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Copyright ©2008 by Torquere Press

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CONTENTS

The Handyman Can

The Simple Life

V-Day

Contributors

* * * *

The Handyman Can

By Cassidy Ryan

With a soul-deep sigh of relief, Brady Lang turned the key in the lock and flipped the sign on the door so

that it read “Closed". He turned and leaned back tiredly against the door, blue eyes surveying the scene
before him.

The carefully tied pink satin bows and glittering hearts his assistant Amy had set lovingly around the store

were either askew, lying crumpled on the floor or just missing. The formerly artistic displays of chocolates
and candies now lay in tatters, baskets overturned, bags burst, dark chocolate cupids and white chocolate
roses broken and crushed under foot.

Valentine's Day. Brady grimaced. It looked more like a whirlwind had torn through his small chocolate

boutique.

He pushed away from the door and set about putting things to rights, refusing to feel bitter or

disheartened by the fact that, for the third year in a row, he had nothing better to do on the holiday than
work.

With Amy gone for the day, the store was quiet. He turned on the radio, only to turn it back off when he

realized that the local station was playing non-stop love songs in honor of the day.

As he tore down the remaining hearts and bows and stuffed them into a trash bag, Brady could hear

Amy's voice in his head. “You could have had a date tonight, if you would just stop being so damn picky.
Elliot Rayne was in here three times today. Three, Brady. What has the guy got to do to get you to notice
him? Strip off and tattoo your name on his dick?"

He cringed as he swept up the detritus of the last urgent flurry of the day.

Elliot Rayne. Was that the only option left open to him? A mouth breather who always had a hand moving

suspiciously in the pocket of his pants? Granted, this was not a big town, so choices were always going to
be limited, but ... Elliot Rayne? Brady shuddered at the thought.

He gathered up the now-empty serving platters from the glass display cases, and took them through to

the kitchen where he loaded them into the washer.

A quick scan of the storage area lifted his spirits a little. Supplies of his handmade treats were seriously

depleted, so, if nothing else, at least his bank balance would be that much healthier.

After an hour he decided that the shop was looking more acceptable. He thought about heading back to

the kitchen to start making up a few batches of his more regular favorites—peppermint creams, caramel
cups and praline swirls—but when a yawn forced its way onto his face, he decided that it could wait until the
morning. February 15th was usually graveyard quiet anyway. He would have plenty of opportunity to catch
up.

With another weary sigh, and trying not to let himself get too maudlin at the prospect of returning to an

empty house, he grabbed his coat and scarf from the closet, turned off the lights and locked the door behind
him.

* * * *

The drive from the shop to his home was not a long one, but Brady drove slower than usual. Snow was

already falling thickly and steadily. Winter's last hoorah.

The minute he turned onto his street, Brady's eyes were drawn to the light shining from his living room

window, and the black pickup truck parked out front of his house.

"Aw, crap.” He drew up behind the pickup and sat there, looking up at the house, hands gripping the

steering wheel tightly. He didn't need this tonight. He really didn't.

Muttering under his breath, he got out of the car and trudged slowly, reluctantly up the path to the front

door. Inside, he shed his coat and scarf and followed the high-pitched screech of a power drill down the hall.
A siren call. At the doorway to the living room, his footsteps halted and his breath caught in his throat at the
sight that greeted his eyes.

Rob MacKenzie was nothing short of god-like in his beauty: six foot three, a veritable wall of toned,

sculpted muscle, shoulder-length jet black hair—currently held in a ponytail at his nape by a leather tie—and
eyes the color of slate. Dressed in low-slung jeans, a leather tool belt resting on narrow hips and a tight
black wife-beater, the man was an invitation to sin.

In the four weeks since he had hired Rob to do some much-needed work around the house, Brady had

become accustomed to coming home to find Rob there, and he usually enjoyed their conversations as Rob
packed up to leave for the day. But tonight, he really could have done without having to face the
personification of everything that would never be available to him.

He freely admitted—to himself at least—that he found Rob intensely attractive, and had indulged in

several very pleasant fantasies about him in the privacy of his bedroom. Normally he could deal with this
very one-sided infatuation, but having spent the day catering to the needs of people buying gifts for their
lovers, he felt just a little too raw.

Surely Rob had something better to do on Valentine's night than putting up shelves in Brady's living

room?

When the drill whirred to a halt, Brady cleared his throat and entered the room.

Rob's head turned at the sound and he smiled widely, teeth a flash of white behind a neatly trimmed

goatee. Brady felt his body stir to life under the smile, a reaction that was becoming achingly familiar.

"Hey, Bossman.” Rob put down the drill, picked up a piece of two-by-four and dug into the front pocket of

his tool belt to fish out a handful of screws. “Nearly done here, then I'll get out of your hair."

Brady watched as Rob fixed the two-by-four to one side of the alcove by the fireplace, then picked up

another and fixed it to the opposite side before laying a maple shelf on top and screwing it into place. Brady
swallowed convulsively, and his mouth was suddenly dry as dust as he watched the pull and flex of Rob's
biceps and shoulders, the bunch of his back and buttock muscles as he put pressure on the screwdriver. A
bead of sweat trickled out from under Rob's ponytail and wound its way down to be absorbed by the cotton
of his shirt.

Desire flared hot and strong in Brady, and he had to look away, focus his attention, instead, on Rob's

tools lying around him on the recently sanded floor. But Brady's interest in things like drills, sanders and
routers was limited—hence the reason for hiring Rob in the first place. So, before long his eyes drifted
inexorably back to Rob, moved over his tight body. He wondered if Rob's skin was as smooth as it looked.
Did it taste salty from a day's honest labor?

A part of Brady reveled in his reaction to Rob; proof that even after three arid years he was still capable

of feeling physical desire.

The very notion of him and Rob was absurd, of course. He, Brady, was fast approaching the wrong side

of forty, and while he wasn't exactly deformed—he'd had his share of admirers—he was hardly the kind of
guy who would show up on the radar of someone like Rob: twenty-five, buff and hotter than Hades.

No, he usually acted like a magnet to guys like Jack, his last boyfriend. He of the angelic smile and

morals of an alley cat. Brady pushed that thought resolutely from his mind. He'd beaten himself up quite
enough over Jack Heaton.

Brady raised his eyes and flushed bright red when he met Rob's eyes and realized that he had been

caught in the act of ogling. Brady coughed to cover his embarrassment. “I, uh, don't ... don't you have
somewhere better to be tonight?” His voice was higher than normal, his eyes looking everywhere but at Rob.

"Nah, not really,” Rob said brightly, putting down the screwdriver and tucking his hands into the pockets

of his jeans.

Brady's gulp was almost audible as his eyes were drawn to Rob's groin where the denim material was

now pulled that much tighter over a very appealing bulge. There was a faint edge of hysteria in the laugh
that escaped Brady.

"You mean there isn't some little hottie waiting eagerly to share the evening with you?"

A snicker brought Brady's eyes back up to Rob's face.

"What's waiting for me is a flatulent hound, a takeaway pizza and a beer in front of the television."

"I guess you haven't been in town long enough to meet many people?"

Rob's eyes caught Brady's and Brady found it almost impossible to look away. Heat flooded his body and

his chest felt tight.

"I'm doing okay.” Rob's voice sounded low and a little husky to Brady.

There was an unfamiliar tension in the air, an indefinable something that had never been there between

them before. Usually their interaction was light and easy. Rob would regale him with stories of the old lady
who lived next door to him, who goosed him every time they met, or his dog Molly's war of wills with the old
lady's cat.

Brady in turn would tell Rob about the hardware store owner's pregnant wife who had placed a special

order for chocolate-covered olives, or the high school kids who thought they could get drunk on brandy
liqueurs.

But tonight the air seemed heavy.

Brady took a step forward before he even realized what he was doing. The second it dawned on him,

panic rose and he moved back so fast that he stumbled over a tool chest. Rob reached out and grabbed his
arm before he could fall on his ass.

Brady smiled sheepishly, face hot with embarrassment. “Thanks."

"No problem.” Rob's hand remained on Brady's arm for a couple of beats, and then fell to his side. He

bent down to begin putting away his tools. “I guess I should be getting home."

Brady nodded dumbly and moved over to stand in front of the window. “Snow's really coming down now."

The only sounds were of Rob tidying up behind him.

For a moment Brady considered asking Rob if he wanted to stay for a beer, maybe something to eat, but

he quickly discarded the idea. A couple of beers and he might say more than was good for either of them.

"Well, I'll uh, I'll see you in the morning?” Rob asked. In the window Brady could see Rob's reflection. Rob

was watching him, waiting for his response.

Brady put on his best smile and turned to face Rob, the urge to touch making his fingers twitch. “Probably

not. I should really get to the store early. The ravening hordes just about cleaned me out today."

Rob nodded, his lips turned up in a small smile. “Okay, right, well ... I'll uh, I'll finish the shelves tomorrow

and make a start on the banisters. I should be finished by the weekend."

The words settled like a stone in Brady's stomach. “Great. You've done some really good work. Thanks.

I'll have a check for you on Friday."

