Boys In Heat, page 2
Ben breathed out smoke. “But you’re coming on to me anyway?”
Mortified, I just nodded.
He nodded back. “I’m usually done around one. You feel like meeting me here, I’ll take you to the chef bar.”
I blinked. “Chef bar?”
“Late-night hangout where those of us with nocturnal jobs hang out. Seedy. Hope that’s not a problem.” He gave me a firm, sizing-up look that embarrassed and attracted me all at once.
“Not a problem,” I managed. “I’ll be here at one.”
He nodded. “Good.” He looked at me again. “Get some rest.”
After incessant teasing from Scott and a bout of nerves so severe I thought I’d have to stay home just to remain near the bathroom, I finally managed to make it back to the alley and wait. I’d nearly given up when Ben stepped out the door at one-thirty, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt under his leather jacket, cigarette already dangling from his lips. “Let’s go,” he said.
I followed a pace behind him, trying not to stare at his ass—and then I realized that was probably the whole point. His jacket was cut a little long, but that was alluring in itself, giving me a reason to watch as the hem swayed from one side to the other with every step.
He wasn’t kidding about the seediness of the bar. As he shoved open the door, a loud blast of last year’s dance music assaulted my ears. The floor—what I could see of it in the dim light—looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months. People in various stages of dress and inebriation sprawled on stained couches, some necking, some on the verge of passing out. Ben grinned through it all, weaving his way through the insanity to the bar.
“Two Heinekens,” he said, ordering for us both, and then passed one off to me before heading further into the club. Toward the back of the club was a doorway with a curtain drawn across it. Ben made a beeline for it.
I knew about back rooms. I’d noticed that this bar leaned toward straight, though, and so I wasn’t really sure what to expect. I followed Ben as closely as I could, afraid to lose track of him in a place so foreign to me.
It wasn’t quite the kind of back room Scott might have liked. I almost choked on the density of cigarette smoke, so hazy that it took my eyes a moment to adjust. There was a universal cry of “Ben!” from a dozen men sprawled out on yet more of the ubiquitous couches that had seen better days. “Who’s that?” one added, and I felt my face flush at the attention.
“My date,” Ben replied. He gripped the back of my neck and piloted me to the nearest unoccupied couch.
A lot of kitchen stories were told, but I don’t remember the specifics. Ben kept his hand on me the entire time, squeezing the back of my neck, rubbing down my spine, carding his fingers through the hair at the back of my head. I was so hard I ached, but I could still barely stand to even look at him beside me, afraid of somehow ruining the casual affection.
As a heavyset man settled into a long tale involving something about fifty covers and a busted stove, Ben nuzzled the side of my neck, smelling me before placing a kiss just below my ear. I whimpered softly, closing my eyes. It was embarrassing to be touched like that in front of so many people, even if they didn’t seem to notice. Ben placed a hand on my cheek and turned my face toward his, then kissed me hard, thrusting his tongue into my mouth immediately. He tasted of stale cigarettes and fresh beer, and I thought my cock would tear right through the fly of my slacks.
“You wanna get out of here?” he murmured, resting a hand so high up on my thigh that my cock jumped.
“Yes, please,” I breathed, grateful that he didn’t seem to need anything more cogent from me.
He stood and said his good-byes, and aside from a couple of catcalls there was no comment about our necking. He put his hand on the small of my back to guide me through the bar, then kept it there as we headed down the street. I felt myself falling hard. This wasn’t just a little spark of initial attraction anymore. The way he took control of me so casually made me ache and seemed to short-circuit thought completely.
“Tell me you’re not a virgin,” he murmured when a stoplight forced us to wait on a corner.
“I’m not.”
He gave me a little look. “Tell me you’ve been fucked up the ass before.”
I swallowed, wondering how such a small, dirty sentence could be so hot. “I have.”
The light turned. “Good,” Ben said, and led me through the crosswalk.
By the time we got to his apartment, I was completely crazy for him. He piloted me backward into the nearest wall and kissed me firmly, and I rashly grabbed for his package, squeezing it. He let out a moan of surprise and thrust into my hand, his hips executing tight rolls that forced me to think about what he’d be like inside me. “Please,” I moaned, kissing him desperately.
