Free Tree Fingers by Augusta Li Page B

then— ”
    He guided Alan further around the trunk, and, using Alan’s finger like a pencil, traced a primitive heart scraped into the bark. The letters “G” and “D” had been carved within it. “My first kiss,” Graham said. “On this very spot.”
    “Who was he?” Alan asked.
    “Doug Fletcher,” Graham answered. “We had ceramics class together in the ninth grade. And this one—,” he reached up higher, trailing Alan’s hand, to another heart. Unlike the first, it had been made by a taller man, an artist. Roses, simple but well-executed, adorned the perimeter, and the letters, which read
    “GRW” and “LDK,” had been cut in a swirling script. Below the second set of letters, added later and with a heavier hand, was the phrase “R.I.P. 2007.”
    “—for Luke,” Alan finished Graham’s sentence.
    “I would have buried him here if they’d let me. He loved the spot so.”
    Folding Graham in his arms, Alan said, “I see why it means so much.”
    “You’re great,” Graham said. He leaned against Alan, more grateful than he’d ever be able to impart to the other man, for Alan’s sympathy, his lack of jealously or bitterness when Graham spoke to him of his lost love.
    “You’re not too bad, either,” Alan said, in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood, “for a tree hugger.”
    “Satanist,” Graham taunted back playfully.
    Pressing closer, backing Graham into the walnut, Alan kissed him hard. A tiny puff of air was pushed from Graham’s lungs. Alan drove relentlessly into his mouth, nipping at his lips and tongue and passing along a contagious and delirium-inducing lust. When he finally stopped to catch his breath, he said, “So how do I get my name on the wall of fame here?”
    “Just keep doing that,” Graham muttered, his eloquence stolen by the way Alan’s lips closed around the muscle of his neck, and the heel of his hand supported Graham’s inundated balls.
    Without disengaging their tangled arms and legs, Graham and Alan stumbled back to Graham’s yard. Graham walked backward, both of his hands trapped inside Alan’s waistband.
    Alan led, though his eyes were closed most of the time. No matter; Graham would have followed him anywhere. When they reached the spot in the grass strewn with walnut leaves, they collapsed on the ground. Graham’s back hit, and he felt thankful for the scant padding of the fallen foliage. He rolled on top of Alan and whisked away his striped sweatshirt. Bits of leaves clung to his straight, dark hair, and grass and gravel dented his pale, slender torso. He lay complacent as Graham unfastened his studded belt, unzipped his pants and pulled them down. Alan never wore shorts, so nothing hid his erection from Graham’s sight or touch.
    For a few minutes Alan let Graham explore the terrain of his chest, belly, and groin with his hands and mouth. He folded his arms behind his head while Graham’s lips moved across the plateau of his chest, down the gully between his stomach muscles, and over the ridge of sinew that angled toward his cock.
    Long fingers held Graham’s hair, urging his head gently downward. Happy to comply with what Alan wanted, Graham positioned himself perpendicular to the other man and boosted himself up on his elbow. He cupped Alan’s balls and gave his sack a light tug and twist that made his cock skip. Grasping it at the base, Graham admired it a moment in the clarity of the autumn light before taking it into his mouth. Leaves showered them, golden against Alan’s smooth pallor.
    Sliding his tongue slowly back and forth over Alan’s cock, Graham savored the texture of his skin and the flavor of his sweat and pre-come. He also enjoyed the way Alan’s waist twisted, grinding and crushing the grass, leaves, and soil, releasing their fragrances. The vegetative perfume mingled with the aroma of Alan’s aroused body, evoking even more of Graham’s ardor. He increased his pace, opening his throat.
    Alan’s hands tugged at his hair