taking the horse and leaving you to deal with the AstroTurf alone.”
Crick laughed. Deacon smiled and Crick stopped laughing, but Deacon managed to walk away and change before either of them could find out why.
The water was cold, but it was refreshing and they’d both been working hard. By the time Deacon pulled himself out, Crick had set up the air mattress and the blankets and had some sandwiches and sodas in the middle. Deacon was willing to play along. For one thing, he was hungry.
For another, well… it seemed to be Crick’s fantasy. Deacon figured Crick would learn soon enough that he wasn’t a saint or a hero or whatever was going on behind those pretty brown eyes, but the least Deacon could do would be to let Crick have his day.
“Good stuff,” Deacon muttered around a mouthful of barbecue, and Crick preened a little under the praise.
“Made it myself.” He had, too. The house had smelled like barbecue for the last five days. It was one of the few things that Parish had tried to teach Deacon that he’d never taken to. He was glad Crick had the knack of it.
“I’m appreciative.” Deacon finished his sandwich, wiped his mouth, and disposed of his trash in the little grocery bag that they’d wrapped the sandwiches in. Then he stood and rinsed off his hands at the edge of the swimming hole, Crick at his side. When he stood up again, Crick was right there, kissing distance away, his whole heart in his eyes.
“Do you ever want to kiss me, Deacon?” he asked, and Deacon could tell that he’d rehearsed the speech, trying to make it sound sexy and seductive, but what it sounded was uncertain and wanting.
Deacon thought that the second combination was probably the one that did him in for good.
“All the damned time,” he muttered. He brought up his hand and traced the silk of Crick’s collarbone from his shoulder to the center of his chest. The finger kept moving, slowly, down between his pecs to right above his tender, corded stomach. Crick sucked his stomach in, making a little whining sound in the back of his throat, and Deacon smiled up into his eyes. There was still a little bit of barbecue sauce on the corner of Crick’s mouth, and Deacon wiped it off with his thumb.
For that moment, that suspended moment, Deacon thought about giving Crick the lecture again, the one that said that this didn’t mean Crick wasn’t going to school, the one that said “Don’t put all your dreams on hold because of me!” Then Crick’s pink tongue came out and caught Deacon’s thumb, and it was Deacon’s turn to suck air in through his teeth.
Crick sucked that thumb into his mouth and teased it with his tongue, and every coherent word zoomed right out of Deacon’s hyper-aroused brain.
Leaving his thumb where it was until the last moment, he hauled Crick’s mouth down for a kiss.
Oh God. He tasted like barbecue and river water and… and Crick, and Deacon couldn’t stop kissing him. Their tongues met and tangled, and Deacon pushed at those narrow shoulders until Crick started to back up the hill. He stepped on the air mattress and caught the hint, sinking down to his bottom, and still Deacon pushed him back relentlessly.
“Do I want to kiss you?” Deacon muttered, kissing down Crick’s jaw line, nipping at his ear, nuzzling the flesh of his throat. “Do I want to kiss you?” More kisses, these on a direct course to Crick’s nipples as Crick made incoherent “ah” noises into the still-shaded air around them.
Deacon moved down to Crick’s tender stomach with its promising trail of brown fur below the navel and started licking the skin there just to feel Crick convulse around him. Crick’s hands struggled for purchase in Deacon’s wet hair, and Deacon slid out of his fingers like an inquisitive, voracious otter and moved downwards. He teased for about a second and a half, sweeping his tongue under the elastic of Crick’s Hawaiian swim trunks before grabbing the waist and dragging them
Crick laughed. Deacon smiled and Crick stopped laughing, but Deacon managed to walk away and change before either of them could find out why.
The water was cold, but it was refreshing and they’d both been working hard. By the time Deacon pulled himself out, Crick had set up the air mattress and the blankets and had some sandwiches and sodas in the middle. Deacon was willing to play along. For one thing, he was hungry.
For another, well… it seemed to be Crick’s fantasy. Deacon figured Crick would learn soon enough that he wasn’t a saint or a hero or whatever was going on behind those pretty brown eyes, but the least Deacon could do would be to let Crick have his day.
“Good stuff,” Deacon muttered around a mouthful of barbecue, and Crick preened a little under the praise.
“Made it myself.” He had, too. The house had smelled like barbecue for the last five days. It was one of the few things that Parish had tried to teach Deacon that he’d never taken to. He was glad Crick had the knack of it.
“I’m appreciative.” Deacon finished his sandwich, wiped his mouth, and disposed of his trash in the little grocery bag that they’d wrapped the sandwiches in. Then he stood and rinsed off his hands at the edge of the swimming hole, Crick at his side. When he stood up again, Crick was right there, kissing distance away, his whole heart in his eyes.
“Do you ever want to kiss me, Deacon?” he asked, and Deacon could tell that he’d rehearsed the speech, trying to make it sound sexy and seductive, but what it sounded was uncertain and wanting.
Deacon thought that the second combination was probably the one that did him in for good.
“All the damned time,” he muttered. He brought up his hand and traced the silk of Crick’s collarbone from his shoulder to the center of his chest. The finger kept moving, slowly, down between his pecs to right above his tender, corded stomach. Crick sucked his stomach in, making a little whining sound in the back of his throat, and Deacon smiled up into his eyes. There was still a little bit of barbecue sauce on the corner of Crick’s mouth, and Deacon wiped it off with his thumb.
For that moment, that suspended moment, Deacon thought about giving Crick the lecture again, the one that said that this didn’t mean Crick wasn’t going to school, the one that said “Don’t put all your dreams on hold because of me!” Then Crick’s pink tongue came out and caught Deacon’s thumb, and it was Deacon’s turn to suck air in through his teeth.
Crick sucked that thumb into his mouth and teased it with his tongue, and every coherent word zoomed right out of Deacon’s hyper-aroused brain.
Leaving his thumb where it was until the last moment, he hauled Crick’s mouth down for a kiss.
Oh God. He tasted like barbecue and river water and… and Crick, and Deacon couldn’t stop kissing him. Their tongues met and tangled, and Deacon pushed at those narrow shoulders until Crick started to back up the hill. He stepped on the air mattress and caught the hint, sinking down to his bottom, and still Deacon pushed him back relentlessly.
“Do I want to kiss you?” Deacon muttered, kissing down Crick’s jaw line, nipping at his ear, nuzzling the flesh of his throat. “Do I want to kiss you?” More kisses, these on a direct course to Crick’s nipples as Crick made incoherent “ah” noises into the still-shaded air around them.
Deacon moved down to Crick’s tender stomach with its promising trail of brown fur below the navel and started licking the skin there just to feel Crick convulse around him. Crick’s hands struggled for purchase in Deacon’s wet hair, and Deacon slid out of his fingers like an inquisitive, voracious otter and moved downwards. He teased for about a second and a half, sweeping his tongue under the elastic of Crick’s Hawaiian swim trunks before grabbing the waist and dragging them
Similar Books
