Bombora Read online

  He smells so unbelievably good, though, a combination of soap and the musky sleep scent I remember. It drives me wild, breath quickening, sweat springing up at my temples, heart beating hard against my chest. I press my face in closer, parting my lips to mouth at the head of his cock and the fabric growing damp with excitement. The sting of protest from my lip makes it better. A long glance at Phelan’s face shows him watching me with an expression gone slack, and his grip tugs a bit harder now, sending a sharp tingle through my scalp. The gesture would be rude if I didn’t want it so bad. I obey his hand and let him pull my mouth away so he can press against my lower lip with his thumb. This time I do flicker my tongue out to taste, and can’t hold back a deep groan of gratitude.

  “Please,” I say. Phel murmurs assent and pets at my hair a little, absently, then draws back from my lips and slides the sweatpants down over his hips. His cock bobs toward me, thick and glorious as ever, and I chase after him to take his length onto my tongue.

  The taste is hot and bitter and sweet all at once, and the low cry that escapes Phelan’s throat isn’t human enough to resemble language. He’s all need, shoving himself into my mouth insistently, so I give up trying to stroke along the vein that bisects the spine of his cock and hollow my cheeks, closing my lips around the crown as he fucks my face and keeps my head steady with that hand in my hair. I’m so turned on I can’t stop to think about the power I’m giving him here, something he’s never asked of me in this way.

  For all the months I’ve been out of the game—it never seemed right to make it with another guy, not after what happened with Phel—my throat remembers how to take his girth. My gag reflex relaxes so he can slide all the way in, Phel easing up as I near the base so as not to choke me. I use my hands to cradle his balls and work his pants down the rest of the way until he can kick them right off. Needing to feel him around me, I nudge at his leg; he gets the hint and hooks his knee over my shoulder, heel bumping against my back and drawing me in closer. The soft hair on the inside of his thigh tickles my face while the coarser pubes around the base of his shaft brush my nose, little teases of sensation that make me suck harder out of frustration that I’m not also touching myself, despite my hands being busy. A quiet rustle of fabric from above lets me know Phel has stripped off his T-shirt, and I swallow another soft moan around his cock. Having him naked against me while I’m still fully clothed is all kinds of hot, like I could walk out of here right now and no one would be the wiser. Except maybe for the fact I’m so horny I could die.

  “Nate.” A rough yank at my hair pulls me off him with an unexpected whine from my own throat, so plaintive it makes me blush in embarrassment. It soon fades when I see the state of him, flushed halfway down his chest and breathing like he just came off the biggest wave of his life. “I’m going to fuck you,” he informs me in that dark honey voice. “Stand up.”

  I do, legs shaky, and I’m barely vertical before he drags my shirt up over my head. He attacks my belt next, working my jeans open with a look of determination on his face that’s almost venomous. As he crouches to shove them down my legs along with my briefs, he noses against my hipbone before he bites down, so hard I buck and holler obscenities into the quiet of his house. I feel his relentless nails scrape lines of fire down my torso, and then the fingers of one hand slide into the crease of my ass to press against my hole. It’s a miracle I don’t shove myself back onto them, I want it so bad. The smile he shoots me is raw with hunger and knowing at the way I push myself into his touch.

  “This is what you want,” he says. It’s not a question. Off the jerk of my head, which I suppose passes for a nod, he draws himself back up to full height and takes a step back.

  He hasn’t once touched my cock, which is so hard it judders, purple and leaking, against my stomach. The realization he isn’t going to hits hard. I don’t know why, but I can tell from the flintiness of his eyes I’m on my own for this one. Unsure how I feel about that, I start to take a small step away, but the slow stroke he gives his cock, mouth twitching at the look on my face, makes me shudder in anticipation. He was right: this isn’t a Phel I recognize, not one I’m used to, but I can neither figure out what he’s thinking nor walk away, since I’m the one who asked for it.

  Recognizing the moment understanding dawns on me, he gestures to the couch. “If you want it so bad, go lie down and spread yourself open for me.”

