Free Cock and Balls (Handcuffs and Lace) by Mia Watts by Mia Watts

ticks.”
    “Ticks?”
    Monty shot him a backward glance. “More things out here suck than just you.”
    “Fuck you.”
    He chuckled and kept trudging through the undergrowth to get to the part of the shoreline he wanted. The part his dad cleared under large shade trees where the fish liked to hang out to get away from the summer heat. A short, wide deck extended over the water.
    Monty put down the Styrofoam container holding the nightcrawlers he’d picked up from the supply store and kept in the fridge. He looked from where he squatted.
    “Don’t just stand there. Put the tackle box down, and get a rod ready.”
    Hank shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Aren’t they already ready?”
    “Release the hook from where it’s secured and put a section of worm on it.”
    “I have to go dig up worms?” Hank asked, horrified.
    Monty sighed, held up the Styrofoam container. “We have the worms. Cut one in half, and thread it onto the hook.”
    Hank thought he might get sick. Mosquitoes. Ticks. Worms. Fishing. Next thing, Monty would be having him gator wrestle. They had gators in Alabama, right? He looked at the water’s edge suspiciously.
    “What’s wrong?” Monty asked.
    “Nothing.”
    Monty held up a wriggling worm. “Bait it.”
    Hank tried not to gag as he baited his hook. Never in his life had he felt so much like a ten-year-old girl. First, he tried wrapping the hook with it. Was it more humane to do that and then drown the worm before it was eaten alive or stab it with the barbed end? He barely quelled his shiver of revulsion.
    Fortunately, Monty saw his dilemma and baited the hook for him. It was then Hank decided he’d pretend never to hook a fish. If it ate the bait—even if a gator nabbed it and dragged him into the water in some kind of death roll—Hank was going to play it off like nothing was on the line to avoid touching the slimy nightcrawlers, or in the case of gators, death by chomping.
    Monty showed him how to cast his line. Hank fumbled it until Monty made a scoffing noise and stood behind him. Suddenly fishing seemed like a lot of fun. At least this part. Monty tucked Hank’s body against his own. His big hand wrapped around Hank’s on the rod and depressed his thumb on a lever-thing. Then swinging it behind him slowly, Monty whipped the rod around and fishing line zipped from the reel, plunked in the water and the float bobbed happily on the gentle waves of the inlet.
    “Now, you wait,” Monty murmured, stepping away from him.
    Monty’s cock no longer pressed Hank’s ass. He decided he needed to rethink his I got nuthin’ on the line plan. The more times he had to bait the hook, the more often Monty would show him how to cast the line, right? He looked at the sexy agent next to him who busied himself setting up his own line. Hank didn’t think he could get away with it too many more times, but damn, he though looking down at lift in his jeans, who knew fishing could be sexy?
    Monty settled on the side of the decking, removed his shoes and socks. He rolled up his jeans legs and careful not to disturb the water too much, he dipped his tanned, hairy calves into the blue water. Hank stared at the way his skin glistened around hardened calf muscles.
    Hank groaned.
    Monty cut him a glance. “Sit.”
    Hank sat. He hurried to get his feet in the water next to Monty.
    “Don’t splash. You’re scaring the fish.”
    “Sorry,” Hank muttered too busy eying Monty’s thighs and groin.
    He didn’t know what it was about the man that kept him in a tailspin. He wanted Monty like no one he’d met before. He thought it might be because he could get other guys. Not just understand their very basic drives to fuck—there was always that—but he couldn’t seem to get under Monty’s skin the way he could with club fucks.
    Monty made him want to do things. The guys Hank had been spending time with lately, mostly made him yawn after he’d gotten off. But even that wasn’t completely right.