Goldilocks: A Man, a Jersey, and a Tight End (12 page)

They were both silent, contemplating this.

“What are you going to do?” asked Scott finally.

Brian shook his head.

“What do you
want
to do?” asked Scott pointedly.

Brian’s brow furrowed into a dozen little lines, and he laid his head down on his arm. “I don’t know. I know
exactly
what Paul would say.”

“That’s not what I asked,” said Scott.

Brian looked at him. “What would
you
do?”

“Doesn’t matter, and you know it,” said Scott.

Brian buried his face in his folded arms. “Argh.”

Scott reached over and patted him on the shoulder. “Whatever you do, I’m behind you, buddy. You got that?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Scott.”

There was a bump and some noise from the interior of the house. “Uh-oh,” said Scott, sliding off the bed. “Duty calls.”

He yanked the sweatshirt off and slipped the sweatpants down. He was about to pull off the ankle socks, but Brian said, “No.”

“No?” said Scott.

Brian looked him up and down, gave him a wise look. “Leave ’em. Trust me.”

* * * *

Jim came out of the bathroom after his shower, steam following him, patting his furry chest dry, and found Scott sitting on the bed in nothing but a pair of white ankle socks.

His poor exhausted cock twitched.

“Hey,” he said. “Did you nap?”

“Yes, Sir,” said Scott. He rose, looking dutiful and a little shy even, standing there with his weight on one leg, one arm behind him, holding the other elbow, chin down a bit.

If Jim thought there was the remotest possibility he could get it up again, he would have thrown Scott onto the mattress.

“I have some errands,” said Jim. He chuckled. “I seem to have gotten distracted. Are your chores done?”

“I washed the floor and took the recycling bin down to the street. I raked the lawn,” Scott enumerated. “And I saw that the laundry needed to go into the dryer, so I went ahead and did that and folded it.”

Jim’s entire body was numbed by large quantities of mind-blowing sex, but a prickle of unease ran up his spine.

“Really?”

“Yes, Sir.” Scott looked suddenly worried. “Was that all right, Sir?”

Christ
. The man was his heart’s desire, and here Jim was making him feel wrong about it. “’Course it was.” He drew Scott against him and kissed the man. “Thanks. You want to come with me on my errands?”

“Yes, please,” said Scott.

“Okay. Think you’d better get dressed then.”

* * * *

When Paul woke from his sex-induced coma, he found Brian in the living room, dusting.

His boyfriend had shed the harness, but he was wearing the tighty-whities again, his package darker and swelling the pocket in the front. He’d donned one of Jim’s kitchen aprons and went around the bookcases and mantel on tippie-toe, dusting. Every time he lifted his arm, the briefs flashed.

Paul leaned against the doorjamb, watching, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Brian seemed to sense him and stopped. “Hello.”

Paul exerted an extreme effort and straightened. “You getting all your chores done?”

“Yes, Sir. My homework is done, and I ironed my shirts, and when the dusting is done, I was going to ask you if you wanted me to iron yours too.”

Paul got that weird feeling again, but his mind was struggling past a miasma of lust, so he just said, “That won’t be necessary. So, it sounds like we have some free time. What would you like to do?”

Brian smiled a sweet smile. “Anything
you’d
like to do, Daddy.” He raised the duster and whisked away at a shelf. The apron rose, and Paul was flashed again.

He cleared his throat. “How about we order a pizza and rent a movie?”

“I’d like that, Sir,” said Brian, dusting away.

“Good. I’m…um…going to finish in the garage. You can…um…call me when you’re done.”

White Fruit of the Looms floating in his head like sugarplums, Paul wandered back out to the garage.

The minute Paul closed the garage door behind him, Brian dropped the feather duster, shed the apron, and sneezed. Thank goodness. He’d been standing in front of that mantel
forever
waiting for Paul to come out of the bedroom.

He heard a
thunk
in the garage and grimaced. Goodness, he hoped his man didn’t hurt himself with any power tools or anything.

Humming to himself, Brian gathered up his cleaning supplies and went off to get himself “dressed” for dinner.

* * * *

“Hold on a minute,” said Jim. He came around the van and stopped Scott, who’d been lifting a box for him. Jim laid the back of his hand across Scott’s forehead. “You’re feeling okay, Scott, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Jim.” Scott looked up at him, pretty eyes bright and adoring. In the sunlight, the hazel flecks in them were easy to see. He smiled, the dimple in his cheek deepening.