  The words make me gasp like I’ve been slapped across the face. My feet move of their own volition, carrying me to where he’s indicated. Kneeling tentatively on the soft leather, I look at him over my shoulder, suddenly unsure. “You got condoms and lube?”

  He laughs at me. “Nate, you’re the last person I was with. Since you’re the one who was fucking around, tell me: do I need one?”

  I could flinch in surprise at the words, but the answer is still no. Although I can think of nothing I’d like more than his naked cock sliding inside me, it seemed like too much to hope it was something I’d ever feel again. So I jerk my head once in the negative, and he stalks forward to snatch up a bottle of hand cream from the side table, then tosses it in my direction.

  “Lie down,” he repeats.

  I do, squirming at the brush of my nipples against the leather sofa, and a moment later I feel his broad, warm hand grip the flesh of one of my asscheeks, pulling me firmly apart. Squirming, I moan softly and he says, reproachfully, “Show me.”

  It should be impossible to feel this naked around Phel, who has literally seen every inch of me up close, but spreading myself like this makes my face go hot, my mouth dry. I can only imagine what the hell I must look like, holding my ass open to him like a goddamned whore, but the want is so powerful I don’t so much as utter a sound of protest. I think he knows how badly I need it, because he strokes a finger over where I’ve exposed myself to him and makes a desperate noise of his own. “Let me see your face, Nate,” he murmurs, and when I glance over my shoulder at him, he looks as wrecked as I’ve ever seen him.

  He fumbles with the lotion but holds my eyes as he presses his finger inside. Every ounce of me that wants to screw my face up and bury it in the cushions fights against my will to maintain eye contact. It feels important somehow. The latter wins out, and I’m rewarded with a glimpse of how Phel bites down on his bottom lip when he adds another digit, then another. I spread my legs wider and rock back against his hand despite the burn—after this long, it’s practically like getting drilled for the first time—and the gradual force with which he fucks into me makes my throat clench, a broken, keening noise emerging from me as if from a dying animal. Phel knows where and how deep to work his fingers, massaging my prostate on the first try, and he curls them against that spot again and again until the muscles in my legs shake in involuntary response.

  “C’mon, Phel, you dick,” I growl at him. The words emerge sounding ambiguously like “your dick,” both an order and a plea. Christ, this is more than I can take, this relentless toying, and he knows it. What I’m less sure of is whether he cares, because this is a side of Phel I’ve never seen, not even when he’s been angry. But he must be getting impatient himself, judging from the speed with which he withdraws his fingers and slicks himself up.

  I have to look away for this part, not from squeamishness or anything, but because my senses go into overload as he plants my right leg on the floor so I’m good and open for him. A gentle stroke of his cockhead over my entrance is all the warning I get before he guides himself inside, pressing in as relentless as anything. The stretch of him splitting me open is so goddamn good that I groan his name, long and low, arching my hips so he’s got a perfect angle at my ass. He takes advantage of it a split second before I’m ready, starts to move when he knows it’ll still burn. Unlike the first time he topped—and every time after, for that matter—he doesn’t wait to ask if I’m okay, just reads off my impatient shifts against him to start fucking me.

  A thought occurs to me: we haven’t kissed once since I got here.

&nbs
p; The impact of Phelan’s cock against my prostate makes me yell his name, over and over again, and when my voice gets too hoarse, I lose myself in his heavy breathing and stuttered moans, savor the slap of his pelvis against my ass as he fucks in and in and in. My hands clutch at the sofa cushions until my knuckles ache. It’s rhythmic, a pounding drumbeat I feel down to a molecular level, and I catch myself grinding my hips back and forth in counterpoint, building the friction against my own erection in addition to the unbelievable pleasure of Phel’s dick inside me. When he fists a hand into my hair, pulling tight to the point of pain, I arch against him even more, taking everything, offering everything. I’m so close to the edge, my whole body is a flayed nerve.

