Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 2

rest of him is caught up in Rafe's other hand on his hip, pulling him forward on his chair, inches away from where he wants it to be.
    "Jesus, Connor," Rafe mutters under his lips, and Connor's never felt anything like the effect of that.
    "Can we," Connor says when he gets his breath back, and to his profound relief Rafe says, "Here, come here," and Connor finds himself half-propped on the table where his laptop used to be, Rafe standing between his legs. He wonders if his laptop's still in one piece, and then the thought shorts out when his dick rubs against Rafe's through the cloth of their pants.
    Rafe's laughter puffs against his neck. "Not the most romantic," he says. But he sounds a little shaky too, his fingers fumbling on Connor's zipper before tackling his own, and there . Connor's heartbeat stutters. Rafe's hand is on both of them, the friction dry and rough and perfect.
    He finds Rafe's mouth again. He's never felt this kind of all-consuming pressure before. His hand tightens on the edge of the table, wishing it were Rafe's skin instead— next time , he thinks, and the surge of hunger is enough to tip him over into crushing bliss, vaguely aware of Rafe following a moment later.
    He realizes he's still got a death grip on the table when reality reasserts itself. They're both a mess. The fronts of Rafe's pants and shirt are a disaster. Rafe tucks himself back in then gives Connor a lingering look.
    "I've got a towel around here somewhere," Rafe says. He goes looking for it, sifting through his desk drawers, and Connor takes the opportunity to slip from the table and finish straightening his pants. Rafe comes back with a towel he gives to Connor, and then leans against the table next to him.
    Connor dabs at his crotch with the towel, just trying to get his thoughts back in order. When he glances over, Rafe's looking out over the view. It's past dusk, in the twilight medium where the edges of the buildings merge into the background and the city lights shape everything. Connor wonders what he's thinking about— if he's already regretting this, if he's thinking about the designs they still have to finish, if his mind's on another project. "You know, I honestly thought you weren't interested," Rafe says. "You were always so... polite."
    Connor stares at him, fumbling for a response. Rafe thought he was unapproachable? "You'll have to take that up with my mother."
    Rafe smiles. "I look forward to it."
     
    THE END
    Author bio: I've been writing fanfiction for several years and just started reading and writing original m/m fiction. I like romance with a healthy dash of angst and flaws, with more left unspoken than laid out on the table. In By Design, I wanted to capture that post-college angst wrapped up in a longing for the unattainable, only to find that maybe it isn't after all.
    You can find my works in progress at my LiVEJOURNAL account.
    ****

CALL ME BURT
    by Elin Austen

    Well, it was time for my best bud Warburton's annual checkup. Who would've known that I would hit the jackpot with the hot, mature, new vet? Is he gay? God, I hope so. I wonder if he can give Burtie anything for doggie flatulence?
    ~ Countrygirlxxoo

    genre: contemporary
    tags: humorous; men with pets; college; dogs; ex-military; veterinarian
    word count: 4,555
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    CALL ME BURT
    by Elin Austen
    "Burtie!" yelled Jackson, calling the dog for the umpteenth time. "C'mon boy… car ride!" he coaxed as he walked through the sprawling house, glancing into corners and under tables. "How the hell does he know?" he muttered to himself. "Every flippin' time he's due at the vet, he disappears."
    "Because I'm not stupid," Wharburton thought to himself. "And stop calling me Burtie."
    With an exasperated sigh, Jackson gave up the methodical search and stood still, listening. Hearing nothing but the quiet pings of the house, he closed his eyes, turned his nose to the nearest room and sniffed. He moved along the hall, sniffing at doorways until he suddenly clapped his hand over his nose and cautiously poked his head into the closest doorway. His father's den, he realized. Jackson hadn't been in here for several years, not since the last screaming argument he'd had with Dad right before he stormed out for good. The stench told him the dog had been here. Breathing carefully through his mouth, he stepped into the dark room.
    "Burtie?" He turned a lamp on and found the bulldog curled up on the cracked leather sofa with