Rob nodded again and collected his heavy winter jacket from where it hung on the door handle. “Well,

goodnight, then.” He zipped up the jacket and dug some gloves out of the pockets.

"'Night, Rob. Enjoy your pizza.” Brady's smile felt stiff and false.

Rob paused at the door, and for a second Brady thought he was going to say something, but he simply

raised his hand and left.

When he heard the front door close, Brady's shoulders slumped and he looked down at Rob's tools,

stacked neatly in the alcove under the new shelves. “Well fuck.” His voice echoed in the empty room.

* * * *

The rumble of the pickup's engine faded as Brady made his way upstairs, where he took a long, hot

shower, dressed in sweats and wandered down to the kitchen.

He stood in front of the refrigerator for an age, staring blankly at the contents before grabbing a beer and

closing the door with more force than was necessary. He was popping the top on the bottle when the
doorbell rang.

He put the bottle on the counter with a muttered curse and headed for the front door, sock-clad feet silent

on the carpeted floor. He yanked the door open ... and froze.

Rob was standing on the other side, snow melting on his dark hair, twisting his gloves in his big hands.

"Rob? Did you forget something?” Brady barely even noticed the chill wind swirling around him.

"Uh, kinda. Do you mind if I come in?” It seemed like an odd question to Brady, considering Rob had his

spare key so that he could come and go as he needed during the day.

He nodded and opened the door further. Rob kicked the snow from his boots and entered the house. But

instead of going through to the living room, he stopped and waited while Brady closed the door.

Brady turned to face Rob and found the intensity of the gray eyes watching him disconcerting. He raised

an eyebrow in question.

"I just ... I have a question I wanted to ask you.” Rob unzipped his jacket in a jerky movement.

"Oh. Okay.” Brady waited, puzzled.

"Okay. Good. Good.” Rob stuffed his gloves into the pockets of his jacket. “Okay, so here's the thing. I

was wondering...” He stopped, took a breath. “Do you ... could you ... you know, in any way, I mean...” He
seemed unable to meet Brady's eyes for more than a split second.

For some reason Rob's nervousness had the effect of calming Brady. “Rob, why don't you just ask me?”

His voice was gentle, coaxing.

A fleeting look of panic crossed Rob's face. He took another deep breath and finally gathered himself

enough to ask “Do you, in any way, like me? I mean like me?” He seemed to hold his breath waiting for
Brady's reply.

Brady felt hope unfurl in his stomach and his pulse kicked up a notch.

"Sometimes I think you do.” Rob's eyes flicked back to meet Brady's, then quickly away again. “Then

you'll suddenly get all distant, like you don't want to be around me."

The raw vulnerability in Rob's eyes touched something in Brady. Rob looked so unsure of himself that

Brady wanted nothing more than to wrap him in his arms.

This was not the happy-go-lucky guy who had made Brady laugh more in the last month than he had in

the preceding three years. This was a man taking his courage in both hands and laying it on the line.

Brady took the three steps necessary to bring them together. He raised his hands to Rob's face, smiling

when the bristles of Rob's goatee tickled his palms, and looked right into troubled gray eyes.

"I like you.” Tugging gently he pulled Rob's head down so that their lips could touch.

It was a light kiss, a barely-there touch, but when Brady pulled back, Rob's eyes had drooped and a smile

curled up one corner of his mouth.

"Nice.” Rob's voice was a little huskier than before.

Brady ran his thumb over Rob's full lower lip and grinned. “I thought so. But with some practice I think we

could do better."

Rob moved forward a couple of inches until they were standing toe to toe. “And when do you suggest we

start this practice?” His eyes sparkled playfully as his arms came up to wrap around Brady's waist. “Should
we set up a schedule?"

Brady's grin deepened and he rose up on his toes so that their lips were almost touching again, until they

were sharing air. “Why don't we just wing it?"

This seemed acceptable to Rob. He leaned in and brought their mouths together.

Brady sighed and parted his lips. He flicked out his tongue to run the tip over the seam of Rob's lips.

Rob's mouth opened and he caught Brady's tongue between his teeth with a huff of laughter. Brady moved
his hands to Rob's shoulders and pushed at his jacket. Rob dropped his arms from Brady's waist long
enough to let the jacket slide to the floor.

Rob had exchanged his wife-beater for a soft sweater the exact color of his eyes.

Brady shivered with pleasure when he felt Rob's hard shoulders under his hands. “Can you stay the

night?” His hand slid down Rob's chest, cock shifting in his pants at the feel of solid muscle. Inadvertently,
Brady rubbed his hand over Rob's nipple and heard him gasp.

"Yes.” Rob's reply was little more than a hiss, and his hands clasped tightly around Brady's hips.

"What about Molly?” Brady couldn't resist the strong column of Rob's neck. He leaned forward and

stroked the tip of his tongue from Rob's earlobe to the collar of his sweater.

Rob's head fell to the side. “Oh, God.” The words sounded like they had been torn from his throat. “She

... I ... Oh, shit, do that again."

Brady smiled and complied, sucking on Rob's earlobe before dipping his tongue inside.

Rob practically purred. “I fed her when I went home and ... Oh, yeah ... she has her dog door if she wants

to go out."

Suddenly, Rob let go of Brady's hips and raised his hands to Brady's head. He speared his fingers into

Brady's sandy blond hair, dragged him close and sealed their mouths together. The kiss was almost frantic.
Rob plundered Brady's mouth, tongue digging deep, running over Brady's teeth, the roof of his mouth,
tangling their tongues together. Brady groaned and his hands clenched into the front of Rob's sweater,
surrendering willingly to the onslaught, legs parting when Rob pushed a knee between them.

Brady tore his mouth away to drag in air, rubbing his rapidly hardening cock against Rob's powerful thigh.

Brady gasped in shock when Rob slipped a snow-chilled hand under his sweater. He laughed a little

breathlessly. “Cold hands, warm heart?"

Rob's eyes sparkled. “I'm sure you can come up with some way to warm me up."

Doing something he had been itching to do for weeks, Brady reached up and tugged the leather tie from

Rob's hair, watching as Rob's hair fell around his face and shoulders. It felt soft and cool, just a bit damp
from the snow.

"I could make you some hot chocolate.” Brady raised an eyebrow. “My own recipe."

Rob smiled and his eyes narrowed. “I'd rather try some of that chocolate-flavored lube you keep in the

bathroom. That your own recipe, too?"

Brady felt heat flood his cheeks. “Uh, yeah, yeah it is. As well as the store I have an online business for

more ... adventurous customers.” He was a nearly-middle-aged man and he was blushing like a schoolboy
buying his first pack of rubbers.

"Well, you'll have to tell me all about that. Maybe let me try out some of the merchandise.” Rob's hands

were starting to warm up on Brady's back, his thumbs smoothing idly over the skin just above the waistband
of Brady's sweats. “I could be your guinea pig."

"You'd let me try out my new products on you?” Goosebumps chased along Brady's spine, and it had

nothing to do with the cold.

"Any time you want.” Rob slipped a hand under the waistband of Brady's sweats and palmed an ass

cheek.

Brady bit his lip to stifle a moan.

"Why don't we start with the lube?” Brady nodded his assent, and pulled himself together enough to take

Rob's hand and lead him upstairs, albeit on less-than-steady legs.

Standing at the foot of the bed, behind Brady, Rob kissed along the length of Brady's neck, small, biting

kisses. Rob's arms wound around Brady's waist, hands slipping under his sweats and caressing the skin just
above his straining cock.

Breathing became difficult for Brady. “Why don't you make yourself comfortable while I get some

supplies?” He turned in Rob's arms and rubbed his cheek against the rough hair of Rob's beard.

"Supplies?” A small movement of his hips brought Rob's rock hard dick into contact with Brady's lower

belly.

Brady's breath hitched. “Like I said, I don't just make lube."

Rob stepped back and slowly removed his sweater, revealing an exquisitely sculpted six pack and pecs

that could win awards. Brady could only stare as Rob's hands went to the buttons on his jeans, popping
them one at a time, a teasing light in his eyes. Buttons undone, Rob took a moment to get out of his boots,
then pushed the jeans and his blue cotton boxers over his hips, helping them to fall to his ankles with a little
shimmy of his whipcord hips.

Brady's mouth was dry, his eyes wide as they moved over the body before him, all tight and hard, not

least of all the very impressive cock standing out straight in front of Rob. When Brady was finally able to
raise his eyes again, Rob's eyes were hot and his cheeks flushed.

"Supplies,” Rob reminded him hoarsely.

Brady swallowed and nodded, not quite trusting his voice. Moving as quickly as his arousal would allow,

Brady snagged the lube from the bathroom, made a quick detour to the kitchen, and headed back upstairs.
At the top of the stairs, however, he faltered, suddenly feeling overwhelmingly self-conscious.

The memory of the vision that was Rob clear in his mind, Brady looked down at himself. He wasn't a

regular at the gym—didn't even know if there was one in town—but he had always considered himself to
have a fairly decent physique. However, next to someone like Rob ... How could he go back in there? Get
naked in front of Rob? How could he expose himself—physically, emotionally?

