Best Gay Romance 2013 (2 page)

“I can't imagine anything better,” I said, and when Jean-Pierre caught my eye and smiled a shiver ran through my body and my dick jumped to attention. Damn, I thought, this guy was a flirt. But again, I wasn't sure if it was his native Gallic charm or something more.

When he cleared the dishes, I said, “I can only imagine what kind of pastry you've made for dessert.”

“No pastry,” he said. “I cannot bake one more thing when I come home. For you, I have the chocolate mousse.”

I sighed once again with pleasure. How could he have known that I considered chocolate mousse the perfect dessert? And Jean-Pierre's did not disappoint. He brought out two elegant parfait glasses, each filled with mousse and topped with homemade whipped cream.

From the first bite, I was hooked. The texture was thick and silky, rolling across my tongue, and there were hints of vanilla and another fragrance I couldn't identify. “Is my secret,” he said. He smiled. “But I tell you. Essence of violets. Just a drop, but the perfume…” He ended the sentence by bringing his fingers to his lips and kissing them.

I remembered the touch of those lips against my cheek, and
against my own lips, and I experienced another of those electric jolts. I couldn't spend another minute in suspense; I had to know if Jean-Pierre was anything more than a flirt. I leaned back in my chair and stretched my legs, and with just the slightest pressure, my foot grazed his leg, and I smiled.

Jean-Pierre smiled back and I saw his shoulders relax. “You would like to move to the sofa?” he asked. “I make cappuccino?”

“Yes to the sofa,” I said, standing, and making no effort to hide my boner. “The cappuccino, maybe later.”

I sat on the sofa and looked at him. He sat next to me, and I snaked my right hand behind his head and pulled him close. Our lips met, and I tasted the chocolate, vanilla, and violets on his. Our tongues dueled together, and my dick throbbed. I wanted to eat him up, my second dessert.

He pulled me around so that I straddled him, my legs wrapped around his torso, our dicks pulsing against each other through the fabric of our pants. He gripped me in one of his bear hugs, and I luxuriated in the feel of his strong arms wrapped around me, his chest against mine, our bodies merging into one incredibly sexy organism.

I reached my hand under his blue-and-white-striped shirt and started caressing him gently, as he nibbled on my ear and whispered those same French words I'd imagined him saying the day before. “
Quel beau
,” he said. “
Quel homme
.”

I thought he was handsome, too, and certainly a hell of a man. I kissed his neck, and he ran his hands under my T-shirt, up my back, and then down under the waistband of my khakis. I don't know how long we sat, making out. The rest of the world disappeared. I was just a mass of sensations.

“Come with me,” he said finally, picking me up as easily as he hefted a tray of bread loaves in the bakery. Damn, I love a
man who can do that! He carried me into his bedroom, a big oak bed with a spread in another bright Provencal pattern, and he settled me onto it with great delicacy. Then he lay down next to me and we curled together, fully clothed, kissing and fondling each other.

His shirt and my tee came off, and he ran his slightly rough hands over my chest as gently as a butterfly's wing, each touch sending another electric jolt directly to my cock. I thought I might explode.

Then I was unzipping his jeans. His cock was fat and stiff, and I leaned down to take him in my mouth. He stroked my hair as I sucked, and then pulled me off to kiss him again. I couldn't bear the sensation of my cock remaining trapped for a moment longer, so I scooted out of my jeans. I was about to pull off my briefs when Jean-Pierre gripped my hands.

“Good enough to eat,” he said, pointing at the fruits and vegetables.

“You have no idea,” I said, kissing him again.

He reached over to the table by the bed and fumbled in the drawer, pulling out a condom, which he unwrapped and slid onto his dick. I found a bottle of lube there and squirted some onto his stiff dick, massaging it, then took a dollop on my index finger and began to grease the way for him.

“I will do that,” he said, and as he kissed me again, his lubed finger found my asshole and began to work it. I was panting with longing by the time he lifted me up and, with a little guidance from me, slid himself into me.

All that work on my thighs and calves at the gym paid off. I leveraged myself up and down on his stiff dick, as he lubed his hand and began jerking me off. I couldn't hold out for long, and neither could he. I began panting and whimpering just as I saw his body stiffen, and we ejaculated at nearly the same time,
him first, and then me just a few seconds later.

