I was at eight, and panting, when I saw a glow kindle to life ahead of me, then grow brighter. I looked away from Rick and his lantern (where had he gotten a lantern?) to keep from hurting my eyes, and what I saw made me gasp with wonder.
The entire cavern glittered and shone with crystals embedded in the walls. It was like a fairy wonderland or some magical palace, hidden here in the ground where only the dedicated—or those with romantic and determined lovers—would find it. A fitting reward for over an hour of fear and frustration in the dark, despite the fact that I hadn’t done much to earn it.
I stepped forward and put a hand to the wall, feeling the cool smoothness of the crystal embedded in the rock. It was so marvelous, it took me a moment to realize that Rick had been standing next to more than a lantern. I turned slowly and faced the scene, and felt instantly like a total prick.
He must have come down here on his day off, yesterday, and gotten things set up for us. There was an inflatable mattress, fully inflated, and a bottle of wine, well cooled in the chilly air. He went down on one knee as I turned to face him, and my heart about stopped.
“Oh, Rick…”
“Mason. Will you?” He held up a ring box with a solid gold band, and I felt tears gather.
“Are you sure you still want to after all my whining?”
He grinned. “As long as I have permission to tell everyone that you whined and bitched the entire way to the proposal.”
I held up my hand for him, and he slid the ring onto my finger; a promise made and sealed in gold. “Deal. You get wineglasses down here, too?”
“I wanted to, but it seemed like a bad idea. We’ve got plastic cups. You game?”
“Definitely.” He poured, while I emptied my own backpack of food. I had wondered why he had insisted on me bringing impractical treats, like a box of strawberries. And why I’d had to carry all of it.
But when he sat on the mattress opposite me, and I took the first crisp, sweet sip of wine, food was the farthest thing from my mind.
“Thank you for dragging my lame ass down this hole,” I said. He took it for the apology it was, and leaned into me, and our lips met in a searing kiss that made the hairs on the back of my neck—and other things—stand up. I wished I could bottle the feeling and pull it out whenever I needed a pick-me-up, because there is nothing more energizing than feeling exactly how loved you are.
His kiss told me all that and more, and soon we were lying back on the inflated mattress, doing a whole lot more than kissing. His hand brushed the stubble of my cheek, teasing my sensitive skin and sending shivers of excitement through my entire body. I took my own explorations to his waist, where I knew he was not quite ticklish in a way that made him incredibly horny. We teased and played, our tongues sliding over each other and our hands wandering.
Then Rick grabbed my cock, and I knew that it was time for much, much more. I took the cue and kicked free of my pants and shoes, and he sat up to pull his shirt off at the same time. I chuckled when we came together again, each of us half-clothed, and pressed our lips together hard in a kiss that was as much a battle for dominance as it was a gesture of love. Seeing as I had been a dick all day, I fought back only long enough to make Rick feel good about winning, then let him roll me over.
He bit at my shoulder blades as I got onto my hands and knees, wobbling on the squishy surface of the bed. “Hurry,” I whispered, and the cave brought the echoes of my plea back to us.
“I am,” he assured me, and the slap he delivered to my ass echoed as well, though it didn’t cover the sound of his pants being pulled down, or the condom wrapper tearing a moment later. Then I heard the little click of the lube bottle, and a second later he was pressing against me, his cock hot and hard at my opening. “You sure you want this?” he teased.
“Come on, Rick, fuck me.” I pressed back into him, but he shifted, forcing me to wait.
“I don’t know, maybe we should eat first. It was such a
long, exhausting
hike.” I could hear him trying to suppress the laughter in his voice, and I rolled my eyes and moaned, begging him without words.
This time he did laugh. But he followed it up with the ultimate reward, thrusting into me in one smooth motion. My body opened to him, and I moaned in pleasure as I adjusted to his girth and the glorious sensation of being filled and possessed by the man I loved.
“God, move!”
“God now, am I?” He wiggled his hips just enough to drive me half out of my mind, then began to pound me in a slow, steady rhythm that I knew he could hold all night long. I gasped and clenched around him, desperate for more and wanting more than anything to entice him into losing control. He slapped my ass for my efforts, and apparently decided it was fun. I groaned when his hand descended again, and then a third time. The stinging swats only made me hungrier.
