CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

We didn't make it to the bed. We were already making out as the elevator clanked its way to my floor, wrapped around each other like a pair of horny octopi, all clinging limbs and moist suction. The tie around Justin's jacket had somehow unknotted itself and the garment hung open, revealing his pink nipples and taut belly, and I couldn't keep my hands or my lips off either.

I swept my desk clear one-handed without even looking to see what I was sending crashing to the floor, letting go of Justin only for as long as it took to turn him, bend him over, and slide down those delicious harem-style pants. I yanked open my fly, groaning with relief as my cock sprang free: I hurriedly sheathed and lubed it and then stood frozen between his thighs, mesmerized by how his ass looked framed by the black silk of his jacket. I pulled the garment down, covering him, and massaged his cheeks through the sheer fabric, my cock growing impossibly harder at the way the silk clung to his crack. He gasped as I inserted a finger and worked the lube into him, and then made a strangled sound as I replaced it with my cock.

"Brian! Fuck!"

"Relax," I panted, desperately trying to go slow and ignore the irresistible need to plunge straight into him by repeatedly reminding myself that he was still new to all this and I couldn't take too many liberties with him physically. Once I was sure I had control I eased all the way into him, feeling his back arch beneath me as he accepted me into his body. I ran my hands over his shoulders as I began to pump, bunching the silk in my fists, pressing him down hard with my weight. He was scrabbling at the varnished wood with his fingers, making little erotic guttural growls at each thrust and trying to hump the desk under him. "Be still!" I ordered him, slapping his butt. "You're gonna cum just like this." I was too turned on to last long and as I felt my balls tighten I laid another sharp slap on his ass and stretched myself right over him, nipping his earlobe between my teeth as I slammed furiously into him, knowing that the sharp edge of the desk must be bruising his thighs but unable to restrain myself any longer. I came with a groan, embedded deep within him, feeling him shuddering beneath me, and then collapsed gasping on top of him, reaching for his hands and linking our fingers together as I did so.

"Fuck, Brian…" he whispered again. "I think you've killed me."

I blinked the sweat out of my eyes and levered myself up, regretfully feeling my softening dick slide out of him. I pulled off the condom and tied it before helping him to turn and sit up: his right cheek was all red from where it had been squooshed against the wood and his hair was hanging in damp strands around his face. His blue eyes looked a little dazed. "That was hot," he observed breathlessly.

I snorted laughter. "Yeah, you could say that."

He surveyed his crushed, cum-stained jacket ruefully. "Can you get cum out of silk?"

"My dry cleaners are experts," I smirked. "Don't worry, I'll take care of it for you Monday morning." I took his hand and pulled him to his feet. "I guess I'd better remove it before it gets any more wrecked." I slid the garment reluctantly off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor where it pooled like black water around his feet, and then pulled his naked body flush against me. He lifted his head to meet my lips and I kissed him thoroughly, tangling my fingers in his damp hair and grinding my denim-clad groin against him until he moaned into my mouth.

"Why have you still got all your clothes on?" he asked fretfully.

"I had other priorities to think about," I reminded him, crouching down to remove his knee brace, shoes and socks before helping him out of the pants that were still tangled around his ankles. It seemed perfectly natural to pick him up and carry him to the bedroom, just as I had the first time: besides, I liked his weight in my arms, the way his head rested comfortably against my shoulder.

I laid him on the bed and gave him a little show as I undressed myself, watching with satisfaction as his eyes darkened and his cock filled: by the time I joined him on the bed he was ready and eager again and I blessed the recuperative powers of youth. I put on another condom and rolled him onto his back, grinning at the way he was instantly struggling to get his legs hooked over my shoulders: this time there was hardly any resistance as I slid easily into him, and I set a slow, steady rhythm as I fucked him, caressing his chest and rubbing his hard little nipples with my palms. This position was an unusual choice for me because I always found it too intimate to use with a trick: I wasn't interested in looking into their eyes or kissing them, so I always preferred to fuck an anonymous back. I told myself I was using it again with Justin out of consideration for his already abused hole, but I couldn't deny that there was also great pleasure in watching the expressions that chased across his face as I rode him and made him writhe, while the drops of sweat beading his skin glistened like pearls against white satin.

I took my time, teasing him again and again almost to orgasm before backing off, grabbing his wrists each time he tried to reach for his dick, until he was almost screaming with frustration. Eventually he threw his arms across his face and bucked his hips wildly, trying to generate enough friction to get himself off. I immediately stopped all movement.

