Don't Read in the Closet volume one (69 page)

It was another
hot, humid night, and by the time I got to the bar I was ready to strip my
pearl-buttoned shirt off and see if my washboard abs could buy me a drink.
Stranger things have happened.

The bouncer
didn’t even card me, the bastard. As if I looked every bit of forty. But once
inside, I did pull off my shirt and slung it over my shoulder, and I saw a lot
of eyes turn my way. Including a pair I found familiar. Agent Brice’s.

“Back to the
scene of the crime?” I asked him, tracking him to the side wall.

“Turns out the
crime didn’t occur here at all,” he said. “We found Graf’s body in a culvert
off the San Jacinto River.”

“Aww.” I hardly
knew the guy, but still, it was a pity he was dead. “You know what happened to
him?”

“He was a clerk
at an oil company where we suspected some illegal activity was going on. He was
supplying the Bureau with information, and someone found out about it.”

“That twink? He
was an informant?”

Brice nodded.

“So if the
crime didn’t happen here, then what are you doing here?” I looked at him. He
sure wasn’t dressed the way he had been at the Lone Star. Gone was the dark
suit, the white shirt, the navy tie. In its place was a Tommy Bahama shirt with
a print of parrots and jungles on it, and a very trim pair of jeans. He was
even wearing well-worn cowboy boots, scuffed at the toes.

“Thought I
might celebrate with a beer or two,” Brice said. “Maybe pick up a new friend.”
He looked at me, and that half-smile I’d noticed had turned into a full grin. “Maybe
even a cowboy.”

The music
changed behind us, and couples started gathering on the floor for a two-step.
“Why, Agent Brice,” I said. “You dance?”

“Call me
Marty.” He nodded toward the floor. “You want to give it a go?”

I took his hand
in mine. It was warm and firm. “You betcha.”

We stepped out
onto the dance floor, bent our right legs, and started to dance. He was good,
and we must have spent an hour out there. When the tempo changed to something
too fast for a two-step, we left the dance floor and went up to the bar. Marty
ordered us a couple of beers,
then
led me to a table
in a quieter area of the bar. I put my shirt back on and sat back against the
chair.

“To the
two-step,” I said, holding my beer up.

Marty knocked
his against mine. “And to new friends.”

“That what
you’re interested in?” I asked. “Friendship?”

“I’m not the
kind of guy who jumps into bed on the first date. I’ve been around the rodeo a
few times and learned my lessons. Right now, though, I’m looking for a friend,
as well as a cowboy.”

I took a long
drink. “Not sure what you mean by that,” I said.

He put his beer
down on the table and leaned forward. “My old man decided, after a long,
productive working life as an accountant, that he wanted to have his own ranch.
Don’t know where he got the idea; closest I know he ever came was playing
cowboys and Indians with me when I was a kid.”

I didn’t say
anything, just drank some more beer and listened.

“He passed
about three months ago,” Marty said. “So right now it’s just my mom about an
hour west of Houston on a hundred acres of land with a dozen head of cattle, a
herd of goats and a llama.”

“A llama?”

“My dad was a
sucker for a lot of things, including a fast-talking llama salesman.”

I laughed.

“So here’s the
deal. My mom can’t run that place by herself, and I don’t care for most of the
guys she’s got working for her. I need a cowboy who I can trust, who can step
in and look after things.” He took a pull from his beer. “You interested?”

“Me? You don’t
know a thing about me.”

“You forget I’m
an agent of the FBI. When I thought you might be responsible for Christopher
Graf’s disappearance and murder, I did a thorough background check on you.” He
smiled. “And I liked what I found.”

I didn’t know
whether I should feel flattered or creeped out. But I did need a job. “Tell me
about the spread.”

He did. We went
through another pair of beers and I found myself falling in love. Mostly with
the ranch; it sounded sweet. But if it came with a side helping of Marty Brice,
that could be very fine.

They played
some two-step music again, and we danced some more. By the time we finished it
was after three and I was tired, drunk and horny. “You said you don’t fuck on
the first date,” I said, both of us leaning up against the wall watching the
younger guys keep on dancing. “But this isn’t the first time we met.”

He turned to
me. “You think me searching your motel room was a date?”

“At this point
I’ll agree to anything if it’ll get you in bed with me. And who knows, maybe
your dick will seal the deal and I’ll head out to your ranch and take on the
job.”

I looked down
at the way his crotch bulged against his jeans. I stepped in front of him and
pressed my hand down on it.

“Jesus,” he
groaned. It was the first time I’d seen the tough FBI agent look vulnerable,
and I liked it. I leaned over and kissed his throat. “I can’t…”

“Can’t or
won’t?”

“Can’t do
anything here,” he said, catching his breath. “Public indecency. Have to take
you back to my place to do what I want to you.”

I leaned back
and looked him in the face. “What are you waiting for, then?”

He wouldn’t let
me touch his crotch in the car, or even hold his hand. He kept both hands on
the wheel, in the ten o’clock and two o’clock positions. Fortunately he didn’t
live far from the bar, in a sweet little cottage on a side street. He led the
way up the driveway, unlatching a gate that led into a private courtyard.

As soon as I
was inside he turned back to me, pressed my body against the gate, and kissed
me. His lips were moist and they tasted like beer. He pressed his head against
mine, prying
open
my lips with his tongue. He wrapped
his arms around me, his big hands splayed against
my the
cheeks of my ass. We kissed like that for a while, and when he pulled away he
said, “I’ve been waiting to do that for a long time.”

