Clear Water (18 page)

“It’s too cold to swim,” he panted, and Patrick actually followed that idea.

“So let’s go back to the cabin and… and….”

“Yeah.”

This time, Whiskey held tight to Patrick’s hand and Patrick didn’t spaz out. He managed to follow Whiskey at a trot, as quick as they could go without just sprinting through the parking lot and pounding across the quay.

They pattered below deck, and there they were—no lights except the running lights from the boat next door, just shadows from the familiar interior of the little island of calm in the middle of Patrick’s fucked-up life.

“You’re really going to live here?” Patrick murmured as Whiskey took the keys out of his pocket and threw them on the table. “It’ll get cold in the winter.”

“Oil heaters, big sleeping bags, it can be done.” And for a minute, Patrick could see a little bit of hurt. Oh my God—this was a dream of Whiskey’s. This was
the
dream. He’d staked his entire plan for the future on this battered little houseboat that smelled like frog water. He needed something more.

Patrick looked around and thought,
I could make this a home.
It was a totally random thought, but that didn’t stop it from setting up shop in his heart, and what was in his heart went directly out his mouth.

“You should let me fix the carpet,” he blurted. “I could work on the paneling too. You know. When you and Fly Bait are gone. I could paint the inside walls. And a larger mattress would fit in that bed. And….” He trailed off, because Whiskey had turned around and was advancing on him, his depthless eyes gleaming in the dark.

“Patrick?”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck the houseboat.”

Whiskey’s mouth was just as warm now as it had been in the parking lot, and his hands… oh, God. They were wide, long-fingered, hard, and possessive. They held his shoulders, his waist, the small of his back. They moved down, tentatively, to Patrick’s ass, and pulled him close, and Patrick made a sound like “gurck!” and grabbed Whiskey’s surprisingly broad shoulders, because suddenly, his erection was in contact with Whiskey’s erection, even if it was through their pants, and Patrick was… oh, God, no one had ever kissed him like this… or made him want so badly… or taken the time to kiss him until he was silly. Patrick’s whole body was shaking, and he was a breath away from creaming in his jeans like some high school kid, and he wanted… he wanted….

Whiskey pulled back and rubbed his cheek against Patrick’s, whispering, “Shhhh, it’s okay. We’ve got time.”

Patrick thrust his hips forward, grinding because he couldn’t help it. “I’m going to—” he whined. “I don’t have time—”

“Sh… then don’t wait. We’ve got all night.”

Whiskey barely rubbed Patrick’s lips with his own, just a little, and he fumbled with the belt at Patrick’s waist. “I’m gonna….” Oh God, just the thought that Whiskey was… even now he was… the belt was off and his fly was open and his cock was bare in Whiskey’s hard hand, slick with pre-come and as hard as Patrick had ever been. Suddenly Whiskey’s hand gripped his base and traveled upward, and Patrick clutched Whiskey’s arms with shaking fingers and buried his face into the sweet little hollow between Whiskey’s neck and shoulder.

“
Whiskeeeeyyy!
” he whined. “Oh Jesus… oh shit… I’m gonna—” The pressure was so intense, so sudden, it hurt, and it hurt to try not to, and he actually bit Whiskey’s shoulder,
hard
, as Whiskey’s hand sped up and gripped harder at the same time. “I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” Whiskey hissed in his ear. “Do it… come on, Patrick… come!”

“
Gawd!
”
His skin was cool in the air from the riverfront, and the come, spurting over his cock and Whiskey’s already warm hand, was scalding, possibly more arousing, and Patrick moaned and burrowed into Whiskey’s shoulder even more.

Whiskey ignored the mess on his hand and wrapped his arms even tighter around Patrick’s shoulders, holding him so tight Patrick hardly had room to shake. So tight he hardly had room to doubt.

After a few moments, when the shudders had subsided, Whiskey walked backward to the bed and turned around and sat Patrick down on it. Very carefully, he pulled off Patrick’s slacks (they were the ones he’d been wearing when he’d been fished out of the river, actually) and took off his deck shoes. He stood up then and bent down and grabbed the hem of Patrick’s T-shirt, pulling it up over his head like he would with a child’s.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmured. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Patrick watched him go in bemusement and then watched again as he came back with a damp cloth and a dry towel and had Patrick lean back while Whiskey washed him off. When he was done, he set both towels down on a corner of the bed and fumbled under the pedestal for a minute. He came up with a handful of condoms and a really big bottle of lubricant, which he put in the space between the pedestal and the mattress. He stood, stopping for a moment to nuzzle Patrick’s temple, and very quickly undressed. Neither of them spoke, but Patrick felt compelled to touch him, random touches of his own, with hands that he’d often thought were like a frog’s because they were so long in the joints and they spread out with such thoroughness in an effort to touch everything at once.

