Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 7

few times. Jaime gasped and reached out to grab Shane's shoulder. Sliding his hand down he too undid his lover's pants and went in to grasp the hot flesh of Shane's leaking cock. The two men stared into each other's eyes as they began the age-old dance together.
    Falling backwards on to the blanket, they shimmied out of their clothing and embraced each other again, pushing together, rubbing with slow, languorous movements. Their kisses became rougher, and their bodies became slick with sweat as they rocked against one another.
    Shane moaned. "Oh yes, so good, so good. Harder, Jaime, harder. I want to feel you, need to feel you."
    Jaime responded with his own moan and pushed against his lover, the precum dripping from their cocks making the slide easy and fast. "Soon, Baby, soon!"
    With those words echoing in his mind, Shane began to buck and shake as his orgasm ripped through him, hot jizz pouring out of his slit. In response his lover's body went rigid as he too ejaculated ribbons of creamy cum onto Shane's already wet torso. They lay panting in each other's arms. After a few minutes, Jaime reached into the picnic basket for a napkin and gently wiped down Shane first and then himself. Tossing it aside he sat up, drawing Shane with him. Gently he stood and led Shane down to the shoreline and sat back down again, leaning against him, sighing in contentment.
    The two men sat, shoulder to shoulder, one golden as the sun…the other dark as midnight. Shane spoke softly but with certainty.
    "No matter what happens from here on out I will always be with you, always love you, always be right here by your side."
    He turned his face toward the man who he loved more life itself and said:
    "Even if we were an ocean apart, I would find you, come back to you…love you."
    He leaned forward, resting his head against Jaime's, closing his eyes. They sat there together as the tide came in.
    THE END
    Author bio: Sammy Goode began life as a writer of children's plays. She was quite content in her world of all things small and wonderful until a band of rabble-rousers, (otherwise known as her friends at Goodreads), ganged up and forced her to begin writing stories—delicious little dirty stories—the kind called m/m. This little tale was born out of all their persistent nagging and well wishing. Oh and lest she be misread, she would not trade that little band for all the world!!!
    Goodreads
    ****

OF CANYON ASHES
    by Cody Richardson

    "Save me, Mister Firefighter! No really, I swear it was just a small bag of caramel microwave popcorn…"
    ~ WildFlower3D

    genre: contemporary
    tags: firefighter; disaster; hurt/comfort; cheating ex; bareback; PTSD
    word count: 5,569
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    OF CANYON ASHES
    by Cody Richardson
    The wind pulled charred wood and dust through the Canyons.
    The debris wasn't so bad; it stayed on the ground, rolling along and leaving bits of blackened slough in the dirt. The dust, though, the dust was the bitch of the thing. It got in your eyes and your nose and your clothes and your skin and the sky, making you itch and cough and blink while it blotted out the sun, turning it red and unfriendly.
    And it smelled good.
    I think that was the worst part of it. I liked the smell of it, of everything. My father and I had gone camping often when I was a child, and the smell of the fire pit when the fire was gone always comforted me and made me glad to be with my Daddy. Even now, as people trudged along the highway with dirty blankets and dirtier children, I was comforted by the smell of their burned lives.
    The Canyons are dangerous places; anyone will tell you that, if you ask them. When you meet them at the small lake in the summer, they'll sit in their plastic lawn chairs made pliable and unstable by the extreme temperature and the relentless exposure to the sun, and tell you about their nephew, the short one, who was bitten by a rattlesnake while hiking in some pass; they'll tell you about the pets and sometimes the children that have been taken and eaten by the mountain lions, about the woman who lost her way in the hills and wandered in the heat until she died, her tongue swollen in her mouth like a phallus. They'll tell you about those things, those Folk Tales and Local Legends and True Stories, because none of them are the real danger of the Canyons. Like humorous children's songs about disease and famine and war, they are lies told to obscure the horror and finality and inescapability of the