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Jim stomps on the brakes and halts the truck to a blaring fanfare of pissed-off car horns, and then practically shoves me out the passenger side door, pressing the cell phone into my hand, yelling for me to stay with the girl and call for back up.
I'm like "What girl? What backup?" but then I see this monster of a car peel out, tires shrieking on the pavement, and I nod at Jim as he closes the passenger door and roars after the guy. I hit speed dial and H is at the desk today, and I rattle off the details I've managed to scrape together in the approximately 3.6 seconds I've had since kneeling beside a crying woman in a short skirt and a tight short sleeved sweater and where the hell do I get off ogling this poor girl, jesus, her car's just been stolen by some moron in a ski mask, a ski mask for god sakes, in the spring, and she's shuddering and swiping at her eyes and I'm telling H "...pursuit of a late model pink Lincoln, license number T-H-N-K-P-N-K. Send an ambulance, too. I think she may have been hurt when that creep shoved her..."
By the time I'm off the phone, she's just sniffling a little, pale but determined. She pulls her knees up to her chin, her back against the gray granite of the Mason Street Credit Union, and her legs are long and she's wearing these little black panties with white dots on them.
And I am a total dick, scoping her out while she's completely vulnerable like this, and she kind of shoulders against me, with her non-bruised and lacerated shoulder, and her long, sleek ponytail is a shiny brown stripe against my light blue shirt sleeve.
"I'm just... Mostly, I'm angry. Right? I mean-- What an asshole," she declares, and her eyes are huge and dark, like Maya's, but no, maybe she has a concussion or something, because there's a ring of cornflake gold around her expanding pupils.
"Did you hit your head?" I ask her, and she frowns.
"No. He scraped the shit out of my arms, though. Bastard." A few more tears slip down her cheeks, and her chin wobbles a little.
"I'm just so mad!" And she scrubs her eyes with the heel of one hand. Her dark eyeliner is just a gray smudge near her temple by the time she's done.
"I understand. Completely. That guy was an animal. The paramedics will be here soon, okay?"
She nods, bites her soft lower lip.
"Are you hurt anywhere else?"
Her little white hand comes up to shade her eyes, and she says, "My eyes are bugging me. I just had an appointment with my eye doctor, and you know those drops? Can you help me find my sunglasses?"
I glance around, and sight a smashed up pair of cat-eyed sunglasses. I retrieve them and hand them to her.
"Uh, sorry."
She starts to cry again.
"God dammit. I liked these. Do you know how much it's going to cost me to get them replaced? These are prescription."
I rub her arm reassuringly.
"We'll see if we can't figure something out."
"Look at me! This is so stupid, I'm just this sobbing wreck and I'm yelling at you and you're being so nice to me! God, I'm just... I'm gonna kick that guy in the balls. I swear I will."
I laugh and she smiles a little.
"What's your name?"
"Jamie Whittaker. What's yours?"
"Blair Sandburg."
She nods and toys with the broken leg of her sunglasses, and then the paramedics show up and Jim's not far behind them, having handed off the thug to a pair of beat cops in a cruiser.
"She gonna be okay, Chief?"
"Yeah. She's just a little scuffed. Did the guy total her ride, or what?"
"It should be all right. The shit for brains plowed that Lincoln right into a big pile of mulch down near the park. So maybe a few dents, but nothing she can't fix up."
"Cool." I look out the window, and Jamie waves to me. There's a navy blanket draped around her shoulders, hiding her fluffy white sweater. I notice that she's wearing little black sandals, that she has pink polish on her toenails. I wave back.
Pink.
"What is it?"
Jim's voice startles me out my reverie and I glance at him.
"What is what?"
"You have that 'I'm wondering' look on your face. What are you wondering about?"
I smile at him, and before I even need to stall, a nifty little idea pops into my head.
"I'm not wondering, Jim. I'm planning." He looks skeptical, even wary, but I smile wider and shoo him back into the river of traffic that is Cascade's main drag at lunch hour. "C'mon, man. Let's get a move on. Don't you have any paperwork to do?"
He rolls his eyes and we make for the station.
Blair was uncharacteristically quiet for the ride back to the station. He spent an hour or so helping me with paperwork, humming to himself a little, and smiling at me when he caught me looking his way.
He's 'planning something', he said.
Hmm.