“Really?”

He nodded.
“Since I saw you walk into that crummy motel room in your boxers and your
cowboy hat, carrying your boots and your puke-stained clothes. I couldn’t help
noticing the way you got hard when you talked about Graf.”

“Hard like I am
now?” I pressed my dick against his leg and he groaned again.

“Oh man, that
feels so good. We’ve got to get into the house before I have an accident.” He
pushed me away enough so that he could dig his house key out of his jeans and
open the front door.

Once we were
inside, we went right back at it, like animals. We pulled each others’ shirts
off, and I wrestled with his brass belt buckle. “Damned tight jeans,” he
panted, pushing them down his hips. I dropped to my knees and pulled down his
white briefs far enough to unleash his dick, which was already stiff and
leaking precum.

I took his dick
in my mouth and sucked, just like I’d done for the guest back at the Bar None.
But there was no disapproving ranch owner to find me; instead there was just
Marty Brice, and he sure liked what I was doing. He groaned and pulled me off
him. “If you don’t stop that I’m going to shoot my load too fast.”

I stood up and
kissed him. “Maybe I like things fast and hot,” I said, when I pulled back.

“Well, that’s a
problem, because I like them slow and hot.” He pushed me against the wall of
his bedroom and began undoing my pearl-buttoned shirt. Then he leaned down and
took my right nipple between his teeth, sucking then biting down. My whole body
shook with desire.

He was so slow
and careful it was a torment to me. When he finished with the right nipple he
went on to the left. Then he licked his way down my stomach to my belly button,
and he nibbled and bit on that. My dick was so hard it hurt, and I was leaking
a fountain of precum in my shorts.

He unbuttoned
my jeans and slid them down over my hips, then pulled my boxers down. I kicked
off my boots and stepped out of everything else, and then we were both naked,
pressing our bodies against each other. He bit at the side of my neck, and I
kissed his ear.

Finally he
moaned and said, “I give up. I can’t hold out any longer. I want to fuck myself
some cowboy ass.”

I let go of
him, and let myself fall backward on his bed. Then I pulled my legs up to me,
presenting him with my ass, all hot and shiny with sweat. He stepped over to
the bureau, his dick standing up like a flagpole, and retrieved a condom and
bottle of lube. Then he knelt on the bed and slung my legs over his shoulders.

He squirted the
lube into my ass, and it was warm and squiggly down there. I wanted him so bad.

He slid the
condom over his dick,
then
positioned himself at my
asshole. “This might hurt a tad,” he said.

“I’ve ridden
bucking broncos and came out just fine,” I said. “I can manage a dick.”

“Oh, yeah?” He
grabbed my legs and slammed into me. “Manage that, cowboy.”

He slid right
into me like he was meant to be there, and I tossed my head back against the
pillow and pushed back against him. He pulled out, then went right back in
again. He grabbed my dick with one hand and started stroking me as he fucked my
ass, and then he exploded, taking me over the edge with him.

My whole body
shook with the power of my orgasm, as Marty Brice stayed right where he was,
with his dick in my ass, and the look we shared was one of pure lust. After a
minute, he pulled out of me, tossed the used condom in the trash, and then lay
down next to me.

I wrapped an arm
around him and pulled him close. “That ranch of your daddy’s is looking better
all the time,” I said.

“Christ, I may
end up having to move out there myself. It’s an extra drive in to the office,
but I’ll bet you could make it worth my while.”

“I’ll bet I
could,” I said.

That’s the way
it worked out, too. I moved out of the Lone Star and into Marty’s cottage for a
couple of days, when we did little more than fuck and eat and dance and then
fuck some more. Then he drove me out to the ranch and got me set up, and his
momma and I got along just fine. Within a month, Marty was living out at the
ranch full time, driving in to his office in Houston, and I had taken charge of
the cattle and the goats and the llama.

We don’t get
back into Houston much on the weekends, but who knows, maybe one of these days
Marty and I will take our own spin in the photo booth.

THE END

Author bio:
Neil S. Plakcy writes character-driven
mystery, romance and mainstream novels.

Find
him at:

www.mahubooks.com

http://www.facebook.com/neil.plakcy

Selected by Dustin
Adrian Rhodes

Dear Author,

Jaime and Parker here
are best friends. After realizing he is gay and knowing he can never confess
his true feelings for his straight best friend, Jaime joins the army right
after high school. 10 years later he's come home and their friendship rekindles
as if he had never left. Jaime knows he is still in love with Parker but he
would rather die than tell him his true feelings. But the way Parker looks at
him sometimes, especially his lips, is making him think maybe there is
something more between them.

Parker is so happy Jaime
is back in town. He missed their friendship and all the things they used to do.
But why is he all of a sudden having erotic dreams about him and why
cant
he stop looking at his lips? I mean he's straight,
right?

Can someone please help
these two out???

[PHOTO:
Pictures of two
dark-haired muscular young men in shorts. The first sits in a wooden-paneled
corner, arms braced on the seat, accentuating the size of his shoulders. There
is something tentative in the expression of his dark eyes. The second holds a
football cocked to throw. His features are strong, hair shaved, a single tattoo
on his shoulder.]