Free It's Not Shakespeare by Amy Lane Page A
Authors: Amy Lane
satisfied cat-like little sound.
“That’s nice, papi, ” he murmured. “Maybe now you want to rub the side and the front?”
James did, a simple, sweet, human touch, and Rafael arched into him pleasantly, relaxed and happy. His little noises began to do what sexy noises did, and after Rafael shivered all over and then captured James’s hand against his middle, saying, “That’s good, Jimmy, you can stop now,” he had something to show for it when he pulled that tight lithe body up against his bulkier heavily muscled one.
“Oooh, I like what you got for me,” Rafael mumbled, and James nuzzled the hollow at his neck, feeling sleepy and sated and happy, without even the sex to get him off.
“You’ll like it better in the morning,” he sighed, and Rafael must have been tired too, because James wasn’t sure if he ever replied.
Chapter 4
Got Your Number
J AMES woke up because Marlowe climbed into bed (from his little stool) and was currently licking James’s toes. James yawned and stretched and felt his bare body rub against the once-clean sheets sensually. There were a couple of damp spots underneath his bottom, and that alone made him blink, confused. He rolled over then to the empty place next to him to see a note, written on a piece of the scratch pad he kept in the kitchen, and a single yellow/red rose, probably picked from the next door neighbor’s bush.
Jimmy—
You were tired and I had to work, so I called Sophie to come get me. Here’s my cell number, CALL ME and I’ll stop by tonight. You can cook for me then.
Rafi
James looked at the note, read it again and again, then rolled over and smelled the pillow where Rafael had slept, closing his eyes because, yes, there it was. Aftershave, Rafael, and sex.
James brought his hands down his chest (hairy in middle age as it hadn’t been in youth) and felt the stickiness on his stomach, on his cock and his testicles, on his hip, and he closed his eyes. He had a confused image of touches in the dark, Rafael’s mouth on his, and the overwhelming need to touch skin to skin.
He’d felt Rafael’s cock in his hand—he could remember it, the veiny texture, the slickness of pre-come on top, the way it throbbed in his palm. He remembered how wonderful it had felt, his joy at touching someone else, and the shameless moan he’d given when Rafael had touched him the same way in return.
He remembered that their kiss had started out a brush of lips in the dark, and how it had exploded. He wasn’t sure who had needed whom more—he knew he’d needed Rafael, but Rafael’s mouth had been open and begging, and James had needed to fill that need as much as he’d needed to be touched. His shirt had been dragged off roughly—he thought he remembered ripping—and Rafael’s tank top was still wadded up in a ball at the headboard. James grabbed it with one hand and held it to his nose, smelling the sweat and the wind and Rafael’s skin all over again. His other hand stroked along the ridges of his hardening cock.
They had kicked off each other’s shorts; he remembered that, because it had been funny: their feet had wrestled and danced until the fabric was shoved off the foot of the bed (and Marlowe with it, he seemed to remember) and then their legs had tangled and their cocks had been in each other’s hands.
There had been no finesse or planning, no seduction, and no top or bottom. It had just been want… need… yes, yes, yesyesyesyesyesyes…. Oh, Christ, I’m gonna…
Come.
They’d arched and grunted and orgasmed—James had a bite mark on his shoulder because Rafael had lost control and bit him when they’d peaked. The edge of pain, the desperation, knowing Rafael was pumping into James’s touch—that was what had done it for James, almost as much as Rafael’s rough grip on his cock.
James wrapped his hand around it now—hard, thick, decently long—and squeezed, but he couldn’t replicate the feeling. Rafael had calluses
“That’s nice, papi, ” he murmured. “Maybe now you want to rub the side and the front?”
James did, a simple, sweet, human touch, and Rafael arched into him pleasantly, relaxed and happy. His little noises began to do what sexy noises did, and after Rafael shivered all over and then captured James’s hand against his middle, saying, “That’s good, Jimmy, you can stop now,” he had something to show for it when he pulled that tight lithe body up against his bulkier heavily muscled one.
“Oooh, I like what you got for me,” Rafael mumbled, and James nuzzled the hollow at his neck, feeling sleepy and sated and happy, without even the sex to get him off.
“You’ll like it better in the morning,” he sighed, and Rafael must have been tired too, because James wasn’t sure if he ever replied.
Chapter 4
Got Your Number
J AMES woke up because Marlowe climbed into bed (from his little stool) and was currently licking James’s toes. James yawned and stretched and felt his bare body rub against the once-clean sheets sensually. There were a couple of damp spots underneath his bottom, and that alone made him blink, confused. He rolled over then to the empty place next to him to see a note, written on a piece of the scratch pad he kept in the kitchen, and a single yellow/red rose, probably picked from the next door neighbor’s bush.
Jimmy—
You were tired and I had to work, so I called Sophie to come get me. Here’s my cell number, CALL ME and I’ll stop by tonight. You can cook for me then.
Rafi
James looked at the note, read it again and again, then rolled over and smelled the pillow where Rafael had slept, closing his eyes because, yes, there it was. Aftershave, Rafael, and sex.
James brought his hands down his chest (hairy in middle age as it hadn’t been in youth) and felt the stickiness on his stomach, on his cock and his testicles, on his hip, and he closed his eyes. He had a confused image of touches in the dark, Rafael’s mouth on his, and the overwhelming need to touch skin to skin.
He’d felt Rafael’s cock in his hand—he could remember it, the veiny texture, the slickness of pre-come on top, the way it throbbed in his palm. He remembered how wonderful it had felt, his joy at touching someone else, and the shameless moan he’d given when Rafael had touched him the same way in return.
He remembered that their kiss had started out a brush of lips in the dark, and how it had exploded. He wasn’t sure who had needed whom more—he knew he’d needed Rafael, but Rafael’s mouth had been open and begging, and James had needed to fill that need as much as he’d needed to be touched. His shirt had been dragged off roughly—he thought he remembered ripping—and Rafael’s tank top was still wadded up in a ball at the headboard. James grabbed it with one hand and held it to his nose, smelling the sweat and the wind and Rafael’s skin all over again. His other hand stroked along the ridges of his hardening cock.
They had kicked off each other’s shorts; he remembered that, because it had been funny: their feet had wrestled and danced until the fabric was shoved off the foot of the bed (and Marlowe with it, he seemed to remember) and then their legs had tangled and their cocks had been in each other’s hands.
There had been no finesse or planning, no seduction, and no top or bottom. It had just been want… need… yes, yes, yesyesyesyesyesyes…. Oh, Christ, I’m gonna…
Come.
They’d arched and grunted and orgasmed—James had a bite mark on his shoulder because Rafael had lost control and bit him when they’d peaked. The edge of pain, the desperation, knowing Rafael was pumping into James’s touch—that was what had done it for James, almost as much as Rafael’s rough grip on his cock.
James wrapped his hand around it now—hard, thick, decently long—and squeezed, but he couldn’t replicate the feeling. Rafael had calluses