coming,” he reminded me when I returned.
I was pleased to see Jonathan receive the patented Peter eye roll. I thought I was the only one who earned those.
“I'm not hungry.” I snagged the beer and went to the couch instead, picking up the remote.
“I'll just watch the news while I wait.”
Peter spread his napkin on his lap. “I recorded the game. Jonathan, would you pass the butter?”
“Sure, babe.” Peter kept his butter in its own little container, just like my grandmother had.
Jonathan passed the thing to him. The surly expression now seemed etched into his features. I considered that it was a good look on him.
“I'll wait till you're done with your steak and we can watch the game together,” I said to Peter.
“I brought my Living Dead DVD,” Jonathan told me. “Peter said he's never seen it.”
I couldn't resist. “Peter's seen the living dead.”
“You're kidding.” Jonathan poured dressing on his salad. It was the thin, watery dressing that women on diets use. “Do you mind watching it again, babe?”
I imagined Peter wasn't looking at me because he'd bust out laughing. He just shook his head, stuffing food in his mouth.
I said, “You can't have too much of the living dead.”
Peter struggled not to choke on his food.
I'll admit I dozed through most of the movie. Maybe someday I'll write a screenplay that'll clear up a few Hollywood misconceptions. Then Jonathan paused at the door. His evening plans had clearly been ruined hours earlier, but he couldn't relinquish the faint hope that Peter might ask me to leave first.
“Good night.” He shook Peter's hand at the door and gave him a look of such fevered longing it was all I could do not to growl.
Thirty seconds later I had Peter bent over a chair, his pants around his ankles, my aching dick buried deep inside him.
“God,” he moaned.
“Never. Thought. He'd. Leave,” I said, shoving hard on every word.
Peter mumbled something and found my hand. “Touch me.”
I obliged, feeling him swell against my palm.
“This what you want?” Copious cum drooled from his dick and greased my movements.
Peter wriggled his ass on my cock, squeezing it so I gasped. “Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I want…yeah, that…”
Then for about ten minutes we didn't say anything, and I waited until Peter had come back from the bathroom, wiping his hands on a towel before I said, “Did I ruin your date?”
“Jonathan's just a friend.”
“He doesn't think so.”
“Are you jealous?”
“That's a stupid question.”
“That's not an answer.”
I flicked the remote to the DVR command. “Where's the game?”
He took the thing out of my hand, set the commands to playback, and we sat, listening to the pregame synopsis until the first commercial break. But I couldn't let it go, could I ? I muted the sound and said, “I don't want to tell you what to do, Peter, but…”
“Don't you?”
In retrospect, I should have gotten a clue from his tone and just dropped the whole topic.
But I didn't. “It's just, I know you, Peter. You can't have recreational sex…”
“Can't I?”
Christ . There was no way out of this.
“I wish you wouldn't,” I admitted.
He didn't answer, and I was a little afraid to look at him. “Okay, Peter?”
“You realize what a hypocrite you sound,” he replied flatly.
Of course I do . “I don't know what you mean.”
Silence. I could feel him looking at me.
“Yeah, I know. I have no right to ask.”
Still no answer.
I turned my head then and met his gaze. Serious, somber, dark blue eyes, like he could see inside my skull. “I know what you're thinking,” I told him.
He raised his eyebrows.
“What's good for the goose, huh? I'm surprised at you, Peter.”
His eyes narrowed a little, but otherwise he didn't comment. We use the silence technique in interrogations. It makes the suspect sweat and blurt out things they might not say otherwise.
“I'll try,” I blurted. I could have bit my tongue
I was pleased to see Jonathan receive the patented Peter eye roll. I thought I was the only one who earned those.
“I'm not hungry.” I snagged the beer and went to the couch instead, picking up the remote.
“I'll just watch the news while I wait.”
Peter spread his napkin on his lap. “I recorded the game. Jonathan, would you pass the butter?”
“Sure, babe.” Peter kept his butter in its own little container, just like my grandmother had.
Jonathan passed the thing to him. The surly expression now seemed etched into his features. I considered that it was a good look on him.
“I'll wait till you're done with your steak and we can watch the game together,” I said to Peter.
“I brought my Living Dead DVD,” Jonathan told me. “Peter said he's never seen it.”
I couldn't resist. “Peter's seen the living dead.”
“You're kidding.” Jonathan poured dressing on his salad. It was the thin, watery dressing that women on diets use. “Do you mind watching it again, babe?”
I imagined Peter wasn't looking at me because he'd bust out laughing. He just shook his head, stuffing food in his mouth.
I said, “You can't have too much of the living dead.”
Peter struggled not to choke on his food.
I'll admit I dozed through most of the movie. Maybe someday I'll write a screenplay that'll clear up a few Hollywood misconceptions. Then Jonathan paused at the door. His evening plans had clearly been ruined hours earlier, but he couldn't relinquish the faint hope that Peter might ask me to leave first.
“Good night.” He shook Peter's hand at the door and gave him a look of such fevered longing it was all I could do not to growl.
Thirty seconds later I had Peter bent over a chair, his pants around his ankles, my aching dick buried deep inside him.
“God,” he moaned.
“Never. Thought. He'd. Leave,” I said, shoving hard on every word.
Peter mumbled something and found my hand. “Touch me.”
I obliged, feeling him swell against my palm.
“This what you want?” Copious cum drooled from his dick and greased my movements.
Peter wriggled his ass on my cock, squeezing it so I gasped. “Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I want…yeah, that…”
Then for about ten minutes we didn't say anything, and I waited until Peter had come back from the bathroom, wiping his hands on a towel before I said, “Did I ruin your date?”
“Jonathan's just a friend.”
“He doesn't think so.”
“Are you jealous?”
“That's a stupid question.”
“That's not an answer.”
I flicked the remote to the DVR command. “Where's the game?”
He took the thing out of my hand, set the commands to playback, and we sat, listening to the pregame synopsis until the first commercial break. But I couldn't let it go, could I ? I muted the sound and said, “I don't want to tell you what to do, Peter, but…”
“Don't you?”
In retrospect, I should have gotten a clue from his tone and just dropped the whole topic.
But I didn't. “It's just, I know you, Peter. You can't have recreational sex…”
“Can't I?”
Christ . There was no way out of this.
“I wish you wouldn't,” I admitted.
He didn't answer, and I was a little afraid to look at him. “Okay, Peter?”
“You realize what a hypocrite you sound,” he replied flatly.
Of course I do . “I don't know what you mean.”
Silence. I could feel him looking at me.
“Yeah, I know. I have no right to ask.”
Still no answer.
I turned my head then and met his gaze. Serious, somber, dark blue eyes, like he could see inside my skull. “I know what you're thinking,” I told him.
He raised his eyebrows.
“What's good for the goose, huh? I'm surprised at you, Peter.”
His eyes narrowed a little, but otherwise he didn't comment. We use the silence technique in interrogations. It makes the suspect sweat and blurt out things they might not say otherwise.
“I'll try,” I blurted. I could have bit my tongue
Similar Books
