Fuck him.

The driving had become slow and treacherous after the sun went down. Justin had watched several cars perform clumsy pirouettes into ditches - most of them SUVs going too fast under the mistaken belief they were invincible to the snow and ice that hampered the mere mortals in their Honda Civics and Toyota Corollas. Justin was glad to be both a damn good driver and secure in a nice, sturdy Jeep.

And, yes, in case you're wondering, the Jeep belonged to one Brian Kinney, Asshole Extraordinaire and Cruel Executioner of Dreams. Justin hoped he was having a dandy, ol' time in Chicago kissing ass and fucking every guy within the city limits (and maybe even beyond).

Fuck him.

If Brian had thought Justin would merely stay home clutching his pearls, he was sorely mistaken. Justin had two-week long ski passes to Sugarbush, prepaid equipment rentals and a slope-side, ski-in-ski-out condo (Brian said he'd rather let Mel sit on his face than stay at a B&B, gay-friendly or not). There was a private outdoor Jacuzzi and room service provided by skiing waiters who were no doubt hot as hell and eager for an orgy.

Fuck him.

Brian had revealed his priorities, none of which included Justin. Work trumped a promised vacation. He'd claimed he'd be fired if he didn't procure some stupid account. Like that would actually happen; Brian was the firm's top account winner. As though they'd fire him. What a load of shit. Why hadn't he just man-upped and said he'd changed his mind and didn't want to go? Instead, he'd invented an excuse and, in the process, lied through his teeth - something Justin had always believed would never happen. At least that's what Brian had assured him.

Fuck him.

Justin had had enough of this bullshit. He wasn't a dog that always came back for another kick. He was better than that. Stronger than that. Brian was not going to break him. If a baseball bat to the head hadn't broken him, a shitty "boyfriend" didn't stand a chance.

Justin looked down at his white-knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel, not out of fear of the weather conditions but fury at Brian. This was the final fucking straw. The snow was blinding. He put on his hazards and kept a gradual but continuous speed; if you stopped, it would be hell trying to find the traction to keep going again.

Fuck him.

Justin almost wished he'd end up rolled-over in a ditch, seriously injured and needing the assistance of the Jaws-of-Life to free him from the wreckage. Maybe that would catch Brian's attention and make him regret his decision to go to Chicago. Yeah, right. Like Brian would ever regret something. It was almost worth dying to see how he'd react. But that was stupid. If he was dead, he wouldn't know what Brian did or didn't do. Justin chided himself for even momentarily entertaining the thought. This was what this sick "relationship" had driven him to!

Fuck him.

It took an eternity, but he finally arrived at the Sugarbush Resort. It was enormous. Every tree surrounding the main lodge was wrapped in tiny white lights and people milled around, their boots squeaking in the new snow. Justin drove to the main entrance and handed the keys to a valet. Have I mentioned he had Brian's credit card number? After he checked in, a handsome employee, his cheeks ruddy from the cold, carried Justin's bags to the gondola. They rode together, and the guy filled him in on the latest conditions and which trails were open. Justin was pleased to hear that almost the entire mountain had enough snow cover for a good, dependable base. The forecast was brilliant sun during the day and snow every night. Nothing could be more ideal. Brian was going to miss out on the perfect vacation.

Fuck him.

After disembarking from the gondola, Justin and the hot ski dude walked a short distance to a condo with a front porch whose railings were garlanded by the same white lights Justin had noticed on the trees. The guy unlocked the door and handed Justin the key. The lights were already on, and there was a bottle of expensive champagne chilling in an ice bucket on the kitchen counter.

"Your rental equipment is in the boot room," the delicious guy said, pointing down a short hallway. "If anything is unsatisfactory, contact the rental shop, and someone will come out as soon as possible with replacements."

Justin merely nodded; he was still looking around the large living room with its peaked ceiling and huge windows overlooking a trail lit for night skiing. There was an enormous fireplace with a fire crackling amidst the fragrant pine logs it'd been built with. Deep brown leather couches soft enough to eat a whole human alive were positioned just right for a view of both the fire and the ski trails.

