by A. Nybo
Poised to take Charlie in his mouth, Donnell looked up. “Are you sure you can trust me with this? You had to rescue the last man that was in my mouth.”
Charlie grinned and ran his fingers through Donnell’s curls. “I’m not sure I want to be rescued from such a fate.”
“Ah, well, then.” Donnell slid his mouth over the head of Charlie’s dick. He wasn’t sure whether the murmur of utter delight was his or Charlie’s.
He worked hard and fast to bring Charlie to completion, and sensing he was almost there, Donnell slowed his attentions to a crawl, just to watch the man writhe and moan.
Charlie was like a living, moving work of art the way his head pushed back into the pillow, the veins in his neck popped, and chest arched as his hips dug into the bed before straining in an upward thrust.
Donnell took enormous pleasure running his hand over the smooth skin of Charlie’s thighs and up his torso.
Charlie tugged on a fistful of Donnell’s hair, pulling him off him. “Get up here.”
Donnell nearly came undone. Charlie’s arousal had imbued his voice with a smoky quality. Christ, he was Donnell’s every fantasy come true. Using his tongue to test his theory about the smoothness of Charlie’s skin, he ran it over and into every curve on his way up. Except for a few chest hairs and the little bristles that began right above his Adam’s apple, he really was that smooth. It was like running his tongue over caramel.
The moment their lips met, Charlie rolled Donnell over and seemed determined to reciprocate every action Donnell had performed, right down to the delicious torture.
Charlie pushed Donnell’s foreskin up and ran his tongue beneath it. The sensation was pleasant, but combined with the sight of that tongue running around in there, it tied Donnell’s brain in such a fancy knot he didn’t think he’d get it undone for days. Using his tongue, Charlie stretched and flicked the veil of skin.
“Jaysus,” said Donnell breathily. “I think I’ve just developed a new fetish.”
The vibration of Charlie’s chuckle on his dick sent Donnell’s mind on a futile search for jokes. He never thought he’d want a man laughing when it had anything to do with his cock, but difficult times, such as being teased to a perfect insanity, called for desperate measures.
When Charlie continued with the foreskin play, Donnell could take it no more. He threw Charlie on his back and pinned him to the bed beneath him. They rutted against one another, kissing, caressing. When Charlie’s fingers dug into his buttocks, Donnell lifted slightly so he could watch Charlie come undone.
Black eyebrows pinched into the epitome of exquisite torment, lips parted enough to allow the little pants of excitement to flow freely, and then the moment when his entire face locked in the agony of ecstasy as his body jerked and spasmed. His expression relaxed and then he hit that moment of pure bliss, and Donnell began his own journey to bliss.
OVER THE weeks leading up to Christmas, little work was done on the almost complete steampunk model as Donnell and Charlie spent every moment they could steal, together. If they were both working at night, Donnell would make something for Charlie that could be heated at a moment’s notice. When Charlie was able to snatch a free moment from the hospital, he ducked across to Mikey’s. Donnell made him promise not to throw the food in the bin like he’d done with Mikey’s sandwiches, and to prove he wouldn’t, Charlie refused to eat it unless he could eat it there. And so, between customers, they would eat dinner together.
They spoke of likes and dislikes over a reheated homemade chili or Bolognese, while hopes and dreams were reserved for more intimate and less pressured moments when they shared a meal at each other’s houses or, on the rare occasion, went to a restaurant. It was on such an occasion that Charlie learned of Donnell buying Mikey’s. Donnell was pleased to hear his own thoughts echoed by the hospital staff, who apparently often lamented on the lack of decent food and coffee nearby.
Similarly, it was one night after a roast at Donnell’s that Charlie relaxed in the recliner, while Donnell lay sprawled on the couch, when Charlie told him of his ambition to restore the Federation Bungalow he’d mortgaged.
“Well, Charlie Beck, you wee bugger. You didn’t tell me you were an architecture fanatic.”
Charlie made to speak, but Donnell continued.
“How did an ED doctor have time to become interested in architecture?”
Once again, Charlie tried to speak.
“Did Federation architecture slip between the face bone and femur pages in your medical textbooks?”
