Left on St. Truth-Be-Well Page 9

  More, more, more, more, harder, faster, deeper, yes, yes, yes. “More, more, more, yes!” Carson barely had the breath to shout that last one as Dale shifted his angle and banged Carson’s sweet spot with enough force to split a high-pitched whine from Carson’s lips.

  “Hurt?” Dale asked, stopping, sounding concerned, and Carson was pretty sure he’d die.

  “No, asshole! Do it again!”

  Dale chuckled, and suddenly he was pounding, throwing himself into a fucking frenzy, and Carson was right there, begging him with words, with fingers in his shoulders driving him on, with his heels digging into Dale’s ass, pleading for harder and more. Every thrust brought them higher, every slap of their flesh together made them crave more, and when Dale’s bucking body peaked and he stopped, roaring out a climax, every tendon in his body snapped tight and stood out in sinewy relief on his musculature. Carson bore down hard to milk him, grip him, give him as much as he could from the bottom, while at the same time his body screamed, “No, not yet!”

  But Dale didn’t let him down. His climax crested, broke, released into Carson’s body in a flood, and then Dale resumed moving, his erection a little softened but not enough to stop pleasuring them. He pulled back, spit on his hand, and started stroking Carson with a hard, frantic pace. The pressure in his ass, the warmth of Dale’s come sliding out, the strong grip around his cock: it was too much, it was plenty, it was just enough, and—

  “God, yes! Dale!” he shouted, not caring if every alligator for miles went into a mating dance from the sound of his voice alone. “Fucking yes! Yes! Oh fu—”

  Dale fell forward and silenced him with a kiss that went on and on and on, until the shudders of afterglow had stilled and their breathing was only double speed and not triple, until they could ignore the little baby whimpers Carson made as he tried not to curl up on his side and nap in complete fulfillment.

  Finally, Dale pulled away from the kiss and rolled off him, leaving Carson spread naked, sweating, panting, and dripping come from all points south.

  Carson thought he should say something, “Oh my fucking God” or “Thank you” or “That was fantastic!” but nothing came out. He summoned the energy to turn his head and saw Dale looking at him soberly.

  Carson returned the look, not sure what came next.

  “You’re mine now,” Dale said calmly, and he dropped a finger to Carson’s crease and slid it around Carson’s tender rim in the slipperiness of his own spend. “You hear me?” he asked, the intensity of his voice along with the memory of possession enough to make Carson shudder.

  “Yes sir,” Carson said, looking right into his eyes, with no irony whatsoever. “Yours.”

  Dale smiled slowly, and Carson fell into those blue eyes all over again.

  “Kiss me,” he asked hoarsely, and Dale did.

  The kiss grew, and their erections did too, surprisingly enough. This time was slower, quieter, a leisurely sixty-nine, in which Carson got to taste him, feel him swell against his palate, play with his balls, his taint, his pucker.

  This time, Carson got to taste his nipples and watch Dale shudder.

  So this time was different than the last, but it still ended the same way, with Dale thrusting inside Carson’s sloppy, dilated body, and Carson clinging to him and sobbing out his name.

  Benefits of Guardian Alligators

  CARSON wanted his clothes.

  It was irrational. He knew that if he showered now and put on his boxers and his jeans, he was only going to need to shower later after he went surfing. But it was six—wait, five forty-five in the morning, and he was naked in bed with another man, and he wanted the protection and comfort of his own goddamned boxers and jeans.

  He slid out of bed and tiptoed naked to the doorway, feeling a little barb of guilt as Dale rolled over and threw his arm out where Carson had just been. He’d been doing that all night, reaching out and hauling Carson against his side. Carson sort of liked it, but that was beside the point. The point was, he’d woken up, head pressed into Dale’s chest, breathing the smell of his body like the smell of home, and he’d realized Dale wasn’t his home, couldn’t be his home, because home was Chicago, where Bridget had him over a few times a year and maybe a girl would want to marry him someday.