"The bedroom is upstairs in the loft," the hottie said, "as well as a sitting room and master bathroom. There's another smaller bathroom across from the door to the boot room. The bed was made this morning with fresh sheets, and there are towels and bathrobes in the upstairs closet. Please let us know if anything is not to your satisfaction."

What is not to my satisfaction, Justin thought, is the fact that I'm here all alone when I should be with my fucking asshole of a "boyfriend". He almost said it but stopped himself in the nick of time.

"We were under the impression that there were going to be two of you," the guy said. "Will he be arriving later tonight or tomorrow? We need to know to be sure someone is available to assist him."

Justin gave him a twist of a rueful smile.

"I'm afraid it's just me," he said. "My ‘partner' has made different plans." He hoped that this information might encourage the ruddy-cheeked Romeo to stay and try out the cozy hot tub, but there was no hint of gayness emanating from his words and actions. Justin glanced at his ring finger. Damn, he thought, Not only was the dude straight, he was married too. So much for that.

"Do you wish to have dinner delivered to you?"

Justin nodded.

"Great. There's a menu on the counter. Everything is covered by your reservation and will be charged to the card in our system. The kitchen is open to eleven o'clock. Just dial the number on the menu. Preparation and delivery usually takes about forty-five minutes. Also, I forgot to mention that you can order groceries. Again, all costs will be charged to your card, including tips, so there's no need to tip the staff delivering anything. Do you have any questions, sir?"

Justin shook his head. "Nope."

"Well, if you need anything, just call the front desk."

Justin gave him a wan smile and walked with him to the door. And then he was gone. The ache in the pit of Justin's stomach worsened. Nothing he could order for dinner could erase the pointless desire for Brian's presence.

Fuck him.

Even though he wasn't in the mood to eat, Justin ordered the most expensive meal on the menu along with the most expensive bottle of wine. Brian better not be fired because he was going to need a hefty paycheck to stave off the financial ruin Justin intended to inflict on him. When the food was delivered, Justin offered the delivery girl the bottle of obscenely expense champagne. Brain had obviously bought it and arranged to have it delivered for their first night away from Pittsburgh.

Fuck him.

"As an employee, I shouldn't accept this, sir," the girl said with obvious regret.

Justin smiled his first real smile in days. "Then come back after your shift," he said. "I'll leave it on the porch. It's a gift, not a tip."

The girl, damn her, rolled her lips to hide a smile. Justin noticed for the first time that she had dark brown hair and hazel eyes. She could be Brian's twin sister.

"Thank you," she said and let her suppressed smile unfurl.

Justin couldn't help giving her his sunshiny grin. "You're welcome," he said and then added, "Just promise me you'll share it with someone you love - and who loves you back."

Her smile turned sad, but she nodded anyway. "I hope you have a good stay," she said and then skied back to the gondola. Before she got on, she gave him a little wave.

Goddamn it. Sometimes Justin wished he was straight. But then he imagined Brian's beautiful cock and immediately dropped his train of thought. He couldn't imagine not having that cock shoved up his ass and those full, heavy balls emptying in his mouth. The thought brought the long-resisted tears to his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He was not going to cry over Brian.

Fuck him.

He ate almost nothing of his expensive dinner and turned off the light illuminating the back deck and its Jacuzzi. He took a shower and stood for a while dripping water while he stared at the bed. He was not going to sleep on it; instead, he curled up on one of the couches and watched the fire die - a suiting metaphor for his Brian-less circumstances.

The morning was bright - almost painfully so when he woke and looked out at the smooth, white slope. He hoped the equipment included anti-glare goggles. He ordered the most expensive breakfast and sat picking at it as he watched skiers pass by. It'd been a while since he'd snowboarded. In fact, it'd been almost exactly two years. He, his parents, Molly and Daphne had gone to Mount Snow for a weekend to celebrate his seventeenth birthday. Justin swallowed a tight knot when he recalled how all five of them gathered around the fire in the main lodge, drinking hot chocolate and laughing at each other's tales of icy bravery. That was before everything had been ruined. By Brian.