He slipped out around two o'clock, and asked me twice what time I'd be home. Then he made me promise not to show up too much before that appointed time.
I have a pretty good idea what he has in mind... but I'm pretty baffled about the amount of preparation he's putting into it.
As far as I know, we're pretty well stocked with condoms, and I've been keeping a tube of KY in the nightstand, just in case.
I hope he's not actually thinking about installing that trapeze gear he's been teasing me about.
I figure I'll give him fair warning, so I jingle the keys a little louder than is strictly necessary and let myself in.
I could smell the candlewax in the hallway, and hear the soft music from the bottom of the stairs, but I'm really not prepared for an actual candlelit dinner, (tuna steak?) and Blair with a fresh shave, in a suit jacket.
"We having a dinner party, Chief?" I drop my keys in the basket and survey the scene. He has cut flowers in a vase, for Chrissake. Miles Davis on the CD player. A colored scarf over the one lamp on the endtable.
I'm surprised the kid's not wearing a smoking jacket and an ascot.
I feel like I've stumbled into Hugh Hefner's grotto or something.
Sandburg just pulls out my chair and I squint at him before I sit down. At least he doesn't unfold my napkin for me or anything like that.
"Want some wine?"
"Uh, sure," I answer.
It's a decent bottle, and the food is good. It usually is, though, when Sandburg cooks. He even baked a loaf of bread.
I tell him about the guy I hauled in today, how he was a suspect in three other carjackings in the area, and Blair tells me this funny story about one of the freshmen asking him to buy a kegger for a party she was throwing. I'm feeling a little better by the time he dishes up the ice cream, but...
Dessert?
"You're making me nervous, here, Sandburg. Do you have some bad news or something?"
"No way. It's just... You know. Dinner." And he spreads his hand to indicate the table, and its empty plates.
I nod a little and he leaves the table and settles on the couch, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest.
"Aren't you coming?" And he sounds a little anxious. Smells that way, too. I've tried to describe it to him, what exactly a nervous Blair Sandburg smells like; the closest I can get to an answer is 'like frozen strawberries'.
"Of course I'm coming. But you have to tell me what's up, because, Sandburg, you're beginning to spook me."
"Nothing's up. Yet," he amends, and he leers at me, and I have to smile. I sit down next to him, his hip warm against mine, and lean back against the couch cushions.
Then he yawns, and stretches his arms and lays one across my shoulders. Before I can even do more than turn my head, the CD changes, and Barry White pours out of the speakers, all lub dub bass and 'let's get it on'.
"Tonight's the night," he tells me and sidles closer.
"Blair, if you're gonna keep quoting Rod Stewart, this night's gonna be over before it starts."
"You're killing the mood, Jim," he grins.
"Sandburg, are you putting the moves on me?" And it sounds accusing, instead of teasing, the way I'd meant it.
His ears are getting pink and he tugs at his collar. He's wearing a tie for God's sake!
"Well, I'm trying to--"
"But-- we already-- We're already... Blair, this is stupid."
Oh, that's gonna cost me.
Blair coolly removes his arm and folds them across his chest.
"Stupid?"
"Well... come on... all this seduction stuff... I mean, isn't it kinda, I don't know... girly?"
"Girly!?" He looks... affronted.
"I don't mean... I just think..." I flail around some more, but Blair, who usually throws me a bone, telling me what I'm trying to say at times like this, just frowns, patiently waiting for me to stop making an ass of myself. "You don't need to do this. I want to fuck you. I want you to fuck me. This romantic stuff... It's a little fruity." I wave a little, hoping he'll understand. He cocks an eyebrow at me. Apparently, he needs more. "We're guys," I explain, a little desperate now.
"What, we should just fuck like real men and that's it? We can't ever have, like, a tender moment or something?"
"What are you talking about? We have... 'tender moments' all the time, Blair. I'm not saying--"
"Am I messing with your strict 'manly' homoerotic code or something? Because I didn't get the memo, I wasn't aware that a nice dinner and some mood music was against the rules in the Tight Assed Cop Guy's Guide to Sex With His Roommate. I mean, Jesus," and Blair runs a hand trough his long, soft curls, "I'm not asking you to parade around in a pink G-string here, man..." Then he sticks his chin out, eyebrows drawn down and he says, "And what the hell do you mean, 'fruity'? Just to bring you up to speed, you blowing me while naked is not exactly a standard heterosexual activity, all right?"
