Murder Most Lovely

by Hank Edwards

  Jazz was so stunned by Michael’s sudden desperation, he lay completely still and let Michael take charge. Michael unceremoniously squirted a big glob of cold lube onto Jazz’s cock.

  Jazz hissed in surprise but his dick got harder watching Michael lose control.

  So fucking hot….

  If Jazz had expected Michael to be as mild in bed as he was in life, he was happily mistaken.

  Gasping for breath, his cock dark with blood and shiny with precum, Michael took hold of Jazz’s cock and aimed it at his asshole. He pressed down hard and fast.

  The sudden all-consuming heat and tightness made Jazz buck up. “Oh shit!”

  Holding on to Jazz’s pecs, Michael rode him in long deep thrusts, his head thrown back and mouth wide-open.

  Jazz grabbed on to his hips and held on for the ride. It was all he could do. Michael was driving this train now, and it was out of control.

  “Oh God, yes,” Michael panted, his cock slapping Jazz’s stomach in a wild rhythm. “Fuck me! Harder, deeper!”

  Caught up in the passion, Jazz let out a delighted laugh and pushed himself upright. He hooked his hands over the back of Michael’s shoulders to pull Michael down harder as he thrust up. They fucked hard and fast, grunting and gasping. Michael wrapped his arms tightly around Jazz, burying his face against Jazz’s neck, their bodies bouncing and the bed creaking as they found their rhythm. Jazz’s feet sought purchase on the soft sheets, and the heady scent of sex, the sounds of Michael’s breath huffing in his ears and their bodies coming together wrapped around them.

  “Damn,” Jazz breathed, his grip tightening on Michael. He had not expected Michael to be such a vigorous lover.

  Slamming down and holding still, Michael threw back his head and let out a loud cry. A burst of wet heat splashed Jazz across the chest, hitting him in the chin. Michael’s ass tightened on Jazz’s cock, and Jazz thrust up once more, coming with him.

  Afterward they held each other, taking ragged breaths and trembling.

  “That was….” Jazz couldn’t catch his breath, dropping his cheek against Michael’s sweaty chest. “Fuck, that was hot.”

  Michael laughed and kissed Jazz on the forehead. When Jazz looked up, he was startled by Michael’s cocky expression. “What do you expect when you rim a guy like that?”

  Jazz laughed, adoring his new insight into Michael’s personality. “I’ll definitely have to remember to do that again.”

  “You will.”

  He pushed Michael’s normally tidy hair off his sweaty brow, enjoying the sated happiness in his eyes and the freshly tousled look. “I like your version of spicy.”

  Smiling, Michael cupped both of Jazz’s cheeks and gave him a slow, deep kiss. The tenderness of that kiss was a stark contrast to the passionate sex moments ago, and Jazz couldn’t decide which side of Michael he liked better. When Michael’s fingers wound in his hair and pulled ever so lightly, Jazz had his answer.

  Both. Definitely both.

  They held each other close, gently stroking in between soft kisses and shared smiles. Michael trailed his thumb across Jazz’s chin and wiped off some of his cum.

  When Michael sucked on his thumb, smiling as if he were tasting the sweetest ice cream, Jazz made a soft whimpering sound. Then Michael ran his hand down Jazz’s chest. “I made a bit of a mess, I see.”

  “The best kind of mess,” Jazz said, kissing him and savoring the taste of Michael’s cum.

  Though he loved their bodies tangled up together, his dick was already softening and slipping out of Michael’s snug ass.

  “We should get cleaned up.” Michael shifted off Jazz, then moved to climb out of bed.

  Jazz placed a hand on his chest. “No, you wait here. You just did all the hard work. The least I can do is get a wet cloth to clean you up.”

  Brow still glistening with sweat and cheeks flushed, Michael nodded and lay back on the bed, his dark hair framed by the fluffy white pillows.

  Jazz climbed off the bed, his knees popping audibly. He pulled the used rubber off his dick and dropped it in the garbage.

  “Was that sound your knees?”

  “Yeah, they don’t hurt, just in case you ever want me on all fours.” Jazz winked. “But they’re getting noisier the closer I get to fifty.”