Fuck him.

The snowboarding was fantastic, and for a brief while, Justin almost forgot how unhappy he was. It was just a couple degrees short of spring conditions, and Justin was able to take off his down parka. The people he rode with in the gondola were all nice and chattier than Northeastern's usually are (although, actually, most of them were from out of state). They were interested in the fact he went to art school and asked him a lot of questions. On one ride Justin was alone with a skier who was a leg-amputee, and he talked about his brain injury. In return, the guy told him about how he'd been injured in Afghanistan. Justin felt an unexpected jolt of arousal, but then, yet again, he saw the ring on his left hand. Was everyone at Sugarbush heterosexual? When they got off the lift, the guy invited Justin to take a run with him. Justin enthusiastically agreed - up until the moment he realized the guy intended to ski the scariest fucking trail on the whole mountain. They parted ways, and Justin watched in awe as the guy skied off. He was the most graceful skier Justin had ever seen, and he lambasted himself for being a pussy about something as trivial as a dysfunctional relationship. At least he still had all his limbs.

Fuck him.

After he'd tired himself out, Justin returned to the condo and soaked in the Jacuzzi (fuck Brian, he was determined to enjoy his vacation). By the time he was dried off and dressed, it was only six o'clock. What the fuck was he going to do with the rest of the evening? There was a T.V., but he'd be damned if he was going sit around watching reruns of fucking Friends even though Ross was gay, and it was amusing to watch him pretending to be straight. It was even more amusing watching Will of Will and Grace pretending to be gay. He sucked at it. Brian's loathing of the show was as hot as a thousand fiery suns . . .

Fuck him.

Justin puttered around aimlessly until he decided to go down to the main lodge. He caught a downhill gondola. When he got out, he was suddenly surrounded by people, most of who looked like they'd started drinking around noon. Justin saw that he had a long way to go to catch up. He was pounding a shot of Tequila when he was joined by the veteran and his wife. The three of them proceeded to inhale several margaritas and a grotesquely large plate of cheese and chili nachos. Both of his companions were friendly and then fucking hilarious after a couple of drinks. They laughed and talked like old friends until the bartender shut off the booze. The three of them staggered outside and proceeded to have a drunken snowball fight. Justin was having a great time, but then the couple dropped the news they were leaving the next day. God, it was humiliating when he felt tears fill his eyes! He'd told them about Brian and how Brian had stood him up. They both gave him huge bear hugs, and then they were gone. Justin went home to his Brian-less condo where he drank what was left of the expensive wine he'd bought the night before. Two a.m. found him sobbing and vomiting, which was neither fun nor dignified. As dawn crept in through the windows, Justin fell asleep on the bathroom floor with a folded towel as a pillow. Maybe he'd get his wish and die. Then Brian would be sorry.

Fuck him.

Fortunately, everything he'd drunk was sufficiently expensive (and his vomiting sufficiently effective) that Justin awoke with only a ghost of a hangover. He called the kitchen and ordered their breakfast special. This time he was hungry and devoured the whole thing. Then he called the front desk and ordered new sheets (even though he hadn't slept in the bed) and new towels even though he didn't need them. He also requested a house cleaner. The services were ridiculously expensive. Justin made sure they were charged to Brian's card.

Fuck him.

The weather was flawless again, and the people he rode with in the gondola were all nice. He met another snowboarder, and they tried out some newly opened trails together. He would've kept going except the girl said she had to meet a friend at the summit lodge.

His thigh muscles were burning, so he stopped earlier than he had the day before. After showering and dressing, he went back to the main lodge, but this time no one approached him to share a drink. Justin ended up drinking too much again and dining on nothing but Chex Party Mix. The good mood he'd felt on the slopes faded with every $18 shot of tequila. When the bar closed, he staggered to the gondola where he would've fallen asleep but for his fellow riders' loud, bawdy behavior. It reminded him of Brian and the boys at Woody's.

Fuck him.

