Love And The Real Boy - Coming About, Book 2 (6 page)

Taking a chance, Patrick rested his hands lightly on Rich’s rigid shoulders. “Mayhap you don’t need to think about it at all tonight.” He began slowly kneading the knotty muscles that rolled beneath the other man’s skin, waiting to see if Rich would tense up further—or push him away. “You’re so tense,” he whispered.

Rich gave a drunken chuckle—drunk from exhaustion rather than the beer. “That sounds like a come on,” he slurred.

Patrick laughed in return. “Maybe. I’m serious, though. It’s like you carry the weight of the world right here,” he said, digging his fingers in.

Rich groaned and dropped his head forward, chin to chest, and Patrick’s cock jumped in response. “Just the weight of
my
world. But it’s enough.”

Patrick hummed and continued working out the kinks. He wasn’t sure where he planned on going with this, but he was just enjoying the feel of baby-soft skin under his callused hands. “When was the last time you had a good massage?”

Rich sighed, and his head lolled on his shoulders. “Oh, only never.”

Patrick chuckled near his ear and delighted in the shudder he received. “How’s about we fix that, then? You game?” He turned his attention to the stiff tendons along the sides of Rich’s neck, pressing his thumbs down hard.

Another rolling moan, another sigh, then a lazy nod. “Why the hell not? The world could end tomorrow.”

* * * *

Rich forced himself to relax. Why shouldn’t he give his brain a little mini-vacay? He was of a stressful nature—he had to constantly stress over work, over making enough money to keep himself in suits and expensive toys to remind himself he wasn’t homeless anymore, that he wasn’t going to end up like his mother. He stressed over the wrong people finding out he was gay, while stressing that he might just go mad from lack of companionship, or at least for want of a good fuck—and that was just the tip of the crazy-berg.

Underneath it all sat his pent-up grief, anger, and guilt from his stolen childhood, cowering like a beast in the dark, a sleeping monster. That was Rich’s biggest, most constant fear—that one day he would no longer be able to contain it. What would happen then? Would he lose his mind?

So all things considered, why shouldn’t he just let it go for one night? What was wrong with letting a big, burly Irishman take him in hand—
heh
—and drive the boat for a while.

With that in mind, when he felt Patrick’s soft, slightly chapped lips brush the spot just below his ear, Rich didn’t pull away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly for better access and huffed out a sigh.

Rich thought for sure when the guy sensed his surrender, he’d take it to the next level. But he simply eased back, sliding his hands down Rich’s neck to dip below the collar of his shirt. He started up that fucking heavenly massage again, forcing Rich’s muscles to bend to his will, and they obligingly turned to butter for him. It was almost better than sex, to feel his body willingly relax for once…almost.

Rich faded in and out, in a fugue state of pure tactile bliss. His cock hardened almost lazily, tenting the fabric of his sleep pants. He was just too blissed out to be self-conscious about it.

His eyes flew open when Patrick’s rough hands slid down inside his shirt to knead his pecs. Just the barest graze across his nipples sent a stab of electricity straight to his balls. It was his kryptonite, nipple-play was. It made him a weak, gooey mess of lust. He could—and did, when the mood struck him—come from just stimulating his nipples. He’d never shared that with a sexual partner; he’d always been embarrassed about his sensitivity, and men’s-room hookups weren’t exactly the venue for exploring one’s kinks. He could only imagine Patrick laughing at him, coming all over himself after a few tweaks. Maybe Patrick would be one of the many men who didn’t bother much with foreplay—especially during a one-off.

Those wicked fingers grazed again, probably accidentally. Rich bit back a groan but was unable to stop the reflexive roll of his hips. Patrick stilled his movements.
Uh-oh
, Rich thought.

That lust-roughened voice grated next to his ear. “Off with this,” Patrick commanded, tugging at Rich’s T-shirt from underneath.

Rich’s body complied before his mind even caught up, shucking the shirt without a thought. Patrick continued his lazy exploration of his upper body, half massaging, half stroking. He mapped Rich’s ridged abdomen with his fingers, grunting his appreciation.

