NSFW: Explicit excerpt from The God of Jazz
Usually, after I'd had my swim, I'd trudge out of the water, body wrung out and limp from the exercise, slip my shorts back on, rinse off at the public showers, getting the sweat out of my shorts and the salt water off my skin, then plunk down in the sand for a while and just people watch and stare at the hypnotic roll of the sea, rising, receding, rising, receding. It wasn't out of modesty I put my shorts back on, but since I didn't want to take a towel with me while I ran, and didn't love the idea of ending up with sand all over my junk and up my crack, shorts it was.
A blue beach blanket unfurled to my left and settled on the sand, so close to me I turned with, I'm sure, a pissy look at whoever was so clueless about the concept of personal space, but that expression dissolved in a flood of surprise a second later. The sunbathing beauty, the dark sorcerer with the trumpet sat down beside me. He met my eyes without a word. Just a trace of a smile. Praise to Cthulhu he wasn't naked or I'd have been snatching the cap off my head to hide a boner, I'm sure. Already, a mallet pounded a kick drum in my chest and with every thump the heat in my body hummed under my skin, flowing south to the tingling and tightening in my groin.
Resisting my urge to relieve the pressure of our proximity and silence with small talk, I watched him dig into his black messenger bag, mess around for a few seconds with a smaller pouch, and eventually extract a lighter and a joint. Licking his lips and sending a hot jolt straight to my groin, he lit the spliff, took a long drag, held the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds, then exhaled a pungent cloud of smoke. Then he turned to me, holding me in the pull of those Amaretto eyes luminous in the glow of the later afternoon sun. A hard thump of the mallet, the boom reverberating through my whole body. “Fumas?”
Why the hell hadn't I stuck with Spanish when I went to college? “Disculpa, no entiendo.” Just enough Spanish to say I don't speak Spanish. Awesome.
Damn, that smile could have melted the sun. “Do you smoke?” He offered me the joint.
I'd maybe smoked twice since film school. Certainly never on a crowded public beach. Was it legal?
Screw it. I took the joint. A zing of excitement as our fingers briefly brushed in the exchange. I cupped my hands, shielding the flame against the breeze as he lit it for me. I drew in a modest puff of smoke, held it, and carefully let it go, hoping I wouldn't go into a coughing fit.
“You're American?” He pinched the joint between his long fingers and took another hit.
“From California.”
“For an American, you are not so shy.”
“Shy?”
He gave me the joint and lit it for me again. “Usually the Americans don't go naked at the beach.”
I shot a glance down, suddenly doubting I had my shorts on. But there they were. A wave of heat washed over me at the realization he'd seen me walk down to the water, or coming back after my swim. When he gestured, I took another hit, daring to pull a little more smoke into my lungs this time, before handing it back to him. “Do I have a reason to be shy?” I challenged him, cocking my eyebrow.
He slid his gaze down my torso to my crotch, then met my eyes again. “Absolutely no.” When he'd taken his hit and offered me the joint again, I declined with a wave of my hand, already feeling pretty stoned. “I wonder what it is the gods are wanting from us.”
“The gods?”
“They bring you to my beach. Twice.”
A zing of warming surprise zapped through my chest; did he actually recognize me from that first day I'd ogled his ass as he'd lied there, laughing with his friends?
“And then to my performance. I do not dare to waste such a gift.” He finished off the joint, tucking the remnant of the roach away in the pouch in his bag. “I will go to have my swim, now. If you are still here when I come back, I will invite you to my house.”
Under the caress of the man's gaze and his warm, smoky voice, I was melting. He turned his back and walked away toward the water before I could think of a reply. Before I even knew what my reply would be.
Forty minutes later, we were at my apartment, since his place was a metro ride away in Poble Sec, and mine only took us a couple minutes walking.
“Want a beer? Or, I have a bottle of Penedés.” I locked the front door, surprised to realize my hand was a tad jittery. But to be fair, in the years between losing my virginity with Jordi, and falling for Michael, I'd only been with three other men. One one night stand, and a bit of casual dating. After five years of living like a married man, bringing a sexy stranger home and knowing we were about to fuck was a new thing.
