Turn the Tables

Heading down the hall to their bedroom, Vic called out again, “Matty?”

His lover’s voice had a touch of playful wickedness to it when he replied, “You’ll find me eventually. You’re running out of places to look.”

“It sounded like a damn club in here with that music,” Vic muttered, relieved. He dropped his shirt to the floor and set to work on his belt buckle. “You had to turn the stereo up so loud?”

The buckle was undone and hanging from the loops, the zipper on his work pants halfway down, when he turned the corner and finally found his lover. Whatever else he might have said dried up in the back of his throat and he swallowed, hard.

Matt lay on their bed, head propped up on both their pillows, naked except for the dark shadows that pooled at his crotch. The lamp on Vic’s side of the bed shed the only light in the room, and it cast a golden glow across Matt’s olive skin, turning it a gloriously dusky shade. Dark hair whorled down his chest and arms and legs. Vic’s fingers ached to delve into the disheveled curls on top of Matt’s head; his tongue wanted to lick down all the hair between Matt’s crown and groin, then bury itself deep into the musk of Matt’s sex.

Slowly the weariness Vic had felt all evening while at work fell away, replaced with a hunger that had nothing to do with the prospect of dinner. “Damn,” he managed. “You better be waiting for me.”

“You better make it worth the wait,” Matt replied.