Zipper Fall (28 page)

“What would you like me to do, Wyatt?”

I startled, not expecting the question. “Ah… anything goes?” I asked.

“Well… almost anything.”

“Top you?” My teasing question gave me wiggle room in case I got shot down.

“Not anytime soon,” he said, his voice serious. “Pick something else.”

Well, then. How about my special “fantasy number two.”
I flushed at the thought of saying it out loud, my words frozen under his arctic blue gaze.

“Wyatt?” His expression betrayed amusement. He watched me swallow, then sneeze in response to my sudden arousal as I blushed in embarrassment. “Just whisper it,” he said, his voice a sensuous rumble as his ear descended to my mouth.

I did.

He sat up, considering. “We have the time, I think, to do this right. I’ll do as you ask, as long as you do as I say.” The promise of unimaginable pleasure made me nod without even thinking about it.

I
WAS
lying on the bed with my butt so close to the edge, I thought I’d slide off the towel Jack placed under me. My knees were bent and my feet were planted to the sides, touching the very edge of the mattress.

“I want you to hold your ankles with your hands, Wyatt.”

Dubious, I reached for one ankle, then the other. The open air cooled my overheated skin as my knees spread apart, leaving me curiously open and vulnerable. I tried to do a sit-up to peek and see what Jack was planning to do, but with my hands affixed to my ankles, all I saw was the top of his head.

“Just relax. This will feel… different. Just go with it, okay?”

“Okay.” I sighed, my sigh turning to a gasp as I felt a warm, wet washcloth cloth on my thighs, then between them. I was being cleansed in a most thorough and intimate manner.

A question was at the tip of my tongue, but before I had a chance to let it loose, I heard an unfamiliar swishing sound. My ears strained where my eyes wouldn’t serve. A cool softness touched the inside of my leg, a wet, tickly sensation circling in from the thigh toward my cock.

What the…?

I let go of my ankles so I could sit up and see what he was doing.

Jack stopped. In a moment, his voice broke the pregnant silence. “Wyatt. How much do you trust me?”

I took a moment to think about that. He was there for me when I needed it most; we had pulled through despite our differences. I trusted him. “A lot,” I said.

“Well, then!” he said. “Just remember that and keep holding your ankles. You stop, I stop.” Jack’s mirth was barely contained.

Groaning, I grasped my ankles again and spread my thighs apart, resigned to my awkward position. The moist tickle teased my skin once again, slicking and smothering the sensitive skin around my cock, all over my balls, down to the sensitive taint and going all the way down to my back door.

Keeping still was incredibly hard. I tried not to move as I was becoming increasingly aroused from the intimate touches, despite being a bit intimidated by their strangeness. “What the hell are you doing down there, Jack?”

“I’m using a fine-bristle brush on you,” he said, and I could just hear the playful smile on his face.

Brush… bristle brush….

It sounded familiar, like I should have known what was going on, but without the benefit of a line of sight I felt clueless and not just a bit stupid.

A splash of water broke the silence. His hand stroked my inner thigh, holding it steady. “Whatever you feel, don’t move.”

“’Kay.” I’d try.

Then there was a cold sensation, followed by a somewhat familiar tug of the skin—and now the softness and the faint, familiar odor made sense. “Jack… Jack! Are you
shaving
me?”

“Shh… don’t move.”

Another splash of water. Another tug on the skin; his holding hand changed position and my state of arousal began to wane as I felt the cold steel near my most sensitive parts. “Jack….” My voice held an edge of panic.

“Stay still. It’s a good safety razor. I got a fresh blade just for you.”

I let out an incoherent sound of mild distress as I held on. My arms and legs were tense as I felt him banish hair from my most private place. Front to back, side to side.

Threatening. It was definitely threatening. Yet intimate. And I trusted him. Very, very slowly I started to feel myself relax.

