by Tinnean
George burst into laughter. “Never, querido. Now, get undressed.”
“Will anyone come along?”
“Not likely. This lake belongs to the property I rented and is secluded enough.” George sat back on his heels and watched as Bart stripped off his clothes, then uncorked the bottle and poured oil into his palm.
He turned and bent, giving George a view of his beautiful rump, and worked his fingers into his hole.
“Next time, I’m doing that to you,” George said, his voice hoarse with want.
Bart shivered. “Oh God, I want that too.”
George swallowed hard and hurried to unbutton his shirt, although half the time the buttons refused to slide out of the buttonholes.
It took too long, though, and he wound up pulling the shirt off over his head and tossing it aside.
Bart laughed. “How do you want me, hummingbird?”
“I don’t want to hurt you.” He got his dungarees and drawers off.
“You won’t. I’m not a fine miss who needs delicate handling.”
“No, but you’re my love, and you deserve to be treated with care.”
Bart snorted, corked the bottle, and tossed it to George. “Slick yourself up.” While George did that, Bart balanced on his hands and knees and spread his legs.
George couldn’t help the small moan. “Oh God, querido, you’re beautiful.”
Bart’s hole glistened with the oil he’d rubbed in and around it. The pale, firm globes of his rump begged to be caught in a tight grip and marked with fingerprints. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
George was afraid he was going to explode before he had the opportunity to slide into his lover’s back passage. He corked the bottle, set it aside, and walked on his knees to get behind Bart. George petted those glorious flanks, then pressed kisses from the dimples on either side of Bart’s tailbone, up his spine, to the base of his neck. He steadied Bart with one hand, while with the other he brought his prick to Bart’s hole and began to push.
“You tell me if it hurts,” George ordered.
“George.”
George stopped. It about killed him not to keep moving, but he wasn’t going to do anything that caused the man he loved pain.
Bart bucked back against him. “Move, dammit, George.”
“I’m not hurting you?”
Bart groaned. “You’re driving me insane. If you don’t move, I’m getting dressed and going home.”
George huffed out a laugh and resumed his forward push. He’d never felt anything like this before, even when he jacked off. Using his own hand had given him satisfaction, but this…oh God, this was beyond satisfying, especially with Bart rocking back and his muscles tightening around him in a snug grip that was driving him closer and closer to the edge.
“George.” Bart panted and shook beneath him. “I can’t…”
“Can’t what, querido?”
“I can’t touch myself.”
“Sure you can.”
Bart swatted at him, and George realized what he meant when he almost toppled forward.
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, hold on a second.” George slid his arms around Bart’s torso and eased his lover back onto his lap. “Ride me.”
George could tell by the way Bart’s right arm was moving that he was pleasuring himself. At the same time, Bart rose up and sank down in a rhythm that made George’s eyes cross. The heat, the tightness—he’d been waiting so long for this, though, and he was determined to make it perfect for his lover. He kept a firm grip on Bart’s waist with one hand, while with the other, he teased Bart’s perfect nipples and dragged his fingernails through the hair on Bart’s chest.
He kissed the side of Bart’s neck. “I love you, querido.” They’d never said the words before, but this seemed like the perfect time. He wrapped his fingers around Bart’s as he continued to stroke Bart’s prick, and Bart reached back with his other hand and gripped George’s flank so hard George knew there would be bruises the next morning.
“I’m…Georgie!” Bart’s movements stuttered and lost their smooth rhythm as he moaned and exploded in George’s hand. It was so much, George couldn’t contain it, and it spilled over onto Bart’s chest and dribbled down past his belly button and into the wiry curls that surrounded his prick.
That was all it took for George. The tingling started low in his spine, his balls drew up tight to his body, and he pushed Bart onto his hands and knees. And then George was pouring his climax into his lover, and he held on for dear life.
Bart trembling beneath him as he bore his weight jolted George out of his post coital daze, and he eased them onto their sides.
“Are you all right?”
“Never better.” Bart hummed his pleasure. “I’m all sticky, though.”
George twitched his hips, and his prick slid out of Bart.
“I didn’t mean for you to do that,” he complained.
“We can do it again before you leave. Right now, you feel sticky, and there’s a lake just waiting for us to take a dip.” He rose to his feet and pulled Bart up with him. “Race you.” He took off running, not that they had to go very far.
“Hey!”
A glance over his shoulder showed Bart was on his heels, and they both dove in, startling a flock of ducks that must have arrived while they were busy with other things.
They swam from one side of the lake to the other, ducking and rolling and playing tag under the water. Finally, George came up gasping for air. He tossed his head to get his hair out of his eyes.
“I’m starved,” he announced.
Bart grabbed his arm.
“What?”
“I love you too, Georgie.”
“Yeah? That makes me happy.” George leaned forward, as if he were going to kiss Bart, then said, “Let’s have lunch. I plan to have you again, and I need to keep up my strength.”
“Sounds good to me.” They started to climb out, only to come to an abrupt halt. “Hey!” Bart said again.
Someone was sitting on their blanket, helping himself to a sandwich. He tipped back his hat and grinned at them.
