Fresh Catch Page 6

  9

  Constant Bearing, Decreasing Range

  n. The condition when two vessels are approaching each other from any angle that stays the same over time. Also known as a collision course.

  Cole

  Neera: You'll notify me before you do anything substantive, right?

  I barked out a laugh when I read those words.

  I'd been closed up in my small room for a matter of moments before reaching for my phone in hopes of a distraction from Owen. Not that I wanted a distraction, of course, but it wasn't like I could throw myself at him. As thrilled as I was to hear of his preference for penis, I couldn't drop my shorts and ask if he wanted a taste of mine.

  It was also possible that he wasn't interested in me. Two gay men could live under a shared roof without devolving into a fuck festival. Although it would certainly help if one of those men was up front about his sexuality when peach-ripe opportunities presented themselves.

  I shook my head, astounded by my own absurdity.

  Neera: Real estate purchases, public appearances, search and rescue teams, the like? I'd rather not have a repeat of the Appalachian incident.

  Cole: Of course. But I'll remind you that you thought the Appalachian incident was going to be great, and the search and rescue team was totally unnecessary.

  Cole: Further, I haven't gotten a haircut without your input in almost a decade.

  Neera: Please don't consider this an invitation or suggestion to repeat the Appalachian incident. I can speak for the senior leadership and board of directors when I say getting lost in the Smoky Mountains at night again is ill-advised.

  Cole: No, nothing Appalachian in my future. I'm quite content where I am.

  Neera: And yet you won't tell me where that is, what you're doing, or when you'll be back.

  Cole: Only because I'm 100% certain you'll charter a plane and come check on me.

  Cole: That would be great but I need some time and space to work everything out.

  Neera: Some habits are hard to break.

  Cole: Like managing up?

  Neera: You're allowed privacy and secrets, but you're also allowed to trust people.

  Cole: I do. I trust you implicitly.

  Cole: I also trust the person I'm staying with, and I want to protect that person's privacy as well.

  Neera: Oh.

  Neera: Okay. All right. I understand.

  Cole: Let me get this straight. I'm allowed to have privacy only if it involves human companionship?

  Neera: Yes, that's correct.

  That yielded another laugh. I could've gone a few more rounds with Neera but I set my glasses on the bedside table, then switched my phone off and tucked it away in my duffel bag. My head wasn't in the right place to chat with her tonight. Based on my conduct earlier, I wasn't in the right place to chat with anyone.

  Years ago, back when my company was first taking off, I sat for a live television interview. Train wreck wasn't an adequate representation of how poorly it went. I had an asshole answer for every question. I drummed my fingers on the armrest, rolled my eyes, and sighed audibly. I couldn't get comfortable in the chair so I shifted and repositioned to the point of distraction, and then snapped at the interviewer when he asked if I was all right.

  That hot mess was a shining achievement compared to the way I handled Owen this evening.

  All the opportunities in the world were in front of me, and I skipped over every one of them. I could banter and bullshit all day long but that was it. That was all I had—bullshit. All systems were go, the bases were loaded, the stars were aligned…and I blew it. Not only did I blow it, I came off like an apathetic dickhead. I said all the wrong things, laughed like an idiot, and rolled deep in the awkward pauses.

  It was true. I didn't know how to get out of my own way.

  With a groan, I pushed off the bed and headed to the bathroom. I had to wash up for the night, and then I was determined to sleep off today's indiscretions and start anew tomorrow. I could manage that. I could even sit Owen down after we delivered the day's catch and tell him about my—

  "Unnnnnnf."

  I stopped in the hallway, my hand frozen an inch from the bathroom door handle, and I heard it again.

  "Mmmmm."

  It took only a moment to place that sound and the unmistakable rhythm of skin shuttling over skin. The air went out of my chest and everything in my body turned hot, my skin prickling with awareness because Owen was masturbating within inches of me.

