The Hardest Thing

and chests, mine furry, his smooth. I found his nipples and pinched, and he moaned into my open mouth.
    From that point on, the entire senior administration of the USMC could have marched down on us and we wouldn’t have been able to stop. I hadn’t got laid for weeks, and, by the look of things, neither had Will. He pushed his hands against my chest, broke the kiss and sprang down to the waistband of my shorts, his agile fingers popping the buttons, grabbing the fabric and pulling them down. My ass landed on the sand and
gravel, and my dick shot up into the cooling evening air. It didn’t get cool for long. Will grabbed it, shuffled back on his knees and opened his mouth. A kiss and a lick were the only preliminaries; his lips engulfed me, slid down the shaft and touched the soft bush of hair. I rested one hand on the back of his head, and with the other caressed his neck, his throat.
    The soft breeze was getting harder, sending ripples and then waves to the shoreline, the sound of splashing water mixing with the slurps and clicks of Will’s mouth working on my dick. I felt it starting, my thighs tensing, my balls drawing up…

    The sound of splashing water. The sensation of a mouth on my cock, my nuts tightening…
    I woke up. The shower was running, water splashing loud on cheap white plastic. And there was a mouth on my cock, a head buried in my lap. A blond head, the hair wet. Beads of water on the tanned skin of the back, rolling down the neck.
    Stirling McMahon was kneeling at the foot of the bed, his hands on my thighs, his lips working up and down my cock, which he’d pulled through the fly of my shorts.
    “Jesus, kid…”
    But it was too late to complain. What started in my dream boiled over into reality, flooding his throat with cum. He took it all and swallowed, and did not let me go until I’d pumped out every last drop and was softening in his mouth.
    Shit. This wasn’t meant to happen.
    Why didn’t I push him away? Why didn’t I tell the
stuck-up little bastard to keep his hands—and mouth—to himself? Why was I stroking his wet hair like this?
    Eventually he let me go and crawled up the bed to lie against me. He was naked, his body wet, and I opened my arms and held him. He was hard, of course; I could feel it sticking into my thigh, but he didn’t want to do anything, just burrowed against my chest, put one arm across my stomach as if making sure I didn’t get away, and we both slept.
    An hour later we woke up. The sheets under me were damp, and sweat was pooling where our skin was in contact. “Come on, kid, get up.”
    “No. Stay here.”
    “Let’s go.” I sat up, and he reluctantly rolled away. “Time to eat.” I looked at my watch: nine o’clock. I was starving. “There’s a diner up the street.”
    “Okay.” He stepped into his shorts—still no underwear—and pulled on a sweatshirt. I might have known: Abercrombie & Fitch. Do they get given an A&F charge card on their eighteenth birthday, these rich kids?
    I put on jeans and a sweater, and we walked down the street together. For the first time since I’d met him—since he’d been delivered to me—Stirling seemed happy. He had a spring in his step, he talked like a normal person, and when we got to the restaurant he didn’t complain about the menu but ordered a burger and fries and ate the lot. The miserable, sulky little bitch that left New York had been replaced by—well, by a regular guy. Was that all it took—a mouthful of cock, an hour of intimacy and a few gestures of affection? Had his life, his childhood, been so starved of love?
    His eyes sparkled as he talked and chewed, and he
laughed like he meant it. And, under the table, his leg kept finding mine.
    Shit, I thought. He’s falling in love.

The Cops 4
    For the next two days we fell into a nice little routine. We got up early after sleeping in the same bed, showered, packed up, got breakfast from the first decent coffee shop we could find and then drove all day, stopping off for picnics and swims and hikes in the woods. We talked a lot, but only about immediate things—nothing about our real lives, our past, let alone our future. Stirling dropped the fag-brat act, and I treated him like a human being rather than a parcel to be delivered. Afternoons around five we’d find a quiet motel, pay up for the night and put our bags into our room. I’d check in with Ferrari, report our whereabouts and ask for orders. Nothing—just carry on as instructed.