection. Things to create, and problems to solve, and challenges to meet…” He sighed. “It’s real.”

  “Christ.” Oliver moaned, but his voice was weaker. He shook off Scot’s hand. “So if that’s what you want, just get the fuck off out there, okay?”

  “Not yet,” Scot repeated.

  “Don’t tell me it’s for him!” Oliver cried, his voice suddenly raised in passion. “That you hesitate only because of him!”

  Scot went still. He could sense the shadow in the doorway behind them both, more easily than he could see it. The morning sun threw the whole porch into shade.

  “I can’t keep him,” Oliver sighed. It was almost a sob. “Not if you want him. Not if he wants you in return. And no-one can be forced to stay against their will.” He stared up at Scot, his eyes full of confrontation. “But it must be his choice, Scot. And how can you ever offer him what we have here? The security, the joy, the comfort? It’s what he needed when he came here. It’s what he’s always needed.”

  “I’d offer him something different,” said Scot, quietly. “Just as rewarding, just as secure, but with adventure as well. With me.” He didn’t need strong words because his mind spoke for him. His emotions spoke for him. He just wasn’t sure who was listening. “Connor wants peace and safety and to know he belongs. I could give him that. Maybe not at first, I’m not much better at those things than he is. But we could do it together.”

  That’s what I want. More than anything.

  “He thinks you’re his true one,” Oliver said sadly. “That’s the strongest time, when the two true ones meet each other. When it’s real love. If that’s the case, this is also his most vulnerable time.”

  “I don’t want to hurt him, Oliver.”

  “But you have! He is less already!” Oliver’s pale blue eyes flashed sharply. His white-blond hair caught the early sunlight, glinting like ice. “Haven’t you seen it? He’s not as close to us—he doesn’t feel us so deeply anymore. You’ve weakened him, Scot Salvatore. Robbed him of his mastery of us, of the protection and pleasure of his love mates. He’d be a fool to go anywhere with you! Just leave now.”

  Scot persisted. He tried to reach the young man’s mind, but he didn’t have the control of this affinity he was supposed to have. And he suspected that Oliver was less of a naïf than anyone had ever been led to believe. “You said he can leave. Didn’t you? You said no one could be kept against their will.”

  Oliver pouted. “Aren’t you the proof? Here you are, ready to go.” A plea crept into his voice. “
He needs me, Scot, don’t you see? He thinks I’m just a child who depends on him—but it’s the opposite. He needs me. I feed him the adulation he craves. I love him.”

  Scot shook his head.

  “Do you love him, too?” Oliver almost wailed. “Do you love him so much that you’d serve him every day—with everything he wants?”

  Yes!

  And then Connor himself stepped out from the doorway, and walked toward them across the front yard.

  He and Scot stared at each other for several seconds. Scot thought of his last touch; the cries of pleasure and sensuality in the small hours of the morning. He saw Connor flush, maybe with the same shared memory.

  “I have to go, Connor.”

  “So it seems.” Connor’s voice was very calm. Frighteningly so.

  “Come with me!” Scot felt the man’s stillness like a blanket of chilling, inviolable fog. He believed that Connor was somehow shielding himself from him. “I understand what this place means to you. And I don’t know exactly what I can offer instead.” His voice trembled, and he cursed its weakness. “But there are other things out there, you know? Other ways to go. Other ambitions, other dreams. I have lots of them, Connor. I have more than I can use here, more than I can contain here. You said it… a decision has got to be made.”

  “You can’t leave,” Connor said slowly, as if the words were being dragged out of him.

  “You said you were between places,” Scot argued. He wanted to hug Connor. He wanted to touch his body, hidden under the thin vest and pants that he wore. Last time Scot had seen him, Connor had been stretched out on their bed—a tumbled, tousled, tasty cocktail of naked limbs and skin flushed with sleep and the aftermath of sex. But now? Now, he looked uncomfortable in the clothes. Scot wanted, above everything else, to make him comfortable.

  Come over to me! Come and try this way with me!

  He saw the shiver of Connor’s eyelids; the hesitation in his body. Couldn’t Connor hear Scot’s thoughts any longer? But there had been plenty of words between them, as well as touch. There had been times that Scot thought he had reached him. Tempted him… persuaded him. He wished he felt more sure of Connor; wished he knew him better. Wished they had more time.