by A. J. Truman
“Look at you. Watch out, Jamie Oliver.” Eamonn took a seat at the kitchen table and watched Rafe work his culinary magic at the stove.
“Do you want some?”
“Sure. I’ll take a few squares.”
“Nobody calls it that.”
Eamonn shrugged. “I reckon that makes me the first.”
Rafe dipped his finger in the sauce to check the temperature, then licked it off. Eamonn twitched in his trousers.
“How are things?” Eamonn asked, not sure how to touch on Rafe’s 180 last night after his phone call. “Everything okay back home? Did they run out of McDonald’s and pick-up trucks?”
Rafe stirred the ravioli. His face clouded over with what had to be a memory of the call. “My parents are just worried about me and how much I’m spending and how I’m going to eat while I’m here.”
“They’ve been snooping in your bank account again?” The anger rose inside him. “Your parents shouldn’t be able to tell you what to do and where to spend your money.”
“Their money.”
“Well, that obviously needs to change.” Eamonn had heard the term helicopter parents, especially in posh areas of London, but Rafe’s mum and dad reminded him more of co-leaders in a totalitarian regime.
“I don’t know if I can get a job here. I’m on a visa. Do you work?”
“Bet your ass I do.” He listed off some of his former jobs. Through the tint of nostalgia, Eamonn looked at those experiences as character-building and fun memories, but he also remembered the slog of waking up early and delivering papers in the rain. “I just work summers now in my uncle’s warehouse. I make enough money to last throughout the year.”
“That sounds really awesome.”
Eamonn detected jealousy in his voice. It made him think about people who drop fifty pounds on vintage clothing or sign up for expensive wilderness programs so they can pretend that they live off the land. “You need to start making your own money.”
“Agreed. But I don’t know how. I don’t have a work visa, and I’m not eligible for work study.”
“I will gladly pay you for sexual favors.” Eamonn leaned back in the kitchen chair, pleased with making Rafe laugh.
“You’re joking, right?” Rafe asked with some seriousness.
Eamonn nodded yes. I am joking, I think. “There has to be a way for you to make some money while you’re here that doesn’t involve putting some stranger’s cock in your mouth.”
“Let’s hope.”
“Have your parents always been like this?”
“Yes. They would always take care of things for me. I never knew it was something to notice until I got here. I did some thinking on this last night.” It seemed like Rafe was still thinking about it. “I feel like it intensified when I came out to them. They became even more protective. They started wanting to drive me more places rather than me getting rides from others. They knew all of my teachers’ names and the subjects they taught in high school. Even now, my dad always asks me if people are treating me well. I think they were worried for me—still worried—that the world would be much rougher for a gay teen.”
“And so they kept you in a bubble.”
“They mean well. All parents want their kids to be safe. It’s biological.”
“Did they ever teach you to stand up for yourself?”
“If there was ever a problem, I knew to identify a teacher or adult in charge.”
“I’m talking about throwing a punch, duffing up some wanker who deserves it.” Eamonn had gotten into a few scuffles in primary school, but soon, the other kids knew he was one puff not to fuck with.
“My school had a zero tolerance policy against bullying and violence.”
“The world doesn’t have a fucking zero tolerance policy.” Eamonn walked up to the stove, dipped the wooden spoon in the sauce, and had a taste. “I think it’s ready.”
He dipped it again and this time held it to Rafe’s mouth. The guy happily parted his pert lips, and Eamonn couldn’t help being a little turned on. “Is this your family recipe?”
“Yes. Passed down over five generations. When my grandparents immigrated to America, they only had this ravioli recipe on them.”
“Was that sarcasm, Rafe?”
“I believe it was.”
“Well, holy baskets of cunts.” Through the laughter, their eyes met over the bubbling sauce. “Eat up, because we have work to do when you’re done.”
“We do?” Rafe asked.
“Tonight, I’m going to show you how to beat the shit of somebody.”
