Rough Road (12 page)

I groan. I do want it—especially whatever he’s got intended for my balls—but the idea of folding myself across his lap angers me as much as it turns me on. I shake my head. “Not vanilla.”

He sits and hauls me across his lap, facedown. He slaps my ass hard three times, then runs his hand over it, moaning softly. “God, your ass. My handprint. This is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Stunned, I let him spank me again, several more times, while I grind my dick into the space between his thighs. Heat washes over me, and it takes me a minute to figure out it’s not the spanking that’s turning me on as much as how he gets off on marking me with his hand. I groan and buck into it.

“Harder,” I whisper, and he gives it to me.

Every few slaps, he rubs my ass and I rut into his lap, making wild, needy noises. Then, after one flurry of spanks, he reaches between my legs and grabs my balls—not gently, either. I go very, very still as my anticipation spikes.

“Are you okay?” he asks, ever so slightly tightening his grip. “You can safeword anytime.”

I nod, taking a deep breath, all my attention zeroing in on the feeling of his big hand wrapped around my tender flesh.

His hand tightens.

It hurts, not the playful sting of the spanking, but a deep, scary hurt. He has my goddamn testicles in his fist and he’s squeezing. It’s terrifying. He could really damage me. But it’s fucking hot as hell too. For me, cock and ball torture requires a profound trust, an intimacy beyond what we’ve done before. I’m completely helpless and vulnerable for him, and nothing is sexier than that.

Adrenaline races through me, hopefully bringing endorphins on its heels. I breathe through the pain as his fist tightens again, and I shudder. My whole body is prickly and extra sensitive.

“One more, honey,” he whispers, and I can’t help it, as the pressure intensifies, I squirm and gasp, and a sob is wrenched out of me. He loosens his grip slowly, then rubs my ass, sweet words spilling from his lips, punctuated with “holy fucks” and “so hots” until he turns me over and lays me back on the couch.

The rough upholstery fabric abrades my ass, but his body on mine, the press of skin and muscle, feels so good, I start to cry. I can’t remember the last time I let a lover push me so hard without safewording.

He shushes into my hair, running his hands over me. “So good, honey. So hot. Thank you. I love that you trust me so much.” He grabs my cock and starts pumping it. My abused balls ache even as they draw up in anticipation of orgasm.

“Fuck me, please,” I beg, thrusting my cock into his fist, chasing more sensation any way I can get it.

“Condoms?”

“Gah.” I slap the back of the couch, frustrated. “Upstairs.”

“I’m not letting go of your dick until you come,” he says, “but lift your legs.”

I pull my knees back and hold them tight to my chest as he drops to his knees on the floor. He makes a liar of himself, letting go of my dick long enough to rotate my body so my ass is right in his face before grabbing it again. This time, as he jerks me, I feel a tug on my guiche ring. I watch him, wishing I could actually see it in his teeth. My balls draw up impossibly tight. He lets go and then licks gently at my hole.

“Gonna fuck this hole with my tongue. I want to hear you scream. Don’t you dare hold back those noises, Eddie. You get me so fucking hot.”

And then he shoves a dry finger into me, making me arch off the couch in surprise. He goes to town on my ass, licking and fingering me while jerking me with his other hand.

I groan, helpless and heated, letting him have everything, anything he wants. If he wants me to make noise, I’ll give him every moan and gasp.

When he finds my prostate with that teasing finger, my voice goes sharp and fluttery. He starts pressing on it, then sliding his finger over it, then pressing again. Holy
fuck
, that feels
good
.

My climb to orgasm is a terrifying, thrilling leap into sensation. My balls throb in pain as I come, catapulting my pleasure into a whole new realm of bliss. Convulsing, drawn tight by both pleasure and pain, I tuck my face into my shoulder and let myself go.