  Oh God. He knew he couldn’t run away anonymously in the morning, because he had no fucking idea where he was, but he needed his clothes. He grabbed a towel from the back porch and wrapped it around his waist before moving quietly to the front of the house. He opened the front screen door as quietly as he could. It squeaked really loudly, which he hadn’t noticed the night before but bothered him now. He held it open for a second and spotted the truck in the surprisingly bright light of morning, then tried to remember if Dale had locked it. Crap, what if it was locked? What if it was locked and there was an alarm?

  What if there was a five-foot alligator sitting between the truck and the front door?

  “Fuck.” It was three parts pure startlement and one part irritation, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was Carson turned around, shut the screen door, put the hook in the eye latch, and padded back to bed. He dropped the towel on the floor, slid under the sheets unhappily, rolled over on his side facing away from the edge of the bed, and met Dale’s knowing blue eyes.

  “Cletus in his usual spot?”

  “Saving my clothes from their unholy purpose of being worn? Yes.”

  “Come here,” Dale rumbled, and just like the night before, Carson was powerless to say no, because it was something he wanted so badly too.

  He scooted closer, and Dale stretched out his arm and rocked back a little, giving Carson room to snuggle against his chest.

  “You’re a little scared now,” Dale said softly once Carson settled. “It’s like we made promises last night, and you’re not sure you can keep them.”

  “Yeah,” Carson confessed, his lips brushing Dale’s chest.

  Dale pulled him tight against his chest and dropped a kiss on his hair. “Don’t be scared, baby. We’ll find a way. I’m not a fan of letting go.”

  That was enough, maybe.

  “What time do you have to be at work?” Carson asked, feeling sleepy.

  “Afternoon. I got someone to cover me at the café this morning.” He paused, and Carson knew his own breathing had gone deep and even. “We got some time to sleep in, okay? Let’s do that. Cletus’ll skedaddle by the time you need your clothes.”

  Carson left out a soft puff of laughter and did what he’d been doing all night: exactly what Dale told him to.

  “I HAVE a will of my own, you know,” Carson muttered two hours later, covered in sweat and come all over again.

  Dale looked down at him, still moving slowly inside his body, and laughed quietly, then bit Carson’s chin.

  “What’s this… this little dot of fur here?” Dale asked, petting it with one finger, and Carson tried to decide if his cock had finally had enough. It twitched, so the answer was probably ask it later and see if it was ready to resume the marathon.

  “It’s called a soul patch,” Carson replied, stung. He liked his chin, so he didn’t want to hide it, but he sort of felt like the soul patch gave interest to a rather ordinary face.

  “I thought it was a really big mole when I first saw it. Shave it.”

  Carson glared, but he didn’t roll over and push him off. “No. I like it.”

  “See? You’re right. You do have a will of your own.”

  Dale punctuated that with a little thrust from his cock that should have been going flaccid, and Carson gasped softly.

  “I thought we were going surfing,” he panted. His cock twitched again as Dale kept moving, and Carson didn’t want to let him out of his body.

  Dale lowered his head, caught his mouth in a kiss, kept going, kept thrusting, kept kissing until the whole thing, which had started out as desultory touching, started to get urgent all over again.

  “We’ll get there,” Dale murmured when he pulled back and braced himself for
some more serious business. “Now grab yourself, that’s right, and pull. I think you can come one more time.”

  THEY finally made it to surfing after they washed up and had some breakfast. Dale was a fan of the sugary cereals in bags, and Carson had to agree that there was nothing like a mixing bowl full of Cinnamon Toastettes to fuel someone up for the day.

  Dale had a little surf shed behind the house o’ peeling paint, and he pulled out a couple of wake boards and a couple of wet suits, and even some water shoes in Carson’s size. Carson looked at the gear sourly, harboring a hunch.

  “Is this from the guy who left you because you didn’t get your shit together?”

  Dale shook his head. “Nah, Greg never surfed. This is from Heather, who came before him. She could cut a wave like no one else.”

  Carson was wearing a pair of Dale’s old trunks, and he slid the wet suit over them and zipped up, thinking Heather must not have been very curvy, because there wasn’t a whole lot of room in the top of the suit like he’d expect. “What happened to her?”