  A decent guy would've retreated immediately and given Owen the privacy he deserved. I wasn't that guy, and I didn't think I could move from this spot if a family of tiny purple ponies paraded down the hall and asked for directions to the carnival.

  I leaned forward, closer to Owen and the noises I wanted to memorize and keep in a special, secret place. If I couldn't invite myself into his self-love session—because I possessed some decency—I was going to listen real hard.

  Not trusting myself to remain standing without support, I rested my forehead against the doorframe. That was when I noticed it. The door had been warped by years of close proximity to the ocean air, and shutting it all the way required a firm shove. Owen hadn't given it that shove.

  Only a thin sliver of him was visible, but that was more than enough. The vanity light shone down on his dark hair, bathing him in a warm glow. His shirt was rucked up around his chest and his shorts were barely out of the way, as if he'd surrendered to this need with haste. His hand gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles white. His other hand moved in a lightning-quick blur that demanded my cock's full attention.

  I was hard and ready, and I had to make a decision. I could stand in this hallway while Owen jerked it on the other side of the door, or I could go back to my room. There was one more option, of course, but I didn't have the balls to push the door open and observe this act to completion.

  "Ohhh," he groaned. "Oh fuuuuck."

  There was a flash of white that obscured my view for a moment. When it cleared, I found a towel gnashed between Owen's teeth, muffling his noises. Seeing him desperate like this triggered something inside me, and before I could think better of it, my fingers were curling around my cock.

  I thrust into my palm in time with Owen but my pleasure was secondary. I was only concerned with him. His movements, his noises, his need. It was glorious, and I couldn't contain my groan when he slowed to long, twisting strokes that offered a glance at his thick erection.

  Owen's eyes popped open and his gaze darted to the door. He caught sight of me, and answered my groan with a gasp.

  Then all the words I knew in this language flew out of my mouth at once. "I was just going to—err, you know, I was going out. I was leaving. The house. For a bit. And then coming back. It's a great night for a walk. I mean, I figured I could leave. Now. I could leave and go for a walk. Or something like that. Now that I think about it, there's a podcast I've been meaning to listen to, and I have noise-canceling headphones. I can walk with the headphones. On my head. I won't hear anything at all. Except the podcast. I'd hear that. But you know what? I'm exhausted. Just beat. I mean—no, not that. I'm not beating anything. No. What I meant is that I'm sleepwalking. I've been told I sleepwalk. I never remember it. I don't remember anything. I won't remember any of this." I took a breath while Owen blinked at me. "This is a dream."

  The tension between us jolted me back, away from the bathroom. I stumbled into the safety of my room, and shut the door behind me. I stared at the bed while my breath stuttered out in jagged bursts and my heart slammed into my ribs like it was trying to break free. My cock, unaware that this peep show had taken a turn for the incredibly awkward, was throbbing against my belly. It wasn't the kind of erection I could ignore either. I had to do something about this unless I wanted to be miserable and aching all night.

  Owen's bedroom door slammed shut, and through the thin walls, I heard him moving around. I groaned again, but this time I was groaning in response to my uncanny ability to fuck t
hings up.

  As if he understood the difference, Owen chuckled. It was low and exasperated, like he couldn't believe what I'd done now.

  "Sorry," I shouted at the wall.

  There was another chuckle and I heard drawers opening and closing. "Go to bed, McClish," Owen replied.

  Obeying this command, I stripped off my clothes and slipped between the sheets. My dick was pitching a tent that could comfortably sleep a family of four and their elderly beagle, but I forced myself to listen to the night instead of my body's drumbeat of arousal.

  There were crickets and cicadas chirping in tandem and woodland creatures engaging in their nocturnal rituals. The trees rustled and the ocean lapped against the shore, and—and I heard it again. I heard him.

  I would've missed it if not for the creaking bedsprings playing backup to his moans. Right on cue, my cock throbbed in response. I was in bad shape here. Harder than humanly possible, leaking all over the sheets, and now I had to listen while he finished the job. I was one self-indulgent second away from flopping on my belly and rutting into the mattress without concern for the current level of weird between me and Owen.

