Check out these FREE Steamy MM Books on Bookfunnel:
https://books.bookfunnel.com/mmfreebies/vu34moeomo
Includes my story, Angel Mine
http://tinyurl.com/Angel-2
Excerpt:
It’s night now. Or, at least it’s something that looks and sounds and feels convincingly like a night at the lake, even though I’m not altogether convinced time is actually passing—or that there’s an actual lake out there at all. But I can hear the sound of water lapping softly against the dock. Shooting stars blaze lazy trails across the sky. There’s a soft breeze, scented with wood smoke and pine.
It’s pretty damn realistic and romantic as fuck. Which, given the company I’m keeping, is a total waste of ambiance.
Still, as much as he obviously wants to be rid of me, I can tell Edge feels bad about leaving me here all alone. I guess that’s something. He clearly doesn’t know what else to do with me, however, and I’m no help. I can’t think of another place I want to be either, other than somewhere I’m not dead. And since time travel is, apparently, not an option, he blinks himself away with a thought.
And there I am: all by myself once more, stretched out on the bed I outgrew in my teens, in a house that no longer exists, wondering who’s been paying to keep the lights on all these years, and how it is that the sheets still smell fresh?
As philosophical questions go, I bet no one’s heard either of those before.
So, here’s another little fact that I managed to pry out of Edge on the subject of limbo. Unlike purgatory where, after you’ve served your time, so to speak, you’re automatically cleared for heaven, limbo has no set timetable. You could be here for a week, a year, an hour. Or you could stay for eternity. No one knows. It all depends on how quickly you clear up your issues.
Edge won’t say how long he’s been here—shocking, I know. But I get the feeling, from stuff he’s let slip, that it’s been awhile. And since I can’t even figure out what my issues are yet, I suspect my stay here might also be lengthy.
At least I’ll be in good company, I think in the instant before it occurs to me that I may be completely delusional. I’m stuck here with a man who drags me out to the middle of nowhere without explanation, who snarls at me for no reason, won’t divulge any personal information, and runs when I try to get close. And this is my idea of good company now? Clearly, I’m not only delusional and masochistic, I’ve also lowered my standards. When did this happen? Is it an aftereffect of being dead?
If that’s the case, however…it does make me wonder what Edge used to be like before he died. Was he always this surly and uncommunicative? Not that he’d ever tell me, of course.
Edge claims he doesn’t like answering questions about himself because he’s here to help me, not the other way around. I guess that makes some sort of sense. He is older, after all, and more experienced in the ways of the afterlife, so I suppose he figures that’s all the reason he needs to take the lead. But it just doesn’t sit right with me. Competitive remember?
The way I see it, we’re both in the same situation. He’s not doing any better than I am, so why shouldn’t I give it a try? Or, here’s a compromise for you, why can’t we work together to help each other out?
I did try to point out that, most of the time, two heads are better than one, but he took it the wrong way—thought I was making a reference to his little head—and got all flustered again.
Even though it pissed him off, I’d do it again in a heartbeat. It gave me the best laugh I’ve had since I’ve been here.
I suppose I should stop. I should give up on Edge; find someone else; or say the hell with sex and just focus on getting myself out of here. Honestly, I’m not sure why I don’t do exactly that.
Why am I trusting Edge to help me get out of here when he can’t even get himself out? Even more to the point, why am I wasting time on him at all?
He’s clearly one of those guys who likes to pretend that he isn’t interested, that sex is the last thing on his mind. And I’ve never been one to play those games. Life’s too short, you know?
Although, I guess that’s no longer an issue, now is it? Besides, I can tell he’s not as indifferent as he wants me to think. Every now and then he lets his guard down. And the yearning I read in his gaze then, the looks he keeps shooting me, so full of heat and hunger, how could I not respond to that? How can I give up on him? How can I see all that potential and just walk away?
I just wish he’d give us a shot. I wish he’d given me one lousy dance. One dance, that’s all it would take. Afterwards, I bet we’d both know exactly where we stood with each other.
If I close my eyes, I can feel it. We’re back in the bar, and it’s still just the two of us. There’s no one to see, or judge, or bother us. The jukebox is playing something sweet and slow. I don’t know what it is, but it sounds exactly right. We’re holding each other close and swaying to the music. No pressure, no tension, no expectations, we’re just two strangers finding comfort in the touch of someone else’s hands on their skin.
It doesn’t have to be forever. It doesn’t have to be anything more than one, perfect moment.
I lean in and press my lips to his. He hesitates for just an instant, then a soft sound breaks from his lips. A whimper, a sigh, a moan, a groan—is there even a word to describe it? It doesn’t matter, whatever you call it, it’s the sound of surrender. Then he’s kissing me back, and I know I have him. I know that, for tonight, at least, he’s mine.
I cup his face in my hands and feel the flare of heat beneath his skin. His hands on my hips pull me tight against him. His cock rubs against mine, both of us hard.
“Matteo.” My name on his lips, his voice in my ear, and I can’t tell anymore if any of this is real, or if it’s all a fantasy.
Alone in my room, I reach into my shorts and free my dick. As I stroke myself, I imagine it’s his lips wrapped around me, that he’s gone to his knees—right there on the dance floor—and taken me in his mouth.
Our gazes lock, as he sucks me off. Yet I swear his voice is still whispering in my ear. I come hard, laying down stripe after stripe of white hot cum all over the bedspread.
As I’m dragged back into sweet oblivion, I wonder if the sheets will still smell fresh in the morning?
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