“Please what?” he breathed, sliding a hand between my legs.
“Oh god,” I choked, “please fuck me.” I’d never said that to anyone in my life, but Ben seemed to demand it.
“That sounds so good coming from a nice clean boy like you,” Ben growled in my ear, pinning me to the wall with a knee between my thighs. He still smelled like the kitchen—grease, garlic, and fish, not a combination I’d have found sexy until then.
“Please fuck me,” I moaned again, emboldened by his praise, by the fact that this was a guy who’d been around, who wouldn’t be offended by things I’d had to keep to myself back home.
Ben sank his teeth into my neck, forcing a yelp out of me. “Gonna fuck you hard,” he muttered, dragging me further into his apartment. I followed, stumbling, so desperate for him that I pulled my shirt over my head as we went. Ben followed suit, dropping his jacket at the bedroom door and his T-shirt beside the bed. Before I could go any further, he grabbed the front of my belt and tugged downward. “I want that mouth on me.”
I’d never been manhandled to my knees like that before, and I was desperate to at least open my slacks and let my cock spring free. I wanted to please Ben, though, and I was willing to put up with the discomfort—especially once he shoved his jeans down to his ankles and kicked them aside. His cock jutted straight out at me, so hard that it had turned a vivid crimson. The head glistened with precome, and as I watched, it throbbed steadily. I almost wanted to laugh giddily—it was all for me.
“Suck it,” Ben ordered.
I grabbed his hips and drew the sticky head into my mouth, moaning softly as I licked. Ben moaned, and the thought that I was pleasing him spurred me on to trot out every trick I knew. I slid one hand down to fondle his balls while I sucked, and they moved against my hand, drawing up tight. I had to pull back to breathe, so turned on that coordinating sucking and breathing was a little beyond me.
“Take off your pants,” Ben said. I stumbled to my feet and shoved them down and off. I was harder than I could remember being in years, and Ben nodded approval, wrapping a hand around my cock.
“Oh—fuck, be careful,” I blurted.
Ben raised an eyebrow.
“Gonna come,” I explained, managing a sheepish grin.
“I’d better fuck you before that happens.” He hesitated, though, still staring at me, and squeezed my cock.
“Oh, fuck,” I moaned, rising up on my toes to press harder into his hand even though I knew one more good stroke would do me in. I wanted to get fucked more than anything, but convincing my body to wait when his hand was right there was nearly impossible.
“Get on the bed,” Ben said, finally releasing my cock.
Glad that he’d made the decision for me, I sprawled out on his bed on my back, figuring that if he wanted me some other way, he’d make it known. From the nightstand, he pulled out a condom for himself and lube for me. I was nervous about preparing myself while he watched—what if I did it in some way he’d never seen before?—but the handing over of the Wet was a pretty obvious suggestion that I do just that. I slicked up my fingers, spread my legs, and tried to push two fingers in as I usually did. It hurt. Surprised, I tried one; that was better, but there was still something wrong.
“You’re nervous,” Ben said. He gestured for me to stop and lubed up his own fingers. I couldn’t help feeling skeptical; if I was nervous with my fingers, I couldn’t imagine being any more relaxed with Ben’s.
He rested his hand on my abs and massaged gently, then massaged my hole to the same rhythm. Before I knew it, he had two fingers in, scissoring them gently. “Wow,” I moaned.
“You’re so fucking tight,” Ben said. “It’s going to hurt to fuck you.”
I grinned, already flying a little on the exquisite sensation of his fingers inside me. “Hurt me or hurt you?”
“Maybe a little of both.” He smiled back at me, then thrust sharply with his fingers. I gasped and immediately canted my hips up for more. He chuckled, pulling his fingers out and wiping them on a towel. “Seems like you’re ready,” he teased.
“God, yes, fuck me, please.” I shoved a pillow under my hips and spread my legs wide.
Ben pulled on the condom and settled between my thighs, looking down at me quietly one more time.
