Stuff My Stocking: M-M Romance Stories that are Nice and Naughty (24 page)

Greg withdrew his finger.

 “Please?” God, he wasn’t one to beg, but he would make an exception for Greg.

“Just getting some slick stuff, sweetheart. Don’t want to hurt you.” Greg kissed him again as he fumbled with the bottle one-handed.

Bobby focused his entire attention on that kiss. Greg tasted so good. Strong and sure, he tasted exactly like he smelled; absolutely addictive.

“Hands and knees, baby.” Greg pulled back.

His brown eyes had gone almost black. They blazed with lust as he watched Bobby do as he’d been told. Bobby spread his legs a little when he felt the first touch of a blessedly slick finger on his opening. He closed his eyes so he could focus on the sensations. The finger circled his quivering hole, gradually increasing the pressure until it finally sank inside.

“Ahhh!” Bobby wiggled his ass. “God, that feels good.”

Greg chuckled and slid the digit in and out, adding a second just before Bobby was ready to beg for more. By the time three fingers were fucking him in an increasingly erotic rhythm, Bobby was ready to scream. He needed Greg’s thick cock inside him or he’d explode all over the blanket without even having touched himself. Then Greg pegged his gland and he lost it. Spurting streams of white release, he came so hard, his legs shook and his arms collapsed.

But Greg caught him and held him with his free arms, still stroking his prostate, milking him of every last drop before he withdrew his fingers. Slapping a small hand towel that came from God knew where onto the wet spot, Greg lowered Bobby onto his back and sank down above him. Mashing their groins together sent aftershocks through Bobby’s body. Greg supported his weight on his elbows and kissed Bobby deeply.

“Wow.” Not the most intelligent comment he’d ever made, but he was happy to have found his voice at all.

“Good?” Greg grinned.

“As if you didn’t know.” Bobby grinned back and spread his legs. “Your turn now, huh?”

“You sure?” Greg moaned when Bobby circled his hips, bringing his quickly recovering cock in contact with Greg’s still rock-hard one.

“What does that feel like, honey?” Bobby groaned as he rubbed himself against the stiff shaft. He hardened the rest of the way more quickly than he’d ever done.

 “Feels like you’re ready to go again.” Greg sat up, sheathed himself with gratifyingly quick movements and pushed his thighs under Bobby’s butt. “Okay?”

“Please.” Bobby spread his legs farther, lifting his aching hole to touch the tip of that magnificent cock. “Want it.”

Greg held onto his cock with on hand as he supported his weight with the other. He slid into Bobby so slowly, he wanted to scream. The stretch was amazing and Greg just went on and on. Before long, stretch changed to burn and Bobby winced with the pleasurable pain.

Greg stopped moving.

“No!” Bobby wiggled his ass for more. “Don’t stop.”

Greg looked doubtful but did as Bobby had asked. When he finally bottomed out they were both gasping for air. Bobby lay back and relaxed as much as possible. When he was ready, he slid his legs around Greg’s waist and pushed him even more deeply inside him.

“Fuck, you feel good.” Greg slid out, then thrust slowly back in.

“More.” Bobby panted.

Greg started thrusting and Bobby was sure he’d died and gone to heaven. With an occasional swivel of his hips that did things inside Bobby that were probably illegal because they felt too good. Bobby wasn’t going to tell anyone, though.

Greg sped up his thrusts until Bobby groaned from the pleasure of it. He was as hard as if he hadn’t come a few minutes ago. Bobby gripped Greg’s upper arms to have something to hold onto and settled in for the ride. Greg’s eyes blazed with lust as he fucked Bobby harder than he’d thought possible. Supporting his weight on his elbows, Greg bent down to kiss him and he came in spurts of pure ecstasy.

Watching Greg follow him into bliss as he stiffened, then filled the condom screaming Bobby’s name was enough to prolong his orgasm to what felt like twice its normal length. Greg collapsed onto him and he welcomed the weight.

After a few moments Greg pulled out, dealt with the condom and cleaned him with yet another hand towel. Then he spooned him so they could both see the fire, wrapped the blankets around them and turned his head back for a long, passionate kiss.

“I hope that you can stay a few days.” Greg pulled back and looked at him.

“As long as you want me here, I’ll stay.” Bobby bit his lower lip, suddenly nervous. He wanted that more than anything.

“You will?” Greg’s face lit up. “I would like that.”

“I think you’re the best Christmas gift I’ve ever had.” Bobby’s heart beat faster when Greg’s only reply was yet another tender kiss.

Yep, the best Christmas gift ever!