Jim lowered his hand. “Okay then.”

Scott lifted the box, biceps bulging under T-shirt sleeves, and then straightened, butt muscles bulging as well in the supershort shorts he’d chosen to wear. He climbed the stairs, a vision from heaven, in Jim’s opinion, and stood calmly waiting at the door for Jim to open it.

“Where do you want this?” asked Scott, preceding his lover into the house.

“The kitchen,” said Jim. “I’ll…uh…get the rest from the car.”

Brian came padding into the living room at that moment. He was wearing loose blue thin sweatpants and, it appeared, not much else. His feet were bare, and his hair was loose on his shoulders again.

“Hi, Jim!” he said brightly and went into Jim’s arms just like that, smelling like soapy boy and fabric softener. “Paul said we could order pizza and a movie tonight. If it’s okay with you?”

Okay with him? “Sure,” said Jim. “Of course. Where
is
Paul?”

“Garage,” said Brian. “Can I help with anything?”

“You can help Scott unpack in the kitchen.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Brian, turning to do so. The sweatpants hung on his hips, and the swell of his butt showed when he turned around. Watching Brian walk across the living room was hypnotic.

Jim caught himself gaping and snapped his lips closed. He frowned thoughtfully as he went back out to the van for the other box of supplies.

“Paul,” he called, poking his head into the garage, “can I talk to you for a minute?”

Paul looked up from under a muffler. He was whistling. “Yes?”

Jim shut the door carefully behind himself and then looked around the garage nervously. “Tell me something. How many times have you been called
sir
today?”

“I don’t know.” Paul slid out from where he’d been working and sat up.

“I’ve been feeling excessively sirred today,” said Jim.

Paul’s mouth spread in a disbelieving grin. “Excessively sirred? Are you joking?”

Okay, it did sound paranoid when he said it out loud. Jim muttered and played with his beard. “Maybe not,” he said. “Never mind.”

Paul shook his head, smiling, and looking for a wrench. “Okay.”

“We having a pizza and movie night?”

“Thought it might be nice. You want the break from cooking?”

“Yes, it’s a good idea. Thank you.”

* * * *

“Daddy, can I have soda?” asked Brian from his seat on the floor cushion.

Brian had problems with cavities, and the dentist had cautioned him about sweets and soda.

“No, I don’t think so, Brian,” said Paul, adjusting the volume on the remote.

“Okay,” said Brian easily.

Scott sat down next to him and said, “I won’t drink any either, so you don’t have to feel bad.”

“Thank you, Scott,” said Brian.

Jim had heard all the jokes about the crazy, paranoid old pot-smoking hermits living in the woods. He figured he was just a hop, skip, and jump away from that. Because every time Brian or Scott looked up at him, wide-eyed and smiling sweetly, goose bumps went up his back.

Now Scott laid his arm across Brian’s shoulder, leaned over, and nuzzled Brian’s ear, and Jim shook his head at himself. His brain was addled; that was all.

Just before dinner, he’d found Scott in the bedroom, in those obscenely short pajama bottoms he sometimes wore. The ones that were so tight across the crotch, they may as well have been transparent. And too short in the back too. Scott only wore them when Jim begged, and now he was walking around in them like it was nothing.

He was trying to fasten something to the ring in his nipple, the one that matched Jim’s. He looked up. “Can you help me with this?”

“Sure.” Jim fumbled with the clasp and realized his hands were shaking. It was a tiny weight.

Scott looked up at him with those golden eyes. “I heard it makes your nipples feel more…intense,” he said.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that too,” said Jim, his voice gruff. He managed to get the thing on without tearing the ring out of Scott’s nipple or dropping it. “There.”

“Thank you, Jim,” said Scott. And gave the weight a little push. “Ah,” he said. And then he walked out of the bedroom.

Now Scott was sitting on the floor, that damned weight still hanging from his nipple ring, his tongue painting swirls around the ear of Brian, who was still wearing nothing but those thin sweatpants, and Jim was losing his mind.

Jim had pizza, beer, and a wet dream sitting at his feet—and he was getting nervous? He had to cut back on the pot obviously. It was eating his brain.

“Can’t believe you chose this movie,” said Paul happily. “I thought you hated
Die Hard
.”