  Phel falls forward to bite and kiss at the skin of my shoulders, muttering nonsense in my ears about how good I feel, how much he’s missed being inside me. I expect him to work his way around to my mouth, a kiss I need so badly, but what I get instead is his two hands around my neck, index and middle fingers pressing against my throat and Adam’s apple hard enough to make me think twice. Never in my life have I felt anything like that. I expect to panic at my dwindling air supply, but all I feel is an unbelievable calm at the trust I have in Phel. It’s a trust he hasn’t asked for, but has all the same.

  My heart hammers, blood pounding straight to my dick as he continues to thrust and slide his chest against my back, both of us slippery with sweat. The undulations of his body feel as graceful as ever. Not quite knowing why his chokehold excites me—my mind keeps flashing between the need to fight for breath and the mental picture of how I must look, being used this way—I’m so surprised by the pressure that I suck in a labored gasp and spurt all over the couch cushions. I think it’s the sound of me coming that knocks Phel over the edge too, which he does with a choked-off shout, flooding me with slick.

  “Fuck,” I whisper, breathing hard. My insides feel painted and raw, and all I can smell around us is sweat and sex. I feel Phelan heaving against my back and wish I knew what the hell just happened.

  Though I wince and groan a little as he pulls out, I continue to lie facedown on the couch and make no effort to move. I take a minute to figure out why I feel so weird, and it turns out to be the sensation of Phel’s spunk leaking from my abused hole. That’s got to be one the most unlikely phrases I’ve thought of in this lifetime, and I want to laugh about it to Phel but can’t summon the energy even for that. The rest is probably best not to think about right now, because that way lies sheer fucking madness. He warned me, I remind myself, and I couldn’t leave it well enough alone. A part of me is conscious, in a vague sort of way, of having been punished. Used, at the very least. I get no further than that before I shut the whole ugly train of thought down. This was for him.

  I do manage to turn my head when I feel Phelan’s weight withdraw from the couch. He stumbles down the hallway—headed for the bathroom, is my guess—and sure enough returns with a damp towel that he flings at my head. Taking the hint, I struggle onto my back and wipe myself down, trying not to notice the stony expression on Phelan’s face as he does the same. I don’t like it, even less the fact that he won’t look at me, and when he grimaces and starts to pull on his sweatpants, I guess he isn’t going to invite me to stay for lunch. My legs are rubber as I retrieve my own clothing.

  I’m halfway dressed when I glance up from the buckle of my belt and see Phelan staring off into space, shoulders tense. He’s barely in the same solar system right now, let alone the same room, and for some reason the only thing I can think of to do is clear my throat and say, “I won’t tell Hugh.”

  Those saucer-blue eyes swivel toward me, this freaky habit Phel sometimes has of looking at me without turning the rest of his head. “I wouldn’t imagine you would, no.”

  “He’s been wondering where you are.” Catching the barely perceptible slump of his shoulders, I sigh. “Cut this bullshit out and go talk to him, okay? You and me—he’s got nothing to do with any of this. Call your friend. He’s worried. And don’t say you don’t want to, ’cause I know that’s bullshit too.” There’s an imperceptible nod. “Good.”

  Hesitantly, Phel says, “Are you going to come back here?” not like he’s shy, but like he doesn’t trust himself to ask any more than he trusts my response.

  “Are you asking me to?” By the muscle that leaps in his cheek, I know I’m not going to get an answer to that, so I go into the kitchen and grab a pen off the table, then scribble my cell number on top of the cover story of the newspaper. “I meant what I said, Phel. This is—whatever you want. If you want me to leave, I’ll leave. But if you want….” Thought unfinished, I leave that hanging there and shift the newspaper closer toward the edge of the table so he’s sure to see it. My message is pretty clear: day or night.

  “You should go,” he says, finally.

  “Okay.”

  I’m still shirtless, but since I find my boots before I find my shirt, I put those on first, not bothering with laces, letting the tongues hang out of them like the wannabe gangsters we sometimes see down at the beach at night, teenagers with rich parents and aspirations to the ’hood. Phel watches me dress, staring almost, the way someone’ll stare you down when they’re waiting for you to take the goddamn hint and leave, though there’s no animosity behind it for once. That he wants me to fuck off is clear. That he wants me to stop talking, doubly so. But it’s like he’s just too tired to ask again.