"I'm sorry," I blurt. And I am. Because Blair's scaring me a little; he sounds so unsure of himself, and I don't know why. I though we'd talked about this already.
"Blair, we don't have to... It doesn't need to be a big production. Let's just... let's just go upstairs, huh?" I say hopefully.
"Look, I went to a lot of trouble here, to, you know, make things nice for you, okay? I was thinking, 'hey, pink Lincoln, think pink, this is an omen', right?"
"Huh?"
"I just thought it would be kind of cool if we went all out, if I could... I mean, the only thing more obvious would have been if the guy had carjacked the Oscar Meyer Wiener Mobile."
"You lost me, Chief."
"I was waiting for a sign, okay? I wanted it to be sort of a special occasion, not just slap and tickle. Do you hear me? Are you listening, Mr. Not A Single Romantic Bone In Your Entire Body?"
"I hear you," I say, and I take his hand and I squeeze it, set it on my knee.
He exhales, like he's tired, or disappointed, or both, and he pats my knee before smiling a little and running it up my thigh.
"Okay," Blair says finally, "Maybe one romantic bone..."
I would be lying if I said I wasn't still nervous about fucking Jim. Or, more specifically, hurting Jim while fucking him. And the idea of him fucking me, while tremendously appealing, more appealing every day, in fact, is tinted with enough "uh, just how much is this gonna hurt, anyway?" to make me think twice about it.
I mean, I'm not expecting searing, shocking gruesome big time agony or anything, but... Well, hey, I've had a rough time now and again just with routine biological processes of elimination, if you get my meaning, and I'm sure you do, and how comfortable could that be in reverse, right?
Which is not to say I've never had a girlfriend with clever hands, and Jim's already learning his way around there, but he's thick okay, and he's got big fingers, but they're not that big, and I'm gonna give myself a complex about this thing.
I already have a complex about it.
Jim, on the other hand, doesn't seem to have a problem with it at all. I guess he doesn't have as many control issues as I thought.
Whereas my main worry is losing control. What if I'm just lost in rut and I get a little too rough or something?
God.
I turn my head and see Jim tenting the sheet, arm flung out, face sweet and calm in sleep.
I love you, man. And I swear, once I get past this, I am gonna give you the ride of your life.
Snuggling up against him, I kiss his arm, and he nods a little, murmurs, "Do that again," and even though he's probably talking to a dream Blair, I do.
It's not a Sentinel dream, but the angles are strange. The tail end of the Lincoln looks huge, and it's just gleaming.
It's on one of those spinning platform things, the kind that showrooms have, and there's not exactly a spotlight on it, but it's the only bright place in this empty room.
I can hear people breathing. Sighing, really, and the rub of cloth against cloth. The faint, rhythmic squeak of the shocks.
Kids in that car, messing around.
The car keeps spinning slowly, and the big windows come into view. The back of a girl's head, the silver ring on her finger clicking against the glass as her hand falls back, her long pony tail squeaking against the glass as she squirms, panting, little hitching breaths, soft pleas. I can smell her perfume; it's soft and sweet, a little powdery somehow. I can smell her and she's pungent and alluring, like smoke, and it makes me hard, and it makes me ashamed, because here I am this total stranger, getting off while she enjoys her lover's company.
"Blair," she says, and then I realize that it is Blair, my Blair, in the car with her, and he smells like sex, the way he smells when he's been ready for a long time, and about to come, and I recognize the girl from the carjacking, and then...
I'm in the car with them, like a ghost. I'm standing right there, and the carseats are like mist, figments of my imagination, this is all a figment of my imagination, and the back seat is huge, cavernous, room enough for three or four Sandburgs and little pony-tailed girls, and I can't take my eyes from Blair's heaving back, or her intense look of close-eyed concentration.
The car keeps spinning, but I'm standing still, so I eventually see Blair's patient expression, the way his hair falls around his face as he goes down on her, see the pink flick of his tongue as he mouths her, her tiny white sweater riding up, flash of slick flesh between her thighs as Blair hooks a hand behind her knee and kneels up, holding her open, spreading her with his hand, then driving in, a slow rolling undulation.
A soft cry from the girl, her eyebrows tighten and she moans Blair's name again, and he nods, says "yeah."
