Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 10

was vastly heavier than the one George swung in their next flurry of blows. Two strikes later, he held only a limp rag in his fist, using it to pop Oliver, but had begun to wrap his mind around what was coming next.
    Squinting through the static of falling feathers, he saw Oliver grin triumphantly. George went on the attack, throwing his arms around him to prevent another swing. Behind his back, he tried to grab for the other man's pillow.
    Oliver ground his groin against George's, dropping the pillow to grasp his hips. The stroke of his bristly chin along George's neck set off sparks inside his cock as he felt their shafts slide against each other. It doubled his excitement to know, to really know, what Oliver was feeling. He could practically feel the blood rushing into both their tools as his ache built. Yet his heart rate did double duty as their cocks still dueled.
    "It's gonna be good, baby," Oliver promised as if George had spoken aloud.
    George glanced down at his discarded pillow, still three-quarters full. "I think you rigged this somehow."
    "How would I do that?"
    It was hard to stay angry standing bare-assed and ankle-deep in goose down. George dropped his arms, stepping back, but he plucked a feather from Oliver's hair. "Be gentle with me," he tried to joke, but the crack in his voice betrayed his cavalier words.
    "Shower first," Oliver decreed, brushing ineffectually at George's chest. "You look like you just fucked the abominable snowman during shedding season."
    "Was I at least on top?" George muttered.
    "You kill me," Oliver retorted. "It's like you're afraid taking cock is gonna make you more gay." He stomped to the outdoor shower, wrenching on the water. "That's the whole damn point, you know? It fucking feels good."
    George may have thought the tiny white lights in the trees was a bit of a feminine touch, but he heartily approved of the huge rainfall-style shower head Oliver had installed under the portico.
    To his surprise, Oliver didn't try to bathe him. Instead, he stepped under the gentle fall of water and took his time rinsing, running his hands over his chest, his legs and finally, when he was sure George was watching, his cock. He stopped thinking about why Oliver was getting hard and let himself enjoy watching it happen. Oliver taunted him, tugging his shaft toward his navel, the head flushed and swollen above his fist. As he caressed the spot just below the flared rim, George felt his cock throb in response. Oliver's dimple appeared.
    That was it, George realized. The reason he preferred fucking men over women was that men had no way to hide their desire. There wasn't anything to try to gauge or guess at, just a solid showing of want. It was hot as hell to see how badly Oliver wanted to fuck him.
    Oliver backed out, and George stepped under the falling water. "Meet me around front at your truck," Oliver announced, then shook his head like a wet dog. His palm came down hard on George's ass before he bounded through the back door, leaving George staring after him, trying to figure out what the hell he'd gotten into.
    It was erotic, walking around the large house in the moonlight, wet and bare-assed with his cock taking point. The neatly-clipped grass felt soft underfoot and a breeze whispered in the tops of the towering river oaks. George propped his elbows on the bed-rail of the truck, drumming his fingers nervously against his ribs and studied the house while he waited for Oliver. The pendulum light fixture suspended from the rounded roof soaring two stories above the terracotta-tiled porch added to the soft glow from the fan-shaped glass above the front doors. Apprehension and excitement two-stepped in his chest when Oliver stepped out of one of the carved oak doors, holding a stack of folded towels. Lube and condoms were perched on top. Water darkened Oliver's hair to the color of aged pewter, but George smiled a bit when he saw the fresh comb-marks.
    Without a word, Oliver dropped the tailgate climbed into the bed, parking the towels on top of the cab. "Come on, get up here," he ordered, picking up a towel and turning towards him. George caught the scent of fabric softener as Oliver extended a hand to help him up. Stepping close, Oliver began buffing the water from his shoulders and chest while the velvety head of his penis made ticklish strokes against the hair on George's thigh. The still-warm towel left tingling skin in its wake. Oliver knelt, scuffing the towel briskly down