George burst into laughter. “Frank! What are you doing here?” He jogged up to the blanket, grinning when Frank glanced down at his body, then looked away and blushed. “Get off the blanket.”
Frank scrambled off, and George picked up a corner and quickly dried himself.
“No towels, Georgie?” Bart teased. He caught up a corner himself and dried off.
“Well…” He knew he couldn’t say he hadn’t thought they’d need them. He’d more or less had this in mind since Bart arrived at the bungalow’s door. In a very soft tone, he said, “I’ll tell you what my intentions were later.”
“What are you two whispering about?”
“Nothing,” they said in unison, and Frank laughed and shook his head.
“What is this for?” He held up the bottle of olive oil, and George felt his cheeks heat. A glance at Bart showed he was blushing as well.
“I got sunburned the last time I came here with Noelle and Charlie, so I thought…well, you know. An ounce of prevention?”
Frank looked confused, which didn’t surprise George, because George had no idea what he was talking about.
Bart took the bottle, made sure the cork was in tight, and placed it in the picnic basket.
“I thought you were in Europe,” George said as he began to pull on his clothes. Bart did the same and gave him a slow nod to indicate he approved of the change of topic.
“I was,” Frank said, “but I’m home now. Remind me never to go on a business trip with Chester Vaughan ever again. Ever.”
“That good, huh?” George went to the basket and frowned at the diminished contents; only one sandwich was left. “Thanks for leaving us one.”
“You’re welcome. What can I say? Mrs. Hall makes the best roast beef.”
George crossed his eyes at Frank. He took a knife from his pocket, cut the sandwich in
half, and waited for Bart to tuck his shirt in his pants before offering him the second half.
“Thanks, hum—George.”
Fortunately, Frank was too busy continuing the tale of his adventures in London.
“You’d think a man his age would know better than to chase women young enough to be his daughter.”
“Yeah, I reckon.” Although to tell the truth, George had never liked the lawyer. “So Frank, why are you here?”
This time, he avoided George’s eyes.
“Frank?” They’d been friends long enough for George to tell when something was wrong.
Frank reached for the pail of beer and swallowed down a healthy gulp. “I drove past your cottage on my way home after my ship docked at the pier.”
“Not our cottage anymore.”
Bart rubbed George’s back. He knew how sad that made him.
“Yes, well…it’s not there any longer.”
“What?”
“It was torn down.”
“What do you mean?”
“As I said, I was on my way home and happened to pass through that section of Chelsea.”
“Frank.” George propped a hand on his hip. “Are you forgetting I drive a cab all over Manhattan? Passing through Chelsea—that’s out of your way to say the least.”
Color rose in Frank’s cheeks again. “Well, okay, I passed by on purpose. I wanted to see it because the practice has a client who expressed interest in buying it. There was nothing but an empty plot of land. Even the stable and paddock were gone.”
In spite of himself, George felt a burning behind his eyes. The cottage had been home to him and Papa and Mama, and then the girls for six years. “I don’t understand. Papa and I took good care of the cottage. There wasn’t anything wrong with it.”
“No, but I talked to one of your neighbors. The current owner plans to build a number of row houses there.”
“Is that why he kept raising the rent? To get us to move out? Why didn’t he just tell us to go?”
“Dunno, George.”
He tightened his lips. “Well I hope he gets an infestation of termites.”
“That’s my boy.” Bart squeezed his shoulder. “Give him that beer, would you, Frank?”
“Did you tell Mama?” George took the pail from his friend.
“Yeah. I’m sorry.”
George brought the pail to his lips and gulped it down with less caution than he normally would have. He started to choke, and Bart pounded his back, then rubbed it soothingly. George leaned against him and shrugged.
“We were never going back there.”
But it had been their home, and he would have liked to have the dream of one day returning.
Chapter 36
The three musketeers returned to the bungalow in time to celebrate Little Thomas’s birthday. Bart brought a little wooden choo choo with wheels that actually turned, and if George hadn’t already been in love with him, he would have fallen head over heels right then. Little Thomas also received a tugboat, a ball, and a snuggly lamb made of real sheepskin. Mama sewed him a new suit of clothes. Frank gave him a cloth book with pictures of the alphabet and animals that went along with them.
“I found it in London,” he said, blushing a little.
And while George loved Frank for thinking of his brother, he had no desire to drag Frank off to bed.
Little Thomas sat in his highchair and clapped his hands as Mrs. Hall brought out the cake with a single candle on it.
“Blow, Little Bit.” The baby stared at him wide-eyed, and George demonstrated. They all laughed when Little Thomas pursed his lips, and laughed harder when all that came out was a juicy raspberry.
* * * *
The next morning Bart and Frank prepared to head back to the railroad station. “But I’ll be back next week,” Bart said. “I’d like to swim in the lake again.” He gave George a grin that promised they’d be doing more than swimming.
“I’m sorry, I won’t be able to come back,” Frank said. “But I’ll see you when you come home.”
“That sounds great.” George shook his hand, the way he always did. Then he hugged Bart, also just as he always did. “I’ll miss you so much,” he whispered.