“Fuck me,” I whispered.
Something in his eyes changed, and he arched up to position himself, one hand wrapped around his cock. He was bigger than my other two lovers had been, and the nerves didn’t help me open up, but he kept pressing and pulling back, pressing and pulling back, and soon when he pressed he slid inside. I moaned, grabbing the blanket beneath me, and he grabbed my hands and put them on his shoulders. “Leave marks,” he said.
I managed a breathless laugh and hung on to him just as hard as I’d been gripping the blanket, my fingernails digging into his skin. He began to thrust, so slowly that I could feel how the head gave way to the shaft and back again. My cock lay tight against my abs, and every occasional brush of his belly against the underside was an exquisitely welcome torture. His thrusts quickened, and when they grew sharp I cried out, stunned by how good he felt so deep inside me. I didn’t have to try to leave marks anymore; my fingers were clawing around his shoulders without any conscious thought on my part. He fucked me so hard that I slid up the bed in tiny jerking motions, his breath short and hot in my face, his sweat burning where his hips rubbed against my thighs. Somewhere in the haze of sensation I began to beg, and when his rough, kitchen-calloused hand wrapped around my cock and squeezed I think I screamed. I felt my come spurt over my chest, heard Ben’s startled grunt, and then he shoved me down hard into the bed, fucking me fast and hard as he came deep inside me.
Abruptly, it was quiet, just our heavy breaths filling the room. “Jesus,” I moaned, resting one hand on Ben’s overheated back.
“Yeah.” Ben wiped his sweaty forehead on my chest, then looked up at me. He grinned, his hair every which way, his face red. “Welcome to the big city.”
Scott was mock-furious that I didn’t get the truffle torte recipe, but when Ben didn’t return my calls, Scott quit playing and started buying me drinks. The weird thing is, I didn’t mind. The sex had been amazing, and I would have liked more of it, but Ben gave me something else that was more important: he showed me that I could go get what I wanted. That was what moving to the city was all about: leaving behind the lockstep of small towns and pursuing my own thing, without fear that an entire community would turn against me. As great as the sex was, it wasn’t quite as great as figuring that one out.
Thanks, Ben.
HOOKING UP
J. M. Snyder
We arrange to meet at Fairpark Mall because neither of us is ready to bring the other home just yet. It’s been three weeks since we met, an eternity online, but I’m still cautious. I know what he says he looks like, know who he claims to be, but nowadays you never can tell.
I’m waiting outside the food court, leaning back against the wall with my hips thrust forward and the usual scowl on my face. My black clothes must look like a bruise against the whitewashed bricks. Through my dyed bangs, I watch people avoid looking at me as they pass. Most grimace at my goth getup; a brave few laugh. Fuck them.
Damien’s late.
For the hundredth time since I agreed to meet him in person, I wonder if that’s his real name. I wonder what he’ll call me. I go by Broken online, a shortened form of my username brokenboy, but in one email, I confessed that my parents named me Brandon and he hasn’t called me anything else since. How stupid would it sound, asking him to call me by my login name when we’re standing face-to-face? I shift my weight from one foot to the other and hope there won’t be much talk between us once he finally shows up. We can talk online, through IMs or blog comments. I’m under the impression here that we’re getting together for so much more.
Supposedly he drives a black car—I’ve seen pics of it on his page. But now that I’m looking for it, every car circling the mall seems to be black. What if he’s just cruising the lot, checking me out? I run a self-conscious hand through my spiked hair and glare at the world around me in general. What if he’s watching me right this minute? Or if he’s already driven by, didn’t like what he saw, and left me hanging? I’ll go home and log online just to find some lame excuse in my in-box: Sorry dude, something suddenly came up. I pick at the hem of my tight black T-shirt, tug it down to meet the waistband of my black jeans, smooth it across my stomach and feel the heat of the morning sun where it’s warmed the fabric.