She reaches for him, her little hands scrabble at his sleeves, but he shakes his head, shifts his hips, and the door handle must be pressing against the small of her back, but she clearly doesn't mind, and after a while it doesn't matter, because the back seat is huge and Blair lifts her up, kneeling up higher himself, pressing down into her as he pulls her closer, and her arms fall loosely to her sides, and her chest heaves and she cries his name with every stroke, but all he says is "yeah," occasionally, a pleased exhalation, and her hair has fallen out of its pony tail and it spreads out on the seat, long enough to touch the carpet, and she's pretty, she's very pretty, and I wouldn't mind having a turn with her myself, but that's a terrible thing to say and then Blair, who's had his eyes closed, opens them, and doesn't seem surprised to see me, but doesn't say anything, either.
This girl beneath him spasms and makes a sharp, abbreviated sound, lifting her head and pushing up on her hands, locking her legs around Blair's waist, and Blair shoves into her, two, three, four times and she shudders, his hands on her, under her arms, and her head falls back, like she's a ballerina, and her back curves, and Blair slides out of her, I can hear the faint wet slip of him leaving, and then he lays her down, straightens her skirt.
The girl is asleep, or maybe just too sated to move, and Blair turns, smiles at me, his "come and get it" grin, and he spreads his legs, and he's still hard and red and slick, and he slides a fist down to the base of his cock.
"This is for you," he says.
Then the alarm clock shrieks like a kicked cat and I wake up.
I was up first for a change, and I hear Jim thrash around upstairs, batting at the clock. Jim could actually probably manage without an alarm clock; he's one of those people who can just wake up when he knows he should, so it's rare for me to actually hear it go off. It's loud, even by normal standards. Maybe I should get him one that clucks like a chicken or something.
He comes down the stairs in his boxers, tying his blue robe, and I set a plate of eggs in front of him.
"Hey. Thanks."
"No prob. You want coffee?"
"What, you're not gonna offer me a delicious algae shake this fine morning?"
"Jim, I was gonna soak the pan, but I think you need to work that excess attitude off with a little elbow grease."
"Coffee sounds good."
"Better." I pour him some and he dumps some cream in it, spoon ringing on the ceramic, stares into his mug as if it's revealing the mysteries of the universe.
I eat my eggs, he smiles and picks up his fork, and I ask him:
"Did you feel threatened by the whole seduction thing last night? Because you have a total right to feel insulted. I mean, here we are, on the cusp of a new millennium, and I'm still employing antiquated seduction techniques. It's just me kowtowing to a rigid and pervasive social precedent, and I'm really, well, ashamed, sort of, of my own part in the perpetuation of stereotypical--"
"Look, it made me uncomfortable because you were romancing me, okay? Girls get romanced," he explains, with sheepish exasperation. "You went and got all Barry White on my ass, and... And I guess I'm not so in touch with my feminine side after all, all right?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying!" And I stand up, pointing at Jim with a handy spatula. Jim does know what I'm talking about. He just doesn't know that yet. "I know, I mean, I have the same-- Listen, okay, I'm sorry about getting all Barry White on you, man, I am, because I was just trying to..." I take a deep breath, grip the edge of the table. "I was going with what I knew. With what had always worked before. A situation I could control, right? Go at my pace, make the moves, be the ac-TOR instead of the acted upon, right?"
He nods slowly.
"But I realize that we are totally beyond the whole label/category/assigned role thing, and that it was really insulting to you to think that... Are you getting this? Because I don't know if I'm even making any sense here."
"You were thinking that if you were the guy, then I was the girl in the scenario, but now you think we can both be the guy. Right?"
"Exactly! Gold star on your forehead! But I totally pressed the issue, and I apologize, but I realize now that it was just some anxieties on my part, you know about being the smaller guy and everything... I didn't want to get stuck on the bottom by some arbitrary default. I mean, I know it's not a big deal to you, but every day practically I get reminded I'm not big, tough Jim Ellison, that I'm Bookworm Blair, the guy who has to readjust the showerhead every morning--"
"Blair, I told you, if I don't move it, I have to hunch down to wash my hair--"
"You get my point, here!? I'm not exactly Mr. Suave when it comes to sex, okay? So maybe I wanted to sweep you off your feet a little, be the one to--"
"Do you still think about women?"
He blushes, and can't seem to lift his eyes from the table.
"Uh." He swallows, and I watch his Adam's apple bob. "Yeah. Sometimes."
"That girl yesterday. You liked her."
