Hound Dog & Bean (19 page)

H.D. couldn’t help but grin. If Bean were half as passionate in bed as he was about coffee, then they could have a lot of fun.

“Third Wavers aren’t afraid to travel. We go to where the coffee
is
. Walking and hefting our backpacks and sleeping in hammocks if we have to. Third Wave is where taste is
the
most important thing. We don’t care what the bean costs. We will pay whatever we have to pay to make the very, very best coffee we can. For instance? We just started carrying Haraaz Red Marqaha from Yemen this week. Expensive? You bet. But what we’re paying for is to get the farmer to do a lot of extra work. The coffee is fripping fantastic, and we want as much as we can get. See, when the average farmer picks the beans, he just runs the branch through his fingers and takes all the cherries at once. Green. Red. Doesn’t matter.”

Fruit?
H.D. wondered.
Fruit?
He hated to interrupt but…. “Fruit?” he asked.

Bean nodded vigorously. “Yeah. It looks like a cherry. About the same size. It is green when it’s growing and turns red when it’s ripe. I’ll never forget the first time I saw a coffee tree. The red fruit was just shining in the sun. I practically ran over to it. I had to see what it
tasted
like. I picked a cherry, popped it in my mouth….”

“What did it taste like?” To H.D.’s surprise he realized he’d caught the fever of Bean’s tale. He wanted to know more.

“It didn’t taste like coffee. Not at all. Kind of melonlike and really juicy. Juicy like watermelon juicy! And there wasn’t a lot of fruit to it. Maybe a millimeter. And it was slimy. I really had to work to get to the actual seed. The coffee bean. They’re green—I told you that already, didn’t I? I spent a couple weeks on that plantation. Thought I was so cool. I picked and picked and picked, and then I would see I hadn’t picked half what a little kid had done! So I just poured mine into this kid’s. Helped him, I hope.

“Those farmers in Yemen? We Third Wavers are paying them to pick only the red fruit and wait until the rest ripens so we can get more beans. It takes them longer. We have to give them incentive. And this coffee! My God, H.D.! You
have
to try it! I can make it now if you want! And tomorrow. Stop by and I’ll make you a Gibraltar espresso. Your taste buds won’t believe it! You’ll die! You’ll die, but then you’ll rise from the dead.”

Bean jumped to his feet. “Want me to make some? You won’t believe it! I’ll make a pot right now—”

H.D. stood up as Bean was turning to go into the house and took him by the elbow. Pulled him close…

“Huh? What—”

… and kissed him. Pulled him closer, opened his mouth to Bean again. It took a minute. He was so in the coffee universe, it took him a moment to return to the deck in his own backyard. But only a moment.

Maybe it was less than that. Maybe it only seemed a long time because H.D. was so into Bean at that amazing instant in time. Then Bean’s arms were around him and he was kissing back, and H.D.’s heart was pounding like a kettledrum—just like those damned drums in the theme music for
2001: A Space Odyssey
—and he could hardly breathe.

They didn’t wait for another date.

Bean led H.D. by the hand into the house and through the kitchen and the dining room and the living room and up the stairs and down the hall and into his bedroom. Before H.D. could ask for some light—he so wanted to see Bean naked—Bean lit a few candles. They were on his dresser so the mirror reflected the light into the room in a lovely orange glow.

Then they stood between that source of light and the bed and held each other, kissing.

“I—I want to touch your hair. May I?”

The question surprised H.D. How many times had people reached out and grabbed his hair, tugging or worse, without asking? And here was this man in his arms, kissing him, and asking.

“Yes,” he whispered.

Bean’s hands slid up H.D.’s back and his neck and then tangled into his dreadlocks.

“Oh—oh my. Not what I expected at all.”

“Are you disappointed?” H.D. asked. And where had that question come from?

“Oh, no. Not at all,” Bean said into his mouth and kissed him again. “I want you.”

“Here I am,” said H.D., not even thinking about the consequences of his words. But a moment later he had unbuttoned Bean’s shirt and
pushed it open and yes, yes, yes—Bean’s chest was hairy. Not a forest, and not coarse, but still it was thick, yet soft like silk. Then their clothes came off, and before he knew what was happening, he found out exactly
what it felt like to have Bean’s beard buried in his most private place.