Over the next few moments, I return to myself with his hands still on my body. I sit up, reaching for him, and he glides from the floor into my arms like it’s his favorite place to be. Grabbing his cock, I pump it in my hand, and he pushes me back until I’m lying on the couch again, his body pressed close, my hand moving between us the only sound in the room.

“Fuck.” His head drops down, and he watches me jerk him. He moves his hand over mine, showing me without words the rhythm he likes. My breath catches as he throws his head back and lets out a desperate growl.

He comes without a warning, a splash of his cum hitting my face; another paints the arm of the couch. He twists and arches, fucking my hand for all he’s worth until he collapses on top of me.

“Holy shit.” He groans, struggling to control his breathing. When he manages, he kisses me until he’s lost it again. I laugh into his mouth, high as a kite and fuzzy-headed from the pain and release. Subspace—what a blissful thing. When I start shaking, he yanks my velour throw off the back of the couch and wraps us both in it as he massages my ass and snuggles me tighter.

“You’re so fucking good, honey.”

We don’t get to the wine or ordering takeout until much, much later.

We fall into a routine as easy as breathing.

Weekdays are hit or miss, depending on our schedules, but weekends are a glorious mess of sex and laughter, ending Monday mornings with me pulling a pillow over my eyes while he does yoga. Most Mondays. The last Monday in August is different.

“What are you doing Labor Day weekend?” I ask as I pour our coffee, not making eye contact. It’s five in the morning; I glare at the ruddy sky out the window. It’s too freaking early to be up, but I wanted to catch him before he left for work, so when he finished his sun salutations, I hopped out of bed and followed him downstairs, babbling about how
some
couples have coffee together.

“Don’t know. Was gonna see what Max is up to.” The brother. Family time. I’m dying of curiosity about them. We made up, and that was great, but the whole “meet each other’s families” thing has come to a screeching halt. Probably because conversation topics that mention either of our jobs have been strictly off-limits—in the name of keeping peace.

“Would you like to go to the wakeboarding tournament with me? It’s a big local thing. I’m going to watch from the cabin cruiser out on the lake. Max and his wife and your mom are welcome to join us. I’d love to meet them.”

“That sounds fun. I guess Ben and Dave will be there too?”

I turn around to face him. “No, not this time. Ben is emceeing the event, and Dave is going to be out of town. He’s designing some house in the desert. I can ask Tina to come though, if you’d like someone to explain the finer points of technique.”

His face brightens a little. “And your mom?”

“The idea of Ricochet and Elvis together on my boat scares the bejesus out of me, but sure.” A series of mental images ends with a for sale sign hung from the hull of my devastated cruiser, but if it makes him happy . . .?
Damn
, I must really want to make him happy.

He laughs, then comes around the counter and wraps me in his arms. “I’ll ask them today. Thank you for inviting us.”

I snuggle into his embrace for a minute, then reach for the coffee. “Just let me know how many say yes so I can give the caterer a head count.”

His arms stiffen around me. What did I say?
Caterer
. I need a list of “privileged-motherfucker words to avoid.” I set the coffee back down without drinking it, and rush to reassure him.

“It’s not like that. It’s basically call-ahead takeout. Bagged lunches. The boat kitchen is way too small to cook for more than two people.”

He relaxes again. “I’ll get used to it, I guess. Being pampered by my rich boyfriend. Max is gonna tease the crap out of me.”

“That’s what brothers do. It builds character or something.”

“Let me guess, you’re an only child?”

“You knew that already.”

“
Max
is the reason I joined the wrestling team in high school. Once I learned how to throw his ass to the ground, he miraculously outgrew the pushy-older-brother shtick.”

“And I get to reap the benefits.
Mercy
.” I drop a wink on him, and he laughs, palming my ass with one hand.

“I’ll throw this ass to the ground anytime you like.”

“Please.” I purr, kissing the side of his throat. He groans, and his grip on my waist tightens, then he lets me go and puts a little space between us. Breathing room because, no lie, that wrestling talk gets us both hard.