"What? Jim, is this some kind of new jealousy manifestation thing, because--"
"Because you went for me last night like you would have made a play for a girl. You would have done something like that for Jamie, right?"
He looks confused.
"Well. Yeah, I guess. But I swear Jim, all I did was look--"
I sigh.
"I'm not accusing you of lewd acts, Chief. Relax. I just wondered... if you still thought about women."
Blair looks unreasonably ashamed.
"I do. But I mean, only in passing. Only like--"
"Jesus, Sandburg, you're not dead, you're not even married, for Christ's sakes! No one says you can't look. Hell, I look. That Whittaker girl was easy on the eyes."
"Very easy," Blair agrees, and that twinkle is back. "You gettin' restless on me, Jim? Looking for greener pastures already?"
"Gimme a break. She was... cute. And... And I dreamt that..."
His eyebrows do a bankshot off his hairline.
"You dreamt about her? This is news! What was she doing?"
"You." And I feel the blush creep up my neck.
He looks supremely interested.
"You mean as in," and he makes a suggestive motion with his hands, and I nod.
"Whoa. Was she enjoying it?"
"I would say yes."
"Was I enjoying it?" He's closing on me now, face tipped to one side, half thoughtful, half amused.
"Uh. Yeah." And just saying that reminds me of the way he'd sigh every time he pumped into her, and I wonder if he'd be like that with me, if he'd be so languid and controlled, or if he'd be breathless and domineering or maybe just really vocal and demanding--
"What were we doing, Jim?" And his voice is hypnotic, it's soft and low, and it rubs across my chest like crushed velvet and I'm going to tell him.
"You were in the back seat of her Lincoln."
He nods encouragingly, and sets himself on the edge of the breakfast table.
I lick my lips a little.
"You were fucking her."
He has this little "ah ha" thing he does, just a tip of the chin.
"She had her legs wrapped around you and you were stroking her, just... Just slow, and every time, every time you moved your hips you'd say 'Yeah' really soft."
"Were you there?"
"Yeah. I was like a ghost, kind of. I don't think she could see me."
"But I could."
"Yeah."
"Did you like what you saw?"
I feel my dick throb between my thighs, already sticky.
I nod.
"Did you want her, too?"
I nod again, hesitant.
"Did you want the two of us together?"
I don't know how to answer that, and he's got his hands braced on my thighs and he's leaning in for a kiss.
"Did you want me to fuck you, too?"
I think I maybe groan a little, because Blair sets his palm between my thighs, finds my half-hard cock under my robe and presses lightly with the heel of his hand.
"You did. You do. Do you want me?"
"Blair," I say, and it's small, strangled, trying for annoyed.
"Do you want me more than her?"
"What the hell are you talking about? She's a stupid dream I had. I never wanted her. I--"
He grins.
"Take it easy. I know that. This is the part where you start begging for it. I'll help you out. Repeat after me: 'I want you more than her'"
"I want you more than her." Which is true.
"'I want you now'"
"I want you now," and I growl it, because I know for a fact that it makes him weak-kneed.
True to form, he gets to his knees, his arms loosely around my waist now, his eyes heavy-lidded, his voice a thrumming buzz of warm air and vibrant sound against my skin.
"I want you all the time. Sometimes, I get so hard, so fucking crazy for you, I worry that I'll --"
"I want you all the time. Sometimes--" He presses two fingers to my lips and shakes his head, grinning a little.
"Feel free to ad lib now, Jim. That last part was me. I mean," and he tightens his arms around me. "I get so crazy for you I'm afraid I'll hurt myself, hurt you." And he emphasizes you with a quick squeeze. He's looking all searching and soulful, and I want to kiss him until his eyes roll back in his head and he comes in my hand. "Do you get what I'm saying here? You don't know what you do to me. I'm out of my fucking mind when you're touching me. Half the time I don't know if I'll even survive it. And I'm everywhere at once; I want to fuck you, I want you to fuck me, if you just rolled me over in the middle of a handjob or something and told me you were gonna fuck me, I'd lose it, I'd beg for it Jim, I, jesus, I'm shaking just thinking about it. I want you, and maybe I might look at a woman, but it's your hands I dream about, it's you I can't wait to get inside of, Christ Jim I'm so in love with you I'm a little freaked out by it sometimes. I mean, I feel like I could pick up cars or something sometimes, after you've brought me off a couple of times, and you give it up for me... it's such a rush and, god, I love you, I love it when you come for me, I want to fuck you so bad, is that all right?"
