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BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

CHAPTER 10-AMENITIES

BRIAN’S POV

has my blood pressure got a hold on me,
or is this the way love's supposed to be?


early Friday morning, February 18, 2011

The off-white sheets on your bed at The Rockford felt cool against your skin as you and Justin slid underneath them for the first time since arriving there that night. Orange embers, the only thing left burning in the fireplace, were no longer keeping the two of you warm enough. He shivered a little under the covers as he lay on top of you, so you pulled the fluffy comforter up over his shoulders as you kissed him. He watched as your right arm appeared from under the covers, reaching for your cigarettes on the nightstand.

He took your cigarette away from you when it returned, “You shouldn’t smoke in here, Brian. This is a non-smoking room.”

You rolled your eyes at him and took it back, “After a fuck like that, I’ll smoke anywhere I want.” You offered it to him after you’d had your fill. You’d missed that, watching him smoke, watching him do anything with his mouth.

“You’d smoke even if we hadn’t fucked, Brian.”

“That’s completely irrelevant.”

“You’re too old to be a rebel.”

“Bite your tongue.” He gave it back to you and you put it out in some wacky-ass figurine on the nightstand that you thought was looking at you funny.

His bottom was slick against your cock as he kissed his way up your neck, “I have to tell you something very important, Dr. Kinney.”

“There’s no way I got you pregnant that fast, so don’t even try it.” He laughed. “I’m not a doctor, but I play one at The Rockford.” You wiggled your eyebrows at him, and he made that adorable smile that made you want to devour him.

“I’m trying to be serious.”

“I was being serious.” You put your arms around him again, smoothing your hands up and down his back. His fingers traced the edges of your ears. He kissed you, “I don’t care how old you think you are, you’re so amazing in bed and on the floor and on top of my easel and in the shower and in front of the fireplace and over the kitchen sink and on the kitchen table and in the loft and on top of the washer and dryer and anywhere else you ever want to fuck me—"

ARCHIVE. ARCHIVE. ARCHIVE.

“Um, I haven’t fucked you in the laundry room.”

“I know, but I want to.”

“Want a little ‘spin cycle,’ huh?”

He rolled his eyes at you, “You are, Brian. You haven’t changed a bit. Okay, well, that’s not true. You’re sort of better.”

You looked at him like he was crazy, “Sort of better?”

He shrugged against you, “You’re just more relaxed. It’s nice.”

This is nice,” you told him, your hand moving underneath his bottom as he lifted up a little for you, “Slippery.” He moaned when he felt your hand curve around his ass.

You didn’t know what he meant about more relaxed, if he was referring to how easy the two of you fell together at a moment like this, your breathing, the familiar sounds of both of you moaning into a kiss, or the way he was pleading, “Touch me,” into your ear right when you were letting your fingers disappear inside him just so you could feel exactly where you’d just been.

You had so much control when you didn’t want him to have any.

“You’re wide open, Justin. So wet.” Your fingers pushed into him hard, relishing the puffs of air coming out of him that were steaming up your neck in short bursts as he kissed the side of your face. You lay with him like that for several minutes, enjoying the attention he was showering you with, listening to the little noises he makes when you’re touching him.

“I want you to turn around,” you whispered in his ear. He smiled against your neck. “Want to eat this beautiful bottom.”

“Mmm,” he said, kissing you hard, his tongue pushing into your mouth. “Okay.” The covers slipped off the two of you as you watched him turn around, the moonlight coming through the window casting a gorgeous hue over his body. He looped his arms around your legs, burying his face between them, his hard cock dangling over your chest. You ran a single finger up and down the inside of each of his thighs as his ass hovered over you, pulling him down when you felt his legs tighten, squeezing the sides of your body. He kissed the inside of your legs, holding you tighter as he felt you breathing on his asshole. “Brian.” When your tongue flicked against his hole, his fingers dug into your thighs, his lips moving to your balls.

Since the first night you made love to him, it’s been like this—lightning striking inside both of you—sometimes a violent, direct hit, sometimes flashes upon flashes of never-ending heat lightning that short-circuited everything in the entire world that didn’t have to do with fucking him. And you’d always had a hunger for him that rivaled any rational thought, but what you were experiencing now seemed to selfishly refuse to be classified. So you stopped trying and instead turned the matter over to your senses, giving your intellect the night off.

You closed your eyes and concentrated on what you felt—the tight ridges of his hole, his breath between your legs, the wetness that seemed to pour over you as you slipped your tongue inside him. He tasted like a paradox, innocence and experience all rolled into one.

He fucked your tongue as you licked him, sucking on your balls until he couldn’t anymore. He moaned on top of you, his voice reverberating over your whole torso, “You smell like me.”

He smelled like an ecstatic urgency that was so slippery you could barely hold on to it.

When your tongue enveloped his balls, his hips rose up, his cock almost dripping into your mouth as he lowered himself again, his head tucked against your stomach, watching as his cock slid into your mouth, “Oh fuck, Brian.”