  "Go to bed, Bartlett," I called.

  "I am in bed," he shouted back. "Something's keeping me up."

  I swallowed a laugh as it dawned on me. I'd announced my presence before Owen could finish, and I had to imagine he was in as much distress as I was. And I was imagining. I couldn't stop thinking about the way he touched himself. There was a frantic quality to it, as if his entire existence hinged upon finding his release.

  "Sorry about that," I said.

  Another garbled noise drifted through the wall from Owen's room, and my fingers found my shaft. I couldn't help it. Just couldn't help it.

  "Enough apologies," he yelled.

  I closed my eyes and dragged my palm up, twisting over the crown the same way Owen had. Indulging in this small dose of relief, I allowed myself to believe I was showing him what I wanted. Or it was him stroking me. Or it was my hand on his cock, and I was showing him I knew how he liked it. Then the fantasies collided, and it was all of it at once. In my mind, I gave him everything and he gave just as much in return. Cocks, hands, mouths; there was no limit.

  My hips were rocking up, surging as I pumped into my hand. The motion sent the headboard knocking against the wall and the bedsprings creaking, and then I heard a very clear command from Owen. "Don't stop."

  My whole body shuddered, and a grunt caught in my throat. It didn't matter whether his order was intended for me. That was how I was taking it, and I was too lost in lust to consider anything else.

  "Fuck yes," I replied. I shoved my shoulders back into the mattress as I stroked harder, and the headboard hammered against the wall. "Yes, yes, yes."

  It was a little over the top, sure. I wasn't ashamed to say there were some theatrics involved in that porn star wail. I was putting on a show, and Owen was too.

  There was a thump followed by a groan that was distinctly Owen, and I could almost feel him watching me. Just as I'd watched him.

  "Don't stop," he repeated, his voice rough. He sounded closer, as if he was speaking directly to the barrier between us. And there was no doubt his words were meant for me. "Don't you fucking stop."

  We were no longer performing solitary acts on dueling stages, separate, and simultaneous only as a matter of coincidence. We were sharing this now.

  Another thump sounded above my head, and I envisioned Owen bracing himself there as he stroked. His head would hang low, his chin resting on his chest and his eyes screwed shut as he focused on finding his release. Sweat would dot his forehead and heat would crawl up his neck and cheeks. He'd snarl and gasp as he edged closer, and slap his palm against the wall each time he denied his orgasm. Of course he'd hold back. He'd wait for me. He didn't know how to be selfish.

  "Let me hear you," he rasped.

  Get in here. The words were dancing on the tip of my tongue but I didn't have the backbone to say them. I couldn't disrupt the forward trajectory of this moment by requesting a left turn.

  "Don't go quiet on me now," Owen said, his words huffing out in strained snarls.

  "I need to come," I moan-whined.

  "Maybe I'll let you," he replied.

  My body was rigid with tension, every muscle held tight, and his response was a current of heat down my spine and around my cock. The challenge he levied—wait for his permission—fit like a too-tight suit, but I craved his approval more than my comfort.

  "Please," I groaned, my hips jerking off the mattress as I thrust harder.

  He growled, but offered nothing more.

  I needed more, and I was going to get it.

  I forced a breath from my lungs. My legs parted as I imagined Owen settling there, his hand gliding over his cock as he watched me. He pressed his free hand to the back of my thigh, pushing it to my chest until I was spread open for him. A feral smile tugged at his lips as he gazed at me, like he was categorizing every inch and devising methods of sexual torment. His fingers trailed down my leg and around the base of my cock. It was the lightest touch, one that seemed too gentle and measured for a man like him. But then two fingers were in my crease, then they were inside me, then I was seeing stars. Nothing gentle or measured about it.

  "Oh, fuck," I sighed.