I shove the chair back and kneel on the floor, slide my hands into his hair. He kisses me so hard he bumps my chin and says "ow" and then "Jim" and then "oh, Jim, man, yeah," when I reach down and cup his balls through his jeans. Kneeling, he's just about my height; I hardly have to crane my neck at all to kiss him, and his hands are on my shoulders, sliding down my chest, grabbing eager handfuls of my robe.
"Chief," I mutter, "It's okay. Fine. Whatever the hell you want. Anything."
He's frantic, yanking on my robe, slipping his hands in my boxers and I'm off balance, and I tumble a little, rolling into the counters. Blair scoots over, leaning down to kiss me, to whisper urgent, incomprehensible things, and I pull him close, so that he's half sprawled on me. I can feel his solid heat through my shorts, and his arms are shaking from the weird angle. He's shoving me against the counter, and I rap the back of my head, close my teeth on his lower lip. Blair pulls back and grinds into me again, moaning, and I reach down, behind him, run my fingers along the inside seam of his jeans, squeeze his ass.
He bucks a little, licks my ear, pushes my hands away to lean back and struggle with his zipper. The guy keeps futzing with it and finally I just grab him by the belt loops for leverage and yank on his zip. Which starts to slide before the track uncouples and Blair groans.
"Oh, jeez, you broke it, man, and I'm--"
And my arms are long enough and he's close enough for me to find the little hot spot and dig in a little just as I squeeze him through the ruined placket of his jeans and Blair jumps with a little squawk and comes in his pants.
"You were saying?"
He sags against me gratefully, kissing my throat, and sighing, "You're a prince, Jim. Oh, man I needed that..."
"Aren't you forgetting something, here, Chief?"
He smiles lazily and rolls off me.
"Show me, Jim."
I'm already disheveled and sticking out the fly of my boxers, thanks to Handsy Malone over there, who's now seemed to have forgotten about his recently mangled jeans and is sitting crosslegged on the linoleum across from me.
I yank my boxers down and kick out of them, close my hand around my shaft.
"This is for you," I tell him.
I admit it. I didn't really think my sex life could improve. Even before Jim, I was having a pretty nice time. But then there was Jim, and it was like... orgasm times ten, and maybe heroin is like that, maybe it's that white hot pulse of gorgeous, panting exhilaration I can only achieve when Jim has his hands on me, or his mouth.
But every time is better. And this... He's never done this... He's still pulling tricks out of papa's brand new bag, we're really embracing this guy on guy thing, and I don't think there is a human being half as beautiful as Jim is right now anywhere else in the entire state of Washington.
Jim. Beautiful. Sitting on the floor, those long legs, those long fingers, that perfect cock...
"Tell me," he whispers, and he presses his thumb against the vein just under the crown.
"You're beautiful," I blurt.
"Keep... Keep it up."
"You're doing fine without me Jim," I smile.
He's not so far gone that he can't shoot me a "you punk ass" look under his lashes.
His head falls back, and his throat...
"I want to kiss your throat," I confess. I move closer to this glorious spectacle. I want to see everything. "I want to lick your chest. Your perfect perfect chest... oh... oh I love your chest, Jim," and I'm worried that I sound like a dork, but his lips are turned up. Just at the edges, like he's really into it.
He's got his eyes closed, and he moans, that broad hand slipping from base to crown, squeezing, then he's just got his thumb and forefinger and his hand starts to really move.
"Don't stop," he reminds me, voice thick and hoarse, so I babble some more, feel my own dick start to show an interest in these proceedings.
"I love this," I say, "I love seeing you like this, god, your cock, it's, I want it, I want you, come for me, show me, show me how you want it, come on, let it go, can you smell me? Can you feel me? I'm hot Jim, I'm so fucking hot, you make me--"
He's sliding down to lay on the floor, planting his feet with his knees bent, and I can see the whole world, he's rocking his hips and his hand has slowed down, but he's moaning now, and his eyes are screwed shut, and he's doing my favorite thing, he's calling my name.