  “Fifty? I thought we were the same age.”

  He shrugged and made a face. “I may have fibbed a little. I’ll be forty-nine before Christmas.”

  Michael let out a breathy chuckle. “You’re a bad, bad boy.”

  “The worst,” Jazz agreed, then went into the bathroom. He gave the spacious walk-in tiled shower and big tub an approving glance—Michael’s got style—as he walked up to the large double sink vanity. Assuming the washcloths were in a drawer closest to the shower, he slid open a couple of drawers and quickly closed the bottom one.

  But not before he saw a big blue dildo with a suction cup end, a string of anal beads, a large bottle of lube, and a small dildo that looked just big enough for prostate titillating.

  “Where do you keep your washcloths?” Jazz asked before Michael realized he’d seen all those wonderful toys. Not only because he didn’t want to embarrass him, but he also hoped that the next time they made love, Michael might bring them out himself so they could play with them together.

  My reserved little mortician is quite the surprise.

  “The linen closet is on the right,” Michael said from the bedroom.

  Jazz looked over his shoulder, savoring the sight of Michael sprawled out on the sheets, his dick, still shiny from spit and cum, lying across his thigh.

  A tremble of desire danced down Jazz’s back. God, he’s fucking sexy.

  Jazz grabbed a washcloth and wet it with warm water. Dipping his head, he took a quick drink from the faucet and wiped his mouth. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror, his hair wild and tousled, skin bright from orgasm. He wiped the cum off his chest and dick, then rinsed the cloth and hurried back to Michael. He wore a very contented smile, his cheeks still flushed.

  For the first time since they’d met, Jazz had a feeling he was seeing the real Michael. The tenderness and vulnerability in Michael’s brown eyes warmed Jazz’s heart.

  Michael held out his hand and Jazz took it, allowing Michael to draw him closer so he could sit beside him on the edge of the bed. Still holding his hand, Jazz used the other to gently wipe Michael clean. When Michael lifted his knee so Jazz could wipe off the excess lube from his ass, Jazz marveled at Michael’s lack of inhibitions in bed.

  Michael tapped his fingers gently within Jazz’s, and their eyes met.

  Sucking in his breath, Jazz whispered, “You’ve got to be the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.”

  Michael scrunched up his face and shook his head. “I highly doubt that’s true.”

  Jazz carefully laid the cloth on a coaster sitting on the nightstand. He took both of Michael’s hands in his. “I’m serious. The freshly fucked glow just makes you so….” He paused as he thought about it. “It brings a light out in you, and I can’t explain it.”

  Truly, Jazz could not find the words.

  He’d been with a lot of guys in his lifetime, growing bored as the excitement wore off with each and every one of them. Even Russell, with his constantly changing kinks, became predictable in his unpredictability.

  But seeing and experiencing Michael’s passion, watching the confident way he stood up to the sheriff, then uncovered the clue about the hands. Taking on a shooter one night, then chasing a potential drug dealer and murderer the next. But also naming his cat Mr. Pickles Furryton the Third, and holding and kissing Jazz so gently after fucking him into the mattress.

  Michael was like a Christmas present wrapped up inside a Christmas present, wrapped in another.

  Jazz wanted to unwrap each layer and discover what new surprise awaited him.

  “Lie back down with me,” Michael whispered.

  Jazz was powerless to do otherwise.

  Lying on their sides an
d sharing the same pillow face-to-face, they caressed each other and their legs tangled. “I want to know everything about you,” Jazz whispered.

  “Everything?” Michael’s voice was back to normal now. Not his professional mortician voice, thankfully, but the aggressive lover and tender postorgasm voice had disappeared.

  “Truth?” Jazz said.

  “I seem to get myself into trouble when we play this game. But okay. Truth.”

  “Are you always so wild in bed?”

  His face fell. “I’m sorry, didn’t you like it?”

  “Holy fuck, yes! You did absolutely everything awesome! You blew my mind when you rode me like a dime store pony.”

  Laughing, Michael lowered his chin and shook his head, embarrassed. “I guess you just… I don’t know, hit my hot buttons.”