Then the warm, wet washcloth returned, soft and… and I could
feel
its touch with unprecedented clarity. With my skin bare, I felt the lightest brush of his fingers, the softest breeze of air. I bucked my hips in eager anticipation.

“You can let go, if you want to see.” Jack sounded uncommonly pleased with himself.

I stood and looked down to assess the damage. All he left was a tuft of hair surrounding the base. I felt down under; everything was smooth. A small tray next to the bed held a bowl of water, an old-fashioned shaving brush, a bowl of shaving soap, and his razor. “How could you? And why?” I sounded like he threw out my comic books.

“Because, for what you want, I like the hair out of the way. Now, if you
still
want it, you’ll lie down, right?” There was a question in his eyes.

I nodded, now hesitant, uncertain as to what other surprises I could expect from him.

“Well then lie down and hold on to your ankles.”

No. Not again!

Yet… being at the mercy of Jack Azurri, as scary as it had been at first, hadn’t produced any lasting harm, so I assumed my position once again.

Wet, soft warmth assaulted me without warning. I arched, gasping for air once again. His tongue slithered over the shaved parts, lavishing attention on my smooth, sensitive skin.

“You taste so delicious,” he purred, lifting me and sliding a pillow under my butt.

Tense with anticipation, I was curious to see what my erotic wish would feel like. Then I felt the firm, wet tongue sweep a soft path down my crack and over the myriad nerve endings that circled my hole. I cried out—I don’t remember what—and bucked as much as my hands on my ankles would allow.

“Keep still,” Jack said. “You need to relax your shapely ass if you want me down here.”

So I did, panting and struggling for every smidgeon of control as his talented tongue drew intricate patterns around my opening, pushing in here and there. I was so hard I knew I could come from this alone. “Jack… I’m so close.”

“Mmm.” I felt his hand grip my base, not letting me teeter over the edge, his other hand pushing my cheek to the side. His tongue dug in and wiggled, and I thought I’d scream.

“Please, enough!” I wanted him inside me, dammit. “I want you to fuck me!”

The action down under stopped. “You can let go, Wyatt.”

I pried my clasped fingers from around my ankles and lifted my legs in an invitation.

“Your bandage fell off.”

It’s not like I forgot about my half-healed gunshot wound, but whatever Jack was doing felt just too good. “The wound can wait. The condoms are in your room, right?”

“But I can’t,” he growled as he helped me move up the bed. He worked his hands under my shoulder blades, and slid his cock up my shaved skin. “The condom may as well be on the moon.”

“Bareback,” I gasped the word.

He looked me straight in the eyes. His pupils were dilated, his eyes were glazed over, and I could see him bite his lip hard enough to turn it white. He leaned his forehead into my neck and groaned. “Oh, Wyatt… thank you, but no. We’ll get tested later.” He slid his cock up the shaved “vee” of my hip, and I felt his every scorching contour. His belly brushed my cock, and when I gasped, he snaked his hand down and wrapped around it with just the right amount of pressure.

It didn’t take long—his urgent, hard thrust slid up and down my skin, and when I squeezed his shoulders, he exploded with a roar. His jizz flooded my belly and dribbled down the bare and sensitive skin of my hip crease. Jack collapsed to the side of me, and when I arched, there was nothing above me but cool morning air. I gave him a minute, and sure enough, he turned to face me again.

His mouth was back on my smooth skin down under. He tasted himself from the platter of my body. He took some of his naturally produced lubricant and slid his hand on my cock. Then he dove back between my legs. “I need your legs up,” he said.

I raised them, holding my ankles in the air and unable to think of anything as the sensation of his tongue up my crack threatened the bliss of his hand sliding up and down my shaft. The sensory overload was almost painful in its intensity, and I didn’t fight it. I came long and hard, tension draining out of me. My eyes were closed as I kept hold of my ankles in the air, and I felt a wave of relaxing sensation, like warm water flooding my limbs. Then there was sweet darkness, soft and yielding.

