Death In Eden Ch 03

Johnny Wallace's body was beat up pretty badly. It definitely looked like a hate crime to me. But that didn't take much imagination to suppose. The man had been strung up naked on a saw horse and fucked with a club nearly the size of a baseball bat before being bludgeoned with it. Divine? retribution, I thought.

I didn't spend all that much time with the body, but I did find a surprise or two that set me thinking for a couple of days.

They'd finished the autopsy and could only say a "maybe" on the question of sexual rape going beyond the foreign-object penetration—mainly because of the size of the foreign object used. But I couldn't have mustered up regrets if there had been some positive results for body fluids or something. Which brought us back to my earlier question when we were done and Pete had settled us in a faux British pub at the edge of Leesburg that was so clean and dolled up that it wouldn't have been out of place in Disneyworld.

"Those aren't all of the reasons I'm down here on this case, are they?" I asked Pete when we were settled with our Belgium beers and a bowl of gourmet nuts.

"I was real sorry to hear about Dan Roberts." was his response. "Real sorry. My condolences on that. Really."

Good old Pete. Never approach directly when you can beat around the bush.

"Yeah, well, I haven't gotten over that," I answered. "But I did get even." It hadn't been more than six months since I'd pursued the killers of my NYPD Homicide squad partner—and lover—across Europe and closed out on them. That hadn't closed out on my feeling for Dan Roberts any, though.

"But I've missed you, Clint. Missed you real bad. So, yes, there's another reason I got you liaised down here for the Wallace case. I could do that because of your earlier connection with Wallace. But I wanted to do it because of us. I need to know where we stand now. What the possibilities might be."

There, it was out. Pete Blair had been my "significant other" before Dan Roberts had come onto the scene. Pete had been the older man who took me under his wing and shared all of his professional experience with me and had wound up sharing his bed with me too. And then Dan had come along, and I drifted into being a Pete for Dan. And then one day it was Dan in my bed and Pete had withdrawn from the NYPD and headed south.

"Pete. The past, you know . . ."

"I know I took it hard," Pete said in a low, insistent voice, after taking a big swig of his beer. "I know I wasn't paying enough attention to you that last six months. It was the job. You know the job. It can just swallow you up. I can see where Dan was attractive to you. So much younger, and obviously wanting you so bad."

"Pete . . ."

"And now that you are here. I just need you so bad, Clint. Just the scent of you across the table from me. I think that's what I miss the most. Just having you here, close to me. I'm genuinely sorry about Roberts, but . . ."

* * * *

I had forgotten those moves of Pete's that had me melting to him. He was a consummate lover, closely attentive to his partner and with the small, unexpected moves that could put a man needing attention over the edge. But, if anything, perhaps too sensitive and gentle and attentive for some men. And I probably was one of those men. With me, it was variety that floated my boat. I loved what Pete did to me. But maybe not a steady diet of it. I liked to be ridden and taken hard now and again too. That was probably what had killed our relationship. Probably if it hadn't been Dan Roberts, it was destined to having been someone else. And with Dan, I dominated. That had been an entirely new, fascinating world for me. With Pete, though, there was never a question of who was going to be fucking who.

Pete's small, centuries-old townhouse was just a short ride away from the faux British pub. He still lived alone. If he had replaced me, he'd had him cleared out entirely before I got there.

Pete liked to enfold—and I liked to be covered and completely controlled. So, it didn't take us long to find our old, comfortable position. I was flat on my belly on his queen-sized bed, only my hips slightly elevated by a pillow, stroking the sheets with my cock to the rhythm of his fuck. He was on top of me, covering me closely, nipples pressed into my shoulder blades, thighs encasing mine, using his knees for leverage in the stroking of his cock deep inside me, my hips raised slightly to meet his crotch. He had his head close to mine, kissing my neck, teasing my earlobe with his teeth, whispering to me of remembrances of my smell and how it drove him crazy, and enticing me to turn my lips to his frequently for long kisses.

But what I found most melting, most intimate for some inexplicable reason, was that he ran his arms along mine and held both of my hands in his, our fingers entwined, him holding me gently in thrall to him there, a symbol of how closely we were joined as he fucked me.

And he fucked me as no other man did, in long, deep, slow, gliding strokes to the very depth of me. Long-term lovers, we fucked naturally, and my channel muscles were so familiar with every vein and bump in his cock that they expanded and contracted to meet his slides and made undulating love to his tool. Thus perfectly set, his cock moved in and out in long strokings for time unending, culminating in mewings of taking from me and sighs and moans of a prolonged, prodigious flow from him that backed up between throbbing cock and channel and burbled out onto the sheets.

We lay there afterward, each thinking thoughts of "how it once was," fully satisfied once more, sweating slightly from the last few minutes of writhing that preceded our almost simultaneous ejaculations. I was laying on my back, arms over my head, and Pete was stretched beside and hovering over me, one hand gently teasing my cock and balls, his nose and tongue buried in one of my pits, drinking me in.

"You know you are hopelessly promiscuous, don't you?" he murmured to me. But it wasn't an accusation. He was smiling down at me. Perhaps feeling a little smug that it had been so easy.

But I remembered his fucking. I knew before I got on that night shuttle from New York that he would fuck me—if he still wanted to. Being promiscuous didn't bother me if I could be fucked as expertly as he did it. If he hadn't left New York, I would have let him continue fucking me even while I was fucking Dan. Dan had said he didn't care. He'd said he'd take me any way he could get me. It had been Pete who pulled out of me and left. It was Pete who was looking for the one and only.

"You know I don't let any man put his stamp on me, if that's what you mean?" I answered.

"No, it's not. Not really. It's just that you're so natural about it. And you draw men so naturally. I guess it would be inevitable that you fucked a lot."

"Umm, umm," I answered lazily. "And if you keep doing that to me, you can fuck me again." His hand was doing wonders for the erection angle of my tool. I reached down and started bringing him back up to erection too, and his intake of breath told me we wouldn't be talking for very long.

"Oh, I intend to. It's been too long," Pete responded in a low, husky voice. "What is it, though? What is it that you seek in fucking, Clint?"

"Oh, I guess the death wish," I answered. I'd been asked this before.

"The death wish?" Pete's forehead was wrinkled, and I knew I needed to disabuse him of where my answer had spun his thoughts off too.

"I don't mean actual death. But, you know, there are philosophers who have written about ejaculation as a brief death, as being as near to death as you can get and live. And I live for being on that edge—for the moment of ejaculation. And not just mine, but the second when I have brought a man to his ejaculation, to the elation of his brief brush with death. Sort of a life in death connection. Does any of that make sense?"

A short pause, and then, "Yes, I guess I can see that. For a moment I was afraid—"

"—that coming down here on a case about Johnny Wallace would make me remember and think sobering thoughts?" I filled in the sentence for him, and he didn't answer so I knew I'd filled it in correctly.

"There were moments, yes, when Johnny Wallace was fucking me that I thought I was going to die—even, perhaps, that I wanted to die and get it over with. But, no, I don't have nightmares about that. And that's not what I meant."

"So," Pete said, with what might have been a forced smile and jocularity. "Shall we see how many times we can kill each other again before we have to trot off and get you introduced to the Commonwealth's Attorney?"

"Sure," I tossed out. "You keep a vocal count of yours, and I'll sing out mine."

Then Pete rolled me back on my stomach, simultaneously pushed a pillow under my belly again to raise my hips to him, as I sighed and moaned as he entwined my hands in his, covered me closely, and slid down, down, down inside me.

It was good to be home—if only for a brief visit.