“Dylan? I’ve gotta go.” Harry squashed down the lid on his suitcase and ran the zipper around it. “Did you move your car?”
From somewhere else in the house, Dylan called, “You want me to move it again?”
“What?” Harry hefted his suitcase and left the bedroom.
“I moved my car from behind yours the last time you asked. Do you want me to--”
Heading down the stairs, Harry mumbled, “All you had to do was tell me you did it already.”
“I did, hon.”
Dylan leaned against the wall beside the front door. He’d pushed up the sleeves of his sweater, putting his tattoos on display. Crazy-kinky, auburn hair down over his shoulders and a beard reaching for his navel, Dylan looked like trouble on a Viking level. There was even a twinkle in his blue eyes that said he might poke at Harry’s last nerve just for the fun of it.
Harry set his suitcase down and sighed. No stupid fights. Not right before he was set to leave on a stupider visit to a client who couldn’t make a decision without extensive hand-holding.
“Okay,” Harry said. “I guess I didn’t hear you.”
Dylan shrugged, the line of his mouth disappearing behind the hair on his face.
“You’re starting to disappear in all that hair.” Harry blinked at himself. He hadn’t meant to say that aloud.
But Dylan gave a laugh and came over to cup Harry’s cheeks and peck his lips. “Have a safe trip. Call me when you get in. And I’ll see you Saturday.”
Harry frowned. “Tomorrow. I’ll be back tomorrow night.”
“Yeah, but we agreed to spend the night before apart.”
“Night before?” Harry’s whole body jolted as he remembered. “Oh, shit, we’re getting married on Saturday.”
Dylan’s bushy eyebrows sprang upward and his mouth popped open. Clearly he hadn’t forgotten.
How the hell had Harry nearly managed to? His wedding! There had been nonstop talk and planning for months. And he really did want to get married. He did! What was wrong with him?
“I’m so sorry.” He closed his eyes and ducked his head.
Familiar hands made him look up again. “Just meet me at the chapel on Saturday, okay?”
“Yes. Completely, yes.”
So Dylan kissed him again and shuffled him out the door. Harry didn’t want to go even more than before. He hadn’t broken anything between them, had he?
My views on religion are infamous in my family, especially from my mother’s point of view. We do not discuss it and so can live in peace together.
Not even here under a pen name do I want to get into what I really think about The Bible or God or even the faithful.
I’ll just say that I have some ideas, I’m cool with those changing as I continue to grow up, I’m also fine with you doing your thing over there while I do mine over here, and leave it at that.
And then I had to go and write about Satan falling in love with a very special guy from the point of view of the devil himself.
Of course, I don’t want to give away the little twist in this story that’s made quite a few gasp, but it’s who Oscar actually is that’s gotten me in a little, uh, boiling brimstone.
My mother prays for me. She really does.
What inspired this particular story, though? Pure wickedness. A little bit of “oh what the hell” and a dash of “this might be interesting” while seeing if it’s possible to get a few folks to clutch their rosaries in scandalized titillation.
I think I’ve succeeded at that last bit.
And since I earned the first zero-star review from a blog that's since gone the way of the dodo who ran it, I'm quite proud of my evil little self. I mean, if your faith can't take a hit now and again, that's your issue not mine.
Honestly, though, if I showed you the image that inspired this story, I’d ruin the really fun bit near the end and I could never forgive myself for that. I will offer up that age-old assurance that if I’m going to hell, at least I know I’ll be among friends.
His cigarette smoke wakes me up. Until last week, I hated the smell. Now, I associate it with this golden young man standing on my balcony in a soft, rumpled, baby blue T-shirt and nothing else.
I smile to myself, remembering how I hadn’t been able to care about stripping him properly before throwing him on the bed and devouring his plump ass. His briefs shackling his thighs, he’d moaned and pressed his hole onto my tongue. I’d gotten him wet and open before shoving into him as I held him down on his stomach. I’d collapsed on him as I came, pleased to discover he’d come without touching himself and was shocked by that.
I do so love firsts.
I get up, though, as one of his firsts jumps out at me again. I’m his first man. He’s twenty-four and he’s been with girls all his life. Reminding myself he came on to me last week when we met isn’t easing my worries anymore. I’m terrified I’m just a fling, just an experiment while he’s on vacation, because I’ve fallen hard for him, this kid half my age.
I only drag my eyes away from the sight of him lit by the sunrise over the ocean so I can relieve myself in the bathroom. I catch a look at my reflection in the mirror and try to school my features so I look more confident and less like I’m about to lose my boyfriend.
Okay, so, since Kit was bi, it was possible the turquoise lace bra he'd found under his cheek when he woke up belonged the the girl he'd brought home last night.
Except he looked over and found a blond guy using his toothbrush in the tiny yellow bathroom. A naked blond guy.
So no girl.
Did the bra belong to the guy? That'd be a first. Normally, Kit went for the muscle bear type. Not that he'd judge, but those guys rarely did anything feminine.
And the bra didn't look big enough to circle this guy's massive, furry chest.
Kit was never drinking again. Despite not having too much of a hangover, he couldn't remember some of the night before. Apparently, some significant, bra-wearing moments.
If he'd had his first threesome and couldn't remember it, he was going to be pissed.
"Morning, honey," rumbled a shiver-inducing voice. The blond stood framed in the doorway smirking at Kit. "You gonna get dressed up again?"
Well, that explained the bra. With a gulp, Kit sat up and left the lacy confusion on the bed a couple feet from his knee.
Missy Welsh writes gay, bi, and trans erotic m/m romance short stories, novellas, and novels.