I collapsed onto his nearly hairless but very muscular chest, kissing his neck; he nestled his head against mine. At some point we separated, and then I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, my body totally satiated.

 

It was close to six A.M. when I woke, alone in Jean-Pierre's big bed. For a moment or two I was disoriented, trying to figure out exactly where I was. Then I looked at his bedside table and saw a note that read
Come downstairs for breakfast,
and I remembered all that had happened the night before.

I rescued my clothes from the floor and shrugged into them, then climbed down the stairs, stepping out into the South Florida dawn for a moment as I moved from the door to his apartment to the door to the bakery. The back door led directly into the kitchen, and I saw Jean-Pierre bent over a tray of croissants, sliding them into one of his big ovens.

My body sighed with the joy of seeing him. He looked up at the sound of the door; his smile was as broad as the ocean. In a moment we were locked in an embrace, kissing and hugging as if it had been years since we'd seen each other, instead of just minutes.

“
Pain au chocolat
for you,” he said, finally pulling back. “And the cappuccino I promised you last night.”

We ate together, sitting at a small table in the kitchen. I'd never been one for morning-afters, preferring to get out while the sexual glow was still hot, but I couldn't imagine getting up from that table and walking away from Jean-Pierre. In the space of forty-eight hours he had become as essential to me as breathing.

At seven o'clock I moved to the front of the bakery and opened for business. When I was ready to leave at three, Jean-Pierre
said, “You will come for dinner again tonight?”

“Are you kidding? You won't be able to get rid of me.”

A month later I gave up my apartment, and moved in with Jean-Pierre above the bakery. If you visit South Beach, you are welcome to come by and sample the wares—but the baker is all mine.

Georgina Li

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was different here at night, tall grass shifting in the shadows and the river rushing in, black and wild before it picked up the glow of the fire. Weekdays hardly anyone else bothered, and Jake liked to ride out with his paints and his brushes, his easel on his back. He'd set up about half a mile down river, usually, but he liked to come up this way sometimes, too. It felt more like home than his apartment, one room over the hardware store in town, dusty books and old photographs, a kitchenette, notes stuck in random places. Out here there was honeysuckle and clover and flat gray stones in the riverbed, cold beneath his feet. Out here Jake could forget about all the things he couldn't remember.

He hadn't planned on being out here tonight, but someone had pressed a hand-drawn card into his hands at Finn's night before last, and right after that Tommy had followed him through the parking lot, sliding into his truck and jerking him off slow and dirty, murmuring about flyboys and fallen angels and the fiery taste of Mary Lou Miller's pussy, back in the day.

He didn't much care about Mary Lou Miller one way or the other, but he was going to come anyway, Tommy's voice in his ear and Tommy's hand on his cock, his thumb sliding over the slit just right, making his hips buck up hard. He was still trying to catch his breath when Tommy ran his fingers through the spunk on his belly, gathered up as much as he could and used it to jerk himself off, too, his mouth open and his legs spread wide. Moonlight was shining through the windshield, turning Tommy's skin pale blue, and Jake wouldn't have looked away right then for all the memories in the world.

 

It seemed fitting that Mary Lou Miller was here tonight, too, smiling and laughing, dark curls loose around her face, dancing up against some boy at the edge of the bonfire's glow. Jake didn't recognize him right off, the slope of his bare shoulders and his khakis hanging low, but he sure looked pretty enough from here. Everyone looked pretty from here, Jake thought. It was the firelight, and the smoke shine, too; hazy and sweet, sparks in the air and crushed grass underfoot, Tommy singing softly, strumming his guitar.

Jake made his way toward Tommy roundabout, Sadie Harris's warm hand in his for a while, twirling away and spinning back again, her body soft against his, her earrings sparkling in the night. Jake took a joint from Billy Zee's thick fingers as he passed them by, and Sadie kissed his cheek and danced away, taking Billy with her. Tommy caught his eye and licked his lips, and Jake smiled, looked up at the sky.