"Justin."

"What?" His voice was muffled but he sounded a little sulky to me.

"Justin. Move your arms and look at me."

"Why?"

"Because I want you to. Move your arms and I'll let you cum."

Slowly he uncrossed them, revealing a flushed, decidedly pouty face. I leaned forward and kissed him into a better frame of mind before resuming thrusting, picking up speed until I knew he was on the brink. I took his cock in my right hand and began jerking him off, flicking his nipples hard with my left middle finger, and he cried out with surprise and came in a series of copious spurts. I let go too, his convulsions milking me, and my orgasm stretched out until it felt as though every cell in my body was thrumming. By the time I found the energy to open my eyes again I saw Justin looking back at me, a strange expression on his face.

I laid my hand on his cum-covered stomach. "You okay?"

"Ssh. Still trembling."

I chuckled and released his legs before carefully pulling out. He groaned and flopped back while I disposed of the condom before taking my place beside him, pulling the duvet up over us both. He wiggled over and plopped his head on my shoulder.

"You know you're very good at this?"

"It has been mentioned." I didn't like to tell him that I wasn't this good, actually. Not with anybody else, at least.

"I really ought to take a shower. I'm all sticky." He yawned hugely.

"Just the way I like you," I told him, kissing his head. "I'll leave Shower Sex 101 until the morning."

"Mmm. Can't wait." His voice was already heavy with sleep, his body moulding itself to mine. He wrapped his left arm around my waist and sighed contentedly.

It amazed me how comfortable his body felt. He fitted so perfectly, tucked under my arm, his warm breath tickling my throat while my right hand stroked the silky skin of his hip: he smelled of sweat and cum and teenage testosterone, which beat the hell out of any fancy French cologne I owned. I remembered the Columbian I'd scored at Babylon and I could really have gone for a nice post-coital joint, but since that would have meant actually having to get out of bed I nixed the idea.

Well, it seemed my rules were disappearing rapidly. Not only was I – Oh God – cuddling, my one-fuck-only policy had become two nights and four fucks, and judging from the way my dick was already beginning to stir again it hadn't lost interest yet. Of course, Justin wasn't the only guy I'd ever met who was hot enough to warrant a second round with, but I'd learned quickly enough that repeat fucks tended to foster the belief that something more than sex was involved, which usually resulted in bad-feeling and embarrassment for all concerned. I still shuddered over the memory of a couple of guys who'd been reluctant to take no for an answer, who'd sent me flowers and jewellery and other pathetic tokens of their undying affection until I'd been forced to take drastic steps to deter them. Which was also the main reason I'd always stayed away from twinks: if you were over the hill or Ted then I guessed it might be flattering to have some lovesick kid stalking you, but hey, we're talking Brian Kinney here and I didn't need the hassle.

My friends all thought that I avoided relationships because I refused to believe in love and commitment, but they never really understood it wasn't a question of refusing. I didn't believe it, for the simple reason that I'd never met a single person who could have tempted me to change my mind, and having got to the age of thirty I had no reason to think I ever would. The only man I could honestly say I'd ever loved was Michael, and I'd assumed he would always remain in that unique position: he'd not only been my first friend, he'd been my first crush, my first kiss and my first real-life fantasy, as I was his. As boys we'd been joined at the hip, and we thought it would be that way forever: the assumption that one day we'd naturally progress to a more intimate relationship was an unspoken given for both of us. But even then his blind hero-worship had irritated me, no matter how much my ego enjoyed it, and whilst he was kind and sweet and loyal to a fault he could also be infuriatingly dense and blinkered, not to mention plain dumb sometimes. And although he tried his best to keep up with me, he was never quite bold enough: there was always a little part of him clinging to Deb's apron strings, wanting her protection. The only real sexual experience we shared – a joint jerk-off to a photo of Patrick Swayze when we were fourteen – was cut short by Debbie bursting in on us, an event which so traumatized Mikey that it put him off any further experiments for years. By then it was too late because, although Mikey's love for me hadn't changed, my love for him had. It wasn't that I loved him any less: to me he'd become more of a young brother I took care of, taught shit to, took advantage of, and took totally for granted.