THE END

Copyright ©2010 Serena Yates

Also from Serena Yates:

http://serenayates.com/books-and-reviews.php?serena-yates=4ce4daf628eb925ff1f369482cc353c9

coming soon…

http://serenayates.com/coming-soon.php

Email:
[email protected]

Website:
www.serenayates.com

LAS POSADAS by Ocotillo

Dear Santa,

Work has been super busy and I'm needing a stress relief. I've been very good this year!! I'd love for to all of our patients to leave happy :D Or maybe a sci-fi where he's kidnapped and the aliens are testing humans......

Thank You Santa! you're the best!

{PHOTO INSERT:  A naked man lies on a medical examination table with his legs in stirrups. Two men in white lab coats and surgical masks stand over him. The man on the table orally services one of men while the other gives him a rectal exam.}

***************************

“Ron, por favor. Añejo.”

It must have been Kit’s round, earnest vowels that had the old man smiling, crooked teeth overlapping, glowing dull yellow in the cool night of the cantina. “Si, si,” he said, reaching back to the shelf and snatching a bottle and cloudy glass, and then “No, no, es gratis,” waving impatiently when Kit set a veinte-Lempira note on the worn plywood bar. Felix rattled off another fast round of Honduran syllables, and if Kit had little hope of deciphering them, he could guess well enough that it was gratitude.

Though really, Kit had worked no more diligently this afternoon than most men had done. Maybe less.

Free
, he’d said, and so Kit responded, “Muchas gracias, Felix” trying his best to trill that ‘r’, choking it, as usual, but getting another face-splitting grin in response. Kit settled onto the stool, cold metal, and leaned into the bar. Bright yellow paint peeled from its corners, the gold and red of a faded
Cerveza Imperial
ad knocked at his knees.

The rum was good, smoky and sharp, stripping the dry sting from his throat and spreading warmth in his belly. Kit rubbed the back of his neck. Exhausted. Sunburnt. Aching to his fingers and toes, with mud cemented onto his skin by crystallized sweat…and his shoulder hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

They’d gotten everyone out, though. Nobody dead—if you didn’t count cattle and goats—only scared half to death, cowering in homes consumed by dirt and rubble.

“Lot of hell for such a baby shake.”

Kit slid his gaze right, to the man settling onto the stool beside him. One of the doctors at the clinic—and fuck if Kit could remember his name. West, maybe. Or Weiss. Dr. Weiss. Hot-shit good looks, tight body and blue eyes, but an asshole, as far as Kit could tell, prick of a Boston candy-ass. He’d made no secret of what he thought about a redneck like Kit.

“Was a magnitude four,” Kit drawled, letting insolence saturate his tone. “Doesn’t take but a gnat sneeze to set loose a destabilized slope.”

“Salva Vida,” the man said—accent impeccable, of course—and as Felix popped the cap from the bottle, “Destabilized?”

Kit nodded. “Deforestation, overgrazing, bad soil practices…” He waved his right arm impatiently and then hissed at the pain that produced. “You know…the reason I’m here,
Doctor
Weiss,” thinking
dickhead
.

“Ah,” the man said, “afraid I’ve had my hands full with blood, not mud—not much time today to speculate on the cause of it all.” He raised his beer in a greeting. “And that’s Wesley, not Weiss. But please, call me Lars. Chris, right? Agronomist?”

“Land-use management,” Kit corrected, “and it’s Kit,” knowing from the guess that Lars had picked up his name from an official file somewhere. Nosy fuck. And disingenuous; Kit’d been seeing the snarky looks since arriving last summer—last time not even four hours ago, in fact. Kit turned back to his drink, content to shut the man out. What the hell did he want, anyway, getting all slick and friendly all of a sudden? Like cozying up with a rattler. One hard day didn’t make them buddies any more than the
Peace Corps
tag did.

“Do something to your shoulder?”

Kit glanced sidelong to find Lars squinting at him in the dim light. Cocking his eyebrows in lieu of a shrug, Kit said, “Pulled something. Digging the Garcias out of their home.”

“You should let me take a look at it.”

Surprised, Kit turned to peer at Lars—expecting a joke of some sort. Because, hell, it’d been hurting when he’d brought Manolito to the clinic. And Lars had known it, because Kit hadn’t been able to suppress a curse when he’d put the boy down. The head doctor—Saenz—had glared over at Kit, then rattled something off to Lars, far too fast for Kit to interpret, especially as tired as he’d been. Lars had simply shrugged.

Now Kit saw the exhaustion. Lines feathering out from Lars’s eyes, accented by dust and grime. Stains on his rumpled shirt, sweat and dirt and—Kit supposed the smear on his collar was blood. Only thing in place was his hair, glittering blond in the low light. Kind of difficult to muss up a do that was only a millimeter long.