  Hoping this indicates a momentary weakness in his defenses, I say, “I came out to Liam this afternoon.”

  Phel makes a sound between a grunt and a snort. He says, “Congratulations,” in the most deadpan tone imaginable, and I guess I misjudged his magnanimity just now, considering the iciness of his voice.

  I frown. “‘Congratulations’? Seriously?” Not like I expected a parade, but that one word seems so inappropriate for the experience, I’m of half a mind to demand a do-over. Then again, I could have kept my mouth shut and walked out of here with, if maybe not dignity, composure. Instead it’s gonna be another fight, I can feel it.

  “What else do you expect me to say?”

  Growing angry—it’s so much easier to get angry about an offhand comment than it is to think too hard about what just went down, the sudden, painful pull of damn near every muscle in my body—I shuffle over to the kitchen entrance and snatch up my T-shirt where it lies discarded on the wood floor. Although I inch toward the door to let Phel know the change of subject doesn’t indicate I’m planning to stick around, I realize from the returning stiffness of his posture how desperate he is for me to GTFO. The look on his face makes it seems like my presence in his home is sheer fucking torture. Son of a bitch.

  “Just thought you’d appreciate it, man,” I say, my voice steady as I can make it. “Seein’ as how you always longed to share yourself with your family and all.”

  Phel steps closer to the front door, which he pulls open, and he stands there with his hand on the doorknob, glowering. That’s that, then. I get the message and walk past the threshold, though not before turning to him to say, “I’m trying to fix things. Make them right.”

  With a hard twist of his lips, Phel shakes his head. “You’re trying to fix things for yourself, Nate. At least you can still do that.” He starts to close the door. “But don’t talk about it like it could possibly make a difference to me, because I’ve got nothing left. There’s nothing for you to make right here, okay? Understand that.”

  He shuts the door in my face without another word, but I don’t knock again or try to get him to open up. He’s right, in a way. After that, there’s not a whole lot else to be said.

  6

  Hugh

  WHAT’S the opposite of déjà vu? Is there a word for that? Because I feel like I might have it. I’m not trying to be thick or anything—I’ve experienced, many times, the feeling that I’m someplace I’ve already been, or that I’m doing something I’ve done before. This happens pretty frequently on drugs, as a matter of fact, so… I would know. But it’s
far less often that I’ve felt like I’ve spaced out and come back while sober, only to realize a lot seems to have happened without my noticing. Kind of like how spring sometimes creeps up in climates with distinct seasons, the trees bare and depressing one moment and suddenly covered in fresh green foliage the next, like everything decided to bloom all at once while your back was turned. Except that California doesn’t have seasons like that, and I’m pretty sure my back hasn’t been turned. Still, I feel there’s a bunch of stuff I missed.

  Part of it has to do with finding out about Nate’s divorce, the shock and unexpectedness of it, the realization that there was this life-changing event taking place in Nate’s world, something I didn’t know about or even anticipate until he showed up on my doorstep. That got to me, I admit. But I was beginning to adjust when Phel up and disappeared on me too, shut me out like a complete stranger for bordering on two weeks.

  There’s no doubt in my mind there are a lot of explanations for where he went and why: obviously he’s got issues he’s still working on at Palermo, and that—that’s good, that’s as it should be. He needs to take care. After how he reacted to meeting Nate, even if I’ve yet to figure out the source of the problem, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he might need some time to himself. It’s none of my business, and besides, it doesn’t matter. Really doesn’t. But it would have been nice, when Phel suddenly appeared on my doorstep again, if he’d treated me to just a little insight, so I might have a better idea of what the hell goes through his head in times like these. None came.

  For my part, I couldn’t help but feel surprised at how happy I was to see him when he turned up for surfing one day without warning. He had the good grace to look sheepish, like he knew he’d done something wrong but couldn’t quite talk about it yet, and I almost grabbed him into a hug before I realized that’s not something we do. Phel isn’t an affectionate person that way, but the sight of his rumpled hair and crooked smile made me want it all the same.