“N
O
,” H.D.
muttered. “Don’t….”

It wasn’t very convincing, and Bean ignored the beautiful man.

Oh, and hadn’t those dreadlocks felt amazing? Not at all what he thought they’d feel like. Not soft like cotton or a rabbit’s foot, but thick and hard like rope. Powerful. Of course. Hadn’t he thought they looked powerful?

He’d yanked that Jamaican shirt off over H.D.’s head, and thank goodness the opening was big enough so it went over that huge fall of dreads—and oh yes, yes, yes—H.D.’s chest was just as smooth as he had hoped. So smooth. Not one single hair to mar his beauty—and the tiniest pink nipples. As if they had been added as an afterthought. And oh, God, that chest—that torso. Corded muscles over such a slim frame. Those baggy shirts hid such a beautiful body. Christ. Those abs. That navel. Tight and shallow and begging to be kissed.

He’d pushed H.D. back onto the bed and those damned low-riding jeans hid nothing but his cock. His pubic hair was clearly showing now, shining golden in the light from the candles—just
like
gold. Earlier, on the deck, when H.D. had used the lower part of his shirt to help get those vegetables off the grill, Bean couldn’t help but stare—get a preview of that tight, impossibly flat belly and the golden pubic hair that peeked above the waistband. He hadn’t known they made jeans that rode that low. Who knew pubic hair could be so pretty?

He had to see more. He had to!

Wait. Patience
.

Bean fell on top of H.D. Kissed him again. Was amazed at the kiss. Was it because it had been so long since he’d last kissed a man?

Months and months.

He’d moved into the house a little over a year ago and less than a week later brought a trick home. The sex had lasted less than half an hour. Not even. And after they both came, he’d found he wanted the man to leave. Thank God his trick felt the same way and then Bean had found himself lying in the dark, feeling wretched and more lonely than he had when he took the man home. It hadn’t even been
good
sex, and he didn’t even know the man’s last name. They’d exchanged names, maybe, on the dance floor—with Lady Gaga pounding through their drunken veins, telling them how it was going to be okay and they should
just dance
. He loved Lady Gaga. She was freedom. She helped him let loose. He loved her voice and her beat and the fact that she could let go and do anything she wanted. He thought he would never be able to do that.

Bean and his trick had had their shirts off while they danced, and maybe it was that smooth chest that had done it. Captured Bean. Let him act in a way he never did—flinging his hands up in the air and throwing his head from one side to the other and, God, Bean was thankful no one he knew had seen him acting in such a ridiculous manner. What had possessed him?

Too many rum and Cokes, of course. That’s what.

He’d led the man out the door without talking, just like he’d led H.D. upstairs a few moments before.

God. God, please make this different
.

Bean wouldn’t be able to stand it if they came and H.D. was out the door five minutes later—worse, that Bean would
want
H.D. to leave.

No! Don’t think that of him.
What are you doing even thinking of that trick? That nameless man from a year ago didn’t matter. Only H.D. mattered right now.

Bean ran his hands up H.D.’s torso and back, around behind his neck, and then fisted those dreads, tangled his fingers in the finger-thick ropes of hair.
My God, my God….
And his body! How could anyone have a body like that? Was there
any
fat on him? H.D. was all corded steel, covered in satin. Those nipples so tiny and pink, and they drew Bean’s mouth like candy. He licked them, sucked on them, took them deep into his mouth as H.D. hissed beneath him. Bean tasted the other. Which was better? He switched back. Switched again. “The right one,” he whispered, then ignored H.D.’s inquiry (“What did you say… oh! oh!”) and kissed down his unfeasibly slim torso. Bean reached H.D.’s navel—Bean was now on his knees beside the bed to allow such an action—and licked and licked at the shallow indentation. Had he ever seen such a navel? It was barely an indent in H.D.’s belly. Bean kissed it. He kissed it again and again.

Dessert. This is my dessert.

What happened to waiting?

Fuck waiting! Why wait? Whatever came of waiting?

Bean ignored a dozen reasons that tried to batter themselves into his brain. He was starving. He prayed that H.D. would be in his bed in the morning.