Chapter 10
RAFE
Eamonn took Rafe to a soccer field across campus, which Eamonn called a football pitch. (“Because that’s what it’s called! Not soccer field, dude.”) Rafe practiced making a fist on their way to the field, curling his fingers at his side while they walked. He looked back on his life, and he had never thrown a punch before. Well, there was one time he was stressed out about a test and punched his bedroom wall, but that hurt him more than the wall.
“Why are we going all the way here?” Rafe asked.
“We’ll have space and some peace, so you won’t feel embarrassed or have any onlookers. Most students don’t come to this pitch since it’s a bit of a walk. It’s got a great view.”
Rafe didn’t mind the view right now, walking behind Eamonn, glimpsing his back muscles in his long sleeve T-shirt.
Eamonn pushed aside some tree branches and welcomed Rafe to the field—er, pitch. It was a perfectly mowed piece of land surrounded by woods, like a guy with a bald head and hair on the sides. The first amber flecks of sunset dashed across the sky, giving the grass and the goalposts a golden glow. They walked up to the goalie net, which Rafe marveled at for its size.
“You’ve never seen a goal?”
“I played soccer when I was a kid. I’ve never seen a professional game. This is an intense goal. You need two goalies to cover it.”
“Nope. Just one.”
Leaves fluttered in the breeze. It was just the two of them out there, and all they could hear was the faint sound of car engines in the distance.
“Make a fist,” Eamonn said.
“We’re starting now?”
“No. First it’s tea time. Yes! Fist. Now.”
Rafe held up the most non-intimidating fist in the world.
“You’re not showing off a bloody wristwatch. Make it tight, like you actually want to scare someone.”
Rafe hardened his fist and put on his best fighting scowl.
“Better. Keep your thumb on the outside of your fist or else you’ll break it. Here.” Eamonn moved Rafe’s thumb in between his index and middle finger, just below where the fingers curl under. His fingers moved with determination, and they sent a buzz through Rafe’s body. His hand lingered on Rafe for an extra second before pulling back. “That’s much better."
You will not get hard during boxing practice. That is unsportsmanlike.
“And now I just…” Rafe flung out his fist, but it was more like a coordinated dance move than incitement of violence.
“When you punch, try to angle your wrist slightly, so that the flat middle part of your fingers are what makes contact first. And shoot out your arm so that it aligns with the direction you’re punching. That will add maximum impact.”
“Are guys really thinking about all this when they throw a punch? Aren’t they usually drunk or just intent on causing damage?”
“Do you want to be smart about it or fight like a sodding drunkard?”
“I guess the former, although the latter sounds fun.”
“Right.” Eamonn’s lips curled into a cheeky smile. “Wanker.”
Rafe punched his chest, but his first merely bounced off Eamonn. The guy didn’t even blink. Rafe had seen some definition under his shirts, but now he was certain Eamonn’s chest must’ve been a fortress of muscle.
“Good start.” Eamonn stood in front of him and held up his palms. “Do it again. Hit me.”
Rafe lazily held up his fists and threw a punch, which grazed Eamonn’s right palm.
“Come closer. You’re too far away.”
He took a step toward Eamonn, toward his scruff and chest of muscle.
“How exactly should I put up my dukes?” Rafe imitated a boxer with hands held in front of his face.
“You want to hold them comfortably.” Eamonn stood behind Rafe and positioned his arms and fists to where they should be. Concentrate. Don’t be…unsportsmanlike. But that was hard to do when Eamonn’s scent of cologne with a hint of cigarette smoke took over Rafe’s nasal passages.
Eamonn moved away from Rafe in an instant, seemingly flustered. Crap. Was I smelling him? Eamonn held up his fists to show Rafe. “You need to hold your fists tight, like you fucking mean it.”
“Is violence really the answer? Maybe Gandhi was onto something.”
Eamonn got right up to Rafe’s face and jutted out his chin.
“Do you see this scar?” Eamonn asked. “This cunt named Daniel Washburn sucker punched me in the cafeteria because I was a puff. I was eating my sandwich, someone tapped me on the shoulder, and boom!”
Rafe jumped back.
“Did I run to a teacher? No, I got up, and I pasted him in his pretty mouth. He was the one who ran away crying. And from then on, the pricks at school let me eat my lunch in peace.”