When he returned to the condo, the fire that was lit for him every night was nothing but embers, so Justin added a few logs. He was starving. Luckily there were plenty of leftovers in the fridge. He sat on a barstool at the counter eating and listening to his iPod. The silence was too oppressive to endure. After he'd polished off the filet mignon and garlic mashed potatoes, he went upstairs with the intention of getting the duvet and bringing it down to the couch, when he changed his mind. The bed was so inviting. He hadn't wanted to sleep in it because it screamed of Brian's absence. So fucking what? Justin threw off all of the pillows except one and positioned it smack in the middle. He climbed in the bed and sprawled out as much as he could, legs and arms askew and spread wide. Even if Brian was there, there'd be no room for him.

Fuck him.

Justin had exhausted himself with a day of challenging boarding and an evening of sulky, lonely drinking. The condo could collapse around him and he probably wouldn't even know it. He was so deeply asleep that he drooled. He was the proverbial slumbering log when he was awakened groggily by a whispered word.

"Sunshine."

Justin's eyes flew open. He was dreaming. Brian was not pulling aside the duvet and positioning himself between Justin's legs. Brian was not nuzzling Justin's balls and inhaling his sleepy scent. Brian was not licking Justin's dick with long, broad sweeps of his tongue. Brian was not swallowing said dick past his gag reflex. Brian was not moaning around his mouthful. Brian was not wetting his finger with his saliva and pressing the tip against Justin's asshole - gently but steadily until it slid into the resisting opening. And Brian definitely was not making Justin come with sharp, involuntary thrusts of his hips and curling toes.

"What are you doing here?" Justin asked, his voice hoarse from sex and sleep.

Brian didn't answer until he'd jerked himself off, shouting obscenities like a sailor when he came.

"Your lips are chapped," Brian said, flagrantly ignoring Justin's question. "Let me do something about that." He swiped a finger through the pool of come he'd spurted on Justin's chest and applied the warm, deep-ocean-scented substance to Justin's lips. Justin licked it up, forcing Brian to apply more. Brian's come tasted and smelled different than any of the tricks' Justin had blown. He couldn't get enough of it.

"Roll over," Brian whispered, and Justin complied. They hadn't spoken a word about how and why Brian was there. It seemed like they should discuss it, but speech was impossible for both of them when Brian began sloppily fucking Justin's asshole with his tongue.

He placed his hands on Justin's hips and pulled them back until Justin's ass was sitting on his heels. Justin knew what he looked like, wide open and on unobscured display. He knew because Brian had let him rim him in the same position. Justin groaned at the memory and then started cresting when he remembered the anal beads (Brian's favorite toy) buried all the way and then slowly withdrawn while Brian jerked off . . . oh fuck!

"Don't come," Brian said. "I want to fuck you."

As he always did in such situations when Brian asked him not to climax yet, Justin thought of lesbians going down on each other. It was the vilest and most disturbing image he could conjure. It was even capable of wilting his hard-on.

Brian chuckled as he put on a condom. "Thinking about munchers again?"

Justin huffed out a laugh that transformed into a deep, guttural sound as Brian's cock breached him and sheathed itself with delicious determination.

All thoughts of lesbians - and everything else - quickly fled Justin's mind. All he was aware of was the living heat that filled him. He started rocking back when Brian thrust forward with increasing speed and force. When he grabbed Justin's hips and used his grip to yank Justin's whole body in counterpoint to his movements, Brian's thrusts lost their rhythm. Justin started stroking himself. Brian wouldn't come before he did, and it was clear that Brian wanted - or even needed - to come. He was making those sounds that always preceded his climax.

"Come," Brian said, choking on the word.

Justin tightened his grip on his dick as his orgasm flooded his feet and flowed toward his groin, the sensation making his fingers tingle. The increasing desperation in Brian's voice vibrated in the marrow of Justin's bones and plucked at his sinews as though his body was an instrument and Brian was the musician. When Brian started trembling and making his familiar groaning-gurgling sound, Justin toppled off his cliff, soaring for a moment on wings of ecstasy, and then slammed into an unforgiving earth.

