Crossing Borders (48 page)

“Oh,
Tristan
.”

“So full of you.” Tristan winced and tried a grin, the effects of his rash plunge onto Michael's cock clearly evident in his own limp one. He frowned a little. “Burns.”

Michael's brows lowered. “It hurts?” he whispered. “Should I…”

“
N
o
!” hissed Tristan, wrapping himself around Michael. “Need it. Wanted to feel it…” His vision was blurry, and he licked his chapped lips. “Got you, baby,” he said, moving tentatively. “All safe. Got you.”

Michael took the invitation to move and slid gently out and in again, testing the connection, hoping that Tristan would find at least a little pleasure. “You've got me,” he whispered back, his lips against Tristan's hair. “You've got me.”

“Make me feel, Michael. Make me yours.” He tightened his muscles tentatively and knew Michael felt it all the way to his toes when he gasped.

“Sexy little shit.”

“Uhn,” Tristan moaned as Michael shifted him slightly and hit his sweet spot. “Michael…love.”

Tristan's cock began to fill again, making itself known against Michael's belly, delivering wet kisses along the ridge of his scar. Tristan was beyond speech, beyond hearing. He was a part of Michael's body, as much a part as Michael's own cock, so deep inside Tristan he wondered if it would get lost there forever. Michael stroked Tristan's arms and back lovingly as he took him soaring higher.

“Oh,
Michael
,” breathed Tristan when Michael took hold of his cock and began stroking it with the rhythm of his thrusts, sending sparks crackling through him. “Make me fly, Michael.”

“Together, 'kay? Close…”

“Uhn…yeah.” Tristan licked his lips. “So full.” He let it take him then, over the edge, just let himself go with Michael, loving it, loving him. So much.

“You make me…just,” hissed Michael, throwing his head back as Tristan's climax hit, milking his cock. “Oh, Tristan…”

Michael's climax hit him then, filling the latex, filling Tristan; he froze as far inside Tristan as he could get and just pressed himself there, riding the waves of his orgasm until the last pulsing throb of his cock. He relaxed, slumping against his boy on the cold bathtub floor. He lifted to his knees and stroked Tristan's long legs, helping them to straighten so he could lie along the hollow of Tristan's body, and then he plugged the tub and turned on the water.

“What are you doing?” Tristan asked sleepily.

“Wallowing.”

Tristan grinned against his temple, lying on his back, both arms wrapped around Michael.

“Eventually we'll have to sit up, and you'll need to turn around or you'll drown.”

Michael turned over and shifted Tristan so he could rest against the high back of the slipper tub. Tristan pulled him up against his chest gently. Michael was still protecting his abdominal muscles; Tristan could see the pain etched on his face.

Tristan gently stroked his scar. “Love you, Officer Helmet,” he said, lacing the fingers of his right hand with Michael's and squeezing hard. “Always.”

“Caught you, Sparky,” Michael replied.

Four Years Later

Tristan parked his cream-colored BMW in front of Apple House just in time to see his favorite sight. He'd gone for a sandwich and coffee after school because he knew he wouldn't get dinner until almost nine that night. He got out of the car and walked to a large chicken-wire cage where the residents kept their bicycles. A rough-looking teenager was in front of it, his shoulders tense and angry as he walked his bike back into the cage.

“I'm not the enemy, peanut; it's the law.” Michael turned and grinned at Tristan. “You can either wear a helmet, or you can walk. Two options. Pick one.” Michael could really smile an evil smile when he wanted to.

“Who cares if I ride without a helmet? What's the big deal?”

Tristan spoke up. “The big deal, little man, is that it's an over seven-hundred-dollar ticket, and you will care very much if you get one of those,” he said. “Take it from me.”

“Hi, Mr. Phillips.” The boy nodded to him.

“Hi, Nathan,” Tristan said, waving at Michael.

“I'll walk, Mr. Truax,” the boy decided finally, disgruntled.

“Good choice, Nathan,” said Michael, holding the bike so Nathan could lock it. The boy turned and started hoofing it out onto the suburban streets to where he worked not far away.

“Officer Helmet is in the house. You know they call you Mr. Ex-Lax behind your back when they're pissed, don't you?” said Tristan, watching the boy go.

Michael laughed and nodded. “The fun never ends, Sparky. I just don't have the badge anymore.”

Tristan drank in the sight of his lover, now the administrator of Apple House, a GLBT-teen homeless shelter he'd helped to establish by buying and refurbishing one of the larger, older houses in Fullerton and tapping into the local investment community and government agency grants for resources. “Ah, but you kept the handcuffs,” said Tristan, buffeting Michael's shoulder in greeting.

“Yeah, well…” Michael actually blushed, which Tristan found impossibly adorable.

“So, you texted that things got a little wet today,” said Michael, who looked like he had enjoyed that story.

“Yeah, well. One of the kids was demonstrating my Van de Graaff generator, and the static charge turned on the automatic sinks, which of course were covered by those sink covers, so yeah, on the whole, it was kind of wet. Nobody got electrocuted, though, so no harm, no foul.”

“You are so damn cute,” said Michael under his breath. “Aren't you supposed to be home studying?”

“Nope.” Tristan grinned. “I've got to go back to the school. I get to help coach soccer from now on.”

Michael shook his head. “You realize that you'll be spending hours and hours and getting paid almost nothing for it, don't you?”

“You make that sound like a bad thing.”

Michael snorted. “Will you still have time to work on your thesis?”

“I'll find the time. It's soccer, Michael. I'm going to have a blast. It's not like I can't use the exercise, former Officer Sexy. Gotta keep the arm candy sweet, right?”

“I know, Sparky. The porn fairy and the predictable Mr. Truax. I wonder if your students realize that their science teacher is such a wild card.”

“I can assure you, they don't. Hey,” Tristan said, his eyes going serious all of a sudden. “Regrets?”

“Never,” said Michael. He met Tristan's blue eyes squarely with his own. “
Never
, Tristan.”

Tristan breathed out, clearly relieved. “Have time for a quickie before I go back to work?”

“Oh, hell, no, Tristan.” Michael laughed. “The things you say.”

Michael watched as Tristan got into his BMW. “All right, then.” Tristan waved. “I'll be home at about nine-thirty.”

“Okay.” Michael waved. “I'll be waiting.”

THE END

Z. A. Maxfield is a fifth generation native of Los Angeles, although she now lives in the O.C.
 
She started writing in 2006 on a dare from her children and never looked back.
 
Pathologically disorganized, and perennially optimistic, she writes as much as she can, reads as much as she dares, and enjoys her time with family and friends.
 
If anyone asks her how a wife and mother of four manages to find time for a writing career, she'll answer, “It's amazing what you can do if you completely give up housework.”

Check out her website at http://www.zamaxfield.com.