“You obviously take great care of your body, mate. Why do you not take such care with the rest of you?”

Rich knew what he meant; all that was wrong with him couldn’t be fixed with just a healthy diet and daily trips to the gym. He shrugged and sighed. He didn’t want to talk; he only wanted to feel.

Those big hands trailed back up to his chest, calluses dragging against sensitized skin, and suddenly the moment he’d feared was upon him. Patrick’s palms swiped across his hypersensitive nipples, then returned, fingers questing. He found those tightened buds as if there’d been a beacon calling to him. He gently rolled them between his fingers, and Rich’s body broke out in goose-bumps. His teeth sank down into his lower lip—he might have tasted blood—and he failed to stifle a whimper.
A fucking whimper!
His erection pulsed, straining toward its tormentor, and Rich could feel the moisture seeping from the head.

“Is that so?” Patrick murmured in Rich’s ear, sounding a little breathless himself, then traced the shell of that ear with his tongue. That earned him a fresh shudder. “Lusty little thing, are ya not? Where’ve you been hiding it?”

Without preamble, callused thumbs rubbed circles over his nipples, and Rich’s hips shot off the couch, his back bowing so far, he wondered that it didn’t break. He released a long moan, unable to hold it in—it was as if there was an invisible tether from his nipples to his cock, each pluck feeling like a stroke. His aching dick swelled, finally breaking out of its cotton prison, finding the open fly of his pants.

“Lovely,” Patrick breathed. “So bloody sensitive. I bet I could make you come like this, without a hand on your pretty cock. Do you think?”

Rich’s breath hitched, and he panted harder.
He knows…he can tell.
Patrick leaned over him, pulled down the waistband of his stretchy pants to reveal his dripping cock, and tucked the material beneath his balls. Rich’s dick was hard enough to pound nails, throbbing with his heartbeat, and standing out proud over the pillow of his sac.

Patrick gave it a squeeze, then a leisurely stroke before returning his attention to Rich’s aching nipples. He took each sensitive tip into the circle of his thumb and index finger, and pinched. Rich’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his mind floated in an erotic haze. It was too much, too bright. He thought he might burn up.

Sweat prickled over his skin as Patrick began sucking his neck in earnest, punctuating each pull with teeth and tongue. He kept steady pressure on Rich’s nipples, alternating between grazing, rolling, pinching, and pulling, until Rich was humping the air and writhing.

“You’re about to lose it, aren’t you?” Patrick husked. “You going to come for me? Just from playing with your tight little nipples. That is so fucking hot.” He kept up the continuous litany of dirty talk while he worked Rich into a mindless frenzy.

Rich’s head thrashed from side to side as his balls drew up tight to his body and his skin started tingling. He was going to come. Why the fuck not? It
was
time to let go.

“Look at your cock, dripping for me. So sexy.”

“Fuuuuck.” Rich flailed, moaned, so on edge it hurt.

“One day soon, when you’re not so stressed, I’m gonna fuck your sexy little ass into next week.” When he said it, he pinched hard on Rich’s nipples and latched onto the pulse point in his neck, sucking relentlessly.

Overcome with sensation, Rich did indeed lose it. His back arched up off the couch, and he screamed Patrick’s name. As the jets of hot cum exploded from him, Patrick let go of his nipples and grabbed his dick, stroking him through the rest of his shuddering climax.

Rich had never come so hard in his life, and now he was half-asleep, locked inside his groggy mind by the time he came down from wherever he’d been floating. He bonelessly slid down until he lay long ways on the couch with his eyes closed. Vaguely hearing Patrick walk away, he must have drifted, because he was startled when the man wiped him down with a warm, wet cloth, and tucked him back into his pants. Rich gazed up at Patrick through barely open lids. His Irishman was flushed, but he wore a self-satisfied smirk. As he looked down at Rich, his expression changed to one that almost resembled…fondness.

“Lord, but you’re a stunner when you’re not hiding behind all that attitude, Mr. Langston.”

Rich could only grunt in answer, too tired to even think. “What about you?” he slurred, eyeing the man’s huge, hard bulge warily. Sure, he wanted a handful of that, but even now, he was losing the battle with sleep.