Anything was possible on a night like tonight, with the river and the fire, home brew in dark bottles, the stars shining bright. Tommy said, “Sit for a minute,” and even now Jake knew how Tommy's minutes turned into hours and he sat anyway, close enough to feel the heat of Tommy's skin, different from the heat
of the fire. Tommy's heat was like the air and his voice like the smoke, raspy and sweet, curling into Jake when he breathed.

Tommy leaned close and Jake blinked real slow, smiling as Tommy
tsk, tsked
and lifted Billy Zee's joint from his fingers. Jake had turquoise-blue paint caked into his cuticles, yellow ochre smudged across his wrist. He had scars he couldn't explain yet, smooth skin that tingled and itched across the front of his shoulder, the back of his thigh, his hip. “These are our friends,” Jake said and Tommy nodded, picked out a new rhythm on his guitar.

“You remember this one?” Tommy asked, and Jake hummed a little, shook his head. He did and he didn't.

Tommy's eyes were green and gold and he had freckles all over, the same color as his hair; he liked strawberry ice cream, and mayonnaise on his fries, and he could fix anything with a motor, anything at all. An unconquered wolf was tattooed on his bicep, a burst of red, white and blue inside his elbow from when he first joined the Guard, a trail of shamrocks on his side that twisted way down low.

Jake had a trail of shamrocks, too. He didn't remember getting them, but he knew they were there, could imagine him and Tommy driving into the city back before Jake took off for flight school, Tommy's fingers in his hair, his lips kissed dark and swollen, both of them reeking of beer and whiskey and laughing their asses off, toasting the luck of the Irish. Jake imagined that a lot, especially in the shower, his fingers tracing over the shamrocks, thinking about Tommy, the way he'd taste, the way he'd feel, wet and slippery, the way he'd sound with Jake's dick buried deep inside him and his breath caught up in his throat.

Fuck,
Jake thought, shifting uncomfortably, his dick hard, trapped between his belly and his briefs. Tommy strummed
his guitar and his voice sang out, and Jake tried to think about something else.

“It wasn't like this before,” Tommy said softly, setting his guitar aside to run his thumb over Jake's bottom lip and kiss him slow, one hand on the back of Jake's neck holding him close. “With us, I mean. I didn't know if you knew.”

Jake closed his eyes, leaned into Tommy's touch. He didn't know what they'd been like before, but from the way his brain filled in the missing pieces he thought he must have wanted Tommy even then, couldn't imagine ever wanting anything else. He remembered Tommy in ways he couldn't explain, details and dreams and fleeting faded images. He felt safer around Tommy than around anyone else, like he was okay again, like Tommy was cool with him even if he wasn't the same guy he'd been before the war. “Does that matter?”

“Not to me,” Tommy said, and just then someone threw a log on the fire and the embers popped, sparks flying in the air. One of the girls squealed and out of the corner of his eye Jake could see Billy Zee wrap his big arms around her, could hear her laugh, sweet and high, could hear him laugh, too.

Jake's hands were sweaty, hot on his thighs, and Tommy's eyes were on his, leaning in to kiss him, his fingers spread on Jake's jaw, his throat. Jake's body knew how to do things that Jake didn't remember learning—he could tie a knot in a fishing line without thinking about it, cast out over the water and make the fly dance just so; he could drive his old truck no problem; hell, he could climb into the cockpit of a fighter and fly her just fine, not that anyone would let him. Not anymore.

Tommy bit at Jake's lip, sharp and teasing, soothing the bite with his tongue before licking his way back into the kiss. Jake heard himself moan and it sounded sexy even to his own ears, and he knew his body remembered fucking, remembered it well.
His hips pressed closer, Tommy's mouth on his, his hands, the heat in the air and the river rushing by, the scrape of stubble against his throat.

He pulled away just enough to see Tommy's eyes, his flushed cheeks, and his smile as he picked up his guitar. It was easy, being here like this, and Jake leaned back and closed his eyes, listened to the night close in around them. Sadie Harris sat down beside him for a while, ran her fingers through his hair. She stood up to leave, kissed Tommy's cheek and climbed into Billy Zee's arms, and when Jake looked around again it was just him and Tommy, the fire burning low.