Charlie made to say something, but when Donnell took breath again, Charlie leaped at him and shut him up with a kiss. Donnell grinned against Charlie’s lips.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to get over here,” said Donnell once the kiss was over. “Although I admit I expected a slap.” Donnell pulled Charlie down onto the couch and wrapped his arms around him. He waited until Charlie was settled. “All right. Now you can tell me about your Federation Bungalow.”
“It’s funny,” Charlie said, but his tone suggested he meant funny in a strange kind of way. “But I no longer have the desire to talk about it.” Mischief sparked in his dark eyes.
“C’mon,” said Donnell. “I didn’t mean to put you off.”
“You didn’t put me off, Donnell O’Byrne,” said Charlie in a seductive manner. “Quite the opposite.” Taking Donnell’s hand, he set it on his erection.
“Oh, I see how it is.” Donnell struggled to disentangle himself from Charlie. “Last one to bed is a rotten head-giver.”
Charlie’s laugh trailed after Donnell. “That’s not how it works,” Charlie called after him.
Donnell stopped at the bedroom door. “Och, what would you know? Just because you’re a doctor, you think you know all kinds of things about anatomy.” He stripped off his clothing and got into bed.
Charlie appeared and leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, his arms folded. He was a feckin’ dream to look at. Donnell could watch him all night. However, he’d like Charlie to be much, much closer so he could keep a really good eye on him.
“I do,” said Charlie. “Would you like me to show you a few tricks I’ve learned?”
“Ooh, yes, please.”
IT WAS 3:00 a.m. when Donnell woke. He’d lost one of his arms but found its lifeless form beneath Charlie. With as much care as one could when retrieving dead limbs, he yanked it out from under him and tried to get the blood circulating again. Charlie had been revived no more than to turn over—seriously, the man could sleep through a house invasion, even if said house invasion involved an armored vehicle. Donnell spooned him, his mind drifting aimlessly.
The thought of Christmas in a few days caused his eyes to spring open. He still hadn’t sorted out Captain Mal for his nephew. He slipped from bed and went into the dining room where Spunky Mal and all the necessary supplies had been shoved to the end of the table. There wasn’t that much to do, but it needed time to dry.
Donnell had set the paint out and had just laid the first few strokes on Captain Mal’s back when Charlie appeared. The sleepy frown caused a powerful flush of affection to blossom in Donnell’s chest.
“What are you doing?” asked Charlie.
“I’m altering his parachute to look like a shirt so that when he’s put up in the crow’s nest, he’s not expected to jump through all those sail ropes. Thirteen-year-old boys notice these things.” Donnell offered a wry smile and waggled his eyebrows. “I did.”
Charlie slid into the chair beside Donnell and bent to take a closer look. “With it all puffed out at the back like that, it makes his shirt a very odd shape.”
“It’s getting blown in the breeze. That’s how he tests the potential drag and whether the wind is strong enough for the dragonfly to take off.”
“Potential drag? Is he an aerodynamicist?”
Donnell studied Captain Mal now that he’d lost his parachute. “Aye.”
“Do you think he can tell whether our relationship wil
l fly?”
Donnell turned Captain Mal slightly. “He says it will.” He put Captain Mal on the paper, and swiveling in his seat to face Charlie, took his smiling face in his hands. He delivered a kiss to the corner of Charlie’s mouth and grinned. “And he is a great aerodynamicist.”
A. NYBO has tried conventional methods (a psych degree and a GC in Forensic Mental Health) but far prefers the less conventional, such as the occasional barbecue in the rain, four-hundred-kilometer drives at 1:00 a.m. for chocolate, and multiple emergency naps in any given twenty-four-hour period. Favorite things to do include that which can be seen (e.g. reading, writing, drawing, walking the dogs, traveling) and that which can’t, such as dreaming (both awake and asleep).
Western Australian born, she has been spotted on the other side of the planet several times—usually by mosquitoes. She’s also discovered Amazonian mosquitoes love her just as much as they do in her home state.
By A. Nybo
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The Great Aerodynamicist
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Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS
www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Published by
DREAMSPINNER PRESS
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Great Aerodynamicist
© 2019 A. Nybo
Cover Art
© 2019 Brooke Albrecht
http://brookealbrechtstudio.com
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
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Digital ISBN: 978-1-64405-768-1
Digital eBook published December 2019
v. 1.0
Printed in the United States of America