“Scoot over,” Whiskey mumbled now, though. “Or get up so I can have the inside.”

Patrick got up, and Whiskey lay down, and Patrick followed. This time, instead of backing up against Whiskey’s front, Patrick faced him, coming close enough to put random kisses on Whiskey’s darkly furred chest.

“I’m sorry I shot early,” he mumbled, and Whiskey’s laughter rumbled through that wonderful chest. Patrick stroked his chest hair with amazement—it was
soft.
It didn’t
look
soft, but each strand was smooth and whole and not split or fuzzy.

“I’m not,” Whiskey confessed, and Patrick looked at him in bemusement, feeling like everything he’d ever known about sex was wrong.

“No?”

“Now we really
do
have all night. If you think that’s the only time you’re getting off tonight, Patrick, you’re sadly mistaken.”

Patrick’s smile was shy—and a little excited. “Not sadly,” he murmured. “Not sad at all.”

He kissed Whiskey’s chest because Whiskey let him. There were no hands on his head and no “C’mon, baby, suck my dick, wontcha?” It was just Whiskey rubbing his neck, his shoulders, cupping his cheek, letting him explore. Patrick spent a moment suckling on Whiskey’s nipple, getting excited as hell when Whiskey moaned and arched his back.

“That’s good?” he asked, and Whiskey mumbled, “Amazing!” and Patrick went after the other one. Whiskey arched his hips again, and Patrick kissed his way down that tight, stringy-muscled abdomen and reveled in how smooth the skin of Whiskey’s stomach was and how it shuddered when Patrick breathed softly on it and nibbled the skin.

Patrick moved down his furry little happy trail and stopped and gasped when he got a good look at Whiskey’s cock.

He looked up and caught Whiskey’s eyes, half laughing, half despairing, and bit his lip.

“What’s wrong?” Whiskey reached down and rubbed his cheek, and Patrick leaned into the touch.

“That’s not gonna make it,” Patrick said helplessly. “Jesus, Whiskey, you’re hung like a fucking bear!”

Whiskey grinned at him. “Well, it’s not going to bite like one, Patrick. Touch it, lick it, if I get close, I’ll give you a condom, okay? Don’t chew on it—that could be painful, but, you know. What feels right to you?”

Patrick looked at it again, and given the freedom to touch it, he did. He touched it gently, with two fingers, petting it like he’d pet a feral cat. It popped a couple of times, jumping off of Whiskey’s abdomen, and that gave Patrick the courage to wrap his hand around it and squeeze.

Whiskey made
the
sexiest sound when he did that. It was a pant and a whimper and a groan all rolled into one, and Patrick felt like his own cock filled completely with blood all in that one moment. He looked at Whiskey’s face and squeezed again, this time from the base all the way up to the slick crown. Whiskey made that sound, except more intense, and Patrick whimpered because, oh God, he wanted more. The foreskin thing… that was something to play with. It was just, well, looser at the crown. He pulled at the skin with his fist, feeling it slide over Whiskey’s slick cockhead, and Whiskey grumbled low in his chest as the foreskin added to his arousal. He was close… oh God, Whiskey was close, and Patrick was still interested in doing the foreskin thing, and Patrick’s own erection was making him crazy, and he kept humping up against the mattress, trying to make that ache ease up. He lost focus for a moment, and his movements became rougher, jerkier, and Whiskey hissed and Patrick let go of him with a little thump and a splat on his abdomen.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he said, and Whiskey pulled him up then, physically putting those big, hard hands under Patrick’s armpits and hauling him up by force, until Patrick was sprawled across Whiskey’s more massive body, looking bemused.

“Patrick?”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t ever be sorry about something you do because you’re trying to please me.”

Patrick swallowed. “Okay.”

“And please don’t feel like this is sort of a race. You don’t have to make me come, okay?”

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t make eye contact anymore. He put his face down, resting his cheek on that silky chest hair. “Okay,” he murmured.

Whiskey’s hand came up to ruffle Patrick’s hair, and his hips arched almost reflexively. Patrick arched against them, their cocks rubbing together as they both groaned in tandem, and Whiskey reached down between them.

