At last Steve felt he'd gotten the dimensions just right on the sailing sloop they were building for the Connecticut banker. He'd been concentrating for hours on the task. This was the project that should put them into the black for the year, and it was barely October yet.
It had been a good year. Sonny had left him in March, but Raul had hired up in the wake of Sonny's departure, and Raul was every bit the man Sonny had been and more. The tall, beefy Cuban émigré had the talented hands for all of the tasks Steve had for him—around the Shrimp Cove Boat Builders yard and, just as important, in Steve's bed. This was the fourth man Steve had had in the nine years since he left Baltimore and came down to Key West, where the hot men to be had were plenty. And although Steve was pushing his fifties, he still kept a forceful and willing twenty-something hunk around to make him feel young. It had been his good fortune that the last two—Sonny and Raul—had both been expert boat builders. It helped Steve to focus his activities.
Steve stood and looked down at the drawings spread across his work table. He was pleased with the morning's work. The Connecticut banker was getting himself one honey of a yacht. And he was buying at just the right time too. The downturn in the market made materials cheaper, and so many of the big boat builders up and down the East Coast had bitten the dust that the smaller, more specialized operations like Steve's had more breathing room. All they needed was just a couple of yachts like this a year and they were sitting pretty. And the banker was good for the money. What he had already written a cleared check for was more than enough in itself to keep Steve in business until he had to scrounge up another sugar daddy in the new year.
Steve laughed. The Connecticut banker had been quite a sugar daddy too. Raul had taken care of him when he'd come down to the keys. By the time he went back up to New England, he would have done anything for Raul.
Yes, indeed, Raul was a real asset.
With the thought of Raul, Steve lifted his face toward the double-wide garage door that opened the design and construction floor of the ship-building works. He looked out onto the marina on Stork Island, the last key save Key West down the chain of islands strung out between the Florida tip and Cuba. The sunshine streaming through the bay doors was strong and hot, and Steve gauged the breeze—of which there was practically none—by the slight swaying of the two palm trees between the office building and the business' dock and slipway.
As he looked, his eyes narrowed and his heart began to race as Raul sauntered up and stood, leaning, at the corner of the open bay. He'd been working in the hot sun, finishing a sailboat for a local customer. And he looked hot in more ways than one. The rays of the sun made him little more than a silhouette from where Steve stood, leaning over his drawing table, but Raul was body beautiful in a tableau like this. He was wearing only shorts, and his dark skin was even more golden from the tanning of the fleeting summer in the keys. All muscle and beef and a full head of black curls. The sultry look of the Caribbean. His casual stance and his torso taut from the pull of his arm resting over his head on the frame of the doorway sent flames of arousal through Steve's body, and he began to breathe heavily.
"God, it's hot out here, mon. Time for a beer break?"
"Sure," Steve answered tightly. "Take one from the fridge and bring me one too, please. I just finished the Walker specs. I think we have a winner."
It would be good to have a beer, but what Steve really wanted was Raul over here, behind the table with him. Giving attention to the raging arousal he'd given Steve merely by standing in the doorway in the sunlight.
"Oh, I think Walker can't help but be pleased," Raul said as he sauntered over to the drawing table with two open bottles of Corona dangling from one of his hands.
"Yes, thanks to you."
"Thanks to Mighty Moe," Raul said and then he laughed.
Steve laughed too. That's what Raul called it. Might Moe. And mighty it certainly was.
Raul stood close behind Steve and set a beer for Steve down on a square of space on the surface of the drawing board that wasn't covered with drawing and spec charts. His other hand snaked around Steve's waist and palmed Steve's flat belly after snaking up under the hem of his Polo shirt. Raul took a full pull on his beer bottle while Steve's breathing turned raspy and he began to tremble.
"Let me see what you've drawn," Raul said, as he came in even closer behind Steve and looked over his shoulders at the charts and drawings on the surface of the table. "Yes, very nice. I think we will enjoy building this one."
"Raul," Steve whispered, with what emitted from his mouth being more of a groan than a spoken word. He was leaning over the table, arms wide, supporting his weight on the heels of his hands, legs splayed, because he felt Mighty Moe, all ready for action, at the small of his back, stroking up and down along his spine. Raul knew full well what he was doing—and how it would be received.
Young, hot, muscled, virile. Steve had given up a normal life in Baltimore for this. A family, a reputation, more than half a fortune. And at this moment, it had all been worthwhile. God, he loved Key West. No end of young, hung talent. No worries if one took a walk. There would always be another one—or at least there would be as long as he had money and kept his own body in shape.
"Raul," he rasped.
"Time for more than a beer break, mon?" And then that happy, deep-throated laugh. Raul knew his worth—his talents. And he enjoyed life to the fullest.
Both of Raul's hands were free now. They were working Steve's belt buckle and his zipper, and then they were pulling his trousers down off his legs. Mighty Moe was already free, and Steve began to moan at the feel of the power and heft of it at the small of his back.
"Raul," he whimpered.
"What is it you want, Mon? Tell Raul." And then he laughed again. A husky laugh.
"Fuck me, Raul. Please."
"Here, now? It's cost you some cotton. You know that. You know what I like."
"Yes. Yes. Yes." Steve reached down and fumbled with the drawer under the rim of the drafting table and pulled out the lube and one of the condoms he kept there and dropped them on the table within Raul's reach. This wasn't a unique scene in the construction hall. Steve enjoyed being taken in various parts of the hall. Raul wasn't taking liberties.
Raul didn't answer. He just laughed and reached over and picked up an Exacto knife from the drafting table.
Steve trembled, as he felt Raul pull away from him and heard the ripping sound the knife made behind him in the briefs he was still wearing.
Raul flipped the knife back onto the table and squeezed lube out onto his hand and then, as Steve leaned over the table, arms wide, supporting his body, Raul palmed his belly with his free hand and Steve began to grunt and groan as thick, slick fingers snaked through the slit in his briefs and entered him and began to open him up to the power of Mighty Moe.
With trembling hands Steve took up the condom package and slit it open and freed the condom for Raul to take up when he was ready.
Steve felt like Raul had his whole fist up there now, and he was hyperventilating and moaning and moving his butt on the invading fingers. He didn't notice when Raul had taken up the condom and rolled it on Mighty Moe, but the strength of Raul entering him almost lifted Steve up off the floor and would have slammed his chest down on top of his yacht drawings, if Raul wasn't palming his belly with a strong support hand.
"Oh Shit, Raul. Yesssss!" Steve cried out. Raul hunched his chest over Steve's shoulder blades and gripped Steve's wrists with his fists and fucked hard and fast up into Steve's ass. And then slow and deep. Steve moaned and moaned and moaned as Raul fucked on, breathing heavily now and still laughing, thoroughly enjoying himself.
