Hound Dog & Bean (20 page)

Just sex.

It’s just sex.

He’s a man.

He’s just a…

That’s when the pleasure ramped up. Dean was speeding up.
Fucking
him now. Step by glorious step, the friction sending delicious waves throughout H.D.’s body, and oh, then Bean was slamming into him and his prostate was screaming and shouting and crying all at the same time. H.D. felt like he must be close. He
had
to be, and yet….

Oh, there just weren’t any words. The cock was crashing into him, pulling out, sliding in, pulling out and…

Oh no!

It wasn’t….
He
wasn’t…. He couldn’t…. How could…?

H.D. was cumming. He was pumping his life out onto Bean’s bed. It felt like he was turning inside out. It hurt. It felt so damned good it
hurt
. It was like his balls were climbing up into and out of his body. No words. He was cumming so hard that the world went dark and then he was gone.

H.D.
WOKE
to sunlight coming through the slits in the blinds by the bed. There were birds singing and the smell of bacon, and it took him a moment to realize where he was.

I spent the night.

He sat up. Shit. He had spent the night.

He
never
spent the night.

Bacon?

Shit! Bean (
Dean
, whispered a voice in his head) was making them breakfast.

Oh shit shit shit shit shit….

Suzy Homemaker. This was bad. This was really,
really
bad.

“I told him my name…,” he whispered in shocked disbelief. How? Why had he done that? Over a fuck? Over dinner and a fuck and he had told Dean—
Bean
—his real name?

And now Bean was down there making breakfast and oh, what would Bean do? What would he say? Would he ask if they could go to a movie later? Or go for a walk? Have dinner again?

This is
why
he didn’t spend the night!

And I told him my fucking name. My fucking, piece-of-shit name!

And then Dean had said.
“Oh. Oh, wow….”
Dean had
known
the Hound Dog didn’t run around telling people his name. God! Bean would think it was a big deal.

(… and wasn’t it?)

No! He’s just some dude. That’s all he was. A trick. A fuck. A….

Christ on a crutch
. Would Bean think H.D. had proposed or something? What would he do if Bean wanted to see him again? Another date?

No.
Not
a date! It was dinner. It was dinner and a fuck. It was
not
a date!

Get out. That’s what he had to do. He had to get the hell out.

H.D. looked around the floor for his clothes, and when he didn’t see them—their clothes had been flung about, hadn’t they?—he felt a bolt of panic (God, what if Bean was washing his fucking clothes?), and then H.D. saw them folded nicely on a chair.
He folded my clothes. This is bad. This is
really
bad
. What kind of claims might Bean make now? Did he think they were married because of one fuck?

H.D. scrambled into his clothes, then remembered to be careful. This was an old house with creaking floorboards and Dean—
Bean!
—would hear. If H.D. was careful, he might just be able to slip right out the front door.

He made his way very quietly down the stairs—which could be a real bitch. Wasn’t there always at least one stair that squeaked? But he was so careful, very slowly letting his weight settle on each bare foot, that he got to the bottom without a single mishap. Not one creak.

My shoes! Dammit, I kicked them off on the deck. They’re still out there and
…

Piss on them. He’d get another pair.

But oh, would that be the end of it? Wasn’t Bean just the kind of man who would bring his shoes to him and then quietly, like a hero, like a martyr, turn and leave?

H.D. stood there at the bottom of the stairs, his brain a jumble of confused thoughts. Confused because suddenly he was asking himself why he was leaving. Why? Why rush out?

Be a man. Go in there and thank him for a nice evening and give him a little hug and go
.

So with that thought, H.D. set his shoulders high and strode confidently back to the kitchen. What was he really afraid of, huh? What?

He stepped into the kitchen, mouth open to makes his excuses… and barely suppressed a gasp.

Bean was standing at the stove wearing nothing but an apron. His back was to H.D., and goddamn! Oh, he looked fine standing there, weight on one leg—his left buttock flexed, the dimple deep and inviting. The sun was coming through the window and lighting him on one side, and H.D. stood and watched the play of shoulder blade and muscle as Bean used a spatula to cook the bacon. So
fuckin’
sexy.

