Stuff My Stocking: M-M Romance Stories that are Nice and Naughty (31 page)

Conor trembled.  “I, fuck, no one’s…” He finished with a guttural noise that made perfect sense to Max.  He grasped the blanket in his fists, as if to keep from reaching back, like
he didn’t know if he wanted to push away or push into Max’s sweet torture.

“Then I’ll make sure you get that a lot.  My lips on your ass, my tongue opening you.”  He forced the tip of his tongue into the little pucker, making Conor gasp and try to twist away.  He tightened his grip.  “ Maybe I’ll tie you down and do it until you scream and beg me to fuck you.”  He dragged his tongue in a circle around the hole. 

“Jesus,” Conor whispered. 

Reaching out, Max found the lube, popped the top and squirted a good amount over Conor’s hole.  He smiled as Conor shook when the cool gel hit him.  Max inserted two fingers, twisting them back and forth as he pushed into Conor’s channel.  “You’re so hot, so tight for me.”  Twisting, crooking his fingers, moving them in and almost out.  He knew he was hitting the little hot button enough to drive Conor crazy.  “I can’t wait much longer.”

Conor made noises that were a cross between whimpering and groaning but were definitely affirmative, with his ass pressing back towards Max. 

Max withdrew his fingers, spread lube on his cock, and set the tip at Conor’s entrance.  He held tight to Conor’s hips to keep him from impaling himself and ignored Conor’s frustrated moans.  Seeing that ass ready and willing to accept him, being in that moment of almost-there, savoring the feel of the hard body under his hands, knowing that this man belonged to him…Max experienced a joy he’d never felt before.  With his wolf rising, infusing his power and magic into Max’s spirit, Max lifted his head and howled at the same time as he sank his cock all the way into Conor.

Somewhere in the distance, other joyful howls joined in, the pack already celebrating, urging on the mating pair.

Max pulled out and plunged in again, and Conor thrust back to meet him, shouting. “Yes!  So good!”  Conor lifted his upper body, braced his hands on the floor and turned his head as far as he could to look at Max with wild eyes.  His breathing was ragged.  “Harder.  Fuck me harder.”  He panted.  “Need to feel every bit of you.”

Hearing his mate sound so feral aroused Max’s wolf even more; he pounded savagely into Conor, their bond a living thing swirling around and between and in them.  Max’s climax built, it burned like fire through him.  He pulled Conor up and wrapped a hand around his cock.  Conor roared, his hot cum flowing over Max’s fingers.  Max pushed up into Conor as he came, letting his own release flood into his mate.  Sure and swift, he bit Conor, at the base of his neck where it met his shoulder.  The taste of blood, hot and sweet on his tongue, brought a second orgasm to Max, and with that he heard his wolf howling, claiming, calling to Conor’s spirit.  The heady aroma of their mating filled the air and they took breaths deep enough to slow their raging heartbeats. 

Max nuzzled in and licked the wound he’d left, and when Conor turned toward him they shared a kiss full of magic and power and grace.  Max held him until exhaustion settled in.  They pulled apart long enough to lie down on the blanket.  

“That was incredible,” Conor said. “Totally beyond anything I could have imagined.”  He curled himself against Max.  “Is it always going to be like that?”

“I don’t think so.  The first time is important and intense.  I’m not sure we’d survive if it was like that every time.”  Max stroked his fingers along Conor’s arm.  “Let’s take a nap and then we can go to bed and try again.  See what happens.”  

He felt Conor smile against his chest. “I like how you think.” 

In time, Max would coax Conor’s wolf from his deep and dormant state. Their bond would only grow stronger.  It was written in the wind.

THE END

Copyright ©2010 Wren Boudreau

Also from Wren Boudreau:

Ice Cream on the Side

Back to Normal

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THE GUTTERSNIPE’S GIFT by Selah March

Dear Santa,

This pretty little, vampy, goth boy has been haunting me for over a year and I'd really like to hear his story. He looks like he's just been rode hard or maybe is waiting to be rode hard or perhaps, just finished his last human meal and is enjoying a nice glass of his dead mate's blood. Oh Santa-baby, I know he doesn't look too Christmasy but can you help me put the poor baby to rest (at least in my head)?

