Come Unto These Yellow Sands (2 page)

Max said, “Come to think of it, Corelli’s in your residency writing program, isn’t he? What can you tell me about him?”

If he was going to speak up, now was the moment. Max might be a little jaded, a little cynical, but he was a good cop. An experienced cop. And he thought Tad was guilty.

And Swift disagreed. Swift had hunches about people too, and they were usually right on the money. He knew Tad Corelli. Max didn’t. Tad Corelli hadn’t acted like someone who’d just killed his father. He had seemed afraid, but he had not acted guilty or like someone on the run. He’d been battered, bloody, emotionally exhausted…but none of that indicated he’d committed murder.

And Swift felt a bond with Tad. He had from the beginning, from the day Tad had begged to be enrolled in the Lighthouse program. The kid wasn’t working on his master’s, he hadn’t even graduated yet, but he’d pleaded to take part in the ten-day residency that took place each semester, and though space was as limited as the program was competitive, Swift had responded to that passion. He’d pulled strings.

Tad deserved a break. He deserved a chance to tell his side of the story, and it would look better if he came in on his own. That much Swift knew just from listening to Max talk shop on long winter evenings.

“Something wrong?”

Swift turned to face him. He was thinking quickly. He could go out to the island tomorrow and talk to Tad, explain to him what was going on—Tad probably didn’t know his father was dead yet, and that terrible news would come better from a friend. Swift remembered only too clearly the pain of his own father’s death. And the relapse into cocaine use that had followed.

He said slowly, “He’s…gifted.”

“They all are in that program, right?”

Swift nodded. “More gifted than usual. He’s the youngest student we’ve ever had enrolled in Lighthouse. Although, technically, he’s not in the program yet.”

“That’s right. I remember now. You let him take part in the conferences even though he’s an undergraduate.”

“Right.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s excelling. He’s an exceptional kid. Just the fact that he wanted into the program so badly before he was even eligible is…inspiring to me. As his instructor.”

Max’s expression was polite. He wasn’t much for touchy-feely. “What about friends?”

“He hangs out with a couple of jocks. Hodge Williams and Denny Jensen.”

That raised some interest. “The Jensen that quarterbacks for the Brown Bears?”

“Does he?” Swift shrugged, and Max’s mouth quirked in response.

“Unless there are two Denny Jensens at CBC, yeah. The kid’s attracted some big league interest according to the local papers. He’s captain of the sailing team too.”

Swift didn’t follow the local paper any more than he followed college sports. “I think they all played football in high school together.”

“What about a girlfriend?” Max asked.

“Nah. I’m satisfied with you for now.”

Max looked up in surprise.

Swift raised an eyebrow. “Are you interrogating me, Chief?”

The microwave pinged.

Max offered his slow, devilish grin. “Saved by the bell, Teach.”

Chapter Two

You stare and stare in disbelief at the mirror. How could this have happened? YOU ARE A MONSTER!

Okay. Maybe not that bad, but you
are
lying to your sort-of boyfriend, and you might even be an accessory to murder after the fact, or whatever they call it. Max will undoubtedly know what they call it when he charges you for—

“If the teaching thing doesn’t pay off, you could always get work as a chef.” Max spoke through a mouthful of chicken and salad, interrupting Swift’s thoughts. “This is great.”

Swift smiled automatically. They sat at the table in the kitchen. The overhead light picked out the golden bubbles rising lazily in Max’s glass, blanched the dark wood of the cabinets to the color of old ivory and threw the rest of the room into gilded shadow. The topic of Mario Corelli’s murder had been temporarily shelved. Swift had seen to that, and he was doing his best to keep it off the table. He didn’t want to lie to Max. One of the things he liked best about their relationship was that they didn’t lie to each other.

Except…even if his decision to keep silent was more omission than lie, Max would view it as a lie of omission. Frankly, so did Swift.

“How was
your
day?” Max asked suddenly.

Swift shrugged. Max delivered an interrogative look, the pale scar on his forehead crinkling.

Swift drawled, “Oh, you know. The usual whirlwind gaiety. Faculty meetings. Lectures on subjects only I find interesting. Being stood up for office appointments. Grading papers over a soggy avocado sandwich.” He picked a cherry tomato out of the salad bowl and absently considered the sharp burst of pulpy flavor on his tongue. There was a time when something as mundane as the bite of tomato juice would have had him reaching for a pen, testing the first words of a new poem. Now flavor was an end in itself.