You wrapped your hands around the inside of his thighs, controlling him as he fucked your face, slapping his ass when you couldn’t wait anymore, when you had to be inside him, “Get up and get on me,” you told him, “Just like this.”

You fought to hold your hips still as you watched him line up, watched your dick disappear into his ass. His hips felt incredible under your fingers as he rode you like that, his body pressing against your bent knees. It wouldn’t have surprised you if you came just from watching yourself slide in and out of his perfect bottom or the sublime curve of his lower back. “Christ, Justin, Christ.” He sat down on you hard when you said his name, fucking you with fierce thrusts until you felt his body tremble beneath your hands. He came between your legs, and you took over for him, tilting your hips up to meet him as the same tremble started to move through you. When you came inside him, it should’ve had sound effects.

It felt like a goddamn explosion.

His body slumped against your knees, tired and sated, and he laid there until you nudged him, “Come here.”

“I can’t. I’m dead.”

“Please.”

Your cock slid out of him effortlessly, and he turned back around, collapsing on top of you, almost purring as you ran your hands over his hair, “Oh my god.”

“I love you, Sunshine. Goddamn, that was amazing.”

He slid off of your body and curled beside you, “I love you, too.”

Your left hands wound together as you held him, kissing his neck and his shoulders, until his breathing slowed and you knew he was asleep.

******************
JUSTIN’S POV

they can’t take that away from me

If your parents had taken you to The Rockford on a family vacation when you were a child, you would’ve loved every minute of it. According to Brian’s synopsis on the plane ride to New Hampshire, The Rockford had been in business since 1953 and passed down through Nate’s family until it got to him. He’d had plenty of opportunities to sell it, Brian informed you, but Nate wouldn’t dream of it. For some reason, he considered this sprawling place with its steep, majestic staircases and doors with actual keyholes, home.

From the outside, one would’ve thought that The Rockford was too stubborn to modernize, but its sensibilities, Brian assured you, were anything but antiquated. The décor remained predominantly wood and brass, not glass and steel like every other hotel you and Brian had ever stayed in. You figured the wood to be either Mahogany or a dark Maple, as the hotel resort had a very dark feel to it, one that even the myriads of incandescent chandeliers couldn’t dispel. The crystal light fixtures everywhere didn’t seem to brighten the place at all, in fact, they seemed to do little more than accentuate the shadows.

The management at The Rockford basically hid the fact that they had an elevator, requiring most patrons to use the enormously wide staircase in the lobby. On first glance at this monstrosity, you thought it better suited to the ante-bellum south than a resort in New England. The hotel was old-fashioned and wouldn’t dream of having a guest carry his or her own luggage upstairs, so employees scurried in and out of hidden alcoves like well-trained elves depositing suitcases in their rightful rooms as if they were mysterious Christmas presents. Any trace of them was long gone before guests even made it to their rooms.

There were good reasons for that, though. There were several good reasons for guests to linger downstairs: a five-star restaurant, a dark, smoky bar with piano music, parlors which you preferred to think of as ‘drawing rooms’ for obvious reasons, and an atmosphere that reminded those who paid a hefty sum to stay there, that their presence and their money were more than welcome.

Of course, according to Brian, the two of you weren’t paying a cent.

The walk to your room was a long one along a burgundy colored, overly busy carpet that covered the wide lobby and the hallways of The Rockford. The Victorian furniture that lined the hallways seemed to have been collected from random estate sales over the years, as if none of it was actually meant to be there on purpose. Somehow, the furniture seemed to know this and appeared propped on the floor, as if on display in a museum. The mirrors over the tables, which you took to be vanities because they reminded you of ones your grandmother had, were mostly cloudy with distorted glass. They appeared smudged and often scratched, as if no amount of Windex would’ve made a difference.

To be honest, the whole place reminded you of a Scooby Doo mansion. You just couldn’t figure out where they stored the mystery van.

Your life in New York was officially over, and you couldn’t help feeling nostalgic for the rumble of subway trains, the push of people on the sidewalks, the scents of various street vendors and, as you lay in your bed at this woodsy, over-decorated establishment, even the peculiar glamour of the city when the sun went down. There was so much possibility there; the pace of the city wouldn’t have it any other way.

It had been your opportunity of a lifetime. Your piece of the Big Apple would always belong to you—the lessons you’d learned, the people you met, the experiences that moved through you and onto a canvas.

Nothing in your life had ever made you feel so free, so inspired, so compelled to illustrate the human condition and the world that that condition, good or bad, insisted on inhabiting. You’d gone to New York thinking that you needed an answer to a question, but when you got there, you had no idea what the question was. All you knew was that answers seemed to be everywhere, backstabbing your effort to make sense out of anything.

But tonight, you felt like you’d been handed an answer, and this one didn’t fight you so hard. You looked at the ring on your finger, and then turned your head to look at Brian as he slept and eventually, at the clock.

2:43 a.m.