Everything that Jack had said to him came rushing back. Not interesting enough, not ambitious enough,

not attractive enough, not good enough in bed ... Rationally, Brady knew that Jack had been using the words
to excuse his own infidelities, to make Brady feel that he was to blame. And for a long time it had worked.
Brady had finally found the strength to kick Jack out on his ass, but Jack's accusations still rang in his head.

Brady felt his knees give out from under him and he sank down to sit on the top stair, lube clutched in one

hand, chocolate body paint and brush in the other.

He didn't know how long he sat there, but some time later a noise behind him caught his attention. He

looked up and saw Rob coming out of the bedroom wearing only his boxers. The sight made Brady ache,
and he had to look away again.

Rob quietly sat down beside him, hands clasped between his parted knees, and waited. Brady sat

tensely, fingernail flipping the lube cap open and closed.

When he could bear the silence no longer, Brady asked “Why?"

"Why?” Rob's confusion was clear in his voice.

Brady nodded. “Why? Why do you want me? I mean, I know there isn't a lot of choice in a town this

size..."

"Stop right there.” Rob moved to the next stair down and looked up at Brady, hand on Brady's chin,

forcing him to make eye contact.

"This isn't about convenience. This is about you.” Rob stroked Brady's chin with his thumb. “You're smart,

kind, generous, you're fun to be around, and you have an ass I could spend a lifetime getting to know.” Rob
was smiling, but his eyes were serious.

Brady felt his mouth hitch up at the corner. “You like my ass?"

"I love your ass. And if you come back to the bedroom with me, I'll show you just how much."

Rob stood and held a hand out to Brady, who hesitated, then reached up to take it, only to realize that the

hand still held the lube.

Rob let out a bark of laughter. “I'll take that as a yes, then?"

Smiling, Brady got to his feet. The step of a difference made them the same height. Brady took

advantage of this by leaning forward to place a soft kiss on Rob's lips.

"Yes,” Brady whispered.

* * * *

Brady arched his back as a groan of torment was ripped from him. Hands clenched in the pillow under

his head, his heels digging into the mattress, a wave of intense pleasure washed over him.

"More.” The word was a harsh whisper.

Kneeling between Brady's parted thighs, Rob reached blindly for a pillow, dragged it closer and tucked it

under Brady's hips, raising him and allowing Rob greater access.

Rob dipped his head back down, hair trailing tantalizingly over Brady's inner thighs, and licked a slow,

teasing stripe along the underside of Brady's painfully hard cock, removing more of the lube he had just
smoothed on.

Rob had brought him to the brink only to pull him back at the last second too many times to count. Brady

was becoming convinced that his lover's tongue was a tool of the Devil, the things he could do with it.

After slowly removing Brady's clothes, Rob had kissed and licked his way down Brady's body, tongue

dipping into every hollow, laving his chest and stomach, conquering Brady's inhibitions with every touch of
his lips, every tender stroke of his fingers.

They had climbed onto the bed together, arms and legs tangling, mouths locked together, tongues

searching. Brady had grunted his displeasure when Rob had deserted his mouth, but when Rob started
licking and nibbling his way south, stopping only to tease Brady's nipples, any protest he might have made
died on his lips.

When Rob finally reached Brady's weeping cock, Rob placed a gentle kiss on the tip, then reached for

the lube. Rob smoothed a palm-full of the sweet slick onto Brady and proceeded to lick him clean.

Brady didn't know how many times Rob had repeated the process, but every muscle in his body was

tense, his thighs were trembling and he ached for release.

Rob went lower, touched his tongue to the smooth skin under Brady's balls, parted the cheeks of his ass

and dipped his tongue inside, and Brady felt sure he was on the way to a stroke.

"Rob, oh God, Rob. So good ... Oh fuck, so good.” Brady released the pillow and lowered his arms so

that he could card his fingers through Rob's hair.

Rob continued the attention he was paying to Brady's tight hole, thrusting his tongue in deeper, then

replacing it with fingers that stretched and massaged, going further and further into Brady's body, until Brady
could take the wonderful torture no longer.

"Stop, Rob, please, I want ... oh, God, I want..."

Rob raised his dark head, eyes glazed with passion, cheeks flushed with arousal. “What? Tell me, Brady,

what do you want?” He moved up the bed until he was over Brady, weight resting on his elbows.

Brady hesitated, but only briefly. “I want you inside me. I want to ride that fabulous body of yours until you

can't see straight."

Rob's pupils flared and he lowered his head to catch Brady's mouth in a hard kiss. “You have condoms?”

Rob was searching around them for the lube.

Nodding, Brady eased out from under Rob. He scrabbled in the drawer of the nightstand and retrieved a

foil packet.

When he turned back Rob was lying on his back, eyes watching him expectantly, the desire Rob felt for

Brady shining there, and beyond that, something ... more.

Feeling braver and more sure of himself than he had in a long time, Brady straddled Rob's hips. He tore

open the foil packet and smoothed the condom over Rob's erection, feeling it pulse and twitch between his
fingers. He locked eyes with Rob as he slicked lube over the condom, and then reached behind himself to
smooth some of the lube into his own body.

"Jesus fuck. That's so hot.” Rob's fingers squeezed spasmodically on Brady's hips.

Brady smiled and rose up on his knees, then he lowered himself onto Rob's thick shaft. He bit his lip and

closed his eyes against the burn and stretch, but continued sinking down until he could feel Rob's balls
brush against his ass.

Brady took a deep breath, released it on a long sigh and opened his eyes to look at Rob.

Looking right at each other, they began to move. Brady rocked his hips, slowly at first then with gathering

speed, and Rob thrust up into Brady, deepening the connection with every movement of his hips.

Sweat trickled down Brady's body to mingle with Rob's in the line of hair that ran from Rob's navel to the

place where their bodies met. The sounds of harsh breathing filled the room.

"Brady! Oh, fuck, I can't ... I can't hold out much longer.” Rob's head tilted back on the pillow and his eyes

closed, hands tightening on Brady's hips. “So good, oh, God, you feel so good."

Brady's head fell back, and the rocking of his hips became almost frantic as he felt his own orgasm

approach. “Yeah, baby, you feel so right inside me.” A groan escaped Brady when he felt one of Rob's big,
calloused hands wrap around his cock.

One squeeze was all it took and he was coming, all over Rob's hand and stomach. His hole contracted

around Rob's shaft, milking him.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck.” Rob's hands bit into Brady's hips and he pushed up until he could get no deeper

inside Brady.

Rob froze, mouth parted on a silent scream, and Brady was sure he could feel the heat of Rob's seed as

it filled the tip of the condom.

Utterly drained, Brady collapsed on top of Rob, placed a small kiss on his chest when he felt Rob's arms

wrap around him. Though he was sweaty and sticky and hot, Brady couldn't remember a time when he had
felt more content.

Jack Heaton is a fucking idiot! Brady smiled and banished all further thoughts of his ex-lover from his

mind.

When he could move again Brady propped himself up on his forearms on Rob's chest. “If I said wow,

would your ego swell out of control?"

Rob laughed. “Probably.” He ran a hand over Brady's face. Rob was smiling, but there was a question in

his eyes.

Brady turned his head and laid a kiss on Rob's palm. “Ask me,” he said quietly.

A flicker of unease passed over Rob's eyes. “I was just wondering, is ... was this just a one-time thing?"

Brady shook his head and ran his thumb over Rob's kiss-swollen lips. “Not for me. I don't do one night

stands."

A smile of unmistakable relief lifted Rob's mouth. “Good, that's good."

"Besides,” Brady said with a teasing glint in his eye. “You already have my key. This will save you all the

bother of having to give it back."

Rob grinned. “Yes, that would be a bother. Plus, we haven't tried out that chocolate body paint yet, and

you did say that I could try out your other goodies."

"I did say that, didn't I?” Brady asked, his hand already reaching for the jar on the nightstand.

[Back to Table of Contents]

The Simple Life

Willa Okati

"Oh. You're leaving already?” Momma sounds so disappointed.

Kyle leans down to kiss her cheek, careful not to smudge the studiously applied pinkness of her makeup.

“I am, Momma. I've got to get up early for work tomorrow."

Momma's eyes flick quickly to the cuts and scrapes on his palms, her lips pursing momentarily in a moue

of unhappiness. “I wish you didn't...” she starts, trailing off to place her fingers over her lips. “Kyle,
sweetheart, are you sure this is the life you want?"

"I'm sure, Momma.” He pulls her in for a hug, not the fancy kind that's all show and no substance, not the

kind she's used to from any of her friends or even any of their family, except him. He'll hug her like this and
no other way, now that he's learned how much it means to be honest with what he's feeling.

The bear hugs still startle Momma, though from what he can tell, from the way her cheeks redden under

their artificial delicate pinkness, she's getting to like them. And when she pats his hand, it's the kind of loving
touch he remembers from his childhood, before there was money and there were expectations.

"You'll drive safely?” she asks, shifting modes as mommas do when they're thrown off course, heading

into the safer waters of looking out for her son even though Kyle's all grown up. “They're calling for rain."

