Free Crossing Borders by Z. A. Maxfield Page A

starting with slow, gentle thrusts, pumping Tristan's cock at the same time, finding a rhythm, then changing it as he felt himself racing toward release too soon. Tristan had begun to moan into the pillow, his butt coming up, pushing back, looking for more. Michael changed his angle, sitting up on his knees and taking Tristan's hips in his hands, curling his toes for traction. Michael pushed hard into Tristan's perfect ass, nailing his gland and slapping the fronts of his thighs against the backs of Tristan's as his lover, on all fours before him, took all of him and more. Tristan was shaking, melting around Michael's cock, almost keening into the pillow.
     
    “Touch yourself, Tristan,” said Michael, between thrusts. He was still bringing himself to the brink, then backing off. Sweat ran into his eyes, and he doubted he could hold off much longer. He began to make long, sweeping strokes, each one brushing by Tristan's gland, and he felt Tristan's orgasm when it came, in his stiffening body and the clamping of his asshole around Michael's cock, the sweet ass jerking beneath him with each thrust as he rode the waves of his release. He heard Tristan scream his name into the pillow. Michael grinned. Noisy . Michael let himself go right then, the sight of Tristan's body filled with pleasure, the smell of him, the noises he was making, all setting off a chain reaction of mini explosions that started in his balls and the base of his spine, and traveled through his body to his brain until he saw spots. He thought he might have shouted and hoped he called out Tristan and not Sparky.
     
    They stayed rocking like that, on their knees, with Michael draped over Tristan's back and Tristan still probably biting the pillow, until Michael softened and slid out of Tristan's body. He removed and tied off the condom, tossing it toward the trash, and pulled Tristan with him. Michael rolled onto his side, spooning up to Tristan in a more comfortable, sleepable parody of how they'd made love.
     
    Tristan said nothing, and oddly, this didn't worry Michael much. Maybe it was the way that Tristan snuggled back into him, or maybe it was the way he pressed Michael's hands to his body, or the fact that he hooked his foot around Michael's ankle and rubbed Michael's calf with it that made Michael think Tristan would be okay till he drifted off to sleep again.
     
    Michael lay there wondering what morning would bring. That morning, or rather, now it was yesterday morning, he realized, he sure the hell hadn't known he'd be here like this, loving the boy for whom he'd written his first citation. He grinned into the darkness, circling the thinner man's waist with both arms. Sometimes good things did come if you waited long enough.

Chapter Eight
     
     
     
     
    Monday morning Tristan went with two of his friends from school to Diho Bakery, a Taiwanese place close to UCI that made hot, fresh meat buns and sweet bean-curd pastries. He laughed and joked and played like always, but every so often he'd remember the previous Friday night and get caught up in it. His face flushed, and he worried his friends could read the new knowledge there. He'd eaten breakfast with Michael the previous Saturday after spending the night, straddling his lap and feeding him cereal, and being fed fruit in return. They'd shared coffee and then skin, showering and sliding together until the water turned cold. Tristan couldn't take his eyes or his hands off his new lover, and apparently, he couldn't get his mind off him, either.
     
    “Hey, Tris,” said Jonathon for the third time. “Dude, you deaf or what?”
     
    “No, sorry,” said Tristan, mastering his thought processes. It was midterms, and if he didn't get a grip, his test scores would be low and his social life nonexistent for the rest of the quarter. “What?”
     
    “I asked, are you seeing Viper again, or did you find someone new? You're marked, man; it's like you're dating a Hoover.”
     
    “Oh.” He slapped a