  My bicep was burning and I wasn't certain I could feel some of my fingers anymore. The grip I had on my shaft was unforgiving, but I was too far down this path for any of that to matter. I was right there, teetering with little more than a toehold on my orgasm, my sanity, my consciousness.

  "Owen," I gasped.

  Even in this state, calling for him seemed like a step over the line. But the man between my legs, the Imaginary Finger-Fucking Owen, was nodding, granting me permission to fall over the edge.

  "Give it to me now," he commanded. "Right now."

  In my mind, Owen was still kneeling between my legs, the hand on his cock moving in time with the fingers in my ass. That sharp grin was still in place, and it deepened each time he traced my prostate. Instead of grinding my teeth in blissful agony, I melted into that all-the-shivers-and-goose-bumps sensation. He whispered "Mine" every time I quivered under his touch, and I nodded in agreement.

  One spurt after another landed on my belly, my shoulder, the pillow. I heard a shuddering breath from Owen, and then he pounded the wall several times as he snarled and hummed. I could picture him spilling into his hand, his chest heaving and his lips parting as he growled through his release.

  I was crying out and convulsing, and clinging to the quilt as if it could keep me from drifting away. But it was as though these things were happening outside of me, and I was observing them from a detached distance. Inside, I was sliding into the deep mellow of an earth-rocking orgasm. Static filled my ears and my eyelids were too heavy to lift, and every muscle in my body eased until I was nothing more than a blob of satisfied jelly.

  I hated the slimy, squishy feel of semen drying on my skin but I didn't possess the strength to clean it off. I couldn't even lift my arm and reach for a tissue from the bedside table.

  Bedsprings squealed on the other side of the wall, and I knew he was tucked in for the night. A part of me—not a small part—hoped he'd trudge over here with his palm full of jizz and ask me what I planned to do about it. Hoped he'd flip me over and force me facedown on the mattress. Hoped he'd drag his thick fingers through my hair and curl up beside me.

  "Good night, McClish," Owen called.

  He sounded drowsy and loose, and I liked it. I wanted to get him in this state again.

  "Good night, Bartlett," I replied.

  A warm, sated smile tugged at my lips as I drifted off. Before sleep pulled me under, a voice in the back of my head asked, What did we just do?

  10

  Full and By

  adv. Sailing with all sails full and lying as near the wind as possible.

  Owen

  I slammed the refrigerator door shut and moved to the pantry. "T
oo late to make chili," I said to myself. "Too late for good chili."

  "There's a whole haddock packed in ice," Cole called.

  He was perched on the countertop, his legs hanging loose and his arms braced behind him. His skin was glowing from another sunny day on the water and his hair wind-blown. He looked like an offering, and I could only shoot quick glimpses in his direction or suffer a full-body spasm of need. Again.

  I didn't know what the hell had happened last night. One minute I was lusting over athletic shorts, the next I was pressed flat against my bedroom wall and racing to keep up with Cole's strokes. Then there were his sounds and my sounds and oh my God. I didn't know how I was supposed to feel after masturbating with my presumably straight houseguest, so I felt a bit of everything. Excitement, anxiety, affection, amusement, shock. All of that, and a little bit of shame.

  Shame wasn't an emotion I allowed myself but I couldn't think about last night without simmering in embarrassment. How did I let it go that far? What was I thinking? That was just it—I didn't think. Not with the head on my shoulders.

  And now I'd spent the day trying to look Cole in the eye and talk about lobsters like last night was nothing more than a weird dream. Wasn't that the truth. I didn't even know this man, not really, and I was allowing myself to build these sandcastle feelings. It was dangerous, and I knew better. Summer love wasn't for me, and neither was this man. He wasn't here to stay, and he wasn't here for me. He was running away from something I didn't want to explore, but I couldn't help myself from wanting to care for him. Ease his troubles.

  I snorted at that thought. His troubles weren't the only things I wanted to ease. I was in it with this guy, and it wasn't just me. Cole had participated too. He didn't instigate it but he certainly took an otherwise excusable situation to another level.