"More than calling for, Momma. It was sprinkling before I even got here."

Her lips purse. “Oh, dear. Kyle, I—"

"Your coat, sir.” A valet's slipped up behind Kyle, the man's suit impeccable, tailored, crazy-expensive,

holding out Kyle's favorite, if frayed, soft brown windbreaker.

He takes his jacket from the man rather than allowing the valet to help him put it on, winking at him when

he stares, confused. Shrugging the windbreaker on, he smiles at his Momma. “How about I make you a
special set of candlesticks for the next time you have a party like this?” He's a sword-smith by trade, replicas
mostly, but he knows how to do other things and he wants to see her smile reach her eyes. “Something
fancy, rococo."

She straightens, bravery evident in the firmness of her shoulders. “From you, Kyle, I think I'd rather have

something plain and simple.” There, there's the light in her eyes he wanted to see. Bless her heart, she does
try. “And I'll cherish it."

One last squeeze to his arm, and she's stepping back, ready to return to her Valentine's Day soirée with

its pink champagne and caviar on heart-shaped water biscuits. “Tell that man you love I said hello, son."

He blows her a kiss, proud enough of her to pop. “Night, Momma."

"Good night, son."

* * * *

Kyle's drive back home through the gently falling rain doesn't take him too long, maybe fifteen minutes to

cross from the rich side of town to literally across the tracks, over to their “wrong side"—what he's learned to
appreciate as “just right". He lets the well-worn vinyl of the driver's seat cushion him, molded to fit him as it is
after so many years in the same car.

As he pulls up to the train tracks, waiting for the tail end of a locomotive and all its cars to pass, he idly

turns on the radio. The station's set to Royal's favorite rockabilly station, that pretty blond girl who's all the
rage now crooning something soft and sweet.

He keeps the volume low, gently tapping the steering wheel with his thumb in time to the melody. Royal

loves this song, and he'll sing along with it regardless of whether or not anyone's around. He's got a good
voice, in Kyle's opinion—granted, Kyle's biased. He would think Royal should try and get somewhere with
his gravelly, smoky baritone, but every time he made mention of it a few years back, Royal would only gaze
at him through eyes smoldering hot with passion and affection and shake his head.

"Rather enjoy my audience of one,” was all he'd say before catching Kyle's chin and bringing their

mouths together in a kiss.

Maybe it's greedy of him, but Kyle likes knowing he'll be the only one to hear Royal singing love songs.

The boxcar passes and the safety bars rise. Kyle puts on the gas, not in a hurry, listening to the rain and

the sweet sounds of the radio, wondering if maybe he can coax Royal into singing for him tonight.

* * * *

Kyle's key fits smoothly into the lock on their front door, the Schrage mounted in the center of a smooth

silver plate he forged himself. Their initials, “R” and “K", are intertwined below the keyhole, and above that is
the sign for yin and yang. He pauses to stroke the cool silver, smiling to himself.

When he pushes the door open and enters, toeing off his shoes first thing of all and kicking them back

into the corner alongside Royal's muddy work boots, the dogs are the first ones to welcome him home. Rudy
pushes her nose into his palm, slobbering over his fingers, her tail wagging her whole whipcord Greyhound
body rather than the other way around. Layla, sweet old mutt, sits at his feet and gazes up at him with her
own special brand of love-struck adoration. They get a Milk-Bone each from the box he and Royal keep near
to the door, a good belly rub, and when he encourages them to go and lie back down on their favorite rugs
near the hallway heating vent, they lick his hand and do as they're told.

"Good girls,” he croons after them, tickled when Rudy yaps as if to say she knows, thank you very much.

They wrestle for a minute, Rudy careful of Layla's old bones, and then flop down in a doggy heap, pink
mouths stretching wide in yawns.

It's almost always like this here, Kyle thinks, and it never fails to warm him. No rush, no fuss, just good

friends taking life easy.

He doffs his windbreaker, checking his watch as his arm comes free of the sleeve. Ten-thirty, still early,

but when they've both got work tomorrow, he in the smithy and Royal on site, Royal might well be in bed
already. If he is, that'll be fine. Royal gets warm when he sleeps, perfect for snuggling up next to, teasing him
when he jerks and grumbles about Kyle's cold feet insinuating themselves against his toastiness. He'll kiss
Kyle, sleepily nuzzling his neck, and subside straightaway back into sleep.

Not wanting to disturb Royal if he is already resting, Kyle doesn't call out for him, choosing instead to

sneak through their living room to the kitchen for a shot of whiskey to help him sleep. When he makes the
direct turn from the hallway to that room, however, he sees Royal is still awake and parked in front of the
hearth, well settled in, sleepy and comfortable.

It's a sight worthy of appreciation, and Kyle takes his time to enjoy it properly.

Royal sits as he always does when he's of a mind to savor the simple pleasures of a wood fire on a chilly

winter's night, slouched down at his ease in the pouffy navy-blue, dog-hair-covered cushions of their couch
drawn up before the hearth. His feet are bare, all the better to toast propped up on the bricks, toes wiggling
lazily. His red plaid flannel shirtsleeves are rolled up to the elbow, solid arms honey-golden in the firelight. A
thick brown clay mug is propped on his knee, the rich smells of butterscotch and sugar and the sharp sting
of rum turning the air deliciously heady. As Kyle watches, Royal raises the mug to his lips and sips, tongue
slipping out afterwards to clear away the sticky traces of hot toddy.

Kyle knows Royal knows he's being watched. You can't sneak anything by him. But it's a game they

enjoy, he and Royal, drawing it out to see who'll speak first.

Royal can linger like this for ages; tonight, seems like he's more in the mood for appreciating Kyle in his

turn. His open gaze and the smoking upward curl of his mouth never fail to heat Kyle's blood and make him
smile in return. Royal takes his time to look at Kyle, nodding a silent “hello".

He's about to reply aloud in return when Royal beats him to it. “How'd it go?"

"Not bad. Better than it has before, and a whole lot easier than I thought it might.” Kyle leans against the

doorframe, enjoying the warmth seeping from the room. Teasing Royal, too, the next move in the game.

Looks like Royal is going to play it easy tonight. He shifts position until his weight's on one hip, facing

Kyle, and with the hand not holding his mug, he curls two fingers to beckon him closer. “Get over here, Kyle.
Been missin’ you all night."

And who could resist a siren's call like that? Not Kyle. Pushing off from the door frame, he slides to Royal

on his sock feet, collapsing in the overstuffed couch cushions with a sigh of contentment.

Royal lets Kyle roll with the first rush of bliss that comes of settling in and letting his limbs relax from the

day's labors and the night's small tensions. He wraps his arm around Kyle's shoulder and elbows him, a
silent signal and request. Kyle's happy to comply, tucking his shaggy head against Royal's chest. Royal
tucks his chin against the top of Kyle's head, humming in satisfaction.

They sit quietly for a space, Kyle watching one pine log burn through until it's a heap of glowing embers

underneath the grate. Royal takes occasional sips of his hot toddy, petting Kyle's hair, just letting him be and
keeping him close.

Kyle's come a long way, he knows, and it's in easy moments like these that Kyle understands Royal is

letting him know he's still proud after all this time. Especially after Kyle has to dip his toes back in the rarified
atmosphere of the life he left to come start a new one with the man he found to love on the wrong side of the
tracks.

Royal jostles him lightly. “Anything to talk about?"

Kyle smiles into Royal's collarbone. “Not really."

Royal chuckles and rubs Kyle's arm. “I didn't figure. Here.” He offers Kyle his mug, and the last few

swallows of hot toddy inside, watching approvingly as Kyle drinks them down and murmurs his appreciation
of the strong liquor mixed with sweet butterscotch. “Better'n champagne, huh?"

"Lord, yes.” Kyle sighs, tilting the mug for the final drops clinging to its clay sides. Royal makes his

toddies strong, full of kick that heats him from the inside out, the little bit he's swallowed enough to inspire
playfulness as soon as it's warmed his belly.

Placing the mug on the floor, Kyle turns his interest to something equally powerful and tasty, namely

Royal. Instead of laying his head back where it was, he nuzzles his way up Royal's neck and sucks on the
tender patch of skin under Royal's earlobe.

"Gonna leave a mark on me?” Royal asks, hand coming up to keep Kyle right where he is, letting Kyle

know he wouldn't mind a bit. “Right where everyone can see if I tuck my hair behind my ears?"

"Mmmhmm,” Kyle mumbles, letting go and admiring the rising dark patch. “Love the way you taste."

Royal snorts fondly. “You are cracked in the head, boy."

"Are you complaining?” Kyle leaves the rising welt behind and lazily makes his way down Royal's throat,

more careful of this tissue-thin skin, stropping his cheek on the stubble under Royal's chin. “'Cause if you
are, I could stop..."

"Don't you dare.” Royal jostles Kyle's head. He exhales, soft and long and contented, relaxing further

rather than tensing up.

For all that, Kyle knows the signs: the twitch in Royal's thigh, confirmed when he caresses the hard

muscles through Royal's sweatpants, the slight hitch to his breathing when Kyle trails his fingers higher on
Royal's leg, the small growl when Kyle sucks up another mark in the dimple at the base of Royal's neck.