“Shit. I thought stuff like that only happened in movies.”
“No. It’s real fucking life. You got to be prepared. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” Eamonn glanced into the woods for a second. “I mean, let’s give this another go.”
He stepped back and held up his palms in front of Rafe’s face. “Let’s go. Give me one punch.”
Rafe tightened his fist. He’d always been a bit of a teacher’s pet, and he wanted to do right by this teacher. Eamonn cared about him and his wellbeing. He slammed his right fist into Eamonn’s left palm.
“Nice!”
Rafe shook out his hand.
“Remember what I said. Thumb out and angle your wrist.”
Rafe heeded his orders and punched his right palm, then left.
“Better!”
They went a few more rounds. Rafe’s fists slapped against Eamonn’s calloused palms, and the louder the slap, the more it motivated him.
“Harder,” Eamonn said. “Don’t go easy on me.”
Rafe tightened his fists and shot them out with more strength.
“What was his name?” Eamonn asked.
“Whose name?” Rafe didn’t stop punching.
“The kid who bullied you, who laughed at you.”
There were too many to name. His school had a strict zero tolerance policy, but Rafe didn’t get off scot-free. None of us did. Memories came back to him of kids snickering when he talked and imitating him when they thought he wasn’t in earshot. Rafe felt his face crystallize into a scowl.
Eamonn shook out his red palms. “You’re getting some good blows in, mate.”
As soon as his hands were up, Rafe went back to punching. Right, left, right, left. He let out grunts with each swing, and he didn’t care how they sounded. It was energy that had to be expounded.
He locked eyes with his sparring partner and slammed his fists into his hands. The setting sun bathed Eamonn in silhouette. Electricity crackled in the air between them, like the promise of lightning fizzing in a stormy sky. Heat burned in Rafe’s hands and coursed into his chest. His grunting and the contact of his fist into Eamonn’s palms filled the strangled silence between them.
The look Eamonn fixed on Rafe could strip the paint off a car. It made Rafe punch harder, punch faster.
Right, left, right, left.
Eamonn caught Rafe’s fist and held onto it.
“What?” Rafe asked. His heart pounded in his ears.
But Eamonn didn’t say anything. His blue eyes darkened. He tightened his grip on Rafe’s fist.
“Eamonn.”
He pulled Rafe to him and kissed him hard.
EAMONN
The animal look on Rafe’s face. The masculine energy pouring from his fists. The fucking grunting.
Eamonn had to have him. He had to consume him.
They were bound together by some kind of gravitational force. Rafe wriggled his fist away and rubbed his hands on Eamonn’s chest.
He clamped his hands on Rafe’s lithe frame, down his torso. Rafe’s erection dug into his leg, and Eamonn’s cock was just as forceful. He ran his fingers through those unruly curls, loving the way they slipped over his hands. He smelled the light scent of sweat from their boxing session on Rafe’s forehead and neck.
“Eamonn.” He stopped Eamonn’s hand from undoing his jeans. He remembered they were in the middle of a pitch. “Maybe we should wait until we get back to the dorm.”
“I can’t fucking wait.” He said it as a raspy whisper. Lust choked his throat. Eamonn didn’t care who walked by or who saw them. He couldn’t move from this point. Not when he was enjoying the best snogging session of his fucking life.
He walked Rafe back against the goalpost, pushing netting off his shoulder. Rafe’s hands were all over his body in an instant. Rafe was nearly clawing at his shirt. Rafe grunted out a moan that threatened to send Eamonn over the edge.
Eamonn slapped his American arse with one hand while the skated across Rafe’s waistline and circled the button of his jeans. That hard cock pressed against his leg. He bit and sucked on Rafe’s lower lip.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No,” Rafe whispered.
“Do you want me to put my hand on your cock?”
Rafe trembled under his fingers. “Yes.”
Eamonn flicked open Rafe’s jeans button while his tongue explored the insides of Rafe’s mouth. Rafe exhaled a shaking breath. Eamonn unzipped his fly and reached inside. Rafe let out a huge moan that carried across the field. Eamonn’s calloused hands rubbed themselves around Rafe’s cock.