“After work.” He casts a glance at the clock on the microwave. “I’ll call you later?”

“Sure.”

He gives me a thoroughly lush and decadent good-bye kiss, followed by a bruising pinch to my nipple. I suspect I’ll spend most of the day with an erection from remembering it.

When he calls me early that evening, his voice is ragged and beyond exhausted. “They said yes.”

“Fantastic. Are you okay? You sound like shit.”

He huffs a laugh. “There was an accident at work today; I’m at the hospital.”

Fear drives a sudden spike through me. “What kind of accident, were you hurt? What do you need?”

“
I’m
fine
.
One of my buddies, not so much. He’s in the ICU in critical condition.”

It’s the absolute wreckage in his voice that gets me. “I’ll come pick you up.”

“Thank you.” The words are low and fierce. “And, Eddie, can you bring me a shirt?”

I drive like a bat out of hell and practically throw my keys at the hospital valet. I stride through the hospital doors with a spare T-shirt in my hand, and I feel like I’m walking in slow motion, like a movie. It’s not until I get to the front desk that I realize I’ve gone in the wrong part of the building. Emergency is on the other side.

“Is there a shortcut through here to emergency?” I ask the hospital concierge.

“Sure thing.” She gives me directions through the hospital. “If the patient is in surgery, the friends and family will be waiting apart from general emergency waiting.” She describes where I’m most likely to find the construction crew, and I take off at a run.

A few minutes later, my heart beats extra loudly in my chest as I round the corner into the waiting area and search the faces there for my hard-hat angel.

He’s standing away from the other guys, a satellite to their group. When he looks up and notices me, I see that moment of indecision. He said once he wasn’t in the closet, but I’d bet three of my savings accounts he’s never engaged in a full-on PDA in front of his coworkers. So, instead of hugging him, I step up and put a hand on his shoulder, the way a brother or a friend would.

“You okay?” I speak close to his ear, and he nods once, a tight lift of his chin, and then the words burst free.

“Nobody really knows anything, but most of the guys are too worked up to care; they keep asking if they can donate blood and how soon will someone talk to us—his family is in a different waiting room, so my guess is never. The worksite has been closed down while they investigate the cause of the accident, so who knows how long it will be before we’re back at work.” He shudders and falls silent. Then, pointing at the shirt in my hand, asks, “Is that for me?”

I hand it over.

It’s obvious he was close to whatever happened. His shirt is covered in blood and though his hands are red from scrubbing, he’s still got stains under his fingernails.

“Pressure on the wound,” he mutters, tugging his shirt off and dropping it at his feet. I get a glimpse of his lean torso, blessedly unscathed, before he yanks my shirt over his head. He picks up his shirt and stalks off to the nurses’ station. One of them pulls on a glove and takes it, a moue of annoyance on her face.

“Are you Russell?” a squat man with a sun-lined face approaches me. He’s probably younger than me, but harder living makes him appear older. He has an air of authority about him, like maybe he’s a foreman or a supervisor. This day must be hell for the man in charge.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. Edward Russell.” I reach out my hand to shake.

“Conlon.” He pumps my hand once, not offering his first name. “You think you can find anything out for us about Tommy? I mean, your name is on part of this hospital, right?”

I groan inwardly. The cardiology wing, specifically, but that doesn’t mean I can get around HIPAA. “I’m sorry, Mr. Conlon. I only gave them money; I don’t actually have any way to find out . . .”

He nods. “I figured, but we owe it to Tommy to ask, right?” The other guys nod back.

Wish returns to my side. “Can you take me home?”

“Anything you want.” I stop myself before adding an endearment.

“Hey, Conlon, call me if you hear anything, okay?”

“Yeah. Hey, thanks, man. For doing what you did out there.”

Wish grunts, and I can tell he’s itching to get away from this waiting room, so I put a steadying hand on his back and steer him toward the door. A chorus of weary “Later, Carvers” follows us.