The aroma of the roast.
Savor the moment.

“Avocado in November? You’re an optimist.”

“Probably.”

Max’s gaze was unexpectedly keen. “Getting bored with the academic life?”

“Nope.” Swift meant that. He liked teaching. He liked believing that he was introducing some of these kids to neoteric ideas, fresh ways of looking at literature and even the world around them. And he took pride in his role as the director of the Lighthouse program. He liked the image of himself as a mentor rather than menace, and he believed that he had earned the title, that he had helped some of these aspiring writers reach—if not their full potential—greater potential.

He even liked the routine. Needed the routine, in fact. But…

“But?” Max was reading his thoughts tonight.

Sometimes it was a little dull. A little lonely. “Just looking forward to spring, I guess.”

“You’ve got a wait. It’s only turned autumn.”

“True.”

“Maybe we—” Max broke off. For a split second he looked uncomfortable. Or as close to uncomfortable as Max got.

“Maybe we…?”

“Ought to finish up in here and leave the dishes for tomorrow.”

“Sure.” Swift didn’t push. He never pushed Max. Instead he gave a slow, lazy smile and watched the color warm Max’s face.

At the far end of the loft was a large painted mural of an undersea temple. Smiling dolphins swam through bands of sunlight and broken marble columns. Sand dollars littered the glittering ocean bottom with scattered gold coins and pearls. A solemn-faced Poseidon contemplated Swift over the glint of his trident. That would be Poseidon’s trident, though Swift’s was making an impressive showing too thanks to Max’s generous attentions.

Max crawled over, stretching out beside Swift. Swift smiled up at him. He felt relaxed and at ease in the way unique to good sex with the right person. He felt content. What a lovely word that was.
Content
.

“God. You’re…” There was a quiet sincerity to Max’s voice.

When he didn’t complete the thought, Swift raised his right eyebrow—something he’d spent an inordinate amount of time practicing when he was a goofball kid.

Max traced the haughty arch with his thumb. “Beautiful,” he admitted self-consciously.

Swift spluttered into a laugh. “You need to get your eyes checked, officer.”

“Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.” Swift wrinkled his face in distaste. “I look like an ex-ju—”

“You’re beautiful.” Max cupped the side of Swift’s face, his own expression serious.

Swift crossed his eyes, trying to break the mood.

Max’s lips twitched. He shook his head reprovingly and bent to press his mouth to Swift’s. He was smiling. The smile imprinted itself gently on Swift’s mouth. On his memory.

“What?” Swift asked when he could breathe again.

“You look like that angel in the front room.”

Swift laughed, dismissing it. Secretly, he was flattered. He liked the jaded, world-weary expression of the angel in the downstairs alcove. He thought the statue had more than beauty. It had character—something he hoped he had developed by now.

Max rested his forehead against Swift’s. They breathed in soft unison. At last Max groaned and lifted his head. “I’ve got to get some sleep or tomorrow’s going to be hell.”

Swift nodded. Tomorrow was going to be hell anyway, for a number of reasons. He was holding tight to these peaceful moments.

Max rose from the bed and padded off to the bathroom. Swift listened to him splashing and brushing and flushing. Max padded back to the bed, turned out the lamp and climbed in beside Swift who had already cocooned himself in the blankets. It was cold in the loft. The building’s heating in general left something—about six degrees—to be desired.

Max tossed and turned a couple of times, and then, as he always did, settled on his side facing Swift. The shine of his eyes vanished. His sigh was warm against Swift’s face.

Swift listened to Max’s breath smoothing out, deepening. Moonlight lit the mural at the far end of the room, gleamed in the kindly eyes of the swimming dolphins, glanced off the spirals and curls of the ruined temples.

For a time Swift lay quietly, thinking. “Max,” he said abruptly, “is it possible Corelli’s death was an accident?”

“Hmm?”

“Could the gun have gone off by accident or something?”

Max mumbled, “What gun?”

“The gun that killed Corelli.”

He could feel Max blinking, trying to gather his sleep-scattered wits. “He was shot three times in the chest. I don’t think it was an accident.”

“Oh. No. Doesn’t sound like it.”

“Why?” Max sounded more alert.

“Just thinking about Tad.” That at least was the truth.