{PHOTO INSERT: A pale naked man with long black hair and thick kohl eyeliner lays sprawled across a bed with white sheets. There is a silver goblet turned on its side by his hand and a bit of red liquid drips from the corner of his mouth.}

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

24 December 1843

London, England

Boredom had always brought out the devil in Tristan. 

In his defense, Gabriel had promised him a Christmas present, which made patience a special challenge. Gabriel always came up with the
best
presents. For example, on the anniversary of their first meeting, Gabriel had blindfolded Tristan and carried him like a sack over his shoulder to the cellar. There he’d bound Tristan hand and foot to an empty wine rack and toyed with him for hours, bringing him to the depths of agony and the heights of ecstasy, often in the space of a few scant moments. 

Tristan remembered the dozens and dozens of candles burning on the floor around him and how they’d made him sweat, and how the salt had made the welts from Gabriel’s riding crop burn and tingle. He remembered how Gabriel’s mouth had felt on each little wound, sucking up the droplets of blood as if they were the finest claret. 

Then, when he was spent and hanging limp from the rack, he’d felt the cool touch of Gabriel’s fingers at the back of his neck, and the slither of something metallic against his skin. When Gabriel removed the blindfold, Tristan saw the pendant dangling from his own throat. Wrought in finest silver, its intricate design was easily the most beautiful thing Tristan had ever seen. When he’d said as much to Gabriel, his lover had kissed him on the mouth for the very first time. Tristan recalled Gabriel’s sudden, fierce passion – the unholy blue glow of his eyes, the candlelight glinting off his canines as they descended in all their deadly glory. Now he shivered with remembered pleasure, and stretched his naked body in its cocoon of silken sheets.

Tristan had an idea that tonight’s gift would be even better. Christmas seemed to mean a great deal to Gabriel. As far as Tristan was concerned, it was just another excellent occasion to beg stray coins from the occasional drunkard stumbling home from making merry...and perhaps, if he were lucky, to roll that same drunkard in the nearest alley for every farthing in his purse. But Gabriel – who’d been alive when unchurched peasants had spent the winter solstice huddled in their huts, burning the Yule log to frighten away evil spirits – insisted Christmas was the highlight of each and every year.

Yes, Gabriel’s gift to Tristan was sure to be spectacular. But now Tristan was alone. Gabriel had promised to return by midnight, but the clock in the foyer had already struck eleven. The big, elegant house on Regent Street was dark, and though the roaring blaze in the fireplace kept off the chill, Tristan had lost patience with waiting. 

The dregs of crimson at the bottom of his wine goblet had long since clotted and gone cold. Now Tristan used them as finger-paints to decorate the blank stretch of wall above the carved mahogany headboard. If he’d known how to write, he would’ve created for his lover and master a message of holiday cheer. As it was, he could only sketch a rough likeness of a holly bush, its sharp leaves and bright berries fairly bursting with poisonous glee.

When he’d finished, he licked at his fingertips and settled back into his nest of silk, not at all careful of where he smeared the evidence of his artistry. After all, if Gabriel hadn’t wanted him to make a mess, he shouldn’t have left him alone so long.

He awoke to the sound of the clock chiming twelve, his every instinct aroused and on edge. Gabriel was near. On the street, by the stair, in the corridor? 

Tristan slipped naked from the bed, padded across the icy floor to the window, and parted the draperies. Snow swirled past the glass, obscuring the view. The back of his neck and the tips of his fingers tingled with presentiment. A moment later, the front door slammed.

He turned to find that Gabriel had dispensed with the stairs entirely and simply materialized in the bedroom doorway. “Merry Christmas, guttersnipe.”

Tristan knew the name was meant to be affectionate, and wished he had some term of endearment for his lover, as well. But Gabriel was only Gabriel – blue-eyed, fair-haired, tall and strong as the archangel for which he’d been named more than a millennium ago. He’d always be just Gabriel. No other name would ever suit.