“Here,” he murmured. “Raise up a little, put your knee on the mattress, and—”

“Oh? Ohhhh….”

Whiskey wrapped that big capable hand around both of them, Patrick’s slender, white-skinned circumcised erection and Whiskey’s massive uncut cock. Patrick found himself once again burying his face in Whiskey’s chest and arching his hips into Whiskey’s hand.

“Oh God… Whiskey?” Because it felt so
good.
Whiskey’s cock was so smooth-skinned, and the pre-come was hot and slick, and Patrick just wanted to be closer to him, so much closer, and… oh, God. He
was
closer. They were
naked
and they were
touching
,
and Patrick lowered his mouth to Whiskey’s nipple and suckled, and Whiskey made that sexy sound again, the one that was a thousand sounds at once, and spurted up over both of them, scalding hot, and Patrick groaned too.

“Oh, God… oh, God… oh God, oh God, ohgod, ohgod, ohgod, ohgodohgodohgodohgod…
Whiskey!
”

His balls practically drew up into his throat, he was so tight with orgasm, and when Whiskey blew, his come hot between their sweating stomachs and chests, Patrick had no choice… and then Whiskey’s thumb came up and rubbed Patrick’s head, and Patrick groaned and buried his face in Whiskey’s chest and
screamed
and then came.

He perched there on Whiskey’s chest, and the two of them shuddered, gulping in air like frogs gulped in the water.

“Patrick?” Whiskey sounded reluctant, and Patrick knew what he probably wanted.

“Yeah, I got it.”

Patrick slid carefully—oh so carefully—to the side, resting his head on Whiskey’s shoulder at the same time he fumbled for the damp come cloth to clean them off.

He rubbed at Whiskey’s skin until Whiskey wrapped his hand over Patrick’s and took over with a little more efficiency.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick panted, and Whiskey scooted down a little until their mouths were even and kissed him.

The kiss was short, and Whiskey pulled back a little before saying, “Don’t be. God, Patrick, that was awesome for starters.”

Patrick looked at him unhappily. “But… I’m sort of falling asleep.”

“Me too.” Whiskey quickly wiped off Patrick’s stomach and then placed the come rag in a corner of the bed where he could get it again.

“But….”

“It’s only nine o’clock, Patrick. We’ll doze off. First one who wakes up gives the other a poke. No worries. After round two, we’ll have ice cream.”

“There’s ice cream?” Patrick slurred, thinking that when he woke up, he’d be happy to have some.

“Uhm-hmm….”

Patrick’s entire body was completely relaxed, and with one hand, Whiskey pulled up the blanket around their hips so they didn’t get too cold from the breeze that came through the hatches. “I like ice cream,” Patrick managed before he couldn’t talk anymore.

“I like you,” Whiskey said, and Patrick was sad, because he didn’t have a chance to respond to that before he fell asleep.

Whiskey
White Lies in Shadow

W
HISKEY
had lied several times that night.

He’d said he thought the lead actor was hot when really, he thought the guy was average. He said there was no hurry to come when his body had been made of
nothing
but hurry, and his hands had been shaking so bad he’d been afraid he’d actually hurt Patrick during that first frantic hand job. He’d said he was on his way to falling asleep when, in reality, he had no intention of doing anything
but
holding Patrick and planning what he was going to do to that wonderfully responsive body to get Patrick to make more awesome let’s-wake-the-neighbors sex sounds.

And he’d said he liked Patrick when the truth—the
whole
truth—was that he had fallen very much in love with him at this point, but he didn’t want to say that, because Patrick might bolt.

That there was the
absolute
truth, and Whiskey knew Patrick would confirm it, either in word or in deed, if Whiskey brought it up. Which was why Whiskey had chosen the
I’m thinking about living here
approach. And the way Patrick had jumped on top of that one had made Whiskey’s hand shake on Patrick’s skin, and it had made him gasp in raw passion from just the feeling of Patrick’s body on top of his. Patrick wanted to make this place their
home.
Whiskey wouldn’t stop him for the world.

Over the past four weeks, Whiskey had learned the ways of Patrick’s sleeping—it had been necessary if Whiskey wanted to stay unbruised. Whiskey knew that moment between sleeping and waking; he could feel the moment when Patrick went from stone dead weight to peacefully semi-conscious. The moment after that was the moment when Patrick shot out of bed shouting, “It’s my turn to count the frogs!” or “Whiskey wears the deck shoes today!” (They only had one pair between them.)