“You can let go now,” he said, and I could hear a smile in his voice. We lay still in a tangle of spent limbs, recapturing our breath.

Then the alarm went off.

B
REAKFAST
was a silent affair. We brewed coffee and microwaved enough instant oatmeal with a side of bacon to hold us until lunch. Flushed even after my shower, I’d occasionally glance at Jack over my cup of coffee with cream. My stolen glimpses measured his sculpted, handsome cheekbones, the curvature of his jawline, the firm lips that softened like petals when kissed. He tried to meet my eyes with his, and every time he succeeded, I’d flush and glance away. Just being together like this was magic.

Little did I know it was but the calm before the storm.

W
E
WERE
putting our breakfast dishes away, and I still couldn’t meet Jack’s eyes. We’d woken that morning and made love—I don’t know if I can even call it that; he told me what to do and I did it and it felt wonderful, and my pleasure made him surprisingly happy—then we ate a subdued breakfast, and he left for work.

As I walked him to the door, I felt a sense of lingering incompleteness ricochet through my chest. He lifted my chin to kiss me, but our eyes almost met again and I glanced away and flushed, my breath shallow.

“Wyatt.” He dropped his briefcase on the tiled floor of his foyer and gently backed me up against the wall.

I felt his legs pin mine. Air got rare again, and I had to turn away, sneezing into the crook of my elbow as the dreaded blush overtook my cheeks. “What are you doing to me?” I croaked, feeling fuzzy and faint.

“Wyatt,” he whispered into the crook of my neck as he ran his generous hands up my arms, my shoulders. “Did you not enjoy it?”

I sneezed again at the memory as I felt my cock fill again. Damn.

“There’s no shame in enjoying it,” he crooned into my hair, his lips skimming the wild, blond strands.

I snaked my arms up his chest and around his neck and pulled him in even tighter. We kissed. “Have a good day, Jack,” I said, producing a shy, yet heartfelt, smile. “I know I’m going to.” My eyes lifted only to see his back retreat toward the elevator.

Damn.

Yeah, I did enjoy it. That was the problem. I enjoyed it so much, I craved his closeness with such painful intensity—Jack Azurri was like a drug to me. The longing in my chest filled me with fear. It whispered of attachment, entanglement, and loss.

I
ZZY
S
ILVERSTEIN
showed up about two hours later, just as I finished writing an advertisement flyer for Novack’s Bakery.

“Wyatt! How have you been?”

I waved him inside, belatedly remembering that he knew his way. “Great. I especially like my room.”

“Oh yeah? Show me how it turned out!”

I sighed. Silverstein’s always been the nosy sort. I opened the dark wooden door, watching his reaction to the framed 1920s linoleum cut prints on the walls that I finally chose from Jack’s stash. I’ve come to love their straightforward abstraction, figures distorted, in motion and alive.

Silverstein’s eyes rested on the unmade bed. Sheets were rolled halfway down, baring the mattress and the comforter hung off the corner, askew. A stray pillow and used tissues littered the floor. An earthy, primal odor hung in the air. “I’m glad your relationship is working out. I suppose this is not a good time to ask you how you’re doing?”

I groaned, feeling myself redden again.

“I was inquiring about the unfortunate gunshot, Wyatt,” he chortled, his eyes shaded by his ever-present fishing hat.

I addressed the less painful inquiry first. “The wound is fine. It hurts only a little, and I can do most things.” There was no need for him to worry about the stabbing, hollow fear in my heart.

He considered me with a sigh. “How about those boxes of goods, then?”

I sighed in relief. “Coffee or tea?”

“Tea, if you please,” he answered, and I preceded him into the kitchen, put up a kettle, and had him select from a box of assorted teabags.

Silverstein made quick work of sorting out the items he was willing to resell; he read them off, and I entered them into a spreadsheet. After countless trips to the truck parked by the Dumpster, his pick-up was brimming with goods. He fastened the cargo down with a tarp and a number of bungee cords.