Page 95 of Beneath the Stain

The look he leveled at Trav was saturated with sexual heat and not friendly at all.

“You got anything to say to me?” he demanded.

Trav shook his head weakly. “No, Mackey,” he said, feeling helpless and exposed, like he was the one standing onstage with his boner extended for the whole world to see. “I’m… I’m sorry. I heard a noise and… I didn’t mean to mess up your… private time.” God. Could he sound any more like a spastic teenager?

And like most things that made Mackey laugh, Trav didn’t see this one coming.

“Yeah, well”—Mackey smirked—“don’t mind interrupting my private time. I see you so good in my head, it’s like you were actually there, helping make the mess instead of messing me up.”

“I’m… nungh….” Fuck.

Mackey’s smirk grew wider. “Yeah, Trav. You know what you were doing to me? It’s too bad you missed it. I was on my knees, and you know, I ain’t paid attention to a cock in a long time. I used tolovehaving one in my mouth. I used to swallow that thing down, bury my nose in the pubes, and swallow, fondling the nuts too. I loved that. I loved it when I could get my finger all wet with spit and tease up the crease and just plug that thing right in the as—”

“Stop it!” Trav commanded.

Mackey’s smirk didn’t fade. “Sound good?” he asked, moving closer. Trav could smell the come on him, could smell his sweat and whatever he used as aftershave that already turned Trav on.

“God,” Trav begged. “Mackey… fuck….”

“You let me know if that sounds good,” Mackey whispered, close enough to lean his head forward. Trav didn’t leave him hanging. He leaned his head forward too, until they met in the middle. “’Cause you say the word, Travis, and I’ll be on my knees—”

“I’m already there,” Trav rasped. “I’m on my knees, begging you, give it just a little more time.”

“When? Dammit, tell me when! I want a sign, an end game, asomethingto let me know this is real and not just a stupid carrot on the string at the end of rehab. You wouldn’t fuck me just to be a carrot on a string—I trust that, Trav. But the pit of my stomach, the root of my cock—they don’t got no promises, you hear me?”

Trav nodded dumbly, realizing he’d been out-mind-fucked by someone he kept trying to think of as a kid. “Date,” he said, grateful for an answer and feeling a little stupid. “We gotta go on dates. Make it real. In public. Holding hands. Like it’s real. More than one. Can you deal, Mackey? Can you deal with a guy you gotta date and look in the eye the next day?”

Mackey sighed, and the smell of come and sweat got stronger for a minute. He rubbed his lips against Trav’s.

“More’n one?” he asked, like he was making sure.

“Real dates, Mackey. Three at least.”

Mackey chuckled low and evil. “Can I go down on you on the second date?”

“No!” Trav snapped, jerking back.

That fuck-off-and-love-me grin never faltered. “Then we’d better make it some kiss,” he purred. He brought his hand up and rubbed Trav’s lower lip with his thumb.

“Taste it,” he demanded. “Dream of me.”

With that he turned back to his room and the attached bathroom. Trav watched him go, licking his lips unconsciously, and then tried not to curl up in the hallway and come in his jeans when he realized the bitter-salt he was tasting.

He made it to his room instead, slammed the door behind him, shoved his hand into his jeans like a teenager, and squeezed his cock just hard enough to hurt—which made him come.

Then he sank to the floor, breath rasping in his chest, and leaned his forehead against his knees.

Dates. That was it. They were going to date. He was going to date a kid just over half his age, and if he was lucky, that kid wouldn’t chew him up and spit him out before they actually got to make love.

A part of him was laughing viciously, like Terry would laugh if he ever found out, but a part of him was terrified. Mackey had him enraptured, shredded, dependent on a recovering addict for all smiles, all tears, all joy.

What would happen if Mackey couldn’t keep those promises to stay clean and sober, not to drive himself beyond exhaustion, not to yearn for Grant Adams?

Oh, fuck it, Trav—rehab won’t fix you if Mackey breaks you. There won’t be enough of you left for Mackey Sanders to snort.

Fuck.

He willed himself to get up and change into a clean pair of sweats, wash his hands, and go to work at his desk. He would do this eventually, but not at first. At first he had to stay curled on the floor, seeing all of the possible ways this could go wrong and Travis Ford would never find himself again.