Brian sank his fingertips into the flesh of Justin's hips. His thrusts grew savage enough to drive Justin's face into his pillow. Justin had to turn his head to avoid suffocation. Brian's trembling turned into full-body shaking as he resisted his inevitable fall to the point of, what it's always seemed to Justin, pain. He squeezed Brian's cock and was immediately rewarded for his efforts when Brian grunted, buried himself to the balls and froze there, drawing out his orgasm to its full tantric capacity (a skill he was teaching Justin) before collapsing onto Justin's back as heavy and unwieldy as a sack of dry cement. They lay like that, panting, until Brian's cock started to soften, and he pulled out with obvious reluctance. As much as Justin's body craved the fullness, he didn't want to go on a fishing exhibition for the condom.

Brian rose to his knees, and Justin rolled onto his side so he could witness Brian perform his rubber-removing ritual. It was so oddly sweet that Justin couldn't resist watching. Brian pulled off his condom and admired the impressive volume of its contents, holding it up with a concentrating frown and scrutinizing it like a wine connoisseur might do with a glass of pinot noir.

"Not bad for a second orgasm," he said, obviously pleased with his body's semen-producing ability. "You always make me come my brains out."

Justin enjoyed the afterglow of, not only the sex, but Brian's unexpected compliment while he watched Brian walk to the bathroom, his skin damp with sweat and his hair spiked and mussed to the point of indignity. After he heard the toilet flush, Justin got up to join him in the spacious shower.

Now was the time for talking, and talking was precisely what they needed to do, fuck Brian's knee-jerk recalcitrance.

"Mmmm," Brian purred as Justin began scrubbing his shoulders with a washcloth. "Feels good. Been driving for-fucking-ever."

It was as good an opening as any.

"Why are you here?" Justin asked. "What happened to your trip to Chicago?"

"Done," Brian replied. "Took less than forty-eight hours from getting on the plane to making Vance eat his own shit. You were just fucked by a full-blown partner at Pittsburgh's most prestigious ad agency."

He dropped his head forward as Justin started scrubbing his neck.

"You know," Brian said after a minute or so. "You were a real, fucking prima donna. I told you I'd be back as soon as I won that account. I told you my fucking job was on the line. I was given a fucking week to prove to that arrogant son-of-a-bitch that I was worth keeping. I ended up doing it in forty-eight hours. It was just three fucking days from the time Vance told me my ass was on the line to the time I got back to Pittsburgh, but no, you had to pull a hissy fit and leave before I got back. No note, no nothing. I had to learn you'd left from the boys. That sucked, Justin. It let them in on more of my - more of our - business than I'd ever wanted to. You fucked me over big time. You're lucky I'm even here at all."

Lucky?! Justin's hand froze. Bastard! "I'm lucky because you decided to join me? Brian, there's something called a fucking phone. Yes, you have to press a few buttons, but it's not hard to figure out. If I'd known you were coming back, I would've waited."

Brian turned around, his eyes flashing with anger. "What about ‘I'll be back in a couple of days' didn't you understand? It shouldn't be complicated for an honor student. Admit it. You didn't believe me."

He grabbed Justin's shoulders and gave him a sharp, emphatic shake. Brian had never used physical force on him before. Justin angrily pried Brian's hands off him and gripped his wrists, pinning them against the shower wall. Even though he had more than enough strength to escape, Brian didn't struggle.

"Why should I believe you?" Justin spat. "Why should I believe someone who, for months, was pushing me away only to turn around and fuck me every chance he got before pushing me away again? Why should I trust someone who tricks under my fucking nose? Why should I believe someone who never once visited me when I was in the hospital? Why should I believe someone who dumped me without a second thought because my Goddamn mom asked him to? Why should I believe someone who gets me a fucking hustler - a hustler - for my birthday? Why should I trust someone who can't even be bothered to give me one, tiny, little, infinitesimal sliver of affection?"

Brian didn't blink through the entirety of Justin's tirade. His expression was stony, and a sneer tugged at his upper lip. His gaze had not softened one iota.

