Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 10

George's leg, then up the other, interspersing the energetic rub-down with kisses along his hip bone, tantalizingly close to his cock, yet too far away. Oliver's lips skimmed past George's dark thatch to his sac, and the sudden soft tongue- stroke seemed to shove George against the back of the cab. The other man's tongue was deliciously wet as he traced the seam between his balls. George was so hard it hurt.
    "Spread your legs wider," Oliver demanded. When George obeyed, bracing his feet against the ribbed metal, Oliver rewarded him by sucking one into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tender orb. George let his head fall back. His need burned brighter than any star. Oliver's hot licks along the sensitive strip behind his balls wound him tighter.
    "Suck me." He needed that. Instead, Oliver's palms caressed the ridge of muscle that corded his hip bones, and explored every dent in his abdomen while his tongue roamed the soft skin connecting his balls to his body. George felt the sting of fingernails raking his nipples, and the other man's knowing chuckle sent shockwaves rippling up George's spine.
    He groaned with relief when Oliver's lips finally enveloped the head of his cock, and he pushed the tip of his tongue into the tiny slit. "God, that's good," George admitted aloud. "I love the way you suck cock, Oliver."
    Oliver's reply was to take George deep. He continued to toy with a nipple with one hand, but he slid the fingers of the other along the cleft of George's ass. He needed more, beginning to increase his thrusts into Oliver's mouth. Oliver pulled off, but wrapped his fist around his shaft, stroking him fast and hard.
    "Turn around and put your hands on the roof of the cab."
    Bullets have no brakes once they take flight. Some crazy bit of conversation from his war assignment popped into his head when George looked down, seeing the heat in Oliver's intent expression. He raked his nails down George's thighs and cocked a brow.
    He wished it were darker. Then he wouldn't have seen the flash of resignation on his lover's handsome face, or the lines of disappointment settling around his eyes. In every disaster, there's a moment where things might have turned out differently. As a journalist, George once excelled at exposing those moments. They were most easily found with the myopic lens of hindsight, but he didn't need hindsight to know this was the critical moment in his relationship with Oliver. Turning meant one thing. Not turning, something else.
    The face of every man he'd ever hooked up with flooded his brain; a platoon of pleasure-soldiers detonating tracer-rounds that first brought thrilling fireballs only to jettison the poisonous fallout of emptiness.
    Inhaling deeply, George turned, bracing his feet against the sides of the truck bed. His arms spanned the hood, but there wasn't anything to grip, only the waxed curve of metal and glass. The rasp of those whiskers made him tighten his cheeks, but Oliver's stroking tongue soon made him forget anything else. His pulse sang tenor, but his throbbing cock had the base notes, drumming insistently above the raucous cicadas. Curling one palm around his shaft eased his ache into something bearable. Pumping his fist in time with Oliver's motion, George focused on the friction of his palm and the decadent slide of wet muscle around his entrance. When Oliver stiffened his tongue, pushing into a place he'd never allowed to be breached, George stared at a faraway star, suddenly wishing they'd gone inside. Oliver replaced his tongue with a glazed finger. George lowered his head to the cool metal of the truck roof, his wayward mind conjuring the image of a young Marine sniper's finger as it gently squeezed a trigger.
    The sting of penetration matured into an exquisite ache as Oliver fingered him, raining kisses and nips on his lower back. He pushed aside George's fist, silently demanding all control. Another finger pierced him, and then a third, stretching more of him than that single spot, it seemed.
    The stars must have dropped from the sky, stealing passage into him, riding on Oliver's cock. Brilliant bursts of light danced behind his tightly-clenched eyes, seeming to outline every ridge and vein of the invading column. The sensation redefined pain as a prerequisite to understanding pleasure.
    "God, Oliver." He only had breath to moan. The exquisite ache spiraled as Oliver drove deeper, his thrusts slow and measured, claiming a bit more of George with each