  “Note to self,” Jazz said. “Instead of running on my elliptical for thirty minutes, rim Michael’s ass for ten minutes for a more effective cardio workout in less time and far more fun.”

  Michael laughed and gently pushed Jazz on the shoulder. “Don’t tease.”

  Jazz ran his fingers down Michael’s cheek. “So shy and reserved, yet I feel like there’s a deep untouched passion inside you that you don’t let others see.”

  Michael rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Jazz quickly snuggled up under his arm and drew the sheet over them.

  “I’ve never been comfortable around people,” Michael said.

  “Really? That’s surprising, because you’re so good with your clients.”

  “That’s different, though, you know? That’s business. I can handle the business side of stuff. But the personal things get… complicated.”

  Jazz put a hand on Michael’s chest, feeling the thump of his heart beneath his palm. “Why is that?”

  “Maybe because I was brought up surrounded by death?” Michael shrugged. “I don’t know. I always felt kind of disconnected from kids my own age. I didn’t have a lot of friends in school. No one wanted to be friends with the mortician’s son.”

  “I bet some kids wanted to know what went on in the funeral home.”

  Michael gave a quiet snort. “Yeah. Those were some damn creepy kids too.”

  They both laughed gently, and Jazz scooted in a little closer. “Sounds like you’ve been lonely.”

  “Yes.” Michael nodded. “Pretty much. I still don’t have many friends.”

  “What about Kitty? The guys who you work with?”

  “Employees, friendly associates. Not friends.”

  Jazz thought about it for a moment. He was friendly with his clients and coworkers, but Misty had become a real friend since he’d started renting a booth from her. “I’m sure they don’t see it that way.”

  “You were at the festival with me. You saw how people acted. No one wants to visit the mortician because it means someone is dead. And when they see me out and about, I make them think of death and dying.”

  “I don’t think of death when I see you.”

  Michael smiled, but his eyes seemed sad. “That’s because you are a rare bird, Jazz Dilworth.”

  Rare bird. His grandma used to use that expression.

  Lying still, Jazz thought about what Michael told him, and how he believed others saw him. Jazz was blessed with his career and his life. Everyone was always happy to see their hairdresser, both in the chair and out in the real world. Compliments and gratitude on the top of every hour, Jazz rarely felt unappreciated—except by selfish lovers of course.

  And while Michael provided a service far more valuable to the community, no one took the time to look past his job and discover the heart of the man.

  Well, it was their loss, because Jazz was thoroughly enjoying what he’d found.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE AGENTS and editors got all the glory, but no author ever thanked his PR rep.

  Norbert gave an indignant sniff as he angled the car into a parking spot outside the Coffee, Tea, and Thee coffeehouse. The name was so cute it just might kill him, but sadly it was the only decent coffee for miles. He gathered his wallet and mobile phone, checked the mirror to make sure his hair was satisfyingly spiky in the back, his cool blond sweep in the front half covering one eye.

  Perfect.

  Popping on his shades, he stepped out into the bright glare of the sun low in the sky.

  The encounter earlier with Russell’s fan who had brought too many books to the signing had been satisfying. Norbert had told him off but good, and hopefully helped the strange man realize getting close to Jasper was a mistake.

  A potentially deadly mistake.

  Thus satisfied with himself, Norbert paused to look up and down the street. No one was about, and he gave an indignant sniff at the emptiness of the sidewalks. Another small town far away from the bustle and life of New York City. And all for what? He knew everything there was to know about Russell Withingham. Norbert’s relationship with Russell had lasted years longer than any so-called personal relationship. Since the release of his first Brock Hammer book, A Hard Day to Die, Norbert had been right there by Russell’s side. Press tours, interviews, book signings, blog stops and podcasts, Norbert had been responsible for all of it.

  In many ways, Russell owed his success and fame to him.

  But would Norbert’s name ever appear in a book dedication or even the acknowledgments?

  No.

  Even though he had trudged to every event alongside Russell—said event having been scheduled by Norbert as well, but no matter—and went out of his way to make sure everything was to Russell’s liking. The beverages Russell liked? Check. Favorite snacks? Check. Best time of day to catch Russell in the mood to please his adoring fans? Check.

