Friends and Lovers (19 page)

The bathing suit Tom wore didn’t leave much to the imagination, and while his cock wasn’t hard, anyone who cared to look could make out the way the spandex material clung to his package.

And this fucking little pissant was making damn sure he got a fucking good look. Was he trying to tell if Tom was circumcised? Jack ground his teeth together so fiercely the nerve in a molar twinged.

He couldn’t complain about his lover’s choice of swimwear – it had been his gift to Tom, and after all, he was the one who had packed for this trip – but next time, he would make sure Tom wore a pair of Very. Baggy. Trunks.

He leaned up, resting his broad palm on Tom’s thigh, and caught Thumbelina’s eye. He bared his teeth in an unfriendly grin. “Would you mind stepping aside? You’re blocking my sun.”

Shortstick gazed at Tom. Was he hoping for a sign of encouragement? Tom, his eyes closed, seemed oblivious.

“Uh… sure.” And he slunk away.

The winner!
Jack crowed to himself, although he made sure to keep the gloating expression from his face. He settled himself back on the chaise.

Tom wound his fingers in Jack’s. His eyes were still closed, but there was a small smile on his face, and he murmured, “I love when you get butch.”

Sunday was their last full day at Clinch House Inn. They wore their swimsuits and the Florida version of aloha shirts they’d found the day before, and rode jet skis and went parasailing.

That last had Jack with his heart in his throat. He’d been on ladders, on scaffolding, and on the crossbeams of the roofs of houses, but he’d never had a fear of heights before. He promised god all kinds of good behavior if he just got back on the ground in one piece.

“Want to go up again, buddy?”

His heartbeat was just returning to normal. “Uh… another time?” Like in another lifetime? Jack was pretty sure Tom had no idea that was what he meant.

“Okay.”

 “What do you feel like doing now?”

 “The Inn has some decent weights. Would you mind if I worked out for a bit.” He patted his stomach. “Gotta keep in shape.”

“I think you’re in great shape, buddy, but if you want to work out, that’s fine with me. I’ll spot you.”

“You’re just using that as an excuse to watch me.” Tom had been doing some bicep curls when Jack had come over once, letting himself in with the key Tom had given him. He’d found Tom, straddling the bench and with his elbow braced on his knee, and Jack had gotten an eye-popping view of his lover’s crotch. He’d gotten hard, and as he’d watched, so had Tom.

Jack grinned to himself. Tom had finished with a different sort of exercise entirely.

“Tommy, I never need an excuse to watch you.” No one was looking, so he reached down and squeezed Tom’s ass.

Tom grinned at him. “Come on.”

They returned to Clinch House Inn and went to the small gym the Inn had tucked away on the first floor. Tom removed his shirt and began to warm up.

When he was satisfied that his muscles were loose enough, he spread a towel on the bench – “It’s only common courtesy, Jack,” he’d told him once. “Who wants to lie down in someone else’s wet spot?” – then straddled the bench and reclined.

“How much weight, buddy?”

“Let’s start with a hundred pounds, okay?”

“Sure thing.” Jack racked the weights.

Tom wrapped his hands around the bar and started the first set of reps. When he worked out, he shut out everything else. His movements were smooth and steady and intense.

Before Jack realized it, Tom was asking for the two-hundred pound weights to be racked.

“You’re really getting pumped, buddy.”

A sound rumbled up from Tom’s chest, and Jack assumed he was agreeing with him.

Muscles bulged and relaxed, sweat formed and beaded over them, a drop slid down to catch on his nipple. Jack licked his lips, recalling the first time he’d seen that, how he’d caught the drop on his finger, and then stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked it off.

Straight boys didn’t do things like that, but it had been Tommy, his best friend, and so he had never questioned his own action.

He grinned to himself and shook his head. He really had been a clueless son of a gun.

An appreciative audience had gathered, including the guy who’d been tossing the Frisbee the day before. He was wearing a thong the color of green Jell-o today. Jack kept one eye on him while he kept the other eye on his lover, making sure Tom didn’t get into trouble.