The smile of greeting on Gabriel’s face brightened, then dissolved into a frown as he caught sight of Tristan’s crude artwork on the wall above the bed.

“Don’t look like that,” Tristan whined, attempting to be adorable and fetching in his nakedness. “It’s meant to be jolly, you know.”

“Yes, I’m sure Mrs. Gimble will think it a great jest.”

“So I’ll help her scrub it off.”

“And if it stains?”

Tristan shrugged. “A bucket of whitewash and a stiff brush. The old girl’s used to such work by now, ain’t she?”

He knew he’d overstepped his bounds when Gabriel stalked toward him. The air parted around his master’s bulk like water, every reverberation sinking into Tristan’s bones to wake a thudding pulse of need beneath his skin. He didn’t hesitate, but fell to his knees on the cold, hard floor like a marionette with clipped strings. When Gabriel stopped inches before him, Tristan wrapped his arms about his master’s hips and buried his face in the wool-clad vee of his tree-like thighs. The musky, purely masculine scent filled his senses, setting his body alight with simmering lust.

When he felt the moment for apology had passed, he lifted his face and  slurred, “You promised presents.”

“Indeed.” 

Gabriel disengaged himself from Tristan’s embrace and shed his greatcoat. From one of its many deep pockets he produced a bottle made of opaque brown glass. This, Tristan knew, contained their breakfast. He didn’t bother to ask where Gabriel had procured it, knowing full well his master would not deign to answer, and might withhold the sustenance in punishment for the rudeness of the question. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder...stable boy? Parlor maid? Common streetwalker, or virgin daughter of a duke? Gabriel was always far too picky in his choice of prey.

After placing the bottle on the mantel to warm, Gabriel reached into his pocket again. Tristan trembled with a combination of anticipation and chill, gooseflesh crawling over his exposed skin. When Gabriel tossed him a package wound in a length of brown paper and tied with a bit of twine, he caught it easily and made quick work of the wrappings. 

“A book?” Outrage and disappointment made him incautious in his tone. “You brought me a bleedin’
book
?”

Gabriel seemed more amused than surprised at his reaction. “Not just any book.”

Tristan tried to control his sneer. “And what do you expect me to do with it? Burn it for fuel?”

“I expect you to read it, eventually.” Gabriel stripped down to his trousers and linens as he spoke. “For now, I shall read, and you shall listen. Attentively.” His tone took an unmistakable note of command. “
Very
attentively.”

“Fat lot of good
that
does me,” Tristan muttered. He rose and made a show of dusting off his knees.

Gabriel smiled, and for all his angelic looks, that smile was as dark and wicked a thing as Tristan had ever seen—and in his nineteen years growing up on the streets of Whitechapel, Tristan had seen many a dark and wicked thing. “Eternity is a long time to remain pig-ignorant. Assuming you wish to remain here as my companion, of course.”

Gabriel had made this kind of veiled threat before, and though Tristan was fairly certain he didn’t mean it, the idea of being shunted aside for someone more educated and worldly never failed to raise a desperate kind of panic. Instinctively, he sidled up to Gabriel and batted his eyes.

“I was merely ’opin’ for somethin’ a bit less edifyin’,” he said, “and a bit more shiny, if you know what I mean.” To underline his meaning, he reached down to trace the outline of the pendant on his own chest with the tip of his finger.

Gabriel stared at him with a gaze so intent Tristan was sure his master could see to the very marrow of his bones. “What a greedy little whore you are.”

“So you keep tellin’ me.” 

With a disapproving grunt, Gabriel turned away, finished disrobing, and went to stand before the fire. The play of muscles in his back and along the amazing breadth of his shoulders was so transfixing that Tristan nearly missed his next words. 

“Would you like to hear something about the individual who provided your Christmas morning repast?”

Tristan’s mood – which had begun to go sour and sulky – improved instantly. Gabriel rarely spoke of his hunts. He tossed the book on the bedside table without a second glance. “Oh, do tell.”

Turning his head, Gabriel gifted him with a sardonic look. “A wealthy young gentlemen. I’ve been stalking him for some days,” he began. “He led me a merry chase, but he was mine in the end.”