Patrick chuckled. “Don’t worry about me, baby. I’ll take a rain check…from your pretty ass,” he said with a wink.

Rich huffed out a laugh, smiled sleepily, and closed his eyes again. As he finally succumbed to sleep, he could have sworn he felt rough hands gently tucking a blanket over him.

Chapter Seven

Patrick wondered how Rich was going to act towards him on ‘the morning after,’ as he maneuvered the lorry through the streets of the man’s neighborhood. He had a feeling the only reason he’d broken through Rich’s shell last night had been his sheer exhaustion. It was okay. Patrick was interested now, so he could deal with a little feistiness. The rest, he’d work out—preferably in bed.

Once at Rich’s house, Patrick rang the doorbell and greeted him with a mock bow. “Your carriage awaits, sir.”

Rich came to the door looking impeccable as always, dressed in khaki cargo pants that could have still had the tags on them for all they were broken in, and a Batman T-shirt that was probably two-hundred-dollar vintage. His hair was gelled into artfully messy perfection, and his skin shone like he was just fresh from the shower. Patrick’s neglected cock tried to sit up and beg for attention.

Upon seeing Patrick’s antics, Rich’s high cheekbones tinged pink and his lips lifted into a ghost of a smile, before his customary scowl fell into place. “It’s about time,” he said.

“Oh, keep your knickers on, Sally,” Patrick teased, enjoying the sight of the sweet blush turning into an angry flush before his eyes. How he enjoyed riling Rich up.

Once they were settled in the truck and on their way, Patrick couldn’t resist stirring the pot of this reluctant truce they’d cooked up. “So when did you figure out you were gay?”

Rich’s glare snapped to him so fast he was surprised the man’s retinas hadn’t detached. Patrick could see the rote denial hovering over Rich’s expression.

“And don’t you dare try to say you aren’t, when I was wiping your cum off my hands last night,” he scolded with a pointed look.

Rich at least had the good grace to look chagrinned. “I’ve pretty much always known, but it’s not something I usually act on. I don’t do this,” he said, gesturing back and forth between them.

“Do what? Screw around with men? I know you’re not a virgin.”

“Of course not,” Rich said. “Don’t be silly. I get what I need when I need it—discreetly, anonymously if possible. But I don’t form attachments with men, however brief. I don’t do stuff with guys I plan on seeing again—as a rule. It’s a complication I don’t need…my career is everything to me, and I won’t do anything to jeopardize it.”

“Ah. What did you say you do, again?”

Rich flicked him an annoyed look that clearly said he hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort before. “I’m in advertising.” He turned and stared out the window for a few seconds before pointing out a billboard for some high-end men’s watches. “There. That’s one of my campaigns.”

Patrick’s brows rose. The ad was masculine but not trite. It was very stylish to his unpracticed eye. He was impressed, and admittedly, he wasn’t easy to impress.

At the marina, Rich surprised him again when Patrick was teaching him how to use the miter saw. He caught on quick and was able to work independently by midmorning.

Patrick was taking measurements for the new mast that day. He hoped to be able to find something compatible with the model and vintage of the
Galeocerdo
at the O’Dowd woodworking shop. A brand-spanking-new metal mast just wouldn’t look right on a fifty year old mostly wooden vessel.

He was doing some calculations in his head when his attention strayed down to the pier where Rich was measuring and cutting lumber to repair some holes in the boat deck. The man had taken his shirt off, and his upper body was slick with sweat—mouthwatering.

Patrick frowned when he noticed a strange man striding purposefully down the pier toward Rich. He was probably a little older than Patrick himself, his dark hair peppered with gray, and judging by his tailored suit and briefcase, he wasn’t at the marina for boating.

Because he was looking down at his work and he wore earplugs to drown out the sound of the saw, Rich didn’t notice the visitor until he was right beside him. Rich finished the board he was cutting, turned off the saw, and pulled out his earplugs. When he turned and saw the man standing right next to him, he jumped visibly, his hands balling into fists.