  Dale smiled sleepily. “She actually made the pro circuit. She’s traveling around the world, right? Wave to wave? I told her to go. It’s an opportunity, right?”

  Carson felt a sudden pang. All these people leaving him, and all he wanted was right here. That must be hard. As he tucked the board under his arm and followed Dale along the path through the brush, being careful, as Dale said, to step where he did, Carson realized he hoped he loved it.

  It was a place he wouldn’t have to leave Dale all alone.

  As it turned out, he didn’t even have to try.

  The brush opened up to the sea, and it was the first time he’d actually been that close to the sea since he arrived. It was gorgeous, blue, rhythmic as sex and just as powerful, and surfing or not, Carson was looking forward to being a part of it.

  Once he took the plunge and paddled his board out past the breakers, it got even better.

  Carson liked physical activity, and jumping up on that board and riding a wave in was physical and exhilarating and mesmerizing, and he would do it again and again and again. As long as Dale hopped up and turned around and swam back, Carson would be at his heels. They surfed until the sun went high in the horizon and even Dale had to admit he’d be late if they didn’t hurry back and shower.

  “You’ve been quiet,” Dale said when they were in the shower, soaping off quickly and not taking (too much) time to grab and pinch and stroke each other in passing.

  “You sort of fucked all the fight out of me,” Carson said after wiping the soap from his eyes. “I think the surf took the rest of it out.”

  Dale cupped the side of his neck, and Carson found himself looking into a surprisingly serious pair of blue eyes. “How long do you think it’ll take to recharge?” he asked, like he was taking notes.

  Carson swallowed. “I got no balance,” he said rawly. “I… have you ever been to Chicago?”

  “No.”

  “Everything is there. Everything is first there, or best. The buildings are taller, the wind is sharper, and it is all just so damned beautiful.”

  “So’s the ocean,” Dale said, like he understood.

  Carson nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered. “And I really….” His throat felt tight, and he thought of his tiny studio apartment with the really bitchin’ view. No posters, no area rugs, barely enough furniture to live in. Two jobs to afford it, and he ate free at O’Leary’s. “I really like your house,” he finished weakly.

  Dale nodded soberly. “Me too.”

  There didn’t seem to be anything to say after that. Dale took him back into town, and they stopped by the Publix, where Carson bought about every decent bagel, pastry, sandwich meat (since there was a minifridge), shmear, chip, hummus, and chocolate known to man.

  “You feel pretty damned guilty, don’t you?” Dale asked as they lugged three bags of crap to the truck.

  “I ditched him in the hotel, and it’s almost one o’clock.”

  Dale laughed softly. “Okay, okay, you’re right. Guilt snack delivery service, on its way!”

  “Yeah, well, you know most of the chocolate is for me.”

  Dale was carrying only one of the bags, so his other hand was free to tag Carson smartly on the ass. “You can afford it. You need a little more muscle and fat. It’s like screwing a cricket.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “When you’re ready, grasshopper. When you’re ready.”

  Carson got to the truck and glared, grocery bags swinging in either hand. “I will. Dammit, next time I’m topping!”

  Dale trapped him against the dusty side of the pickup with his hip and leaned into a strong, no-bullshit kiss. “I’d love to see you try it, Bambi, ’cause if you look at me with those big brown eyes while you’re reaming the fuck out of me, I might just come from sympathy.”

  Carson gasped in outrage, and Dale rolled his eyes. “Other side of the truck, buttercup, unless you want to walk.”

  “Asshole.”

  “Yup. Someday you’ll see it.”

  Carson was not going to win this one, so he stomped gracelessly to the other side of the truck and got in so they could drive to the hotel. When they got there, he grabbed all three bags of groceries before he slid out, though, and glared at Dale as if all of his disgust would hit the guy like a medicine ball.

  Dale arched an eyebrow. “You gonna give me a kiss good-bye?”

  “No. That would imply I’ll be happy to see you again.”

  “You will be happy to see me again.”