"You tryin’ to get me all worked up?” Royal covers Kyle's hand with his own, moving it up to palm his dick,

half-hard if Kyle's any judge, and on the rise. “If you are, you're doin’ a damn good job."

"I might just be.” Kyle laps as far down as he can go without opening any of the buttons on Royal's

flannel shirt, then pops them loose one at a time because there's no reason in the world he shouldn't. “Don't
mind if I do, in fact."

"Far be it from me to stop you.” Royal sprawls wider, opening himself up better than any box of

chocolates on this Valentine's Day, which Kyle thinks he might always remember for better reasons than he'd
anticipated. He rumbles his pleasure as Kyle tastes him, undoing each and every button and kissing each
new stripe of skin as it's made available, laughing and pushing Kyle's head when Kyle coyly laps circles
around his navel. “Yeah, you know how I like it."

"You up for some more of this, then?” Kyle teases.

Royal rocks up into his palm, giving Kyle his answer in the hard line of his swollen cock. “All you care to

dish out, I can take.” He hums. “However, I could suggest a change in plan."

"Oh, yeah?” Kyle lifts off, intrigued. “What do you have in mind?"

"I want to play.” Royal gazes at him, heavy-lidded and lazily hungry, putting Kyle in mind of a sleepy lion.

“Help me push the couch back and lay yourself down on the rug, Kyle."

Kyle shivers. “I can do that,” he replies, turned on by the husk he hears in his own voice. “What're you

going to do with me once I'm there?"

Royal pulls Kyle up and answers him from a position mere millimeters away from Kyle's lips, tantalizing

him with a not-quite-kiss on every word. “Three guesses, boy, and the first two don't count."

Kyle grins. He steals a quick, firm kiss and squeezes Royal's cock, more to get him worked up than to

distract him or reassert control, and gladly does what's been asked of him.

Royal is gentle as he helps Kyle stretch out full-length by the hearth, making him snort and laugh as he

plays around with positioning Kyle just so, drawing a gasp from Kyle's lips when he insists on Kyle stretching
his arms out behind his head, hands clasped together. “Keep ‘em there,” he directs, gravel-voiced and darkly
lit up with appreciation. He trails his forefinger down Kyle's chest, hooking it under the waist of Kyle's best
pair of khakis. He comes back up to tug at Kyle's tie, loosening it. “Lord, you are a sight. Here, gimme this."

Kyle lies back and lets Royal do as he pleases, pulling the tie loose and looping it around his wrists,

binding them together. The knot he forms isn't tight enough to stop Kyle from getting free any time he
pleases, but that's not the point.

"I could look at you all night,” Royal breathes. “Got a few better plans in mind, though, so you'll excuse

me if I don't."

"You don't ever have to apologize for that,” Kyle replies, savoring the sight of Royal hovering over him,

shirt open over the flat line of his torso and the tight muscles of his belly, and the dark trail of hair leading
down under his sweatpants. “Gonna make me wait?"

"Not on your life.” Royal straddles Kyle, slowly yet efficiently doing away with the buttons of his dress

shirt and his cuffs, pushing aside the thin-striped cotton and splaying his hands wide over Kyle's chest. He
bends, then, not wasting any time before fastening his lips around Kyle's right nipple, drawing the nub
between his teeth and holding it fast for him to lick.

Kyle hisses, his stomach tightening.

"You like that, oh, yeah.” Royal moves to the left nipple next, biting and then soothing away the sting. He

keeps on in that manner, marking a path of red spots down to Kyle's pants. Oh, and he's caught the fire now,
getting clumsy as he draws down Kyle's zipper and mouths over the solid line of Kyle's cock, sucking and
licking until the dark cotton of his underwear is soaked clear through and Kyle's bucking up, wanting more of
Royal's mouth than just this teasing play.

"More,” he demands, wishing he could spear his fingers through Royal's hair, blood running hot with the

thrill of knowing he can't. He raises his hips, seeking friction. “Suck me."

Royal raises his head to fix Kyle with smoldering need in his gaze, licking lips already bee-stung from

their work on his cock. Kyle's breath catches, arousal jolting through him. “God, you're gorgeous,” he
breathes.

Royal chortles at him. “And here I was all set to razz you about bein’ one of the last true romantics, but I'd

say you've redeemed yourself."

And with that, he slaps Kyle's hip to get him to lift up, slides his slacks and shorts down double-quick-

time, and only teases a few wicked seconds longer with nuzzling into the thick, damp brown thatch of hair
around Kyle's cock before sealing his lips over the head and sliding down.

Royal never once looks away from Kyle, capturing his eyes and keeping him fixed there, focused on the

sight of his cock sliding wetly in and out of Royal's amazing mouth.

Kyle's toes curl, his spine arches, and where they're bound loosely together above his head, his hands

twist together in need of something to grab onto and hold.

Royal watches him, wickedness ripe in his dark eyes, firelight turning him into something less than human

and more than temptation incarnate. Pushing his hand inside his sweatpants, he gropes and pumps his own
cock, the bulge of hand and cock together driving Kyle crazy.

"Can't ... gonna...” Kyle gasps, trying to warn Royal.

No need, really; as always, Royal already knows. He kneads Kyle's hips as he lashes Kyle's cock with

his tongue, never once letting up on the suction or stopping his slide up and down. He presses the flesh,
encouraging, asking for it.

Kyle only breaks the eye contact when the rush of orgasm steals his breath, tipping his head back and

drawing his mouth open wide in a gasp for sweet, sweet air. He breaks loose of the tie and does take Royal
by the hair, holding him still while he thrusts his cock deeper into Royal's mouth. Royal swallows, noisy and
messy, drinking him down, shudders racking him as he comes a few heartbeats later.

Head spinning and lungs working hard for breath, Kyle's dizzy but not so far out of it that he can't drag

Royal into a hard hug when Royal flops down by his side, his head on Kyle's chest this time, butterscotch-
and-rum-and-come-scented breath tickling Kyle's skin.

They lie in silence for a space, easy with one another. Kyle closes his eyes, knowing once again that he's

happier in this life he's chosen as a working man with a hard-working lover, plain and simple and
affectionate, than he ever could have dreamed to be in an ivory tower on the right side of the tracks.

This is who he is, and the man next to him is who he loves, and it's all better than any storybook's happy

ending could ever be.

Royal nudges Kyle with his chin, words running together as he drowses, “Happy Valentine's Day, babe."

Kyle kisses the top of Royal's head. “Happy Valentine's Day, love."

[Back to Table of Contents]

V-Day

By Kiernan Kelly

There are only two events that would ever get me to step foot inside the Home Warehouse, the

handyman's Mecca, the store that sells everything and anything that can be measured, hammered, drilled, or
plugged in.

One is Armageddon, and the other is Valentine's Day.

I'd almost rather it be the End of Days.

Valentine's Day, that holiday celebrating the patron saint of fat little cupids and chocolatiers, is tomorrow

and as usual, I've put off shopping until the very last minute. I'd been wracking my brain for weeks trying to
figure out what to buy F.B. that he a) didn't already have, and b) wouldn't roll his eyes at because it was too
sentimental or fluffy. I love him, but my big ex-Marine is strong, tough, and not exactly the romantic type.

I've left myself with little alternative other than to brave the cathedral of lumber, plumbing, paint, and

power tools, and bow down before the altar of duct tape and caulking guns.

This store is F.B.'s realm, not mine. I'm much more at home in the aisles of Bed, Bath & Beyond, where

I'm less likely to put out an eye or lose a finger. Give me a sale on Egyptian cotton sheets or Turkish towels
and I'm totally in my element. Show me a thirty-foot-high, fifty-foot-long aisle stacked with nothing but
screwdrivers, and I'm likely to regress into infancy and curl up into the fetal position.

Over the weekend, F.B. had decided that he was going to make a few new shelves for his collection of

war memorabilia. He has a slew of stuff, most of it boxed up neatly in the garage, but he keeps a few
mementos on display in the den. Okay, maybe it's more than a few—the den looks like the set of Apocalypse
Now. I'm not complaining—when we moved in together that was the deal. He got the den, and I got the rest
of the house. I don't hang Priscilla curtains in the den, and he doesn't fill the dining room hutch with night
vision goggles and hand grenades.

F.B.'s collection is quite extensive, including books, medals, flags, swords, guns, knives, helmets, photos,

and a built-to-scale tank. There's a lot more than that, but those are only the things I can remember off the
top of my head. He even has an old, empty WWI artillery shell that he uses as a paperweight. I've often
pointed out that it looks like a gigantic metal dildo sitting on his desk. That's when he usually threatens to let
me try it on for size, and I cup my ass with both hands and back out of the room.

Evidently, the war museum we call the “den” doesn't have enough exhibits to suit him, and he decided to

build a couple of shelves. He couldn't just buy them ... oh, no, not my F.B. Everything in that den except for
his computer and his office chair he'd created with his own two hands. It was a matter of pride to him, I
guess.