"I trick under you quote-unquote ‘fucking nose,' because that's what I do. I trick. A lot. Every day if I can. I have never told you I'd stop, and I never will. Deal with it or walk away. Same thing with me being an asshole. Yeah, I pushed you away, but it was you who kept coming back, who kept wanting me to fuck you. Takes two to tango, Sunshine. As for not visiting you in the hospital, I . . ." Brian paused to take a deep breath ". . . I was there all day, every fucking day, until you were out of a coma, and then I was there every fucking night. I knew your progress in therapy better than your own fucking mother, speaking of whom, she told me that if I cared about you, I'd leave and never come back. I think you're smart enough to figure out what it meant . . . what it means . . . that I complied with her wishes."

Brian was breathing as though he'd just run a race, and his cheeks were flushed even brighter than they were after they'd fucked. He was on fire with anger . . .

. . . meanwhile Justin was in shock.

"You," he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "You were at the hospital? Every night? When did you sleep?"

"I didn't," Brian replied.

"I was in the hospital . . ."

". . . for a fucking long time . . ."

". . . and every night you were there?"

"Does that equate to a ‘tiny, little, infinitesimal sliver of affection?' Or do you need fucking roses and violin music?"

Justin winced and turned his face away. Did Brian know about his feelings for Ethan? But how could he?

"How am I supposed to know any of this unless you tell me?" Justin demanded. He felt that it was a more than a reasonable question.

Brian shrugged. "I guess I didn't think I had to for you to know . . . to know how I . . . how I feel about you. Clearly, I was wrong." He got out of the shower and started hastily drying himself with one of the resort's super-plush towels. He was out the bathroom door before Justin could even figure out what was going on. Justin ran into the bedroom naked and dripping water all over the carpet. Brian was getting dressed with Olympian speed.

"Brian!" Justin shouted. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Brian snapped. "I'm leaving and taking my fucking Jeep with me!"

"Now who's the prima donna?"

The question made Brian stop getting dressed. He hated being called a "prima donna." It was tantamount to a thrown-down gauntlet.

"I am not being a prima donna," he said, rage simmering under his voice's deliberate calm. "I'm simply going home. You can come with me or you can stay here without the use of my car and my credit card, which, by the way, I can see you're diligently trying to max-out."

"I'd have to buy the whole fucking resort to surpass your credit limit!" Justin yelled as he struggled to put on his clothes fast enough to grab Brian before he ran out the door. In the end, he only managed his underwear, one sock and a backward, inside-out t-shirt. "You're fucking rich, Brian. Why the hell do you need to be even richer?"

The question was sufficiently annoying to cause Brian to pause as he was gathering his bags.

"Did I hear you correctly?" he asked. "Did you listen to one fucking word I said? I had a week to prove I was worth not firing from the same fucking company that I helped put on the fucking map. I told you that! Tell me so that I can understand: did you want me to fail? Did you just not care? Or are you just too much of a fucking child to realize that money - and careers - don't grow on fucking trees? Didn't your parents ever tell you that or were you just not listening? My money pays for your fucking tuition, your fucking cell phone bills, your fucking clothes . . . !"

"I never asked you to buy me clothes," Justin snapped. "The clothes I had were just fine!"

"The clothes you had made me lose my will to live every time I looked at them!"

"That's because you're a label queen!"

"You looked like you were a homeless basketball fan who'd just climbed out of a dumpster!"

"You wanted to fuck me anyway!"

"Only after I got you out of your horrible clothes!"

"I'm an artist! Artists don't wear Armani!"

"Artists also don't wear shit from Old Navy and Nike Town! At least have the dignity to wear vintage, used clothing!"

"Old Navy is owned by The Gap!"

"And that should change my mind why?"

"Because The Gap has nice clothes!"

" . . ."

"Gotcha!"

"You did not ‘get me.' I was merely stunned into silence. The Gap? The Gap?? Why do you hate me so much?"

"I don't hate you, you asshole! I fucking love you!"

". . ."

"And you love me too or you wouldn't be in Vermont!"

". . ."

"And you would've canceled your credit card - I know you knew I was using it!"

". . ."

"And you would've told the police your Jeep was stolen!"

". . ."