"Blair. Blair. Blairblair-- oh god--" He arches, his face deep red, hair in little wet spikes on his head. He's framed by his robe, that rich dark blue showing off all the gold in his skin, and his free hand is reaching for me, snags my wrist. "Finish me, finish--" And I lean over and cover his hand with mine and he goes berserker, twisting, shouting my name, spouting all over the place, mouth open, chest heaving. Holy fucking Christ, Jim! I feel myself twitch in yearning sympathy and he flattens out, panting.
"Man." I lay a hand on his ribcage, feel the boom of his racing heart. "Are you okay?"
"Are you gonna fuck me?"
"Yes. Oh yes," I promise, and I lower myself to the ground beside him and kiss him sweetly.
"Soon?"
"Soon. Gimme half an hour to get back to you."
He chuckles a little.
"I'm already twenty minutes late. Simon's gonna--"
And Jim's cell phone rings.
I groan and lower my forehead to his sweaty chest. Jim kisses the top of my head and then shoves me off.
"You make up a suitable lie, and I'll take a shower." He gets to his feet, and as he makes for the bathroom, I recognize his liquid "I just got laid" rolling prowl, and I fling his shorts at him.
He turns around, peeling his underwear off his shoulder.
"What's the big idea, Chief?"
"You're gonna be home early tonight, Jim."
He cocks his head, smiles, my favorite lazy, sexy grin. No one looks better naked than Jim Ellison. The cell phone is still chirping on the counter, but I continue to ignore it, in favor of soaking up a little more Jim.
"Oh I am, am I? Any particular reason?"
"'Cause clearly you're not a Barry White fan. Tonight I'm bringing out the big guns."
"Sinatra? Aretha? Marvin Gaye?"
I shake my head and answer the cell phone, promise Simon Jim is on his way, cover the mouthpiece as Jim stalks over to me, sticking his hands in my pants, sucking on my neck.
"I give up, Sandburg," he says between kisses.
"Rod Stewart. The Man. The Myth. The Legend."
He gives me a wicked smile as he tugs my boxers up to my yowch! and lets me go, with a sweet little pat to my ass. "I'll be looking forward to it."
I'm hardly in the door when he starts tugging on my belt.
"It's nice to see you, too, Blair."
"You were right, Jim. All that romance jazz is for the birds, man, I really dig the fact that we can just get down without all the tedious trappings of societal norms and rules about seductions and oh Jim, Jim you're, you're so beautiful," and he starts kissing me, licking my chest now that he's gotten me out of my shirt, just like he said he'd wanted to this morning.
I could smell him in the parking lot, and he's rocking against my thigh, fingers wiggling in my pockets.
"Take 'em of Jim, take 'em off, and then... I'll be up in a minute." I peel my jeans off, and he's got this tremor running all through him, he's so turned on he's vibrating and I hook my thumbs in my boxers but he grabs my wrist.
"Wait. You just go upstairs now, okay?"
I shrug and jog up the staircase, and I hear him stripping off his T-shirt and jeans, the soft cottony fwap of them as he flings them to the floor, and then I can hear him pacing, over the muffled squeak of the mattress as I stretch out on it. Faintly, faintly, I can hear the rhythmic slap of his balls swinging against the inside of his thighs as he marches around down there, fretting.
"You can do this. You can do this. He wants you. You want him. You want this. Just cool it, relax, okay, it's okay, I can do this, I will do this..."
I can hear him wiping his hands off on his thighs, the wet drag of damp skin against fine, springy hair.
I close my eyes, and try not to look too... eager. He doesn't need any more pressure. By the time he's made it to the top of the stairs, he looks determined. I want to tell him to take it easy, but he's already doing the best he can.
Quietly, he kneels on the bed, straddling my legs. He works my boxers down slowly, and I lift my hips so he can pull them off. Petting my thigh, he tips his head to just look at me, and after a while, he reaches up to run the pads of two fingers along my cheek.
"I love you, Jim." And he smiles, like he's so damned glad to see me, and I smile back.
"We cool?" I cover his hand with mine, hold him there. "Because there's no reason we can't wait on this. This'll keep, Blair. I'm in no rush, here."
"We're cool." He gives me a steady look and pats my hip. "Better than that." Leaning over, he kisses my belly, licks my navel a few times. "Turn over, okay?"
I do as he says. For a long time, he just strokes my back, and I relax into it so much I'm a little worried I'll just drift off. He's talking to me, but at this point I can't pick out many individual words, it's just a constant hum of Sandburg, and the warm rub of his hands. I kinda feel like I'm floating a little.