By the time I talked him into braving Liberty Avenue with me, my virginity was only a distant memory. It took four years of trailing after me as I sucked and fucked my way through Babylon, watching my drinks and driving my drunken ass home at the end of the night, before he finally worked up the courage to let someone go all the way with him, and I knew how much it hurt him that that person wasn't me. I knew he wanted it, even expected it, and truthfully I loved him enough to have done it for him: I could have popped his cherry and fucked him and I would have made it good for him. But I knew with absolute certainty that once I did fuck him he'd assume we'd be doing it forever, and finding out that all he'd been was a pity-fuck and that there wasn't going to be any Happy Ever After for us would break his heart more surely than anything else I could have done. See, the unpleasant truth was that if we'd met later in life I probably wouldn't have looked twice at him because to me, Mikey as an adult just wasn't hot.

Not that he wasn't cute enough physically: it was more his air of conformity, of being average and willing to settle for it, that was the real turn-off. After all, any man of thirty who still let his mom run his life, let alone still hide the fact that he was gay from his workmates, wasn't ever going to be the kind of guy who'd stoke my fires in any way. What Michael wanted was marriage and monogamy: I loved him and I'd die for him, but even if I'd been prepared to sacrifice my principles for him I wouldn't have, because I knew he could never hold me either sexually or intellectually. Perhaps I should have been honest enough to tell him that fact – Deb thought so, and gave me her opinion in no uncertain terms - but I was too much of a coward to risk losing the only person in this whole, miserable world that I could one hundred-per-cent-no-question trust, so I let him believe it was only because he was my friend that I wouldn't fuck him, rather than hurt him with the truth. I thought I could keep things the way they'd always been: I wasn't smart enough to realise I was condemning him to spend the rest of his life hoping for the fulfilment he was never going to get.

Well, Mikey had eventually gone searching for the commitment he craved, firstly with the good doctor. David had the situation between Mikey and I pegged from the start: he knew that, whatever Michael professed, I called the shots, and that Mikey would have dropped him like a brick if I'd given him reason to. I was tempted to do it, too, because I knew Doctor Dave was already cheating on him and it was blindingly obvious that they'd never last. But Deb was right: Mikey had to come out my shadow and start making his own life, and that included making his own mistakes. So I stepped back, and let him go, but I was there to pick up the pieces when he finally ditched the doctor's hypocritical, domineering ass. Just as I will be if – or more likely, when – things fall apart between him and Ben.

For me, Michael only reinforced my belief that I was destined to spend my life in splendid isolation, because if there was one guy I should have been able to commit to, it would have been Mikey – the one person I could admit I loved and whose company I could actually tolerate for more than five minutes at a time. If I couldn't do it with him, I sure as hell wasn't going to do it with anybody else.

Or so I'd always thought.

But then came Hurricane Justin: short, blond, slight, barely adult, the antithesis of every physical type I'd ever found attractive, who rearranged my world for me. No wonder Mikey had that wounded, betrayed expression in his eyes whenever he looked at me: he knew me better than anyone else and he understood this wasn't just another trick. Somehow, out of the thousands of guys I'd fucked, this little twink wasn't only the hottest, he'd managed to do the unthinkable: he'd found a way in, and by doing so he'd dislodged Mikey from his unchallenged position.

The logical explanation, of course, was that I'd liked Justin before I fucked him, liked and respected him. Why wouldn't I? He was as talented as he was beautiful, intelligent and funny, and if he was infuriating and stubborn as well, that only added spice to the attraction. It wasn't surprising I liked having him around, or that I wanted to help him out of the horrendous mess he was embroiled in. But logic didn't cover the rest of it: why my heart beat just a little bit faster every time I saw him, or why every time he walked into the room I couldn't take my eyes off him. Or that when I kissed him I felt the fucking earth move. And how the fuck was I supposed to admit any of that sappy shit to Michael?

Love … that ancient, tragic malady. Much as it made me cringe to admit it, I obviously wasn't immune after all, because it had apparently bitten me and bitten me hard. Whether it would prove simply a temporary malaise or a chronic infection I had no idea: all I knew was that for the first time in my life the words Brian Kinney and relationship didn't seem mutually exclusive, and the realisation wasn't panicking me as much as I'd thought it would. What was worrying me more was that Justin seemed to have no such inclination, and I didn't have the first clue about how to persuade him otherwise.

That … and the conversation we were going to have in the morning. Saperstein, the Starlight, Justin's father … us … he was going to face it and talk about it, whether he wanted to or not.

TBC