Free It's Not Shakespeare by Amy Lane Page B

from hard work, and strong, bony fingers. Just thinking about that made James moan, and he arched his hips a little, glad that Marlowe had taken the hint and hopped out of bed when James had started moving.
    He smelled Rafael’s shirt some more, remembered their urgency and the feeling of hairy man legs tangled with his own, remembered Rafael whispering roughly, That’s it, harder, Christ, you’re good, Jimmy, oh, God, keep stroking, faster…. Yesssssss….
    James’s own hand started squeezing harder, his balls throbbed, and he left the shirt draped over his face as he moved his other hand down to cup them and rub. His cock started spurting pre-come of its own, and he used that to lubricate the head, rubbing it in with his thumb, and still… he needed… needed…. Oh God, Rafael had needed him, and their touch had been so good, and that kiss had gone on for ever, and Rafael’s teeth, bruising his skin, had… had….
    He thrust his hips forward and grunted, spilling hot into his hand, and let his hips fall back into the mattress, still twitching.
    Oh God. He’d made love again, with an actual man. And Rafael had wanted him, and it had been furtive and quiet, fumbling in the dark, far from perfect, and wonderful.
    Here is my number. Call me!
    Of course he would.
     
     
    H E SPENT the morning quietly: showering, doing laundry, grading papers, surfing his laptop (not for porn—not this morning anyway), and called Rafael around noon.
    “Eh, Jimmy, how you doin’?”
    James blushed. “How’d you know it was me?”
    “’Cause I was hopin’ it was you. So, like I said, how you doin’?”
    “I’m, uhm, wondering what you wanted for dinner?”
    “What about omelets, like you planned?”
    “There’s uhm, other things I can cook.” Suddenly he got a bolt of confidence. “Try me.”
    Rafael’s chuckle was low and evil, and James flushed hot and cold all over. “That was the plan. I’ll let you do it. You want wine or some shit like that?”
    “I like wine,” James told him shyly. “Your choice.”
    There was a soft silence on the other end of the line, and James could hear the clatter of the garage behind Rafael’s soft breathing.
    “You got any idea what you’re doin’ to me, Jimmy?” Rafael asked quietly after a minute, and James’s tingle of excitement became intense enough to be unbearable.
    “Yeah,” James muttered, thinking about all of the trusting he’d been unable to do for so very long.
    “Well you be careful, okay? You may think you have all the answers ’cause you’re old, but I used to think there was happy-ever-after, ’kay?”
    James closed his eyes. “So did I.”
    “Well, let’s keep thinking that, right?”
    “Right. I’ll see you tonight.”
    They rang off after that, but James was left in the quiet of his own home, scratching Marlowe on the spot behind his tail that sent him straight into ecstasy.
    “He’s right, isn’t he Marlowe? I’m not too old for a happy-ever-after, am I?”
    He took Marlowe’s happy panting for “ I don’t think so,” and tried to put the troubled stirrings of his conscience back where his libido used to live.
     
     
    R AFAEL arrived at seven, looking freshly showered and dressed up, the same way he had the night before.
    He carried with him flowers (yellow daisies and red carnations) and a bottle of white wine. James looked at the flowers with parted lips and soft eyes.
    “I do okay?”
    “Nobody has ever brought me flowers,” he said, feeling silly. It was the truth. Not in college, not in adulthood. Austen had expected them, and so had most of his other dates, come to think about it. James had enjoyed bringing them, showering men with flowers and nice dinners—it seemed to be expected of him.
    No one had ever thought to bring him flowers in return.
    Certainly no one had ever thought to bring them first.
    “So,” Rafael said uncertainly, “that’s good, right?”
    James nodded and turned away quickly. “That’s amazing,” he