Tom blew out a breath. “Let’s go for three hundred now.”

There were quiet gasps. That was almost twice as much as Tom weighed.

“Are you sure?”

“Think I can’t handle it?”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” He had visions of the bar being too much and smashing down on his lover’s face.

“Jack, I’ve been doing this for years,” Tom said patiently.

“If you say so, buddy.” 

“Remember, you’re supposed to be watching me.” Tom gave him a sultry grin. Jack racked the weights while Tom stretched. Then he reclined again and started a new set of reps.

Jack kept his eyes on Tom. He could handle it.

From the corner of his eye, Jack saw Bubblebutt inch closer, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to touch.

Try it, and I’ll break every one of them!

“Really nice form.”

Tom was concentrating too hard on what he was doing to answer, so Jack did for him.

“Yeah.” He hoped the shortness of his answer would make it clear to this … this candy-assed
punk –
Jack deliberately used one of Tom’s most denigrating labels – that he wasn’t wanted here.

“Uh… Maybe I could spot him for a while? While you… uh… go for a swim?”

In your dreams, Needledick!
“Nah, that’s okay. Tom’s more comfortable when I spot him.” Jack gave him a dismissive glance.

“Tom? His name is Tom?” A dreamy expression filled his eyes. Why the fuck couldn’t he take a hint and move on? Jack was about ready to drag him outside, grab him up by that flimsy little thong of his, and fling him into the ocean to cool off.

Tom blew out a final breath, eased the bar down, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his forearm.

“That about it for today, baby?”

There were a couple of sighs from the peanut gallery, and one, ‘I
told
you he was his boyfriend!’

Tom gave him a look, since Jack didn’t usually call him that in public, but Jack widened his eyes and went for innocence.

“Yeah, I think so.” Tom ran through a series of cool down exercises, then stretched his arms above his head – to more sighs, these definitely dreamy – and rolled his shoulders.

Jack took another towel and rubbed it over Tom’s shoulders and  torso, loving it that his lover was practically purring with pleasure under his touch.

“What do you say to a swim?” Jack dropped both towels in a container that had been set up for them.

“Good idea. Just let me just rinse off first.”

Jack lounged in the doorway to the shower room, effectively barring the way. Tom entered a stall, turned on the faucet, and stood under the spray, his face turned up toward it and his eyes closed as it poured over him. Jack lost himself in the sheer masculine beauty that was his friend and did a little dreamy sighing of his own.

When Tom was done, he ran a towel over his face and hair. His torso. His legs.

Jack wouldn’t have minding licking the stray drops off. That’s what friends were for, after all.

Tom straightened, noticed the way Jack was watching him. He touched Jack’s cheek. “All set.”

The chaises they had used the day before were still together. Tom dropped his shirt on one while Jack stripped off his shirt and dropped it on the other one, glancing around as he did so.

Tom’s audience had followed them out to the beach and was still watching. Were they hoping Jack would get a cramp and drown so they could have a shot at his lover? He bared his teeth at them, took Tom’s hand, and stalked down to the water’s edge and into the water with him.

It was high tide, and rowdy waves broke against their legs, pushing Tom into Jack’s arms. Jack took that opportunity to kiss him, subtly stating his claim.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t so subtle, but then the feel of Tom’s lips under his as he cooperated wholeheartedly – the soft friction, the wet heat of his mouth – drove any ulterior motives for the kiss out of his head.

It was the whistles and applause from the shore that reminded him that they still had an audience. Jack really was a private kind of guy, and he blushed and dropped his arms. He would have stepped back, but those waves pushed him into Tom.

“C’mon, buddy.” Tom patted his ass. “I’ll race you out to that buoy.”

In spite of his blush, Jack grinned. “You’re on.”

