It's Not Shakespeare (18 page)

“We can’t,” he said, coming up for air. “If those women send their children to our house for candy and we’re having noisy man-sex in the living room, they’ll crucify us.”

Rafael pulled away with a reluctant chuckle. “Yeah, Jimmy—probably not the way to go. Let’s have dinner before the little freeloaders show up to pillage, yeah?”

“Yeah. I haven’t started anything—what do you want?”

“I don’t know. Pasta? An omelet?”

James blinked, a terrible, terrible thought forming in the back of his head. “How about pasta?” he said without blinking. “I’m not sure if we have enough eggs.”

“Really? I thought I got some when I got the candy.”

“Yeah?” James moved into the small but nicely stocked kitchen and started moving around. “Well, I feel like pasta anyway. Go on and get your mask so it’s ready when they ring, okay?”

Rafael sighed. “I still say you should have let me get the Michelle Bachman mask,
papi
. She’s about the scariest thing I could imagine.”

James shuddered. “Me too, sweetheart. She was just so real. I’d rather have pretend-scary things in the house, if that’s okay with you.”

Rafael must have agreed, because he came back with the devil mask. James had just dished up the pasta when the doorbell rang, and Rafael got to laugh maniacally for the children.

The kids loved it. They loved the skeletons bobbing on elastic from the tree, they loved the strobing black light and scary music Rafael had rigged to trigger with motion detectors whenever they walked past the driveway. They loved the phantoms that swirled around, suspended on a track above the porch, and the three Jack-o-lanterns that had been carved into real pumpkins (as opposed to the artificial pumpkins most of the neighborhood used) using the really difficult, intricate designs that Rafael’s friend Sophie had brought from the local craft store.

They especially loved Rafael jumping through the open door and freaking everybody out, and after that, they were really in love with the giant, double-sized candy bars that Rafael had bought for the occasion.

James’s family had always done a low-key, understated, and tasteful Halloween. Rafael’s family had always cavorted around like fifth graders. James liked Rafael’s Halloween infinitely better, and he could have watched Rafi play with the kids all night. Unfortunately, the neighborhood committee didn’t allow for all night—they didn’t allow for later than nine o’clock. Of course, they weren’t supposed to allow for anyone older than sixth grade to go trick-or-treating, but that hadn’t stopped Rafael from handing out gi-frickin-normous chocolate bars to an entire bevy of high school students who had become fans of Rafael’s on the nights he took Marlowe for a walk. Rafi spoke high-school-student more fluently than any parent on the block—they adored him.

But finally, even the high school students had to go to bed, and Rafael collapsed back against the door with a sigh of exhaustion.

“Dayum, Jimmy—I’m fuckin’ tired, man! I don’t how the mommies do it—that shit ain’t for the weak!”

James laughed and fell another notch down the love tunnel. He was so far down anyway that it wasn’t like he could have found his way out with a flashlight and a map.

He’d cleaned up dinner while Rafael had answered the door, and the two of them had put in Paranormal Activity, which James was grateful he hadn’t been able to see much of because he was pretty sure the movie would have scared the hell out of him. He’d also taken a tired, floppy Marlowe out back for a quick latrine visit, and Marlowe had appreciated the extra exercise so much he’d gone promptly back to his pillow. Good. The little dog was totally tuckered out, and nobody should come knocking on their door for another twelve-to-fifteen hours.

He had Rafael all to himself.

“Come here, my poor, beaten down mommy,” James said dryly. He turned the television off and started the stereo, moody, dreamy, Calexico came on the stereo, and Rafael’s limp posture at the door straightened. He stood a little and looked at James from hooded eyes.

“You want a little treat, Jimmy?” he said, his voice so low and throaty that James shivered.

Deliberately, because he knew it made Rafael hard and needy, he reached down the placket of his conservative khaki pants and stroked his hardening cock until it lay heavy against his fly. “I was thinking maybe I’d give you a treat,” he said with a gasp and a smile. “You got any tricks you want to play on me?”

Rafael’s smile was wide and sultry as he swaggered forward. “Yeah, baby. I’m gonna make your salami disappear. And then reappear. And then disappear….”

James laughed and then gasped as Rafael reached him. Without prelude he sank to his knees, dragging James’s slacks and boxers with him. James’s cock flopped out, horizontal to the floor, and Rafael engulfed him hotly. James’s knees went all rubbery, and he groaned with the suddenness of his arousal. His hands knotted in Rafael’s sweaty hair (it was hot in that mask!) and Rafael pulled back, licking James’s head and fisting his length almost frantically.

“Rafael?”