  And now here Norbert was, no one waiting in his tiny studio apartment back in New York City for him to return home. Not that two people could live together comfortably in his apartment, and, besides, Norbert would have to go out and mingle to meet someone if he wanted that. And it had been a long time since he’d felt up to dating anyone.

  It never seemed fair.

  No matter how much Norbert might have in common with someone new, his dates always appeared as a pale reflection of Russell Withingham.

  It took him a few tries to get the door to the coffeehouse open—couldn’t they just slap a Pull sign on the glass and be done with it?

  Norbert paused to take in the space. Many people sat alone, staring at a laptop or smartphone, beverages close at hand. One woman sat by the window with an honest-to-God paperback book in her hands. And it was a Brock Hammer mystery, Norbert’s favorite of the series, The Broken Pocket Watch.

  How would she react if she knew he had Russell Withingham’s ear?

  “Help you?”

  The kid behind the counter was giving Norbert a bored stare.

  “Yes.” He stepped up to the counter and ordered two large vanilla and lavender lattes with a dollop of honey. “Your honey is organic, yes?”

  A long, blank stare.

  “Hello?” Norbert said and gave a small wave. The kid’s name tag read Josiah. “Josiah? Do you need me to repeat myself?”

  “No. The honey’s organic. The owner has a hive out back.”

  “He does?”

  “Yeah, dude. Totally organic.”

  “Fine.” Norbert handed over his credit card. Once Josiah handed it back and turned to make the drinks, Norbert said to his back, “Not too much honey. Just a dollop. Is that clear?”

  “Clear as can be,” Josiah said.

  “Very good.”

  As he waited, Norbert kept his sunglasses on so he could study the room unnoticed. He watched the woman reading Russell’s book by the window. The urge to approach her and talk about the book was strong, but he resisted. What good would it do? And if she discovered who he was, it would just look creepy. Besides, he’d found that his goth-like appearance tended to be off-putting to people outside New York. Sometimes, even to those in New York.

  Russell had never had a problem wit
h Norbert’s appearance. But that sour-piece-of-candy husband of his sure did.

  Even now, with Jasper out of the picture and, for the most part, Russell’s life, Norbert still felt a prick of irritation at the very thought of the man. Jasper had always had something to say about Norbert’s hair or appearance, and it was never nice. Oh, he had made his comments seem complimentary, but Norbert had always detected the light sarcasm in Jasper’s tone.

  “You’ve been working really hard on Russell’s tour dates, Norbert. Your skin is so pale I don’t think it’s seen the sun in months.”

  “Your hair’s looking particularly spiky today, Norbert.”

  “Two large vanilla lavender lattes with a dollop of honey.”

  Norbert gave Josiah a narrow-eyed look. “There’d better not be more than a dollop of honey in these drinks, or you will answer for it.”

  Josiah stared back with no expression.

  Norbert picked up the lattes and turned on his heel. The woman reading by the window scowled, watching him cross to the door. Before he pushed through it to the sidewalk, he called to her, “That’s my favorite book of the series. The widow’s daughter is the killer.”

  The sight of her mouth dropping open sent a flush of satisfaction through him.

  Norbert started humming as he got back in his car and arranged the lattes in the cup holders.

  The drive to Russell’s rental cottage was short—because of budget cuts at the publisher, Norbert was staying in a tiny hotel room in town that smelled of mildew and stale beer—and soon he pulled into the stone driveway.

  Russell’s BMW was parked under the carport, and a quiet, almost desperate longing echoed through the hollow of Norbert’s chest. He’d ridden in the BMW a handful of times. Russell looked so good in the driver’s seat, strong hands on the wheel, confident in the direction he was headed. Being a passenger alongside Russell had given Norbert the opportunity to spin countless fantasies about the two of them.

  These fantasies would play on a loop in the back of Norbert’s mind as he went through the mundane tasks of his workday, and he had spent more nights than he could possibly count stretched out on the futon in his miniscule apartment, legs open, toes spread wide as he furiously stroked himself to gasping climax.