For three days, I listened to a torrent of obscenities streaming from the garage as he labored to turn a

few pieces of wood into a showcase for his military memorabilia. The worst came just last night. I was lying
on the sofa watching a rerun of Imitation of Life, a classic movie starring the incomparable Lana Turner and
mentally ticking off a list of items that would or would not serve as Valentine's Day gifts, when a tremendous
crash had me off the couch and halfway to the garage before my feet actually touched the floor.

"What happened?” I gasped the moment I flung open the door from the kitchen into the garage. “Are you

okay?"

"I'm fucking fine,” F.B. growled. He stood in the middle of the garage looking as hot as Hell in a white

wifebeater and camo pants, his chest hair dampened with sweat, and arm muscles bulging with the weight of
the sledgehammer he held. At his feet were two long, jagged pieces of wood and several chunks of metal
that may have been the remains of some sort of power tool.

"Yes, you usually do fuck fine,” I teased, relieved that all of F.B.'s body parts remained intact, “but what

was that noise?"

"My table saw broke."

"Broke, huh?” I asked, looking pointedly at the sledge. “Looks like it came under attack."

"It was mortally wounded. I put it out of its misery."

"Oh. It was an act of mechanical mercy, then?"

"Exactly,” F.B. had said, swinging the head of the sledge down to the ground and leaning on the handle.

“But now I can't finish the shelves until I get a new table saw. Fuck! I really wanted it done before my
buddies from my old unit come into town for the reunion in two days. I was going to ask them over for a few
beers and show off my collection."

"Can't you go to the store and buy another one?"

"No time. The store's closed for the night, and I promised the Colonel that I'd go down to the Legion Hall

tomorrow and make sure all the preparations are in place for the reunion. It's going to take me most of the
day. I need to check with the caterer, stock the bar, and set up the tables and chairs. Then the next day is V-
Day, and I've got plans."

"Plans, huh? What kind of plans?” I asked, thinking that a candlelight dinner or a walk on the beach was

out—he'd probably made plans to take me to a bull-riding event, or demolition derby, or some other sort of
testosterone-riddled activity. F.B. just didn't do sweet and romantic. Hell, he even referred to Valentine's Day
as V-Day, giving it a military spin.

"None of your business, Matt,” he said, his eyes flashing me a look that told me it would be prudent to

drop that line of questioning. His gaze drifted down to the metallic carnage at his feet, and he began kicking
at it with his size sixteen steel-toed work boots, growling curses that could peel the paint right off the walls.
That was my cue to leave, go back into the living room and turn the sound up on the movie until he'd worked
his frustration out by stomping the remains of the saw into shrapnel.

The incident gave me an idea for the perfect Valentine's gift for him. It was a real lifesaver considering I'd

waited until the last minute again and had had no idea of what to buy. A brand new, shiny table saw would
bring a huge smile to F.B.'s face and a whole lot of sweaty, slick, thank-you sex to our bed. The fact that I
knew nothing about power tools didn't deter me. It was a saw, for God's sake, not a nuclear reactor or a
fighter jet. How difficult could it be to buy one?

Unfortunately, my plan did have one drawback—the only place in town where I could purchase a saw

was where I now stood, slack-jawed and sweating, smack in the middle of testosterone heaven.

I grabbed a cart from the corral near the entrance. Even the carts were big here, I noticed—they were

twice the size of normal shopping carriages. It was as if the entire store was overcompensating for
something.

The cart pulled hard to the right, and the back left wheel spun uselessly as I trundled it down the main

aisle, craning my neck to read the overhead signs. Gardening. Outdoor Furniture. Appliances. Electrical.
Plumbing. Hardware.

Jesus, I wasn't halfway through the store and I was already out of breath. All I wanted to do was buy a

fucking table saw, not train for the Boston Marathon.

Lighting. Home Décor. Paint. Flooring.

Finally, just as I was ready to crawl into the basket of my cart and take a nap, I spotted it. Wedged

between Drills and Lumber was the aisle I'd been searching for. Saws. I turned down the aisle and
immediately became overwhelmed.

Hand saws, backsaws, hacksaws, reciprocating saws, circular saws, jigsaws, band saws, scroll saws,

miter saws, chainsaws...

You have to be fucking kidding me, I thought, as my head snapped side to side and up and down, trying

to take in the huge variety of tools. Nothing was in any sort of order that I could determine—not alphabetical,
not according to size. Big ones and little ones sat side-by-side on the shelves, long ones, round ones,
square ones, and a few that didn't even look like saws at all.

Finally, I did what every man dreads doing, the thing that ranks just behind asking for directions. I

wandered around until I found an employee in a red apron that looked as if he had at least passed through
puberty, and asked for help.

"I need to buy a table saw,” I said, feeling relief at the name badge on his chest. It read “Frank Warren”

and “Ass. Store Manager.” Thank God! This man should be able to help me.

and “Ass. Store Manager.” Thank God! This man should be able to help me.

"Why sure! Right this way,” he said, leading me back down the aisle. “What's your pleasure? Bench top,

Contractor, Cabinet, or Hybrid?"

"Table,” I said, thinking that perhaps he hadn't heard me the first time.

"Yes sir. Bench top, Contractor, Cabinet, or Hybrid?"

"Table saw,” I repeated yet again. I could feel sweat beginning to pool under my arms.

Warren lifted a brow, giving me the once-over. It was obvious that he'd realized that I didn't know squat

about tools. “Maybe if you gave me an idea of the project you have in mind, I could steer you in the right
direction."

"It isn't for me,” I said, trying to refrain from wiping the sweat from my forehead. “It's for my partner, for

Valentine's Day. He wants to build shelves."

"Oh, I see ... your partner.” He said the word as if it tasted foul on his tongue. “On second thought,

maybe it would be best if you checked out the list of contractors we have on the bulletin board. Any of them
would be happy to do the work for you. Better yet, we have a great selection of pre-made shelves in Home
Décor. Guys like you shouldn't be messing with equipment like this saw. You'll get hurt."

Okay, sweating or not, intimidated by the selection or not, that pissed me off. “Guys like me? What

exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"Look, don't go getting your panties in a twist. I just meant that if you don't have experience using power

tools, then—"

"I've already told you that the saw isn't for me, and at what point in this conversation did you morph into

my mother? I have a charge card and I'm not afraid to use it. If I want to take the goddamn thing home and
saw off all of my expendable body parts, that's my fucking business!” I was getting hot now, my voice rising,
but I didn't care. Who was this bigoted asshole to determine what I could and could not buy, anyway?

Heads turned in our direction as his voice rose to match mine. “There's no need to raise a ruckus. We

don't want any trouble here. Maybe it would be best if you took your business somewhere else. There's a
Lowe's over in DeBarry that might have what you're looking for ... sir."

The emphasis he'd put on the word “sir” wasn't lost on me. He'd said it with a sneer, as if he truly

doubted that I had anything between my legs besides possibly a lace thong.

"I want to speak to the store manager,” I hissed, gritting my teeth and trying—really trying—to control my

temper.

"He's busy, and you need to leave. We don't need business from people like you."

It had been a very long time since I'd last run across ignorance like this, but the incident brought a

backwash of every bitter memory I had of people like him. The summer camp counselor who'd decided that I
needed to be “fixed” and that public humiliation in front of my peers would do the trick. My twelfth grade
teacher who'd thought that she could use me as a living, breathing example of homosexuality in Sex Ed. The
Board of Education who'd refused to let me bring the date of my choice to the prom.

A virtual parade of contemptible people marched through my head, and every one of them suddenly wore

Frank the Ass Manager's face. I know that it was a case of transference; that I was blaming him for the sins
of all the others. I know that I could have handled the situation better than I did, but at the time, I didn't give a
shit. All I wanted to do right then was beat Frank over the head with nearest, heaviest power tool I could lay
my hands on. “You two-bit, redneck, homophobic asshole!” I yelled, feeling the blood pound in my temples
and my hands curl into fists. I might not be as big as F.B., not by a long shot, but I could still do plenty of
damage in a fight. I think. Truthfully, I'd never had the opportunity. “I have just as much right as anyone else
to buy whatever I want, wherever I fucking well please!"

A crowd had begun to gather at both ends of the aisle, curious shoppers drawn to us like rubberneckers

to an accident scene, scenting blood. I ignored them. The only person I saw was Warren, and as far as I was
concerned, he had a large red bull's-eye printed in the middle of his forehead. I continued to hurl verbal
assaults at him, peppered with a healthy dose of vulgarities.

"Is there a problem here, Mr. Warren?"

"Hell, yes, there's a problem! Get this goddamn fairy out of my store!"

A heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder. By then I was ready to plow my fist into whatever bastard

had thought to lay a hand on me. Turning around, I found myself face-to-chest with a huge, bullet-headed
giant in a security uniform.

Now, my mama didn't raise a stupid boy. Even as angry as I was, nearing nuclear meltdown, I knew when

I was outmatched. If I swung on the security guy, not only would I end up being beaten into Matt Mush, I'd
probably get arrested to boot. The last thing I wanted was to spend Valentine's Day in the hoosegow. That
would go over really well with F.B.