"And you sure as hell wouldn't be here right now arguing with me about clothes!"

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm here for that ass of yours, not your stupid ‘you love me' bullshit!"

"You could've had anyone's ass!"

"No one has an ass like yours!"

"See! I told you that you love me!"

"Correction: I love your ass!"

"My ass is attached to the rest of me!"

"I try very hard to forget that fact!"

"But you can't, can you?!"

"Sadly, not!"

"So you admit that I'm attached to my ass!"

"Only reluctantly!"

"Reluctant or not, the result is the same: you love my ass and my ass is attached to me. It follows from simple logic that you love me in my entirety, ass and all!"

". . ."

"See! You're speechless in the face of my Socratic reasoning!"

"No, I'm speechless in the face of your sheer, jaw-dropping inability to do anything that resembles math!"

"I got 750 on the math section of my SATs!"

"Obviously the person who did the grading was on crack!"

"The SATs are graded by machine, not a human!"

"Okay! Then the machine was on crack!"

". . ."

"Or meth!"

"Machines cannot smoke; thus they can smoke neither crack nor meth!"

"You can inject meth!"

"Machines can't inject stuff! They don't have veins! But back to my ass . . . !"

". . . you can't switch subjects like that; it's disconcerting!"

"That's because your brain can't hold onto more than one thought at the time!"

"That's only true when you're sucking my cock like a starving backroom whore!"

". . ."

". . ."

Finally, a useful segue! Without pausing to second-guess his decision, Justin walked over to Brian, knelt down in front of him, opened his jeans, pulled them off his hips and watched with satisfaction as Brian's cock gradually stiffened under his lustful gaze. Soon it was standing proudly straight out from his glossy, dark pubic hair, its head a deep crimson and its slit open with the tautness of the satiny skin. Without touching Brian in any other way, Justin inserted the tip of his tongue. It was difficult to maintain the shallow penetration as Brian's cock twitched, but he bravely persisted. When he glanced up, he found Brian looking down at him with heavy-lidded eyes and parted lips. He took a chance and sat back on his heels. Brian groaned at the loss of contact.

"What do you want?" Justin asked, his voice calm and steady. "What will prove to you that I'm sorry?"

Brian just looked at him with that sex-drenched gaze of his. It was a long time before he answered, an event that was only triggered by the swelling bead of pre-come that seeped from his slit, stretched in a milky thread, then broke after a moment and fell to the floor. Brian blinked as though awakened from a trance.

"What will prove to you that I'm sorry?" His voice was scratchy with need.

They looked into each other's eyes, each of them watching as the remaining hardness and anger evaporated like dew in the sun.

"Fuck me," Brian all but whispered as he pushed down his jeans and kicked them off.

There was a sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace, which still glowed with flickering embers. Justin had only fucked Brian once before. He watched Brian lie down and turn onto his front with an exhalation of sweet surrender. How had Justin forgotten what a big deal it was that Brian offered himself like that? Ethan had talked of rose petals and breakfast in bed. Anyone can buy roses and make scrambled eggs. Only Brian could give him something truly unique: himself. No one's acquiescence was so hard won - and so sincerely given.

"I don't need preparation," Brian said, spreading his legs. "Just go to it."

Justin was slightly disappointed; he loved everything about Brian's asshole. It was adorably shy and exquisitely tight. Just the thought of Brian's taste made Justin drool, and no sight was more arousing than his finger slowly disappearing into Brian's slickly lubed channel.

"Fuck me," Brian said, humping the rug and opening himself, again and again, leaving nothing to the imagination. "There are condoms in my wallet."

Justin took off his inside-out t-shirt, his one sock, and his underwear while he simultaneously fumbled in the back pocket of Brian's rumpled jeans for his wallet. It was a feat worthy of admission to Cirque de Soleil. Finally, he found a condom buried in a wad of cash and opened the packet. It was Brian's favorite brand - slippery with lube and thin to the point of near-ineffectiveness. Justin put it on carefully, but his trembling hands made it difficult. The task wasn't made any easier by Brian's increasingly exaggerated movements and encouraging obscenities. At last Justin's cock was sheathed. He held it steady and lined up the head against Brian's tightly puckered opening.