The bedclothes whispered as Max turned onto his back. “No point worrying about what you can’t control.”

“When did that ever stop anyone?”

Max chuckled sleepily and patted Swift’s thigh beneath the bedclothes. “Night, Teach.”

“Night, Chief.” But it was a long time before Swift closed his eyes.

He woke to the familiar pleasure of muscular arms wrapping themselves around him, a hard body molded to his back, a very hard cock nudging his ass. But the mouth brushing the nape of his neck was very soft indeed.

Swift raised his lashes to read the alarm clock. Not quite forty minutes before they needed to leave this sweet, humid womb. He didn’t move, didn’t even let his breathing change. He savored the moment. Soon the day would officially begin and their brief allotment of intimacy would be a memory.

“Time?” Max’s calloused hand raised goose bumps on Swift’s sensitized skin. Max’s hand slid lower, lower over the ridges of abdomen, the flat plane of Swift’s belly.

“Time.” Swift caught his breath as Max’s fingers tangled in the softness of Swift’s pubic hair. Max’s fingers flicked him teasingly, and Swift sucked in his gut.

“Ticklish?”

Swift shook his head although they both knew he was extremely ticklish. His cock pushed for attention, and Max obliged, wrapping his fist around the thickening length.

“Good…” Swift breathed out as Max used his free hand to lazily tweak his nipple, “…morning.”

“Could be at that.”

Max’s tongue rasped the back of Swift’s neck, tasting his skin. Swift shivered, a full-body shiver that made Max chuckle, warm breath gusting against Swift’s nape.

“Mm. I like that.”

“You do. You’re…what do they call it? Orally fixated. Licking, sucking, biting…” Max nipped Swift’s shoulder, and Swift made a sound between protest and encouragement.

“Kissing…” gasped Swift.

“Kissing,” agreed Max. He pulled Swift over, and their mouths latched on a wet, warm kiss, suddenly starving for each other. Ravenous. As though they hadn’t just had each other a few hours before.

They broke apart, and Max gave Swift’s cock another hard caress, skin on naked skin. “You know what I want?”

Swift closed his eyes, smiling, murmuring, “Mm. Me too.”

Neither of them being kids or inexperienced, they had it down to a science. A fun science, though, like…zoology or astronomy. Max rolled away, dragged open the drawer in the bedside table and grabbed the lube. Sea kelp and guava bark. It had provided Max no little amusement. It was nice stuff though, slick and slippery on Max’s calloused fingers. It felt nice melting into Swift’s body, it smelt nice mingling with the sharp scent of male sex.

Just the lube, no condoms. That was the closest they got to commitment. The acknowledgment that they were only sleeping with each other.

Max covered Swift’s body with his own. Swift wound his arms around Max’s broad shoulders. They gazed at each other in the dove-soft shadows of the loft. Their faces drew slowly close, their mouths met in a gentle graze, but the gentleness fell away in seconds to the brisk, efficient pursuit of satisfaction, kisses turning rough with bristly cheeks and hot tongues moving in the silent language. They explored the taste of each other as though somehow something might have changed overnight.

Max’s hands locked on Swift’s shoulders, and he sheathed himself neatly in Swift’s body. Swift moaned. His hands gripped Max’s muscular butt, pulling him close so that their hips ground against each other. They humped, frantic and without grace in the naked honesty of need. Then Max groaned into Swift’s mouth, raw, male longing, and within seconds of each other they were spilling out their slickness, coating groins and bellies with hot wetness.

They rested for a few seconds, caught their breaths, and then they were up and moving through the morning routine of showers and shaves. Max kept a couple of shirts and changes of underwear at Swift’s. He dressed while Swift made coffee and toast. No time for anything more. Not on the weekdays. Not even Fridays. On the weekends—well, they didn’t spend that many weekends together. Swift wasn’t sure why, exactly, but this one would be no different. He considered it while he buttered slices of oat nut bread, sprinkling his with cinnamon and sugar. Considered what he knew of Max.

Even after three years of seeing each other regularly—or at least what passed for regularly with the two of them—there was a lot about Max that remained a mystery to Swift. Initially, if Swift was honest, he hadn’t been that interested. He’d just been grateful to find someone to have sex with who he could stand to talk to afterwards. After a year or so he’d grown more interested in who Max was when he wasn’t with Swift, but he’d run into the amiable but impenetrable barriers Max kept firmly in place between them.