Rafe’s teeth chattered as they kissed.
“Y’alright?” Eamonn asked.
Rafe nodded yes.
“Just cold?”
“No.”
“I’ll shut up.” Eamonn nibbled at his bottom lip. He had a bad habit of getting chatty during sex, something Nathan tried to break him of.
“No. Keep talking. Your accent is so hot. Please keep talking.”
Well, fuck Nathan.
“You like my hands on your cock?”
Rafe shook his head yes. He jutted out his hips to give Eamonn better leverage and gripped the netting behind him for support.
He pulled Rafe’s cock fully out and began stroking it. Its heat burned into his hand. “You are so fucking hard.”
Rafe unbuttoned Eamonn’s jeans and let out another moan when he made contact with his dick. The cold of the air was negated by the heat just south.
“Grab that cock,” Eamonn whispered into his ear. Rafe moaned in response.
Rafe’s greedy hands dove into his pants, playing with his balls. And then they were out.
“What is it?” Eamonn asked when Rafe pulled his hands away.
“You’re uncircumcised.” Rafe said it almost like a question.
“Yeah…Is that a problem?” The quickest way to kill a guy’s hard-on was to talk about it.
“No. I’ve just…”
“They don’t have uncut cocks back in America?”
“I’ve never been with one. I’m not sure what to do. I don’t want to hurt you.” Rafe looked down, embarrassed. And now Eamonn felt bad for putting Rafe on the spot.
“It’s the same as what you’ve got, just a little extra.” He meant that in more ways than one since he noticed that he was thicker than Rafe. “I’ll teach you.”
If he could teach him to punch, he could show him this.
“Come here,” Eamonn commanded. Rafe did as instructed, turning around and standing in front of Eamonn. “It’s easier to demonstrate this way.”
He took Rafe’s hand and place
d it back in his pants, where his uncut cock was already hard again. He had Rafe rub him softly, being sure not to pull on the extra skin.
“Just like that, mate.” Since he was so close to Rafe’s neck, he gave it some kisses just below his ear.
“Stroke it slowly. Up and down, just like that.”
He could tell Rafe wanted to go faster, but Eamonn maintained a firm grip on his wrist. As like before, Rafe was a fast learner. Eamonn nibbled on his ear lobe. “This feels so fucking good,” he whispered in his ear.
He fucked Rafe’s hand and moaned into Rafe’s neck. Then he reached around and slid his hand back into Rafe’s jeans, where the Yank was already primed.
He stroked Rafe and Rafe stroked him. It was a perfect match.
“How am I doing?” Rafe asked.
“Fucking amazing. You’re gonna make me come all over this pitch.”
Birds chirped around them and a light breeze rustled the grass. Eamonn’s cock was a fucking cannon. He tortured Rafe with a consistently slow and measured wank. Rafe turned his head for a kiss, and Eamonn’s tongue dipped into his mouth while their hands beat each other off. Rafe was the first guy he’d been with since Nathan, and it was as if he was waking up from a long sleep and feeling the morning sunshine on his face.
“Since I’m such a fast learner, maybe you could teach me how to suck you off next.”
Holy shit. “When is next?”
“Right now.”
Eamonn didn’t have to be asked twice. He lay on the ground inside the goal. His thick cock stuck straight up, his sensitive head red like a beacon. He motioned for Rafe to kneel beside him.
“Take that cock in your mouth.” That was the extent of Eamonn’s instruction, though. Once his dick entered Rafe, Eamonn lost the ability to give coherent thoughts. “Just like that, mate,” he barely said.
Rafe’s mouth was like a bloody five-star hotel for his dick. He took Eamonn slowly, making sure to be gentle to the head.
“Shove that cock in your mouth, mate.”
Rafe complied. Eamonn grunted when his cock hit the back of Rafe’s throat. Rafe gagged on it and had to take a second to catch his breath.
“You sure you’re a beginner?”
“I’m an overachiever.” Lust burned in Rafe’s eyes, that same intensity from when they were sparring. Eamonn had to catch his breath, too.