  Carson pouted. “Yeah, maybe, but I don’t want to imply it.”

  Dale’s laugh rumbled through the cab of the pickup. “If you give me a kiss now, I’ll be sweet to you later.”

  Carson felt the beginnings of a very wicked smile. “You get any sweeter, I may just die.”

  And suddenly there was no air and very little laughter. “Sure, Chicago. I’ll pick you up and you can die in my arms again. Is that a deal?”

  Heat washed his cheeks, and Carson had to look away. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Then kiss me, and we’ll seal it.”

  Carson looked up and leaned forward, and Dale put the truck in park, captured the back of Carson’s head easily in his big hand, and pulled him forward long enough to stick his tongue down Carson’s throat and maul him senseless.

  When Dale came up for air, Carson tried to remember simple things like oxygen intake and how to look at stationary objects. After a breathless second, he said, “I’ve got to check on Stassy,” and then grabbed his stuff and slid out.

  “Same time as yesterday,” Dale said as Carson shut the door, and Carson nodded like he had a choice.

  He turned away from the truck as Dale pulled out, and spent some time fumbling with the groceries and the key card before he burst into the hotel room.

  The first thing he noticed was that one of the beds had been slept in, as in slept in slept in, as in, it smelled as rank as Dale’s had before they’d done laundry that morning.

  The second, and probably more obvious thing, was that Stassy was gone.

  Carson dropped the groceries on the floor and pulled out the two-pound bag of M&M’s, then ripped a corner with his teeth.

  “Fuck.”

  Then he saw a note in the corner on the counter:

  Toby and I went across the street to get my stuff. Uncle Ivan says if we don’t get our asses home in three days, you’re fired and I’m disowned. Back by one.

  S

  Carson looked at his phone.

  It was one thirty.

  Stassy should have been back by now. It was only across the street. Carson had a bad feeling about this.

  He turned on his phone and dialed Dale’s number, hitting voice mail, which was good, because it meant Dale wasn’t talking and driving.

  “Hey, Dale. Stassy went across the street this morning and he’s not back. I’m gonna go fetch him, but, you know. If you don’t hear from me in half an hour, send the Marines, right?”
<
br />   He ended the call, put away the perishables in the minifridge, and walked outside, spotting the hotel across the street as he closed the door behind him.

  Damn. How did a pink stucco hotel manage to look so damned sinister in the daytime?

  Resolutely, Carson started across the street, formulating a plan of attack. He’d just go ask the lady at the front counter, right? Because seriously, how mad could she be? Stassy had to ask someone where his shit was. And by the way, wasn’t that just the dumbest idea ever? Because there’d been a dead guy with all that stuff, and wouldn’t you want to, maybe, steam clean it? Wouldn’t it be with the cops? Oh Jesus, Stassy—all your shit would be with the cops! Was there any possible way to get your shit from the cops without letting them know you’re in town? For God’s sake, seriously?

  Carson had worked up a nice foamy head of irritation by the time he got to the lobby, which was good. He’d need it to not wet his pants every time one of the birds squawked.

  He burst through the doors and resolutely glared at the cages, and then had to catch his breath.

  The birds were all dead.

  Wait, no, no, that couldn’t be right. Who’d kill all the damned birds? They were worth a fortune! But they were all lying strangely still in the bottom of completely clean cages. Carson moved a little closer and eyeballed the big blue one that had delighted in scaring the piss out of him when he’d been there two nights before.

  He dangled upside down from his perch, claws locked around the bar, eyes closed.

  Very gently, underneath the blue plumage, the delicate little chest rose and fell, and Carson took his first deep breath in ages.

  Okay, the birds weren’t dead, but they seemed to be drugged. That wasn’t so bad. It was still creepy, but dead would be, well, dead, and psychotic, and, okay, mostly just final, because all those feathery bodies, some prone, some with claws still locked around their perches, did not seem much better than dead.

  Okay. This was bad. Stassy was here, he should have been back, and a bunch of drugged birds were breathing softly and silently on the bottoms of clean cages. Carson almost preferred them alive and freaking him out.