copyright 2013 Lee Brazil
"Maybe," Frosty disapproval echoed in Jordan's voice and his eyes were cold enough Zeke had to resist the urge to shiver. "You're just used to having someone else in bed with you."
And now he was fighting the urge to roll his eyes at his best friend's big brother's prudish attitude. "I don't think that's the problem, Jordy. I sleep alone plenty." Where the hell had Jordan McIntosh gotten the idea he was some sort of slut anyway? "I"m not a slut; I just play one on tv." The insouciance of his tone pleased him.
"You forget I had the pleasure of being your next door neighbor for three years," Jordan's lips curled in a sneer. "The parade of men in and out of your door…"
Blinking, Zeke sipped the whisky in his tumbler and remembered those days. During college, he and Perry had lived in a duplex that Perry's parents owned. The unit next to theirs had been occupied by Perry's older brother Jordan, who had been ordered by his father to keep an eye on the young boys and keep them out of trouble. "That wasn't just my door." He pointed out calmly. He could say more, but the truth of the matter was that if Perry hadn't told his brother about his gay adventures during their years of schooling, then it certainly wasn't Zeke's place to do it.
"Oh, right. Perry is straight, or have you forgotten he's getting married next weekend? Which is why you," This was accompanied by a derisive, assessing glance that left Zeke's skin tingling, "are sleeping, alone, in my guest room."
"Whatever. I can't sleep because I'm too keyed up. It's been a hell of a week. I thought a drink might help, but you're right. A good fuck might turn the same trick. Are you offering?" He threw the last bit in just for shits and grins, and because he was annoyed with his friend's brother's judgmental attitude. Not like he didn't know damn well that Jordan McIntosh had been promiscuity itself until an HIV scare in his last year of college had reformed his habits.
""I'll pass. I’m not desperate enough for release to fuck just anyone." His distaste was clear in the way his head lifted and his nostrils flared. Or was it?
Zeke set his tumbler down and stretched his arms over his head, relishing the relief to his tense muscles as much as the flutter of Jordan's nostrils and the white line that bracketed his mouth. Smiling the sexy smile that made a million hearts throb on his daytime soap opera, he couldn’t resist teasing a little more. "But Jordy, Perry swore you'd take care of me." He let his lashes flutter, peeked at the six foot mountain of stoke broker in front of him from under them.
And found himself crushed between the marble counter top and what had to be at least two hundred pounds of hot, hard muscle. This time his eyes closed for real and he dragged in a breath, trying to jumpstart his heart after the foolish organ stalled with the contact. "Fuck." He breathed, feeling a branding iron of steely cock rubbing against his groin.
"That's all it would be, movie star." Hard hands closed on his shoulders. Jordan bent forward, and Zeke retreated, leaning back, struggling to unpin his arms. The movement brought their grins into even closer contact, and Zeke's cock made its own preference for resolving the sleep issue with sex instead of alcohol clear.
"Who needs anything else?" He wormed his arms out of Jordan's embrace and made the most of his freedom by wind his fingers in Jordan's thick, dark hair and dragging his mouth down for a kiss.
Jordan jerked his head back with a wordless snarl. "No kissing. Kissing is for lovers, and this is most definitely not going to be any of that romantic drivel you put on for the world."
The nearly hysterical urge to laugh at that little bit of prunes and prisms was overcome by dwelling on the fact that it made it sound like Jordan actually watched his show. "That's not me, it's script writers. I can give up on the kissing, as long as it's only mouth to mouth you're saying no to." He let his gaze drop, inventorying places on that hard body he'd like to kiss. The man wore pajamas, for Christ sake, silky green fabric that matched his eyes, clung to his body and did absolutely nothing to conceal the length and breadth of his shoulders, the flatness of his belly, or the mouthwatering stretch of cock tenting the fabric.
"Yes…you can kiss me anywhere else you like…" The sentence ended on a groan as Zeke took immediate advantage of the permission, latching his lips onto the fabric that covered Jordan's nipple. Dampening it with his tongue, he fancied he could taste the man through the silk, and twisted his hips. His cock pulsed, and he shuddered, liking the feel of the silk.
"It would be better…" Zeke pulled away, breathing hard, "naked." He finished, sliding his hands under the silk and lifting. Jordan took over, stripping the shirt over his head and tossing in on the black marble counter top. He stepped back and holding Zeke's gaze, hooked his thumbs in the waist band of the pajama pants.
"Go on," Jordan's voice had lowered, roughened, and the husky new tones conveyed a desire that encouraged Zeke to shake off any doubts. Shaking his head, he shrugged his shoulders and let his own shirt fall, leaving him standing in his thong while Jordan looked him over hotly.
Pouting slightly, he lifted a brow. "I'm still ahead of you here, McIntosh."
The pajama pants fell to a silken swirl around Jordan's feet and Zeke's gaze followed them. He kept his glance there, trained on the pool while he got his breathing under control. He was suave, debonair, a heart throb. He was experienced, this wasn't his first time at the rodeo, or on stage, or up to bat or whatever fucking metaphor you wanted to fill in the blank with.
Just because Jordan McIntosh had always been the unattainable fantasy, the image he'd jerked off to for the first time at thirteen, the crush who'd never known he was alive, was no reason to act like a virginal idiot. And he knew he'd waited too long to look back up, because Jordon was forcing his chin up, searching his eyes and all Zeke could do was swallow and close his lids against the intrusion of that pale gold gaze, to hide everything he shouldn't be feeling.
The kitchen door slammed, and Zeke crossed his arms protectively over his chest. Fucking whisky. Now he'd never sleep. And, he'd be lucky if he didn't find himself shuffled off to some hotel in the morning despite the way the press hounded him at every sighting.
Sighing, he tossed back the last of the whisky and returned to his guest room, lying on the bed and feigning sleep when he heard footsteps in the hall outside his door. The sound stopped, as though someone stood outside the door, then continued, fading into the darkness, leaving him alone in a strange bed, with the fear that had originally sent him to the kitchen, and a healthy dose of humiliation in case that jittery someone's watching you feeling ever faded enough.
Hope you liked Jordan and Zeke- you might just be seeing more of them at a future date.
Meanwhile, have you checked out my latest release? You can find Centurion, the latest in Pulp Friction's Heated Exchange line, at All Romance eBooks and other fine ebook retailers.
"Can I be yours?"
Centurion Gaius Priscus has had his fill of war and death but knows no other life. When he meets the captive Salicar's gaze after battle, months of stringent self-denial catch up to him in a blazing rush of need.
Salicar is a healer, an educated man unused to battle but with his own experience of death. He should prefer death to captivity, but cannot find the courage to make it happen.
Will the hardened warrior, tired of death and destruction, deny his captive's plea?
Thanks for dropping by! you all have a fabulous day, and we'll see you next week! Take care and stay warm!