Death of a Pirate King - lanyon Josh - Страница 40
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Taking my cock in his big hand, he said, “You’re the most beautiful guy I’ve ever had.”
I snorted, thinking he probably said that to all the beautiful guys -- assuming there was time for talk between the beatings.
Then his slick fingers circled my hole, pressed a fingertip inside, and withdrew.
I gulped.
Watching my face -- though he couldn’t have seen much in the soft darkness -- he pressed in again, a little further, and I closed my eyes, wanting to focus on the feel and forget the emotions of it. A second finger followed, and then he flexed his hand, and I felt that knowing press on the spongy tissue of prostate -- too knowing, but I focused on that sensation and shut out the rest of it, letting him stretch and stroke me as though it were my first time, giving into his strange pretense that I was fragile and terribly precious to him.
His cock entered me slowly, pushing with great care. I tried to rush him, tried to push back and capture his prick with my body -- reduce it to basics: a fuck. But he wouldn’t be hurried; he took his time, kissed my collarbone, the hollow of my throat, all the time shoving slowly past the ring of muscle, making it last and last, and then he was in, and we were sharing the same body, adjusting to the fit, trying on for size this being one. I wrapped my legs around him, pressed my mouth to his shoulder, bit him -- paying him back for earlier. He grunted.
Pushing against him, I urged him to action, and we began the seesaw of push and pull, rock and roll, lock and load -- physical sensation -- and I didn’t want to think more closely about it than that.
His hand wrapped around my dick -- and astonishingly enough, he was right: I was getting hard. Weeks of nobody home and suddenly it was like I was sixteen again and my parents were gone for the weekend. And there was no need to say what I liked, a little tighter, a little faster -- because he knew exactly what I liked -- memory or just very good instincts. His hand slid up and down, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure, that smooth, knowing skid of skin on skin. It could have been my own hand, but it was so much better because it was Jake’s.
He thrust into me, pumped me, we found the old rhythm, the pattern, the old steps, the way through the wood -- and it moved beyond words or coherent thought, just skin and warmth and that hum of exquisite tension as it built and built, his hand jerking me off, his cock lancing past my gland, fast and faster -- and a little frantic --
I felt him stiffen and then heard him shout.
He kissed me again.
We lay there for a while and then he slid out of me.
After a time he said, “I can’t stay.”
“I know.”
He didn’t move and then finally he sat up, wearily. He went into the hallway; the light came on, throwing a golden bar across the floor and bed. I listened to him dressing.
He came back in -- a broad silhouette -- and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Adrien…”
I smiled. “I know.”
But I didn’t, because what he said was, “I want you in my life -- you can set the parameters.”
“Oh my God.” I pressed the heels of my hands over my eyes. “Jake.”
“What?”
“What? You know what. We can’t pick up where we left off. And I can’t be pals with you.”
“Then what the hell was this?” The anger and hurt in his voice was painful to hear.
I sat up, forcing him to retreat. “You know what the hell this was, Jake. This was us saying good-bye properly.”
Chapter Nineteen
When I was sixteen I managed to catch rheumatic fever -- no easy feat, by the way -- and it left the valves of my heart damaged; the mitral valve in particular, which was the culprit in my current predicament. Lisa was convinced I’d never see eighteen, and I spent several months convalescing in bed like somebody in a 1920s novel, before I finally put my foot down -- both physically and metaphorically.
But in addition to reading everything I could lay my hands on during that long enforced period of inactivity, I watched a lot of TV, so I was very familiar with Marla Vincenza’s work -- and “work” was probably the right word for it if running around like a maniac under the blazing Etruscan sun was anything to go by.
During the sixties, a very young Marla starred in a lot of those schlocky Italian historical dramas, and while I didn’t find her escapades as Amazon or Arabian princess quite as entertaining as I did the glistening and muscle-bound adventures of Steve Reeves and his ilk, I did have a certain fondness for her cinematic ventures. She made a truly chilling Medea, as I recalled.
She looked good for a woman in her sixties -- much better than either Ally or Nina did -- trim and fit. Despite those years filming in the sun, she had taken good care of her skin. Her hair was an unlikely brown, but it was skillfully done. She was surprisingly petite given how convincingly she had portrayed lady pirates and warrior queens.
“I have to say I’m a little vague on why you wanted to meet,” she informed me, leading me through her spacious and lavishly decorated Santa Barbara hacienda. “You said you’re working in connection with the police?”
“Er…yes,” I said. And to cover that unconvincing “er” -- and because I really wanted to know, I asked, “I’ve just realized -- they used your real voice, didn’t they, in those sword and sandal epics?”
“Sword and skivvies, don’t you mean?” She was amused. “Yeah, they used my voice. I grew up in Little Italy. My grandparents were from Sicily. I spoke Italian like a native before I ever set foot in Europe.”
“Did you meet Porter in Italy?”
“I did. Jonesy was interested in the historical epic market. In the end, he decided he preferred America and American film making -- and I came back home with him.”
We settled on the tiled patio beside the oblong pool. Marla’s garden was filled with tropical flowers and fountains and small-scale classical statuary. “How long were you married?”
She gave me a quizzical look. “Over thirty years. Do you think I knocked Porter off because he dumped me for Ally Bally Beaton?” She poured pink lemonade from a pitcher on the table, and I noticed she wore wedding rings. As far as I knew, she’d never remarried.
“It’s hard to believe you’d wait five years to do it.”
“Well, you know what they say: revenge is a dish best served cold.”
I had a sudden memory of her as Medea.
“True, I guess.” I studied her. “But something tells me Porter’s life with Ally would have supplied all the revenge you needed.”
She burst out laughing. “Very good, sport! Yeah, that little bitch made poor old Jonesy’s life a misery. Served him right.” But her eyes were sparkling with humor. “So if you don’t think I knocked my ex off, why exactly are you here?”
I said, “I got the impression that you and Porter stayed friends despite everything.”
She inhaled slowly and let it out quietly. “This is true,” she said.
“Did you know he was terminally ill?”
“Yeah. He came straight to me when he got the news.”
“To you?”
She lifted a slender shoulder. “Like you said, we stayed close. Or, I guess, we grew close again.”
“Who else knew that Porter was ill?”
“He didn’t take an ad out in Variety, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Did Ally know?”
“Not at first. He told her after he decided to…” She didn’t finish, lifting her lemonade to her lips. “He shared it with a few trusted friends.”
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