"F.B.? Happy Valentine's Day, hon. Can you bail me out?"

Yeah, that'd be great.

"I'm going, I'm going,” I huffed, shrugging off his hand. My eyes were burning as much as my cheeks, but

to my credit, I didn't break down until I'd marched all the way out of the store and into the parking lot to my
car.

Worst of all, it was late, all the stores were closing, and I still didn't have a present for F.B.

* * * *

F.B. was waiting for me when I got home, an empty venti cup of Starbucks at his elbow and a hungry look

in his eyes. He was completely addicted to caffeine, and had a real Starbucks fetish, although he'd promised
to avoid it after six at night.

"Tell me you didn't just drink that, F.B. You know what caffeine does to you, especially at this hour! You're

going to be up all fucking night, tossing and turning! You may not need a solid eight hours, but I do and it
always feels like you're using the mattress as a fucking trampoline when you can't sleep! Can't you have a
little bit of consideration for me? Think of someone else besides yourself, for God's sake—"

He was up and out of the chair before I could blink, my angry little discourse silenced by a hard, teeth-

clacking, tongue-lashing kiss. Big, strong arms pulled me in close, crushing any protest out of me. Flattened
against F.B.'s broad chest, tasting Starbucks and Sweet ‘N Low and warm, wet tongue, the scent of his
cologne making my head spin, I couldn't have formulated words if I'd tried. My anger whooshed out of me,
replaced by a need that sizzled and popped like oil in a frying pan. Visions flitted through my head of the two
us naked and sweating, grunting and thrusting. I tried to tell him, but all I managed was a low groan, the
sound swallowed by his mouth.

Lucky for me, F.B. is something of a mind reader.

He muscled me bodily into the bedroom, my arms clinging to his neck as if I were drowning and he was

the only buoy in the ocean, my toes brushing across the floor. His thick fingers took hold of the collar of my t-
shirt and suddenly the room filled with the surprisingly loud sound of material ripping as he shredded it,
literally tearing it from my body.

God, I loved it when F.B. went Rambo on me.

When I felt his fingers slip under the waistband of my pants, I finally found the wherewithal to move. “Not

the jeans,” I managed to croak, slipping out from under his arms and shimmying out of them at light speed,
“they're Abercrombie."

F.B. grunted, a sound I'd come to know meant that he was horny, hard, and that foreplay was not high on

his list of priorities. Not a problem for me—I had an erection that could've cut diamonds.

He hadn't even bothered to lower his pants. F.B.'s zipper was open, his fat cock hanging out through the

fly, a condom in one hand and lube in the other.

Wow. My boy really was ready.

I took my cue from him, crawling up onto the bed on my hands and knees. I expected to feel his fingers

lubing me up, but instead I felt warm breath and a wet tongue lapping at my hole.

Oh, Sweet Christ on toast! F.B. rimmed like nobody's business, licking and lapping at my ass, breathing

hard, tongue fucking me until I was wriggling and mewling, begging him to fuck me. My cock was dripping,

balls aching as I stroked myself feverishly. I needed him, and I needed him now.

"Stop fucking teasing me and get in!” I hissed over my shoulder. “C'mon, F.B.! Fuck me!"

"Yeah,” was F.B.'s only reply, because it was probably the only word he could manage. When F.B. got

this worked up, conversation—even the basest and simplest dialogue—was beyond him. All the blood in his
head rushed to his prick, leaving very little for cognitive responses. At best, he could manage a few
monosyllabic grunts.

Again, that was just fine by me. I wanted him to take me hard and fast, and that was exactly what I got.

Without further adieu, he pressed the slicked head of his cock against my hole.

"Fuck!” I screamed as he entered me, stretching me wide. The feeling of him filling me up, full to bursting,

was incredible. My entire world shrunk to the two of us, to his cock slamming into me, his hips pounding my
ass, and my hand working my dick.

I found that I wasn't exactly articulate myself. “Gonna, gonna, gonna..."

"Do it,” F.B. ordered in his gruff, gravelly voice. “Now!"

Crying out something that might just as easily have been a string of nonsense syllables as his name, I

came in hot spurts across our bedspread. I felt F.B. shudder at the same time, making that wonderful
grunting noise that I loved as he came. It wrung the last few drops of come from me, leaving me feeling as
boneless and done as a jellyfish washed up on the shore.

I collapsed onto the mattress. To my surprise, instead of wandering into the bathroom to clean up, F.B.

crawled up next to me. He put an arm around my waist and tenderly kissed my forehead.

"Wanna tell me what happened, now?” he asked.

"Huh?"

"I know you, Matt. You don't come home and rip me a new one just because I gave into temptation and

stopped at Starbucks. Something had to have happened."

Damn him for knowing me so well. “It's nothing, hon. Just another day in the life."

"Bullshit. I know something happened. Tell me."

I sighed. I never could keep anything secret from F.B. His years in the military had taught him how to read

people far too well. “I had a run-in at the store today that I'd rather forget. I was going to buy you a new table
saw for Valentine's Day, but you're going to have to settle for the cash. You can buy it yourself. Let's just
forget it, okay?"

It wasn't okay and I knew it. What's more, by the time F.B. finally got me to spill my guts about what had

happened, he knew it, and if there was one platitude that did not exist in F.B.'s vocabulary, it was forgive and
forget.

* * * *

I awoke to the tantalizing aroma of roses and chocolate.

Next to me, resting on F.B.'s pillow, were two dozen long-stem coral roses—my favorites—and a huge

box of Godiva chocolates.

"Happy Valentine's Day, hon,” F.B. grinned from the doorway. He leaned against the jamb, bare-chested.

His light cotton sleep pants rode low on his lean hips, and he looked good enough to eat. “That's part one of
your gift."

"Oh, man ... F.B!” I cried, touching a finger to the soft petals of the roses. “They're beautiful, babe.”

Roses and chocolate were two things I'd never have expected from F.B. Yesterday, I would have said that he
wouldn't even know what they were, much less where to buy them.

"Not as beautiful as you."

Who was this guy, and what did he do with my big, tough ex-Marine? Oh, God, I was going to fuck up the

moment by bawling like a baby, I just knew it. I swallowed hard, not trusting myself to speak again. Instead, I
sniffed long and loud, got up, and threw myself at him, kissing him for all I was worth.

"I don't even have a card or anything, F.B.,” I said, pressing my lips against his throat, breathing in his

scent. “I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You being here when I wake up every morning is enough for me."

Oh, my God! F.B. being romantic? Maybe it really was the Apocalypse. That's definitely worth a morning

blow job, I thought, dropping to my knees and taking his sleep pants down to his knees along the way.

F.B. didn't argue, either. He just leaned against the wall sucking in his bottom lip, and tucked his hands

behind his head, waiting. Damn, he looked hot enough to melt the polar ice caps. Global warming has
nothing on my F.B.

I sucked in his soft cock, teasing it with my tongue. I loved the times when I could get to F.B. before he

got hard, and feel his cock stiffening in my mouth. Not caring about the noise I made, or the drool that
dripped down my chin, I nipped and licked, leaving his cock alone only to suck his balls into my mouth, one
at a time.

His big hands gripped my head, his groan rumbling. Gonna bring you to your knees, big guy, I thought

happily.

"You?” he breathed, looking down at me. He was breathing hard. I could tell he was hovering right there

at the edge.

I shook my head. This wasn't about me. This was for him. I sucked hard at the crown of his cock, tasting

thick salty-bitter drops on my tongue. Opening wide, I took him as deeply as I could, feeling the head of his
prick touch the back of my throat.

The muscles of his belly and thighs tightened just before he came, fingers twisting in my hair, hips

pumping.

No chocolate on earth could taste half as good as my F.B.'s come. I drank all he had, and still wanted

more.

"Wow,” he said, slumping against the doorframe, a big, goofy grin on his face.

"Happy Valentine's Day, love,” I said.

"Get dressed. I've got plans for today."

"So you've said. Want to fill me in on them?"

"Nope. Its part two of your present, and it's a surprise. Move.” His words were gruff, but there was a

tender smile on his face when he said them.

It was another order and I jumped up, the good little soldier, eager to obey.

* * * *

Showered, shaved, and dressed in a pair of khaki pants and navy button-down that was open at the

throat and accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist, F.B. looked almost as good dressed as he did
naked.

He slid behind the wheel of his Hummer, a man perfectly at ease with the metal monster beneath his ass,

one who knew he had mastered the beast. As a matter of fact, that's what I'd nicknamed the truck—the
Beast. The truck suited F.B.; both were big, brawny, move-or-get-the-hell-out-of-my-way creatures that
nothing short of an act of God could stop once they started rolling. The Beast was black, with a rich, dove-
gray leather interior, wood trim, OnStar, and all the other bells and whistles. It made my bare-bones Datsun
look like a midget clown car when parked next to it in the garage.

"So, where are we going?” I asked as he maneuvered the Beast through the streets of town and out onto

the highway.

"You'll see."

"Come on, F.B.! Tell me!” I wheedled, desperate to know what he'd had planned. Add impatience to my

list of shortcomings. Secrets, especially when they involved me, were high on my top ten list of things I loved
to hate.