Rafael swallowed him down and then clamped his lips tight as he pulled back. The pain/pressure/pleasure was exquisite. James had to count his breaths not to come, he was so suddenly turned on. God, it should have been disgusting how hot this young man made forty-three year old James feel, but it wasn’t. It was perfect and beautiful.

“What you want, papi?” Rafael panted, his breath puffing against James’s cockhead. James shuddered.

“Do you want your treat?”

“God, yes!”

“Then you’d better beat me to the bed and lube yourself up fast, baby. I don’t think this old man can last!”

Rafael laughed—but then he stood up and ran. James followed along at a more leisurely pace, undressing and picking up Rafi’s clothes as he dropped them on the floor. When he got to the bedroom, Rafael was lying on his back, naked except for his sweat socks, his caramel-colored ass spread out and lubricated, and his oily cock being stroked in his hard fist.

James made a mildly disappointed sound. “But now I can’t….”

“You got one job here, Jimmy. Don’t fuck it up.”

James laughed then and threw himself on the bed, on top of his lover, kissing him voraciously. Eventually he found his way into his lover’s body, and they may have fucked like madmen, but no, he didn’t fuck it up.

R
AFAEL
fell fast asleep in his arms, where he belonged, but James couldn’t follow suit. That one idea haunted him—that wonderful, terrible idea. Quietly he slid out from Rafael’s embrace, shushing him when he rolled over.

“Where you goin’, papi?” he grumbled, and James kissed his temple.

“Going to take Marlowe for a walk,” he whispered. He didn’t feel bad at all for using Marlowe as a cover. In fact, he was pretty sure the little dog would approve. He dressed carefully—and creatively—and pulled out the gag gift that he’d decided at the last moment he wouldn’t give to Rafael after all, and then went and got Marlowe’s lead and one other item that fit neatly in his trench coat. It was crisp, after all, after midnight on November 1.

T
HE
next morning was a school day, but James didn’t teach his first class until nearly ten o’clock. Still, he wasn’t surprised to hear the knock on the door at seven in the morning.

“Aw, Rafi,” he mumbled, “could you get that? Marlowe took forever last night.” Once again, blaming the dog. Men have been doing it for years.

He heard the conversation from the bedroom and buried his face in his pillow so he wouldn’t give himself away. Rafael came back, dressed in the boxers and the tank that he slept in, and threw himself on the bed.

“That was Mrs. Sampson,” he said, trying to sound stern.

“Sampson! That’s her name!” James would never have remembered.

“You didn’t know her name?” Rafael sounded skeptical, and James kept his face buried. “You didn’t know her name, but I’m assuming you know where she lives.”

“Everyone knows where she lives,” James mumbled. “She’s president of the neighborhood association.”

“Yeah, well the president of the neighborhood association got her house egged last night, papi. You wouldn’t know how that happened, would you?”

Must. Not. Crack. Up. “No idea,” James lied flatly into the pillow. “Who would do such a thing?”

Rafael’s voice lost his sternness and some of his customary humor seeped through.

“I have no idea, baby. But witnesses say it was a really ugly woman.”

James couldn’t help it. He snickered into the pillow. “Well, I’m sure she’ll get what’s coming to her.”

Rafael broke down and laughed, and James looked up into that beautiful, perfect face. “Baby, all I care about is that I got what’s coming to me. Did you save any eggs for my breakfast?”

James grinned. “I’m afraid not. We’re just going to have to eat out.”

“As long as you’re buying.”

“Absolutely. Let’s have an omelet and some pumpkin muffins, you think?”

They might have made it to breakfast if they hadn’t made giggly, naughty love before James had to leave the house for school or be late. He had a giant candy bar instead.

About the Author

A
MY
L
ANE
is a mother of four and a compulsive knitter who writes because she can’t silence the voices in her head. She adores cats, knitting socks, and hawt menz, and she dislikes moths, cat boxes, and knuckle-headed macspazzmatrons. She is rarely found cooking, cleaning, or doing domestic chores, but she has been known to knit up an emergency hat/blanket/pair of socks for any occasion whatsoever or sometimes for no reason at all. She writes in the shower, while commuting, while taxiing children to soccer/dance/karate/oh my! and has learned from necessity to type like the wind. She lives in a spider-infested, crumbling house in a shoddy suburb and counts on her beloved Mate, Mack, to keep her tethered to reality—which he does while keeping her cell phone charged as a bonus. She’s been married for twenty-plus years and still believes in Twu Wuv, with a capital Twu and a capital Wuv, and she doesn’t see any reason at all for that to change.

Visit Amy’s web site at
http://www.greenshill.com
. You can e-mail her at [email protected].

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