It was snowing outside your window, a slow beautiful snow that seemed in no hurry to hit the ground. The flakes swept left to right as often as they fell straight down. You snuggled behind Brian, wrapping your arm around his waist, your eyes glancing over his shoulder. There were still people skiing at that hour of the morning. They weren’t very good, or they were drunk. You couldn’t really tell. Brian’s breathing changed, and you knew you’d woken him up. He pulled your hand around and pressed it against his stomach.

“What’re you doing?” he asked you quietly.

“Watching the snow.”

Brian tilted his head so he could see out the window, “What the fuck are those idiots doing?”

“They think they’re skiing.”

“Apparently.” He sighed, laid his head back down, and yawned, “The only sport you should engage in while intoxicated is fucking.”

“Well said, Mr. Kinney.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kinney-Taylor… or… Taylor-Kinney or whatever you are.”

“God, that sounds pretentious, doesn’t it? Justin Taylor-Kinney?”

“Um, you are pretentious.” You tickled him. He started laughing, “I’m sorry, I meant you are pretentious, sweetheart.”

“Much better.”

The snow became your focus again as a quiet settled over the room. After a minute or so, Brian let go of your hand, reaching back and pulling your hips against him.

******************
BRIAN’S POV

you take two bodies and you twirl them into one,
their hearts and their bones
and they won't come undone


A younger Justin would’ve asked you what you meant by that gesture.

This one didn’t.

This one was more than comfortable walking the tight rope of attraction that had always connected the two of you. There was nothing urgent about the way he kissed your back or your shoulders or let his hard cock move back and forth between your legs. He knew how to draw your desire out of you and what to do with it once it was right in front of him. And he was always more patient with you than you could ever bring yourself to be with him.

His hand ran up and down the side of your body and eventually over your ass, his palm open and warm. You moaned in anticipation when you felt his slick fingers pass over your asshole, and when one of them pushed inside you, you rolled onto your stomach; your need for him rising inside you. You pressed your hips into his hand, no longer wanting to wait.

But he was the one inside you, and he knew what he was doing.

You reached for his other hand and folded your fingers together. You wondered as he stretched you, if you were trapped inside a moment or turning a page. You felt yourself opening up for him, his touch giving you an answer to your question. It would always be up to you to believe it.

He was whispering to you quietly the entire time, and although you couldn’t recall anything that he said, the sound of his voice relaxed you and made you want him even more. Your hips rocked anxiously into the sheets in an effort to charm some kind of rhythm out of his hand.

There was a patient persistence in the way that he touched you, in the sensation of his lips moving down your body, kissing the arch of your lower back, and a sense of an unopposed obligation almost flooded you as you thought about a lifetime of this, of him. In that dark, chintzy room, in the middle of that unplanned night, you felt his love for you. And it didn’t feel like a pair of Gucci loafers a size too small, it felt as exciting and satisfying as a sharp, expensive, brand new suit.

In your mind, behind your closed eyes, the door to your woodland bedroom was suddenly wide open. And the man who over the years had pursued Justin, avoided him, and then tried in vain to resist him was turning his back on you and walking out the door.

And there were no hard feelings.

You wondered if he saw what you did, if he saw the blond boy full of a naïve, insatiable, nervous energy that fought to hang onto you, follow that man out the door and shut the door behind him. Their absence left the two of you finally and gratefully alone.

“Brian, roll over. I want to see your face,” he whispered to you, and you did, welcoming his body on top of yours. “I love you,” he said to you, as the tight pain of him pushing through you burned through your entire body, “So much.” You felt your body wrap around him, saw your fingers running through his hair.

And as he fucked you, you got the distinct feeling that something had shifted between the two of you, felt like something more than just your love making was becoming unprotected.

It was as if for the first time you could really feel the pleasure he was feeling being inside you. The sound of him trying to control his breathing turned into a sweet, steady, moaning rhythm that made you want to tell him everything—everything you loved about him, everything he made you feel, everything that had changed about you because of him, even when he hadn’t been around to see it. But his song was so hypnotic, you didn’t dare interrupt it. You just listened to it and let it fill you.

Until he stopped.

Justin, don’t stop,” you heard yourself whisper to him.

“I’m not gonna last.” He sounded so breathy, so desperate. “I need to come. Oh god—"

“Come on. Little longer. Come on.” He stopped for a second, took a deep breath, and then you felt it. Felt him deeper inside you than he’d ever been, his arms and legs clamping you like a vice, his ragged breathing, his voice,

“Fuck, Brian, fuck. Please come…Please.

His forehead dug into the crook of your neck as his hips began a frenetic pace, his fingers skimming blindly down the side of your face. You wanted to break free, to move, to throw your head back, something, but he was squeezing you too tight; he had you pinned.

Your orgasm bled out of your pores; it had nowhere else to go. And then you moaned, loudly, your head sinking into the sheets as you felt him come inside you.

Inside you.

He’d just come inside you.

 

Lyrics taken from Martha and The Vandellas’s Heatwave, George and Ira Gershwin’s They Can’t Take That Away From Me, and Paul Simon’s Hearts and Bones.

Chapter End Notes:

Original publication date 10/25/05

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