"Ready?" he asked.

"I was born ready, Sunshine," Brian replied. It was the closest thing to a confession of love that he'd ever made.

Justin entered him slowly, savoring the resistance of the ring of muscle encircling Brian's hole as it clenched his dick all the way to the root. Brian made a sound of satisfaction as his body welcomed Justin's thick ten inches.

Justin let himself go. He'd been so angry - so hurt. He'd been ready to break up with the man beneath and surrounding him. What had he been thinking? What had he been thinking just leaving for Vermont without even checking to see if Brian could eventually join him? It'd made sense at the time but not now.

When he looked back on that night, Justin could pretty much pinpoint the instant the condom tore. It was Brian's, which meant it was designed to accommodate an eight-inch cock (but only just barely; Brian tended to buy condoms a size too small because they left a few inches of his cock uncovered). Justin's dick was two inches too long and one inch too thick. Standard-sized condoms just couldn't do the job, especially when they were the absolute thinnest approved by the FDA. The fact that Brian was so tight and Justin let himself go like he never had before probably didn't help.

Brian was incoherent. He clawed at the rug, struggling to get enough of a purchase on it to push back. Justin reached down to jerk him off, but Brian smacked his hand away.

"I'll do that," he growled. "You just concentrate on fucking me into this dead sheep."

Justin laughed, but it manifested as a hitched groan. When the condom ripped he hadn't felt anything different, so he didn't stop although he later acknowledged that even if he had felt it, he wouldn't have stopped. He couldn't. Maybe Brian with all his experience could've stopped, but Justin couldn't - especially when the firelight was dancing on Brian's sweat slicked skin while he emitted a continuous, all-but-inaudible keening sound. Justin had to distract himself to keep from coming too soon. He raised his eyes to the enormous windows overlooking the slope. Snow was falling in ridiculously big flakes, almost obscuring the headlights of the groomers as they crawled laboriously up the hill.

Brian. He was there, in the flesh as though Justin had been able to wish hard enough to defy the rules of physics and transport him from the loft to the very spot he was now, pinned beneath Justin's thrusting hips. Justin wove his fingers into the hair at the nape of Brian's neck and tugged hard enough to lift Brian's head. He ignored the answering indignation and started fucking Brian even deeper. When Brian rose to his knees and forearms in a clear indication that he was ready to come, Justin abandoned all hint of decorum. Was that why, when he withdrew, the condom was nothing more than a ring of latex clenching the base of his cock? Or had the condom gave up the ghost whole minutes before he let himself go?

When Brian came, he curled into a ball around his middle with an inarticulate cry. It almost caused Justin's dick to slip free, but Justin altered the angle of his thrusts to permit continued full penetration. Now that Brian had come, he could follow in his wake.

He almost pulled out. Not because he was aware the condom had torn, but because he wanted to come on Brian just as Brian had come on him earlier. But when push came to shove, he couldn't leave the heaven of tight, convulsing muscle that surrounded his cock and massaged every raw, aching nerve in his whole body. . .

He froze with a silent cry, his fingers still clenching Brian's hair, as he came. It went on forever - spurt after wrenching spurt, all of them unimpeded by the ravaged condom. Brian's head was turned to the side. His eyes were closed, his face fever-flushed and his chin slick with spit. Justin bit his lip, unaware that he was bleeding until the aftershocks of his orgasm faded gradually into a vulnerable trembling.

They lay still for a long time. Justin's cock didn't start softening for several minutes. He probably could've kept going, but one look at Brian's face told him not to. Brian looked exhausted, which wasn't surprising considering he'd driven for twelve hours straight assuming there hadn't been any traffic.

Justin slowly, carefully withdrew from Brian's body, and that's when he noticed it - the torn condom and the pearly-white semen that flowed out of Brian's rectum in the wake of the retreat of Justin's softening cock. It was obvious in an instant what had happened . . .

Justin froze, eyes wide, paralyzed by sheer terror.