The day had been hard on everyone. But when Kit met Lars’s eyes, they were at once both tired and keen, a pale hazel, bright with something…no, not derision, not with the way his gaze dropped and then rose, pointedly, smile barely quirking his lips. Kit knew the look well, having answered a few through alcohol and sweat funks, in bars in Corpus, San Antonio…Tegus, only last month.

Well, hell.

Guess when the body needs an outlet, all discrimination flies out the window.

“Hey,
ow
!” Right. So flinching away from Lars’s reach hadn’t been such a clever move, and now Kit couldn’t tell if Lars was scowling or laughing.

“Clinic is closed, but I can open it up for the night.”

Was it Kit’s imagination, or did Lars seem to be proposing more than a bandage? “Be fine by morning,” Kit muttered, still suspicious. He held his palm to the area, though. Protectively. Feeling the heat of injury, pressing a little.

“I seriously doubt it.”

Kit’s yelp must’ve woken up old Felix, because he’d pried his rheumy eyes from the telenovela, and now he hobbled towards them, spitting out a string of syllables at Lars, too fast for Kit to catch more than the occasional phrase. That, and the hand gesturing towards Kit, then east—towards the clinical building. And Lars, the self-satisfied yank, keeping up just fine, rapid-fire Spanish, waving hands back, and grinning all the while.

Felix turned to Kit, finally, fluttered his hand towards Kit’s shoulder. Said, “You. Go. Médico, doctor.” Then he poured another two fingers of rum into Kit’s glass. Kit had hardly begun the first.

“See. The old man agrees.” Standing, Lars said, “Come on. I can give you something for it—” His tone dropped into the richness of a promise of sin, “—allow you to concentrate on something besides pain.”

“It’s just a pull,” Kit said, but slowly now. He tongued his bottom lip, more sure now of just what Lars had in mind, and beginning to think,
why the hell not
? He stood. It had been a hell of a day—a good blow and a painkiller, and he’d sleep like the dead.

Lars raised Kit’s rum glass. “This your first?” He took a sip from it. Forward bastard, but Kit found himself responding, because it had always been a love-hate thing with him—arrogant men who pushed ruthlessly into his space. “No drugs if you’ve been drinking.”

“Yeah. Only had a couple of swallows.” Resenting them for their condescension, turning on when they got him in their sexual crosshairs, telling him to bend and how far. Fucked up, he knew, but whatever. It was a sex thing, so he went with it, kept it the hell away from the rest of his life. Get laid tonight, avoid the fucker hereafter so he never got the chance to play the dick. “You showed up right after I did.”

“Good.” Lars set the glass down and took hold of Kit’s elbow, sending a shiver up his arm. “Vámonos.”

They left, with Kit reflecting that likely as not, Felix would pour the rum back in the bottle. Waste not, want not. Which, Kit decided, was okay.

#

The night was quiet, not a soul on these back roads. Tired people tucked into their homes, thankful, no doubt, for families left intact. It was pleasant—the dry season air turned dusty and cool. A light breeze whipped Kit’s overlong curls into his eyes and cleared the air of the chaos and fear that had so permeated the day. The smell of burning trash draped the town, faint—so much a part of the place that Kit hardly ever noticed it anymore.

“You spending Christmas here?”

Kit grunted, “Yep,” not for a minute believing that Lars gave much of a shit. “You?”

“Tour ends day after tomorrow. Be home in three days.”

Good for you.
Kit was glad to spend the holidays here, where the aloneness meant he’d chosen to be, no pitying looks, no explanations. He’d grown righteously sick of those.

The moon was just past half full, and high in the sky. The rattle of dry grass and the chirping of insects speckled the silence. Tinsel draped from windows, eaves and porches, reflecting the pale light in greens, golds and reds. The nine-day pre-Christmas ritual of Las Posadas would begin tomorrow—children and nativity, traipsing from door to door, hunting for the inn that would take them in and make them a home. Thank God no deaths had come today to mar it.

“You do kink?”

Nearly stumbling, Kit stopped and brought his gaze around to see a slow smirk spread on the face of his companion. Slowly, choosing his words carefully, Kit said, “Depends.” Keeping his voice low. “Maybe.”

Lars gripped Kit’s nape, holding him still, and pressed a thumb to his throat. “So aloof,” he said. “I’d like to dislodge that stick up your ass.” Lars tucked his nose close, until hot breath tickled Kit’s ear, and in a voice gone to gravel, said, “perhaps a hard fuck would do it.”