“How’d you choose ’im?”

Gabriel shrugged. “I first saw him in his tailor’s shop, dickering over the price of a suit of clothes. He spoke with such arrogance, such overweening and undeserved pride in himself that I couldn’t help but despise him on sight. So I made inquiries and continued to watch him.”

“And what did you find out?”

“That he was a shallow, selfish young man who used those around him to his own ends. A man whose family and friends will no doubt mourn his loss for the span of two minutes – certainly no more, and quite possibly less.”

Tristan winced. A blind man could see where the conversation was headed. “Gabriel—”

“What did I tell you when I brought you into my household, Tristan?”

Tristan sighed. “You told me I could stay if I labored to
improve
myself. And I ’ave, you know. I ’aven’t picked a pocket in weeks.”

Gabriel turned at last from his contemplation of the flames. “My expectations for you are somewhat loftier than simply avoiding petty theft.”

“I know. You want me to be a bleedin’ gentleman, but I keep tellin’ you that I ain’t got it in me.” Tristan spread his hands before him, well aware of the picture he made in the golden light from the fire, with his skin as white as the falling snow and his hair streaming black as midnight over his shoulders. “Why won’t you take me as I am?”

“Because you could be so much more.”

“Says you.”

“Yes,” Gabriel said, his face and tone grown hard and unforgiving. “I do say it. And now I say turn ’round and grasp the bedpost, Tristan. ’Tis time for making merry.”

Before he could obey, Tristan found himself whirled about and shoved against the foot of the bed. An instant later, he felt the hot prod of an erect cock at the back of his thigh. The pressure was a promise that made Tristan’s inner muscles twinge with the memory of invasion.

Though Tristan had been working the streets of London for years before Gabriel found him, and had taken many a gentleman’s cock down his throat and up his arse, Gabriel had only fucked him once during the long months of their acquaintance. Until recently, Tristan had believed that this was because Gabriel was hung like a royal stallion and feared harming his newest conquest. But recently, he’d come to understand that Gabriel took fucking seriously – much like the took the celebration of Christmas – and didn’t indulge in it as sport.

But now he was angry, and Tristan couldn’t help feeling more than a little trepidation at the prospect of a dry buggering.

“Frightened, guttersnipe?”

The smarmy note of challenge in Gabriel’s voice transformed his words into a taunt that made Tristan’s contrary cock twitch with growing interest. Ever defiant, even in abject submission, he put on a practiced simper like a virgin miss from a badly executed street performance. “Do your worst, blackguard.”

Gabriel’s answering chuckle was nearly as dark and wicked as his smile. He pressed forward. Tristan did his best not to clench against the intrusion. Then the scent of almond oil, sweet and pungent, rose in the air around him. He sighed with relief. 

Small mercies were undoubtedly all he could expect at this point, and probably more than he deserved.  

He relaxed by fractions as the smooth glide of Gabriel’s cock filled him. He canted his hips backward, his nerves lit by delicious friction that countered the aching burn of his inner muscles. Squeezing the bedpost as if he meant to throttle the life from it, he widened his stance and dropped his head forward in surrender. Of all the many things he didn’t understand about Gabriel, this – this unerring ability to take him apart from the inside out – was the greatest mystery. There had been so many men before Gabriel, yet only Gabriel could undo him and leave him pleading for more.

Gabriel gave no quarter. Within a few moments, he was pounding Tristan’s arse as if it had insulted the queen, his hands grasping Tristan’s hips and lifting him to his toes in search of the perfect angle of entry. When he found it – evidenced by Tristan’s hoarse cry of pleasure – he slowed to a more reasonable, rocking gait.

Tristan dug his blunt fingernails into the wood of the bedpost. The rising tension in his belly and balls coupled with the quivery weakness in his legs told him he wouldn’t last long under the onslaught of sensation. He strained toward the approaching climax, knowing its intensity would leave him spent and exhausted in the happiest, most satisfying way.

“No,” Gabriel whispered, little more than a puff of hot air against Tristan’s cheek. “Deny yourself.”

Tristan keened, his hips bucking forward in search of release.