His butt was furry too, just like H.D. liked. The hair was a fine coat—not grossly hirsute—and begged to be touched. That hair would be so soft—softer even than Dean’s chest hair. His ass would be strongly muscled though—like Dean’s chest. If H.D. touched that beautiful butt, let his palms cup those delicious convex muscles, he would want to do a whole lot more than touch. He wouldn’t be able help it.

You had him! Go. Go go go go….

He had
me.
I haven’t had him yet.

And he wanted to. First he wanted to see if he could pleasure Dean like he had pleasured H.D. Make Dean beg to be fucked.

Just like I begged
.

The thought made him smile. Damned if it didn’t.

There was something about how casual Dean was in his nudity. There was nothing unusual about him being naked in his kitchen. His domain. H.D. remembered a line from an Alanis Morissette song where she recommended walking naked through your own living room. H.D. had understood the words the first time he’d ever heard them. He had long taken them to heart. What was it about nudity with some people? Why, he’d had tricks who, after sex, had pulled on underwear and even pants just to walk down the hall to take a leak. Stupid. Just stupid. Were they ashamed of their bodies? Ashamed of what Mother Nature had given them so freely and wonderfully and even wantonly? Maybe it was because once they’d had sex—gotten rid of their lust—they were feeling guilty that they’d had sex with another man? That their nudity was all too clear a reminder of what they’d done and their clothes were their armor against a homophobic world? The thought appalled H.D.

But he was excited to see Dean standing there, so gloriously naked in the early morning sunshine.

H.D. took a purposeful step, hoping now to make a sound. Something that wouldn’t startle him.

“You looking at my ass?” Dean said then, and it was H.D. who was startled.

H.D. burst into laughter. “You caught me.”

Dean shifted his weight to his other leg, and God, the way his muscles moved was so fucking hot. He realized suddenly that he was hard. And he felt funny wearing clothes. Why was he wearing clothes?

It took him seconds to rectify that, and then he was standing, wonderfully naked, legs slightly apart, arms held out a bit from his sides, chest out, head high, erection pointing up and proudly outward before him.

Dean looked over his shoulder then, and his eyes went wide and his mouth parted. H.D. could see his Adam’s apple bob from where he stood, and he gave Dean his most lecherous smile.

“Hell,” said Dean. “The bacon will microwave.” He turned off the flame under the skillet with a twist of his hand, and then the apron was over and off of him and his cock was rising up in greeting. And oh, it was nice: big, but not ridiculous—yet certainly explaining the tenderness H.D. felt this morning.

Dean was in his arms in six swift steps….

A
FTERWARD
,
THEY
both called into work, swearing they’d be there—just late.

H.D. had done exactly what he wanted. Bent Dean over and made love to that incredible ass, first with his mouth and then his cock. A quick scramble had produced a condom—H.D. had one in his cast-off jeans—and then he fucked Dean over the small kitchen table. He had a taste of that cock as well, and it had been sweet and delightful, the precum like honey.

When they were done, they’d made their way to the couch and collapsed and snuggled, resting—Dean lying full length against the back of the couch and H.D. half on top, their legs tangled, his head resting on Dean’s beautiful chest.

H.D. found he didn’t want to move. He just wanted to lie there, holding Dean and letting himself be held. Dean’s strong hand was massaging H.D.’s neck and shoulders, occasionally petting his dreadlocks. To H.D.’s surprise he found he was half-hard and knew if he tried, he could have sex again.

But he didn’t really want to. This… this half sex was so
wonderful.

Finally, Dean insisted they get up and make their calls and suggested they shower as well. They played there some more, but neither seemed to feel the need to cum. The playing was enough.