I’m surprised to find how damn nervous I am. I’ve done this before, met guys online and scheduled to hook up with them in real life, but Damien’s the first one I’ve really felt anything for, if I’m being honest. He’s the first person I’ve ever connected with and it fucking scares me, the way he’s managed to slip into my everyday existence in such a short span of time. If he bails on me today…if he doesn’t even bother to show…
A familiar black Camaro turns at the light and zooms through the lot, heading straight for me. As it nears, I recognize the face behind the wheel as the one on Damien’s webcam—so he really is hot as shit. Narrow jaw, chiseled cheekbones, dark eyes like ink pooled in the hollows of his face. Long black hair, dyed like mine I’m sure, wispy against his pale skin. When he sees me staring, he flashes a roguish grin that shakes my world and I swear the car lunges forward with a sudden burst of speed.
At the last possible second, Damien turns the wheel and eases to a stop at the curb in front of me. Then he cuts the engine and steps out before I can push away from the wall. With quick strides he comes at me, a commanding look in his eyes that makes my dick take notice. I’m just about to say something stupid like, “Hey Damien,” when he steps up beside me and leans against my arm. The chill of air-conditioning lingers around him, making him seem impossibly cool on such a hot day, but when he touches my bare midriff with black-tipped fingers, my flesh burns beneath his. He’s a few inches taller than me and glowers as if trying to tattoo me onto his brain. When I start to speak, he covers my lips with his in a silencing kiss.
For one breathless moment, his tongue enters me. I lean back against the warm brick, not caring who sees us here outside the mall, with his hand on my stomach, one finger tracing my navel, as he licks inside my mouth. He fills my senses and tastes like cherry lollipops, his scent a mixture of patchouli musk and the sweet sting of pot. He weakens me. I fumble at his waist, finding one of the belt loops on his black jeans, then rub my hand up under his black tank top and over taut skin to finger one erect nipple, hard as a nugget of gold in my palm. In public! my mind screams, thrilled. The hand on my stomach slips lower, sneaks beneath the waistline of my jeans, his thumb still circling my navel as he kisses me again and again. I sigh when he pulls away, and gasp each time he delves, hungrily, deeper into me.
Then he straightens, his hand now tugging on the zipper of my jeans as he stands back. I can’t seem to catch my breath and I pray that he doesn’t ruin this with some flippant remark like the ones he tends to make online, when he thinks I’m getting too serious about things. About us. “Brandon,” he murmurs in a raspy, smoked-out voice that I feel in the back of my throat. There’s a teasing glint in his eyes that makes me anxious. “You sexy thang.”
I laugh, trying to break this tension, but it doesn’t work and I have to avert my gaze from his. “Damien,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else. He’s so damn intense. Somehow the webcam photos failed to capture that. We must look a fright, two goths like smudges on the bright day, standing so close together that there’s no doubt about what we’re both here to do. As if the bulge at my crotch wasn’t a clue. I’m painfully aware of Damien’s hand just inches above where I want him to be. “So you want to go somewhere else?” I ask.
“Get in the car,” he says, and pulls me along after him by the zipper of my jeans.
The leather interior of his Camaro is also black. Damien holds the door for me and I sink into the passenger seat, lowering myself down, down, until I feel like I’m sitting on the sidewalk. I’ll have to roll myself out when we stop. The door slams shut, and with a few wide strides Damien reaches his side of the car and falls in beside me. He catches me in another kiss while I’m buckling the seatbelt, and laughs as the engine roars to life. “What?” I shout over the sudden blast of music, half-smiling, ready to share the joke. But he shakes his head, shifts from first to third without hesitation, then zooms out of the parking lot. His hand strays from the gearshift to my thigh, and his fingers tap against my dick as he keeps time with the music. Each beat shudders through me. By the time we’ve cleared the mall, I’m hard.
We don’t speak. Funny—we’ve said so much to each other online that we’ve saved nothing for when we finally meet. He keeps one hand on my thigh and shifts gears with the other, steering with his knee when necessary. Over the pounding music, he says my name. “What do you have in mind?” I ask. His hand eases into my lap to pluck at my zipper. I laugh, my stomach more than a little anxious at his touch. Did I say I’ve done this before? I lied.