Tom dove over an incoming wave and began stroking strongly, and Jack followed him. He had the longer reach, but Tom was a powerful swimmer. They reached the buoy in a dead heat.

Tom brushed the hair out of his eyes and smiled, and Jack couldn’t help smiling in return. He loved the warmth in Tom’s eyes.

“This has been a great weekend, Jack.”

“Yes, it has.”

Tom pulled Jack into his arms and kissed him, not breaking the kiss even after they went under. Lazy kicks sent them back to the surface.

Jack could sense Tom’s reluctance to let him go.

“God, I love you, buddy.” Tom stroked his cheek.

“I love you too, babe.” He covered Tom’s hand with his.

A wave broke over them, and they spluttered and laughed and began to swim parallel to the shore.

“Hey, babe,” Tom called from the bathroom, “What do you want to do about dinner?”

Jack wanted to have his lover to himself on their last night here, especially since that little pissant in the thong seemed to be following them all over, from the beach, to the Inn’s side entrance, to the elevator. If he hadn’t gotten out on the second floor, Jack would have been tempted to get a restraining order. Although punching him in the nose was running a very close second.

After they’d changed and gone down to the game room to shoot some pool and have a glass of wine, he’d turned up again, not in a thong this time, but in clothes that could have been spray painted on. He’d hovered around until Tom had given him a stern look, and then backed away, but he’d looked like he was about to come in his pants.

It had thrown Jack off his game, and he’d missed an easy shot. He’d tossed his cue stick onto the green felt, given Squirrel Nuts the hairy eyeball, grabbed Tom’s arm and left, grousing under his breath to Tom’s evident amusement.

“How does room service sound?”

“Works for me.”

“Do you want anything in particular?”

“It seems to me you promised me chocolate syrup and whipped cream.” There was a laugh in Tom’s voice.

“I guess I’ll just have to see what I can do about that then.” Jack thumbed through the room service menu, then picked up the phone and dialed. “Room service? This is Jack Sweet in room 303. I’d like to order Hedonist’s Delight for two.” He knew Tom would enjoy the grilled wild king salmon, the olive oil smashed potatoes, and charred tomato compote. “That comes with a trio of tasting cheeses to start with, correct?”

“Yes, sir. Salad?”

“Hmmm.” He looked over the selections and ruled out two of them because bacon was part of the ingredients. “Baby island greens with soft herbs and the lemon-tarragon vinaigrette. And for dessert… Do you have Bosco?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. But we do have chocolate fondue with a variety of fruits that can be dipped in it.”

“Sounds perfect. Send up some whipped cream too.”

“Yes, sir. Will there be anything else, Mr. Sweet?”

“A bottle of champagne.”

“If I may suggest? We have a very nice Pol Roger 1990.”

“That’ll be fine.”

“We’ll have it to your room in about half an hour.”

“Thanks.” He hung up. “Sorry, buddy,” he called. “No syrup.”

“Well, shoot. I am disappointed.” Tom walked out of the bathroom.

Jack turned to the radio that was mounted into a wall so Tom wouldn’t see his grin. Tommy Boy was in for a surprise.

He turned on the radio and found a station that played the kind of music his Tommy enjoyed, Streisand, Bennett, Sinatra, Garland, with some Neil Sedaka and Connie Francis thrown in for good measure.

Something slow and bluesy was playing.
‘More than you know, more than you know, man of my heart, I love you so...’
the warm, husky alto sang.

Jack crossed the floor and pulled Tom into his arms.

“I like this song.” Tom gave a contented sigh and slid his arms around Jack’s neck.

“Mmm.” Jack was busy nibbling on Tom’s neck, his hands molding the firm globes of his lover’s ass as they began to move to the music.

When the young man from room service brought up the meal, it was on a rolling cart that doubled as a table large enough for two. It was set with a white linen tablecloth, gold trimmed plates, and etched goblets for ice water and matching flutes for their champagne. A gardenia floating in a bowl of water that contained a couple of fancy goldfish was in the center of the table.