I started to reach for my own swollen cock, but Rick batted my hand away and bent over me. When his hand closed around me, the pleasure immediately began to mount. He stroked me in time to his own steady thrusts, but my heavy breathing and whimpers of pleasure were starting to get to him. When I cried out at an especially pleasurable stroke of thumb over crown, he gasped and his pace became faster and more ragged. I pushed back against him, begging him with my body to take me to the edge.
“I love you like this,” he whispered, and then he granted my wish. He slammed into me, plunging me deeper into the pool of pleasure. His balls slapped against my ass as he fucked me fast and hard, our animal sounds of pleasure magnified and returned to us by the chamber walls until we were surrounded in a cocoon of eroticism. I tried to hold back, but his skilled hand on my cock was persuasive, and I shuddered with sensation as he made me come. He continued to stroke me, his hand lubricated with my fluids, and I moaned and trembled in sensory overload.
“Fuck…yes. Damn, Mason.” He sounded like he was speaking through gritted teeth, and I bore down around him one last time, ready to pull him over the edge with me. He came with a roar that echoed deafeningly around us, and drove himself deep into me.
He pulled away a few seconds later, and we collapsed side by side on the narrow mattress, clinging to each other for warmth as much as anything else. “Still think this was a bad idea?” he asked.
I chuckled. “Maybe not the worst, but don’t expect me to help you pack all of this shit out of here.”
I could have smacked him when he answered, “My backpack is empty. Why do you think I made you carry all the food?”
MY APOLOGIES, SIR
Kiwi Roxanne Dunn
T
he door closes behind them with a quiet
click
, but the gentility of the sound doesn’t belie Luther’s anger. Luther Aristotle Philadelphus (yes, that’s really his name) is always controlled, even when he’s furious. Owen Sean Monahan watches the slight tremble in Luther’s fingers as he hangs his plush, green-tweed coat up on the lone peg by the front door. That tiny shiver is the only visible indication of the anger that Owen
knows
is simmering beneath the surface of Luther’s placid calm. The only indication of it that Owen is likely to get for—well, however long Luther decides to keep him in suspense.
Ah, the privileges of command
, Owen thinks.
To be able to pull rank
.
He feels a hot flush of shame stain his cheeks at the thought. That’s not fair, and Owen knows it. First Lieutenant Luther “Iceman” Philadelphus, until only recently affiliated with the USMC, to which Owen still swears allegiance to this day, has never been one to cling too tightly to his rank.
When Luther first arrived to take charge of the battalion, the bunch of angry, disenchanted Marines would have cheerfully ripped him to shreds the first week if it hadn’t been for Owen fending them off. It was Owen who had quietly ass-reamed the men (and women, as there were a few of them, too) into giving Little Lord Fauntleroy a chance.
Luther had won the men over with his blue eyes and pitch-perfect leadership skills. He had succeeded brilliantly in his role as commanding officer, though the whole battalion knew Luther was gay. Not that it mattered; the era of DADT was blessedly over, so everyone could go back to the normal, everyday business of trying to figure out who was shagging who. But what stood between Luther and Owen was rank. Officer and enlisted were the real taboo now. They were like oil and water; fire-breathing dragon meets dust bunnies; that sort of thing.
Luther had a broad muscled back, working-class physique and truly enormous size-sixteen feet, which had always seemed tailor-made for combat boots. He seemed to have come out of the womb six feet tall and Nordic. Born with an M-16 in his steady hands. Even those ice-blue eyes seemed designed for tracking prey.
Owen should have known this was a bad idea: flying halfway around the world from England to turn up at the doorstep of Luther’s tiny student-housing Harvard apartment without so much as an invitation. He should have assumed that the shock of his presence—unannounced and unexpected—on Christmas Eve, might not be anything his ex-CO would want.
But then, it had seemed too good an opportunity to pass up—after months of emails and passive-aggressive 2:00 a.m. IMs and the innuendo-laced Skype calls, in which Owen tried vainly to shock Luther awake for his 8:00 a.m. class while Luther spluttered and blushed over his second cup of black Starbucks Espresso Roast—to see him in person.
What a wonderful world it would be
, Owen thinks, grimly, without the slightest attempt at Christmas cheer coloring his thoughts.