“I’m gonna miss you too, hummingbird” Bart’s words were as quiet as George’s. “I wish I could kiss you. But I’ll feel you inside me until I come back and we can do it again.”
George shivered and pretended he didn’t want to drag Bart back to their spot near the lake,
“I wish I knew what you two were whispering about,” Frank complained good-naturedly.
“I’ll see you next month, Frank.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you next week, Bart.”
“Yeah.” Bart smiled, and George’s heart lurched. He had to shift to conceal his arousal.
He watched as the two men rode away, and started when he felt an arm around his shoulders, but it was simply Mama.
“It was a good visit, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Should you be up?
“I’m feeling so much better.”
“You look better. Why don’t you get your needlework and sit under the grapevine out back?”
“That sounds like a good idea. Get the children.”
He kissed her cheek, escorted her into the bungalow, and while she retrieved her needlework, he went looking for his sisters. Little Thomas was taking a nap.
George found the girls in the kitchen. Charlie frowned at him. “I don’t want to be a girl.”
“Why not?”
“Boys get to have all the fun.”
“Didn’t I teach you boy things?”
“Yes. But…”
“Go get your bow and arrow, and we’ll practice.”
She clapped and jumped up and down, then ran to her room.
“How about you, Christmas angel?”
“No, I like being a girl.” She glanced at him through her eyelashes. “I’m going to marry Frank when I grow up.”
George started choking. This time Bart wasn’t there to help him stop; he took a deep breath, swallowed, and got himself under control. “Frank’s quite a few years older than you.”
“I know. He’s as old as you. That doesn’t matter.”
“He might find a lady to marry before you’re old enough.”
“He won’t.” She sounded positive.
Well, George wasn’t going to argue with her. “Mama’s outside. Do you want to join her?”
“I’ll get my needlework. Mama promised to teach me how to embroider vines.”
He stood watching as she walked sedately out of the kitchen.
“She’s just like her ma,” Mrs. Hall observed.
“I reckon she is. Papa would have been so proud.”
“He would. So are you, I think.” She smiled at him. “Go on out, George. I’ll bring Little Thomas when he wakes up.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Hall. You’re wonderful.” And he planned to give her a bonus when they returned home. “Mama’s doing better, and I’m sure your good cooking has a lot to do with it.”
Mrs. Hall frowned. “But I cooked for her back home. Poor lady had hardly any appetite at all.” She shook her head. “I wish I knew what was wrong.”
“Even Dr. Choate didn’t know. The important thing is she’s better.”
“It is.”
They shared a relieved smile, and George went to join Mama and his sisters while Mrs. Hall returned to her dinner preparations.
* * * *
George was so certain things were going well, but a couple of months after they returned to the tenement on East 21st Street, Mama relapsed, and week by week, she began going downhill.
Frantic, George went for Dr. Choate himself.
After Dr. Choate examined Mama, he shook his head, sorrow in his eyes. “Do you feel up to eating anything, Mrs. Pettigrew?”
“No.” Her voice was low and hoarse. She sounded nothing like the vibrant girl Papa had brought to Mrs. O’Connor’s boarding
house. “I…I think I’ll try to sleep for a little while.”
“That’s a good idea.” He nodded toward the front room, and George followed him.
It felt like a repeat of the last time Dr. Choate had been here, only this time George had the feeling no visit to the country would help Mama.
“I’m sorry, George. I wish I had better news for you.”
“She was doing so well.” He wouldn’t let tears fall. It would scare his sisters if they saw him weeping.
“Perhaps it’s living in this tenement.”
The cramped apartment seemed to have gotten worse in the weeks they’d been away.
George didn’t know what to do. He no longer had a job—Doggett had taken great pleasure in telling him he was fired when he showed up for work after they’d returned home from the country.
“Is this really the end?”
“I’m afraid so. The tincture isn’t helping, even though I was uncertain it would. It isn’t healthy for the children to remain here either. After…come to me after, George. I’ll do what I can to help you.”
“Thank you.” He watched dry-eyed as the doctor left the shabby apartment.
“Georgie.” Little Thomas tugged on his trouser leg. “Up.”
He stooped and caught his brother under the arms and hugged him.
“Oh, Little Bit. What are we going to do?”
Of course the baby didn’t have the words to suggest anything, but he patted George’s cheeks and planted a kiss on each one. And that helped a lot.
* * * *
George sent word to Father Ed, asking if he could pay him a visit and bring the children with him. He would have left them with Mrs. Hall, but he didn’t want to overburden her, since the twins were recovering from a bout of influenza.
When they arrived at the rectory, George sent Noelle, Charlie, and Little Thomas off to play with the youngest Thompson children while he spoke with Father Ed.
“I haven’t seen you in a while, George. I hope you’ve been able to attend Mass?”
“No, I’m sorry. I’ve had to work.”
“Even on the Sabbath?”
“The Lord helps those who help themselves.”
Father Ed observed him thoughtfully. “While this is no longer your parish, I hope you know you can always come to me.”