He runs his knuckles up the back of my thighs, and kneads me for a while. I hear him shushing me a lot, but I don't know if I'm actually making any noise myself. Probably I'm moaning. He seems to like that.
I shiver when he licks the back of my knees; it's funny and ticklish and it makes me rock against the mattress. Finally, he's nosing my ass, a lick here and there to the crease of my thigh, a sucking kiss on my left cheek, and then he's holding me open, and I hear the distant squish of the lube bottle, and he's making sticky sounds as he rubs the gel between his hands to warm it.
Then I hear him laugh a little to himself, reach for the towel he set at the foot of the bed, and he drys his hands off.
He drags a fingernail along the arch of my foot and I jump a little.
"Kneel up for me, Jim. There you go. Perfect." He's rolling his thumbs against the backs of my thighs, then just brushing my ass with them, feathery, light touches. He kisses each cheek and then gives me a friendly squeeze. I can feel the heat of each thigh as he lines up behind me, the scent of him blooming as he strokes himself to full hardness, the clinical rubber glove smell of the condom covering that up as he rolls it on.
He holds me open again, and I hear the gel ooze out of the bottle again. He strokes into me with two fingers once he's warmed the goo, and I let out a controlled breath. He makes a soft, surprised sound.
"You're... you're so ready..."
"Yeah," I agree.
"So... you ready for me, Jim?"
"Blair. Come on. Enough with the 'readys' already."
He strokes my back with his clean hand, closes it on my hip. I can hear the smile in his voice when he says, "Let's get it on, man..."
And he pushes into me.
Jim lets out a happy, hungry groan I've never heard before and I'm just stunned by this, by the heat of him, and the pressure, and I'm panting and leaning on him and I keep nudging forward until I'm most of the way in and then I screw my eyes shut, hide my face against his steamy skin.
"Blair? How we doin', Blair?"
"We're good. We're very very good. Just. Just give me a minute to collect myself, okay?"
I can feel his body rock underneath mine as he nods, and I feel around for him, find his solid cock and close my hand around it.
"Are you having a good time?"
He makes a wheezy, chuckly sound.
"Yeah. The best. How about you?"
"Good isn't the word I'd use." I pull out a little, experimentally, wiggle back in, and he grunts, and my belly rolls over. "Oh, Jim. Jim..."
He shifts a little under me, and I clutch his hip.
"No, no, hold still, wait--" But he pushes back, into me, digging me in until I'm buried and I lose it, I spasm, and I have to let it go--
Go. Go. Delicious. Delicious. Jim. My Jim. I love this. I love it.
I manage another stroke before I surge again, sensory overload, pleasure surfeit, god, yeah, yeah, and I can feel Jim trembling underneath me when I can think again.
"Oh, man, I'm sorry. I totally lost it on you. You okay?"
He's grinning at me over his shoulder.
"I'm okay."
I fondle him a little, and he's still hard, and I kiss his back apologetically.
"I'll make it good for you next time, Jim. I just couldn't concentrate enough. I didn't... jesus, I didn't hurt you did I?"
And I'm soft enough now to pull out, carefully, and I toss the condom in the wastebasket and wipe Jim off with the towel before I roll Jim over and hug him.
His iron man arms lock around me and his kisses my hair.
"You're not gonna break me, kid. I'm big, tough Jim Ellison, right?"
"Right on, man. That's you all over. My own personal super hero and love slave."
"I thought you were my love slave?"
"No, I'm your faithful companion and hot stud," I explain.
"Love slave," he insists, sticking his tongue in my ear.
"That's what I said," I murmur. "I'm your love slave, your wish is my command, I live to serve, etcetera, " and I kiss him, "Etcetera" and I kiss my way down his sculpted chest and help myself to his red, straining cock. "Etcetera."
He knots his hands in my hair and shoots down my throat sooner than I expect; he must have been closer than I'd thought. Which reflects really poorly on my performance. If I could have just held out a little while longer...
"Hey, you. Lover boy. You're not guilt tripping on me, are you?" His blue eyes are shrewd, and I have to smile at him. I love this guy. He knows all about me.
"Me? Nahhhh. Just planning our next time out." I scoot up to kiss him. "I'm gonna make you scream," I promise.
He arches a brow at me, smiles smugly as he ruffles my hair.
"How about you just make me dinner instead?"