More fool me
.
Owen still wasn’t sure if their covert-ops affair had been the deciding factor in Luther’s decision not to reenlist after his initial service was up. Perhaps he should have asked. But it was a little late for that now. Luther was a
mister
, not a
sir
, and in his second year at Harvard Law School, so the whole question was (or is) now most decidedly a moot point, as Owen uses the moment it takes Luther to unwind the white, doughy scarf from around his tall and shapely neck to wonder why he’d even assumed Luther would be alone for the holidays.
Still, Owen can’t help but remember the mingled shock and anger he’d felt, ringing Luther’s doorbell not six hours ago. He’d been greeted, not with the reserved happiness he might have expected from his former LT, but by a decidedly tipsy and unusually boisterous Luther, shrouded in a halo of Christmas-tree lights spilling out from inside and surrounded by half-adozen of his grad-school friends. They’d all been on their way to a Christmas party on the other side of town, and Owen had been left stammering his apologies to Luther’s white, wide-eyed expression.
Owen’s hands clench tight against his sides. Now is not the time to push Luther’s buttons, and Owen knows it. He can see it in the hard, thin press of Luther’s posh, plump lips, the angry furrow of worry lines in his forehead. But the silence is getting to Owen, eating at him, and all the knowledge in the world can’t seem stop a soft “Sir—” from slipping past Owen’s lips.
The word is barely more than a breath, a quick exhalation of air that leaves Owen’s lungs like a punch. It still ought to be enough to provoke some sort of response from Luther, but the silence only lengthens. When Luther’s still quiet, even as he kicks off his loafers and pushes past Owen into the apartment, Owen’s hands start to sweat. But he’s here now. And he’s not going to run away from this. From Luther.
“Sir—” But when Owen tries again, his voice is rough. It hurts to swallow, and there’s a dangerous heat building behind his eyes.
“Luther!”
Owen breathes, as he moves to follow Luther into the privacy of his living room. If it sounds like begging, Owen doesn’t care. Much. He has to believe that this is salvageable. That his presence hasn’t ruined whatever tenuous connection they’d managed to keep alive between Luther’s studies and Owen’s stint with the Royal Marines.
“Look at me!” Owen growls. This time, he punctuates his words with a grab at the sleeve of Luther’s corduroy vest. The fabric feels strange—wrong, even—in his hands. For the first time in his life, Owen longs for the familiar discomfort of their MOPP suits. He needs something to ground him. Some sort of sensory data that he can lock on to, and catalog—that will once again mold Luther into any one of a thousand easy definitions:
Sir, CO, Lieutenant Philadelphus
. But when Owen tries to pull Luther in for a soft kiss—to apologize, in the only way he knows how to—Luther ducks.
“Not
now
, Owen!” Luther barks, and his tone is the same one he used to shout down another CO the first time Luther refused to get them all killed: curt, polite, but with a dangerous edge lingering underneath. Maybe that had been the moment he’d won them over: by saving all their lives without even realizing he was doing it. But Owen’s nothing if not daring, and if Luther is what winds up killing him, not some bullet or stray shrapnel shard, so fucking be it.
“Yes,
now!”
Owen tightens his grip on Luther’s sleeve, and twists the cloth hard between his fingers before adding,
“Sir.”
Luther’s face, as he turns to face him, is white with anger, but his voice is all pained surprise as he says “Owen. What—?”
Owen doesn’t so much answer Luther as slam him up against the wall, hard enough to make Luther’s teeth rattle. Luther makes a noise, on impact—a soft grunt of surprise. Owen has just enough time to see Luther’s eyes go wide, and watch him struggle to draw a breath before he crushes his mouth to Luther’s and kisses him like it’s the last chance he’ll ever get. Owen feels Luther push against his chest. There’s something nearly frantic about the gesture.
Owen wonders, briefly, if his shove knocked the wind out of Luther, and promptly realizes he doesn’t care. This gesture—message—
whatever
, is more important. Owen lets his tongue twine around Luther’s. He sucks on it until Luther shudders against him. Then Owen draws back just enough to nip savagely at Luther’s bottom lip. Luther groans, and Owen tastes blood before he moves to soothe the wounds with his lips and tongue. By the time he finally pulls away again, Luther won’t shut up.