And this guy. Ángel wasn't just gorgeous. He had the most intense, commanding presence of anyone I'd ever met. And there he was, just looking at me, not saying a word. The sun was settling down against the horizon, its rose and gold rays flooding the living room and setting Ángel's whiskey irises aglow.
“Take off your clothes.” The quiet command uttered in a sultry tone had a firmness yielding no hint of doubt I'd do it.
Damn.
A twinge hit my heart, then heat swept through me, singeing my skin and settling in my groin. The warm arousal that had me buzzing, my junk feeling heavy and making my shorts increasingly tight as we'd walked to my place now swelled to a demanding, pulsing pressure. His expectant gaze slid over me like a touch, settling on my crotch, making me breathe harder. Already stiff, my dick jutted out against my shorts.
I was up for it. A hundred percent. But I wasn't much for taking orders. Especially since Ángel's mere presence had a way of making me feel like an adulating acolyte.
“Ángel?”
“Hmmm?” No hint of surprise I'd remembered his name from the jazz show.
“Don't you want to know my name?”
He smiled. “Do you want me to know your name?”
Well played.
I grinned back, grasped the hem of my T-shirt and took it off, sliding it up slowly, teasing him as I bared my navel, my abs, my nipples inch by inch. Sure, he'd seen me shirtless—hell, even naked, apparently—on the beach. But we all enjoy a little anticipation when watching the guy we're about to fuck undress.
Unabashedly staring, one forearm crossed under his chest, Ángel brought a hand against his chin and ran the pad of his thumb across his bottom lip, as if he were picturing the feel of my skin against his mouth.
I wasn't shy. Frankly, I kind of got off on being looked at. In the gym locker room. At the beach. In bed with my lovers. But fuck if I didn't feel a pang of stage fright with him watching me. He was so god damned beautiful, so fucking sure of himself. I so badly wanted to turn him on, the way he was driving me absolutely fucking crazy. And he hadn't even touched me. Hell, we hadn't even kissed. And I wanted to. I wanted that sensual mouth on mine. I wanted to feel the brush of that soft, bowed upper lip across my bottom lip. Wanted to suck it. Lick it. Taste his tongue.
“Feeling shy after all?”
I gave him a cocky grin. I have a damn nice dick, and was looking forward to the appreciative smile I always got when I bared it to a new lover. Teasing him, I curved my hand against the rigid shaft and gave myself a little squeeze through my shorts, sliding my hand up my length, inch by inch. Slipping my thumbs under the elastic waistband, I pulled the fabric down his hips, letting him get a look at the contours through the thin nylon cloth, taking in his rapt attention, his gorgeous lips slightly parted, his broad chest rising and falling with his anticipation. While he studied what he was about to be given, I shifted my hips a little side to side as I pried my shoes off with my feet, then my socks. Finally, after making sure he was still staring at the he pièce de résistance, I slid my shorts and briefs down and kicked them to the side.
Swear to fucking god, the man licked his lips.
I waited for the usual exclamation of appreciation, but he just charged forward, driving my body back against the door with his. God, those eyes. I felt pinned down, held in place, but he was barely touching me.
“Hang on. I'll put on some music.”
“We have music already.”
I went still and listened, thinking maybe his expert ear was more sensitive than mine, that he was hearing something the neighbors downstairs or across the street were playing, but no. “What music?”
“Your breathing.”
For a second I was almost annoyed, almost embarrassed as I realized my mouth was open, that I was breathing hard and fast.
But then he touched my lips. “These wordless whispers of your arousal.” God, he had the sexiest voice in the world, this man who had me naked and hadn't so much as undone a single button of his shirt. “Soon, we'll have your soft, baritone sighs. And this.” He pressed a hand to my chest. “If I am attentive, deep and low I get this, too, your heart keeping the time of your pleasure, like your chest is my contrabajo and I am plucking the E string, keeping the rhythm of our encounter.”
