Read Online From Morocco to Paris by Lydia Nyx - Free Book Online Page A

someone’s eye out. Glad Elliot wasn’t awake, he rolled over on his little cot and tried to think unsexy thoughts.
    Soon after, a cloud of sexual frustration born of deprivation descended, gripping most of the crew. Everyone talked about sex, mourning the absence of their significant others and trying to devise ways to call them or get them out there. Zane suspected some experimentation started like they were in prison. Or at war. Zane behaved himself, until one tension-filled night after dinner. As he went behind the craft tent to sneak a smoke -- Davey had rekindled his addiction quite successfully -- Davey caught up with him. They were alone and in the dark.
    Zane didn’t realize his will had slipped so much until their bodies were pressed together. Davey kissed him and his mouth tasted like salt and sweat. Their clammy skin stuck together. Zane put a knee between Davey’s thighs and Davey rubbed Zane through his pants, his touch firm and sure and everything Zane wanted to deny he’d been craving. Zane hadn’t dry humped anyone in a while, but need overcame propriety, and he could only think of finding something solid to lean against. The tent wasn’t viable, obviously.
    Then they heard voices and had to break apart. Zane tried to catch his breath, heart pounding. Davey slipped off, leaving him with a rather distracting hard-on. Zane saw Davey’s eyes flash as he looked over his shoulder, then he disappeared. Zane lit his cigarette and swore violently in his head.
    Afterward, every time they got so much as a second alone they were on each other like horny teenagers. They barely spoke during these furtive encounters, but Zane always understood they would meet again -- largely because they never got to finish, privacy being as scarce as water. The frustration ratcheted up so high Zane wanted to scream.
    The closest they got to completion was behind Elliot’s trailer one morning, during a fifteen-minute break in shooting. They’d discovered loose linen provided easy access, and Davey’s pants were around his knees, his thighs bare and covered with dust that turned to mud under Zane’s sweaty, clutching fingers. Davey had managed to get his leg around Zane’s hip, his boot heel digging into the back of Zane’s calf. Zane pressed his back against the trailer, hips working, their cocks grinding together. They both panted with the heat and effort. Everything tasted and smelled like sweat. Zane had almost reached the long-elusive blissful plateau when he heard voices.
    “Fuck!” Davey swore. He wrenched away and Zane moaned in misery. They quickly pulled their pants up.
    “We have to find some time alone,” Davey said lowly as the interlopers came around the corner. “This is going to kill me.”
    “You’re fucking telling me.” Zane bent over, hands on his knees, pretending to fend off the heat.
    Zane thought things might be better altogether if they stopped trying to get off on each other, but couldn’t avoid still thinking about bending Davey over the nearest stable object and sating himself. He started slacking and forgetting things. He couldn’t focus on work, and Elliot wanted to kill him.
    A couple days later, an opportunity came along for Zane and Davey to get the alone-time they were craving.
    A small village rested about five miles from where they were camped. Supply trucks went through the village to get to the camp, and one had broken down there. The truck carried props and costumes flown in from London, and unless they got them shooting would be put back a day. Saul had a small heart attack, and then he came up with a plan.
    “Listen,” Saul said to Zane, taking him aside. Zane had managed to strike up conversation with Saul several times during the desert excursion and usually hovered near the director, trying to subtly get his attention. “I’ve seen you working hard,” Saul said. “You wanna help me out? I’ll give you a list of things I need most. Take one of the Jeeps and load it