He flipped H.D. over onto his tummy. The one thing he
could
wait for was to see that cock. To see what that beautiful golden froth of curls guarded. Right now what he wanted was H.D’s ass. He had to see his…

“N
O
! N
O
!
I don’t want….” The words died on H.D.’s lips as Bean buried his face deep into the cleft of his ass. Oh God, that beard. So soft running down his crack and that tongue—impossibly talented—exploring his asshole.

Asshole. He hated the other words so many men used.

“Will you touch me down there?”

“Down where?” he would ask.

“Will you touch my… my….”

“Your what?”

“My…
(then whispered so low that he needed a hearing aid and his hearing was nigh on perfect)…
my opening?”

Opening?
He wanted to scream every time some trick used that word. Opening?

Was he taking men to bed or high school boys?

Oh, how he wanted to scream, “Asshole! It’s called an asshole!”

Why was the word so dirty? It was a
hot
word. A fucking
sexy
word.

And yet could he say it now? He opened his mouth to say it. To say “eat my asshole” and he couldn’t say it. He didn’t want Bean to think he was some crude whore.

But why? Why did he give a damn?

“Eat me!” he cried. “Eat my—” and the word froze on his lips.

“Your asshole tastes like copper” came the reply. Bean had raised his bearded face (oh that beard felt
so
good!) from H.D.’s crack, and H.D. reached back and pushed it back down where it belonged.

Wait. Wasn’t he about to tell Bean not to….

“Your asshole is so good” came the muffled words, and then that tongue was exploring him again. Licking. Probing. Relaxing his tight, clenched hole.
No. No, stop. You want to fuck me. You are
not
fucking me! I’ll fuck
you,
but
—

“Christ!” he shouted. Bean was boring into him. Making him feel things he’d rarely (ever?) felt.
Oh, God, God, God…!
And then H.D. was saying it…. “Fuck me. Please, Dean. Please. I want you.”

The probing wetness went away, and Bean was climbing over him, his weight perfect—heavy enough to assure him this was a
man
on top of him, and not so heavy that he couldn’t breathe.

Bean was reaching… opening the bedside table.

H.D. wanted to tell Bean not to use the condom, but of course he couldn’t. He hadn’t been fucked without a condom (he rarely let any man fuck him ever, except for….
No. Don’t go there…
) since he was a teen, and he was damned lucky he was negative, and he planned on staying that way. Wasn’t he practically a Condom Crusader? Hadn’t he insisted on using a condom with Blue even though he knew he wouldn’t infect that kid?

Damn! I’m about to let a man fuck me!

Then Bean was breathing in his ear—nuzzling in his hair. “Are you sure? I want you so bad, H.D.”

“Hillary….” He almost cried when he realized what he had said.

“What?”

Let it go! He missed it. Fuck him, because he missed
… “My name is Hillary.”

There was the longest pause while H.D. wondered why the fuck he’d said such a stupid thing; then Bean said…

“Oh. Oh, wow….” Then somehow Bean snuggled closer, his erection planted in the valley of H.D.’s ass. Another long pause. “Hillary? May I fuck you now?”

He was asking?
Do I really have a choice?

“Please.”

Then as easy as could be, Bean was inside him. No pain. Like a key sliding into a lock. How could it have been so easy?

It was bliss.

Bean bottomed out at exactly the place that sent shocks throughout H.D.’s entire body, and then Bean was pulling out and sliding right back in to that exact same spot. Lightning flashed. Thunder rolled.

“Fuck!” H.D. shouted. “Oh, God….”
Oh God, oh God….

Bean began to fuck him. His thrusts were gentle and somehow forceful at the same time—and how could that possibly be? Had Bean even used lube? Or had Bean so expertly rimmed him that he didn’t need it?

Did it matter?

Oh God, it felt so good.
So
fucking
good!

H.D. wanted to scream. He wanted to scream out and let Bean know how good it was, and then he
was
shouting. “Fuck me, Dean. Fuck me.”

Bean’s—Dean’s—cock was sliding in and out of him and there was nothing but the most exquisite pleasure H.D.—Hillary—could remember. It was ridiculous how amazing it felt. Sliding, taking, zinging nerve endings that sent cascades of pleasure throughout Hillary’s whole body. They were connecting. Their bodies were triggering each other in ways that made H.D. unable to understand what was happening.