That had to be the most seductive bit of poetry ever. Had he used it before? On other lovers? Probably, but I didn't care. I just wanted this man to fuck me. I reached up to caress his face. I was hard, cock thrumming, balls aching with a needful yearning I hadn't felt in years, but there was an urgent want, tender as a bruise at the center of my chest driving me to brush my fingertips over the contours of his jaw, to trace the border of the dark stubble adding to his aspect of a treacherous libertine.
But before I touched him, he caught my wrist and pinned it overhead, against the door. He grinned. Holding my gaze, he brought up his free hand and traced over my bottom lip with the pad of his index finger.
Just kiss me already, you sexy bastard.
Impatient, I went up a bit on my toes and strained for his mouth, but without looking, without any effort, at least as far as I could tell, he found and caught my other wrist and pinned it next to the first, above my head.
“What is it you want, guapo?”
As if it wasn't obvious. “Kiss me.”
He grinned, then tutted. “Muy maleducado, guapo.”
I laughed. “What?”
“Such bad manners. Your mama did not teach you to say please?”
That sparked off a charge of resentment in my brain. And a rush of heat in my already steel-stiff cock. With Michael, over the years our dynamic had become one of me letting him take control, at least in bed. But that was us. The way we'd fit together. It had nothing to do with games of domination and submission. And Michael excepted, I sure as hell wasn't a man who put up with being bossed around, in the bedroom or anywhere else.
But Ángel was so fucking sexy, had me so bloody hard, had me wanting him so damned desperately, I couldn't help myself. “Please, Ángel. Please kiss me.” To my surprise, just saying the words, my resistance and resentment dissolved in the wake of another flood of suffocating arousal.
“Ungh.” That grunt, the way he bit his lip as he held my gaze sent a wild shudder down my spine. For the briefest flash of a second the crazy, obscene image of me helplessly ejaculating without so much as a tug from him flickered through my imagination.
He leaned in and I caught my breath, expecting a kiss. Needing his kiss. A little thrill shot through me as the scruff darkening his jaw brushed against my cheek; in its wake, his warm breath breezing over my skin.
“Are you always such a good, obedient boy?” A hot flush of anger flared up my neck, singing my cheeks, but it erupted in a fresh surge of want as his mouth spread open in an electric smile that lit up those eyes and made him look like a fucking god who could read my mind.
“Are you always so bossy?” I delivered my line without a hint of humor. Testing.
“Quiet.” He silenced my retort, wrapping a hand around my throat and taking me in a kiss that went deep into my mouth, down to my god damned balls, turning my skeleton to rubber and burning away all the oxygen in my lungs. When he broke off the kiss and gazed into me, I had the unsettling sensation he was feeding on me—on my arousal, on the unfamiliar uncertainty of being so suddenly and utterly under his power, as if my weakness fed his strength.
“Mmmmm,” he purred. “Your want makes you even more beautiful. Do you know that?”
It was that moment I realized he still had both of my wrists caught in one hand, the other still wrapped around my throat. Not constricting my breath, but threatening the possibility. A bolt of panic impaled my arousal. He was only three, maybe four inches taller than me, but he had at least fifty pounds of lean, hard muscle on me. When I tried to pull my wrists free, his grip cinched down with sudden, startling power.
“You're afraid?”
“Should I be?”
This time when he smiled, it wasn't arousal that shot through me like a jolt of current. It was confusion. How could I feel so apprehensive and so fucking turned on at the same time?
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On what you're afraid of.”
I focused, and with all the strength I could muster, tried to jerk my wrists free of his grip. Without any apparent effort, he held me fast. My heart was pounding hard, racing.
“Do you want me to let go?”
“Yes.”
When he released my wrists, I pressed my hands to his chest. It was instinct. My lower brain driving my body to push him away, or at least hold him at bay. At that contact, another rush of current surged from my fingertips, down my spine at the sensation of his hard muscles under my hands. I had no clue if that hot, electric arc was fear or excitement.
With a wry grin he turned away and went to the far end of the living room. He sank into the lone armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window that ran the width of the west-facing wall of my apartment. Gazing up at me from under his impish eyebrows, he beckoned me to him with a curl of his index finger.