"No,” he said, turning up the sound on the Beast's CD player. It blared Creedence Clearwater Revival's

Fortunate Son, the volume eliminating any further opportunity for conversation.

Shortly afterwards, he made a left-hand turn into a parking lot and when I realized where we were, I

nearly stroked out right there in the front seat.

"What are we doing here?” I asked in a strangled voice. I felt my blood pressure skyrocket as I stared at

the front doors of the Home Warehouse.

"You promised me a table saw for Valentine's Day. I'm here to collect,” F.B. said, turning off the motor. He

shot me a look that sparkled with mischief, and was out of the Hummer and striding toward the store before I
could say another word.

Oh, God. This was not going to be pleasant. I only hoped Mr. Ass Manager wasn't on duty. Swallowing

my fear, I hopped out of the Hummer and raced after F.B. I caught up with him just as he'd entered the store
and was heading for the Saw aisle with the unerring accuracy of a heat-seeking missile.

Slowing down, I followed at a snail's pace, wanting to watch the fireworks from a safe distance. I'd

already had one unpleasant encounter in that store and wasn't looking forward to an encore presentation.
Sure enough, F.B. stopped at the head of the saw aisle, looking around. I knew what he was looking for—or
rather, for whom.

Suddenly, there he was, Frank Warren, Mr. Ass Manager himself in all his pompous, arrogant, bigoted

glory, practically drooling at the amount of testosterone F.B. exuded like cologne.

"How do. Name's F.B. I'm in the market for a table saw,” F.B. drawled, jerking his thumb toward the aisle.

“Cabinet saw, in particular."

"Oh, yes, sir! We've got a real nice one in stock. Right over here..."

Warren didn't seem to notice me as I followed them down the aisle, his attention riveted on F.B. I stopped

a few feet away, avidly eavesdropping on F.B.'s conversation with Warren.

"Sure is a beauty, isn't she? Gonna need a 220v outlet for her, though."

"Yeah, she's sweet,” F.B. said, whistling through his teeth as he ran his fingers over the shiny silver

metal. “Twin cabinet with a router, accessory storage, dedicated dust containment. Very nice. It ought to do
me just fine."

"It's an excellent price, too. On sale, all this week. I can tell that a man like you would appreciate the high

quality of this machine. Would you like to put that on your charge card?” Warren asked. I could almost see
him salivating at the prospect of selling that high-priced hunk of junk.

"A man like me, huh? Oh, yeah, I get your meaning. I'm an ex-Marine, you know,” he said.

Warren grinned. “I thought so. You look like a military man."

"Yup. Got my name in the Corps. F.B. You know what it means?"

Warren shook his head, looking at F.B. expectantly.

"It stands for Fuck Buddy."

I bit back a laugh as I watched the blood drain from Warren's face.

"You know, my partner came in here yesterday to buy this for me. Funny thing is that he said someone

who works here wouldn't help him. In fact, my boyfriend said that this guy practically threw him out of the
store.” F.B. drew himself up to his full height, glaring down at the shiny bald spot on the top of Warren's
head.

Oh, Lordy, Warren was going to piss his drawers, I just knew it. I bit my inner cheek to keep from

grinning.

"Now, I told my boyfriend that he had to have been mistaken. No one in this store would treat a customer

that way, now would they?” F.B. continued.

"Uh, no ... no, of course not!” Warren squeaked. It was obvious that he wanted to say something, to no

doubt spew the same bullshit he had with me the day before, but the human wall of muscle in the navy

button-down shirt and khaki pants intimidated the Hell out of him.

"That's real good to hear,” F.B. said, “because I'd hate to think that Home Warehouse was guilty of

discriminating against anyone. That would make me angry. I'd have to go to the papers and the TV stations,
make a big fuss about it. Organize a demonstration. Maybe contact the ACLU. I'm sure Home Warehouse
Corporate wouldn't like that kind of publicity."

F.B. wasn't using his “frog” voice, the deep, gravelly bellow he'd perfected while in the Marines, but he

wasn't exactly whispering either. People started picking up their heads, looking in his direction, wandering
closer.

Warren looked as though he were ready to burst a blood vessel. I almost felt sorry for him.

Almost being the operative word.

F.B. turned and nodded toward me. “Hey, hon, come here for a minute."

I sauntered over to F.B., slipping my arm around his waist. “Why, hello, Frank! Nice to see you again,” I

said to Warren, with the biggest, fakest smile I could manage. In my head, two factions warred. One wanted
to get out of there while we had the upper hand, and the other wanted to see F.B. pound the little shit into a
puddle.

"Is this the one you were thinking of buying for me?” F.B. asked me.

"I guess. You know me, F.B. I don't know a thing about tools,” I said, narrowing my eyes at Warren. “I'm

just an effeminate gay guy who should be thumbing through fabric swatches, not looking to buy a power
tool."

Warren glared at me and opened his mouth to speak, but one look at F.B.'s face made him change his

mind in a hurry.

"Well, since you're being the girly guy today, I guess now's as good a time as any. I was going to give this

to you tonight at dinner, but I think right here and now would be a lot more meaningful,” F.B. said, reaching
into his pants pocket. He pulled out a small, blue box.

My heart started hammering in my chest and Warren looked as though he might hurl when F.B. dropped

down to one knee, right there in the middle of the aisle.

"Some folks,” F.B. said, shooting Warren a nasty look, “think we shouldn't be together, but I really don't

give a shit what they think. You make me happier than anyone I've ever known does. Because of some folks
like him,” F.B. continued, nodding toward Warren, “the law says that we can't get married ... but we can be
married in our hearts. Nobody can stop that. Honey, I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with
you,” he said, snapping open the blue box and holding it up toward me. “Matt, will you marry me?"

Inside the box, a pair of white gold wedding rings sat on a cushion of blue velvet, each set with a large,

square-cut diamond.

That was the last thing I had ever expected from my big Marine, especially in public. My throat closed up,

my chest went tight, and my vision got wavy and blurry. I could feel my eyes and nose leaking, and all I could
do was nod mutely. My hand shook as I held it out and F.B. slipped one of the rings onto my finger.

The small crowd that had gathered as F.B. had dropped to his knee clapped, or at least most of them did.

Some people frowned and wandered away, muttering to themselves, and Warren had turned so red that it
looked as though his head might pop off his neck at any moment, but I didn't care. All I cared about was the
love shining in F.B. eyes, and the ring on my finger.

God, I loved him.

F.B. grinned as I picked the other ring out of the box and slipped it onto his left hand. He stood up and

gathered me into his arms, giving me a long, slow kiss. I could hear Warren hissing, spitting like a cobra as
he finally wormed his way past F.B. and stormed away.

Good riddance to bad rubbish, I thought happily, lying my head on F.B. shoulder. The diamond in my new

ring winked in the fluorescent lighting, looking as glorious as I felt.

"Ready to go?” he asked me, giving me a quick hug before setting me free.

"Yup. Home, please,” I replied. That was the only place I wanted to go—home, to our house, to our bed,

where I could get F.B. naked and show him exactly how much I loved him. “Oh, wait ... what about your table
saw?” I asked, pulling away from his arms. “I still owe you a Valentine's Day gift."

F.B. shook his head. “Forget the saw, Matt. You said ‘yes.’ That's the best gift you could have ever given

me."

Grinning through my tears, I took his hand again and led him out of the store. I'm so incredibly lucky, I

thought as we climbed into the Beast and headed off for home, to have a big, tough, romantic ex-Marine like
F.B.

Hell, for him, I'd brave Home Warehouse anytime.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Contributors

Kiernan Kelly

Kiernan Kelly lives in the wilds of the alligator-infested U.S. Southeast, slathered in SPF 45, drinking

colorful tropical, hi-octane concoctions served by thong-clad cabana boys.

All right, the truth is that she spends her time locked in the dark recesses of her office, writing gay erotica

while chained to a temperamental Macintosh, drinking coffee, and dreaming of thong-clad cabana boys.

Sigh.

Kiernan's webpage is: www.kiernan-kelly.com/

Willa Okati

Willa Okati lives by the quotation: “When I have a little money, I buy books. If there's any left over, I buy

food and clothes". An avid reader since she was able to pick up a book, she spends just as much time writing
stories about men, women, and the fun they get up to together. Physically, she lives in North Carolina, but
mentally thrives in a world where each adventure is bigger and brighter than the next. She is also owned by
far too many cats, but she insists that they serve as emissaries from the Muse and can't spare a one of
them.

Please feel free to visit her web page at www.willsheornillshe.com/

Cassidy Ryan

I live and work in my beloved Glasgow in Scotland, and can think of no other place on the planet where I

would rather be.

My hobbies include reading, the cinema, music and watching football (soccer to our friends across the

pond). I also love British sit-coms from the 70s, and American cop shows—also from the 70s.

I am horrendously superstitious; I won't walk under ladders, put new shoes on the table or utter the words

‘What's the worst that could happen?’ and forget about the number 13!

Visit www.torquerepress.com for information on additional titles by this and other
authors.