A bolt of heat shot through Kit’s groin—no hiding that primal reaction. Lightheaded, he berated himself,
think
. “No injuries,” he said, and was pleased that his voice came out controlled and precise. “No bruising or breaking skin. No scat.” Remembering that Lars was a doctor, he added in a rush, “no enemas, either.”

Lars huffed a low laugh and unhanded Kit. “Nothing near so extreme.” He flecked a piece of drying mud from the shoulder of Kit’s tee and cocked a grin. “Not on a first date, in any case.”

#

The clinic was a long, squat building—cinder block walls painted a turquoise blue. Yellow light leaked between the slats of a barred window near the back.

“You said it was closed.”

“We are.” Lars said, sliding his key into the deadbolt. “Raf’s doing paperwork, I expect.”

Raf
. Dr. Saenz, Kit realized, the thought dampening his anticipation considerably. The senior doctor. A beautiful man, refined and suave, with a nearly aristocratic demeanor. Broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with chiseled cheekbones and the lips of an angel, like some sort of Latino god cut of marble—and just as cold. Kit had crossed his path before, and there was always that haughty detachment. Nothing like this afternoon, though, the way he’d scraped that icy glare up Kit’s frame, his expression demanding to know just why Kit was fouling his clinic. Maricón, that look had spit. Kit had seen enough of those looks for ten lifetimes, so he’d handed Manolito off and high-tailed it the hell out of there.

Because he didn’t need to take that crap from anyone, anymore. Because he had more self-respect than that. Because…shit. Because despite the disdain in that look, it’d made Kit’s dick stand up and take note, and that was just all kinds of fucked up. And the bastard was here? Then Kit, by God, wasn’t. “My shoulder is fine.”

“Oh, shut up. Christ.” Lars grabbed him by the elbow—the good one—and shoved him forward. “Come on, we’ll use one of the examination rooms.”

Lars led him past the tiny reception area into a short corridor. Left into a tiled hallway, then through one of two adjacent doors. At the flick of a switch, stark fluorescent light washed over walls, metal cabinets, and laminate counters, all white. Blinking into the sterile glare, Kit took it in, impressed by the meticulous order. No sign of this afternoon’s chaos—all the surfaces pristine, the countless boxes of sundries neatly arranged, swab jars full. A faint smell of disinfectant lingered in the air, the only hint that the room hadn’t been sitting like this since the Precambrian.

“Sit,” Lars directed, thrusting his chin towards the examination table.

Kit did, trying in vain to keep the tissue sheet from crackling. He watched wordlessly as Lars slipped on a fresh lab coat.

“Remove your shirt.”

Easier said than done. Kit lifted the right side of his shirt with his left arm, gingerly, and winced as he began to raise the hurt one.

“No, not like that. Here.” Lars nudged Kit. “This one first,” he said, and then helped to pull the shirt over Kit’s head. “I could cut it off.” Presumably meaning the shirt. Not the arm.

“The hell you say. Cut it, you die.” Tool, Austin ’97, a concert he remembered as much for the biker he’d found himself next to as for the haze of music and dope. The night had ended well. “This is one of my favorite shirts.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“Fuck you,” Kit said, voice muffled by fabric, and then “Ow!” It was a ratty shirt, yeah, and he wore it too often, but damn. Damn.

“Relax,” Lars said, pulling the tee free. He prodded Kit’s shoulder, and Kit bit his lower lip to stay silent. “How did it happen?”

“Was a block keeping Manolito trapped.” Kit hissed as Lars raised his arm. “Not so heavy, but I was tired. Got careless and wrenched it.”

“Feel anything give?”

“No. Didn’t even know I’d done it at first…” Kit thought back. “…‘til I picked him up to bring him here.”

Lars asked a few more questions, specific-like, and had him do a couple of tasks, flexing muscles, moving his arm this way, lifting it that way. Kind of like a drunk test. Hurt, but not too bad, until, “You’re fine,” Lars pronounced.

“I knew that.”

“Uh-huh. Just take it easy a few days.” Tearing open an alcohol swab while holding a syringe between fingers, Lars said, “This’ll take the worst of the pain away.”

“Will it make me stupid?” Kit leaned away dubiously, more than a little suspicious of what constituted ‘kink’ for this asshole.

“No. Christ. Just a painkiller. Stop being a pain in the ass.”

The alcohol felt cool on his sun-pinked arm, then, “Ow!” Now they both hurt. Kit sat still, holding his shoulder protectively, and watched as Lars opened one of the wall cabinets and extracted a couple rolls of bandaging. “Don’t need that,” Kit said. No cuts, no scrapes, no bleeding.