“I can see the attraction,” said Brian. “Though you’re a hell of a lot better looking than Bruce Willis, Daddy.” He gasped and covered his mouth. “I’m sorry.”

Paul was sitting back on the leather couch, one blue-jean-clad leg up on the seat, the other planted on the floor next to Brian. He toed Brian playfully. “It’s okay, hon.”

Brian smiled sweetly and batted his eyes at Paul. Goose bumps went up Jim’s back.

Scott leaned over to stick his tongue into Brian’s ear, but this time Brian turned his head, and they smooched.

After a while, their hands entered the action, and by the time the explosions and gunfire were really dominating the screen, Brian and Scott were lying on the Oriental rug, groping each other and making out in earnest.

Jim hadn’t been watching the movie for a while, and Paul seemed to have lost interest as well. With explosions echoing off the walls of the living room, both men watched, glassy-eyed, as their two brats rolled on the floor, pushing each other’s pants down and playing with each other’s cocks.

When Brian sat up, spun around and the two entered an enthusiastic sixty-nine position, the remote rattled to the ground from Paul’s fingers. Jim had to swallow the copious drool in his mouth and caught himself rubbing his crotch as he watched Brian’s open mouth take in Scott’s long cock, his tongue moving over the vein. Scott moaned and bobbed up and down on Brian’s saliva-slick cock.

Brian’s fingers found Scott’s butt and went exploring. As he found and stretched Scott’s hole, Jim slid off the couch like he was melted butter and heard the thud of Paul’s knees hitting the floor near him.

Half aware of Paul near him doing something or other to Brian, Jim couldn’t get the buttons on his jeans open fast enough as he bent to Scott’s exposed crack and licked and sucked, getting involved with Brian’s fingers in the process.

Somebody cried out, and Brian’s fingers dug into Scott’s butt, and Scott started clenching and moaning, and Jim was just able to release his own cock, a button flying off somewhere in the process, and get his hands around it when he heard Paul wailing and Brian yelling, “Fuck me, Daddy.” And then Scott was up on his knees and Jim had Scott’s hips in both of his hands, and he’d plunged his aching dick into Scott’s wet hole, and his heart was going to stop.

It was over in a flash. They lay, pants around their ankles, in a lazy crisscross of man flesh across the Oriental rug.

Paul moaned.

Jim could wholeheartedly second the emotion in that sound. His balls
ached
with all the sex he’d been having, and his quiescent and currently almost comatose-partner, curled up against him and cooing in an agreeable way, set off every alert Jim had.

Jim sat up. “What’s going on with you two?”

Scott rolled onto his side, looking up at Jim with sleepy eyes. “What?”

Jim struggled to his feet, holding his pants up by the waistband. He pointed an accusing finger at Scott and Brian, both of whom were looking up at him like heaven’s own innocent cherubs. “You two. Are up to something. I know, and I’m asking, what is it?”

Scott scowled and crossed his arms. Brian’s mouth flew open, eyes widening even more, and he looked at Paul.

“Oh come on, Jim,” said Paul. “We’re all just relaxing. Why can’t you enjoy it?” He laid an affectionate hand on Brian’s head, letting his fingers play there.

“Scott,” said Jim, his eyes serious. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Scott stood, looking pointedly away from Jim. “I’m sorry,” he said to Brian. He leaned over and pulled up those obscenely tight sleep pants and walked, all haughty and insulted innocence, toward his own bedroom.

Brian looked like he might cry. “Daddy?”

Paul’s face was grim. “Jim, can I talk to you in the kitchen?”

* * * *

“What the hell, Jim?”

“Listen, Paul. I know a thing or two. There is something going on there, and we’re being played.”

“Brian has been…” Paul stopped. “Perfect.”

“I’ve never had Scott so easy to please and agreeable,” said Jim. “Ever.”

Paul washed his face with one hand. “It’s been idyllic.”

“Bliss,” said Jim.

They looked at each other.

“
Brian!
” bellowed Paul.

A skitter of feet and a wide-eyed young man stood in the doorway, sweatpants pooling around his slightly pigeon-toed feet. “Yes, Sir?”

“They
know.
”

“Shhh. They’ll hear you,” Brian warned.

Brian and Scott stood in opposite corners of the living room. Hands clasped behind their backs. Eyes front.

“Jim is
psychic
,” fretted Scott. “It’s like he can see through my skull.”