I don't think I'd ever felt so naked in my whole life, standing there with my dick hard as an iron rod, and him watching me from that chair, still wearing his white slacks and pale blue, short sleeved button-up. But if he wanted a show, I'd damn well give him one. I cocked an eyebrow, then strutted toward him, taking my time.
Soaking up his hungry look as his eyes roamed over my body. When I got to him, when I was standing there between his splayed thighs, I knew if he leaned forward and slid that beautiful mouth of his down the length of my cock, I wouldn't last thirty seconds.
Instead, he leaned forward, took my left hand in his, put his other hand to the back of my right knee, and coaxed me onto the chair, straddling his thighs. “Mmmm. Beautiful boy.”
Boy? I almost laughed. If I was younger than him, it couldn't be by more than a couple years.
“Beautiful boy,” he sighed again. “With a beautiful cock.” He put both hands to my chest, ran his hands over me like a curator appraising a famous sculpture. “Estás temblando, guapo.”
“What?”
He smiled. “I said, you're trembling. You really know no Spanish?”
“Did you come for the witty banter?”
Now he laughed. “Are you still afraid?”
“Terrified.”
His grin didn't fade, but a vague glimmer of doubt flickered over his gold-flecked amber irises. “Of what?”
“That you're too busy teasing me to ever to put that gorgeous mouth on my cock.”
“Mmmmmm.” The low purr rumbling from his chest was the most erotic sound I'd ever heard. “Pobrecito. So hard.” He wrapped a hand around the base of my aching cock. A violent shudder rippled through me.
In seconds he had me quivering and gasping, panting and writhing, flexing my hips, desperately trying to drive my pulsing hardness into his grip, hunting the friction I needed to relieve my desperate, painful need. “Fuck.” I whimpered as he withdrew his touch just as I was sure I was about to breach the barrier to my release.
“Pobrecito. You really need to, don't you?” Cradling and rolling my balls in one hand, torturing my dick with the other, he honed in on my neck. My arms, my whole torso erupted in goosebumps as electric pleasure arced under the touch of his tongue, then his teeth. When he sealed his lips against my skin, tonguing and sucking, I arched and gasped. He cinched his grip tight at the base of my cock, clamping down on my pending climax.
I grunted. “You're a damned sadist.”
He laughed. “Sadism? You would like me to show you what I know about sadism?”
“What I want is to bury my dick in your throat and feel it squeeze me as I empty my balls.”
He tutted. “Greedy, impatient boy.”
“You keep calling me boy. How old do you think I am?”
“I don't care how old you are. You look and feel like a boy who thinks he's seen everything, tasted and touched all the delicious things of this world, because he can't imagine anything could exist beyond the frontier of his enormous ego.” Stunned, I went still, trying to come up with a reply to his unsolicited therapy session. Five seconds later, though, I forgot all about putting him in his place as he wet the tip of his index finger in the rivulet of pre-cum sliding down my cock, puddling in the trimmed thatch of my pubes, and slid the digit into my hole. I gasped and grunted, clinging to him, burying my face in his neck, rigid, writhing, racked with pleasure, stretched to the breaking point.
“Are you going to give in so easily?” Taking utter possession of my cock, my balls, and my asshole in sanity-shattering synchronicity, he caught my bottom lip between his teeth, licked, sucked, then we merged in a ravenous kiss as he tapped and prodded my prostate and I erupted in a blinding orgasm.
When I came back to myself, still quivering, still catching my breath, Ángel was watching me, his expression rapt, his eyes honed in on mine. When I realized his finger was still inside me, my sudden sense of utter vulnerability blossomed at the center of my chest like a rare flower, beautiful and possibly poisonous.
I gasped and tensed as he slid his finger part way out, then drove it in to the hilt again. Even spent and limp, I couldn't wait for that angel of jazz, that bronzed demi-urge of the beach to take me. To lead me into my bedroom and put me on my hands and knees, or to bend me over the dining table, to plow me until I heard him cry out and felt him shudder as he collided with the same shattering oblivion he'd driven me to. But he didn't push me off his lap, or lift me and carry me to the bed.
He just grinned and said, “Your turn, guapo.”