H.D. balked at putting his clothes on, but finally decided Dean was right. If he walked outside naked, he’d probably get arrested. So he dressed and took Dean’s offer of a ride to work. It would mean coming back to Bean’s house later to get his bike. He panicked for only a moment when he realized he would have to come back
with
Dean, since it would be a bad idea to leave the bike on the front porch all day, good neighborhood or not. He was only slightly surprised to find his bike had already been brought inside—he wasn’t sure when Dean had done that. This morning? Had he gotten up in the middle of the night?

It didn’t matter, and H.D. decided not to worry about it. Decided not to worry about coming back to Bean’s house either. They could see if third-time sex was as good as the first and second times.

But what if Dean didn’t want to have sex with him again? What if they were done?

“Can you stay for dinner tonight?” Dean asked him then, and H.D. didn’t know whether to laugh or hate himself.

What the fuck am I doing?

“Sure. Just let me make sure Elaine doesn’t mind taking Sarah Jane again.”

“Who is Sarah Jane?”

“One of our little dogs we’re trying to adopt out. She’s a sweetie. If someone doesn’t snatch her up soon, I’m gonna keep her.”

Bean backed his car—a blue-and-silver smart car (which didn’t surprise H.D. in the least)—down the driveway and into the street. “You know, I’ve really been thinking of getting a dog. I’m ready. Maybe you have one I’d be interested in?”

What do you know? Another reason to like him. “We might,” H.D. replied. “We have a lot of dogs. Any idea what you want?”

“Well, I got online the other night and did this survey and it said a good choice for me was a Silky terrier.” Dean put the car in gear and started down the street.

“You don’t sound too excited.”

“I’d never even heard of a Silky Terrier. And it looked a little big.”

“Well, they’re not big dogs,” H.D. supplied. “But they’re not small either. No idea what you want? A dream dog maybe?”

“Well….” They came to a stop at a light. “I love my aunt’s Yorkies. And my neighbor has these dachshunds I’ve fallen for. Do you have either of—”

Dean stopped when H.D. started laughing.

“What?”

H.D. giggled. He couldn’t help it. Then he threw back his head and let the laughter go.

“What?” Dean was looking at him like he was crazy. There was a honk behind them and Dean waved out the window and started the car up again. “You going to tell me or what?”

H.D. cleared his voice, and almost started up again. “Sure. Mr. Coffee Man? I think we can help you.”

“Really?”

Dean’s smile was huge and sweet and so sincere it was all H.D. could do not to kiss him. Then he thought,
What the fuck
, and leaned in and kissed him anyway.

“Have I got the dog for you,” he said.

And then he was laughing once more.

I
T
WAS
near ten when Bean walked through the door, and from the look on Mara’s face, she wasn’t the least bit mad. Thank God.

“Sorry,” he said. “But….”

She held up a hand and shook her head. “No es problema,” she said.

And it shouldn’t have been. Not really. Had he
ever
come in late when everyone didn’t know about it beforehand? Not once that he could think of.

Not that he was going to let anything get to him today anyway.

He was halfway to the back of the shop when he spotted the vase of flowers on the counter. He stopped. Looked at them. They were beautiful. Where had they come from?

Bean looked over at Mara and saw she was smiling. And now? Now she was blushing!

He glanced around the room. The customers were sitting around, two talking and the other four busy at laptops. He stepped closer. “You too?”

She pulled off her glasses and began to clean them with the edge of her blouse.

“How did this happen? It’s not Tiff, is it?”

Mara’s eyes grew almost as wide as her glasses. “God, no! Jesus, Bean. You know me better than that, don’t you?”

He leaned in close. “Come on. Tell.”

“It was….” She looked around to see if anyone was listening.

Like who would be listening
? he wondered.

“Elaine. She runs—”

Bean started to chuckle. He couldn’t help it. He stepped back and plopped down on one of the stools. “Ohmygod.”

“I know, right? We’re both dating Four-Footed Friends!” She squealed.

“You
do
know how that sounds, right?” he said, cocking an eyebrow.

She waved the comment away and smirked. “We both know what we mean.”

“And you two are dating?” He shook his head. It was amazing. Mara. On a date! “How the hell did this happen?
When
did this happen?”