Will settled over him and Taylor spread his thighs, wriggling and shifting to accommodate Will’s muscular length. Taylor smiled up at Will, and Will smiled back. He sang softly, “They say it’s your birthday.”
Taylor obligingly did the guitar riff in his cracked tenor.
“It’s my birthday too, yeah.”
Another riff from Taylor as his restless hands caressed Will’s buttocks in air guitar, drawing Will down. His hips raised to meet the frustrating, tantalizing prod of the blunt head of Will’s cock as it grazed the entrance of his body.
“I’m glad it’s your birthday,” Will growled. “Happy birthday to you.”
His cock finally rifted Taylor, shoved deep inside, stretching him wide open and then filling him up with a sweet, fierce throbbing. Taylor arched up to meet it, gave a deep, groan of pleasured pain. Will’s muscular body pressed Taylor deep into the bed, pushing deep inside him, and Will’s warm breath tickled Taylor’s ear as they began the old rock and roll, slow, sensual strokes in the push-pull argument over whether it was better to give or receive.
Energetic, forceful, but affectionate. This thrust-and-parry debate of cock and ass was no longer about winning or control. It was now teamwork to make it last as long as possible — unfortunately, in Taylor’s opinion, never quite long enough.
He gave a shout as that hot tingle began in his groin, that wild electricity in the base of his cock, that fluttering in his chest like there was too much sensation, too much emotion to contain in one body. His balls drew tight, his entire body clenched tight, his fingers sank into Will’s broad back, and he began to come in great straining pulses.
He smothered his yell against Will’s shoulder.
A few sweating, spent seconds later he felt Will shoot into him, deep inside him.
Afterward, they watched the 1932 film The Mistress of Atlantis about two best friends and foreign legionnaires who fall victim to the evil queen of the lost city. For a time they amused each other commenting on the movie. Then Will dozed off and Taylor ate some of his birthday cake while his eyelids grew heavier and heavier.
The last thing he remembered was hearing Lt. Saint-Avit running through the streets of Atlantis shouting for his missing comrade…
Chapter Three
“What on God’s earth is this?”
Will stepped out of Taylor’s bathroom holding a blue bottle of oil labeled UP. He read aloud, “‘Australia's Number One Erectile Performance Oil. Take control of your erection today.’”
“Hey!” Taylor yelped, casting his Levi’s aside. “Put my UP down.” He was in the bathroom in two long-legged steps.
“My my. I’ve never noticed you having any problem keeping your up, up.”
“I don’t. It’s just a-a performance enhancer.”
Will scrutinized him. This was a new side of Taylor. Not that Taylor didn’t go in for some screwball things.
He was blushing now — and rightly so — as he snatched at the bottle Will held. They wrestled briefly; then Taylor grabbed the bottle and tossed it under the sink.
“I was looking for shaving cream,” Will told him mildly. “I forgot mine.”
“I use an electric razor; you know that.”
He did know that. He knew pretty much everything about Taylor, but every so often Taylor surprised him. Like with the UP oil. The funny thing was, the idea of that oil vaguely excited him too. Firmer, fuller, harder. More responsive erections. That all sounded pretty good. The idea of Taylor, damp from his shower, massaging that oil into the shaft and head of his penis every morning; his hard, thin hands moving briskly on himself — or no, moving slowly, languidly on himself —
Will gulped. For chrissake! They’d just spent the night and the morning fooling around. It was like being seventeen again. He asked briskly, “Anyway, where do you want to go for breakfast? Or lunch?”
Taylor, still uncharacteristically rattled, was squeezing past him out of the bathroom, muttering about coffee mugs and soap foam. It was, well, endearing.
Will caught him by the arm. “Hey. MacAllister.”
Taylor stopped. Faced him.
Will opened his mouth, but he lost his nerve. Couldn’t say it.
“What?”
You know I…
Taylor raised his brows.
Will shook his head and turned back to the mirror. He gave his reflection a sheepish look.
* * * * *
They had brunch at Café Verve, eating out on the crowded sidewalk patio beneath the yellow umbrellas.
Verve was their favorite place for breakfast, as they did biscuits with milk gravy, something Will was partial to. Taylor opted for a veggie omelet and black coffee.
It was a sunny, pleasant morning. The sun was shining, the sky had that extra blue tint to it that spring brought. They talked leisurely of this and that, and then Taylor brought up work and the following week.
Will had put all thought of that aside — or mostly aside — so as to not spoil Taylor’s birthday, but he had known he was going to have to bring it up at some point that day. Now the moment was on them; there was no putting it off, as much as he hated to spoil this lovely morning.
He waited till Taylor paused, and then he said, “Listen, I have to tell you something.”
Maybe the bad news was written in his face, or maybe it was something in the tone of his voice. The line of Taylor’s body stayed relaxed and easy, but Will could feel his tension like a fine wire drawn tight between them. “Yeah?”
“On Monday” — Will took a deep breath — “you’re working with Varga.”
For a second he thought Taylor hadn’t heard him or hadn’t understood. He continued to stare at Will, narrow-eyed, as though a pirate ship had appeared on the horizon. Then he said flatly, “Was that your idea?”
“My idea? No, it wasn’t my idea.” Will was both taken aback and indignant. “Of course it wasn’t my idea.”
Taylor didn’t say a word, just stared at him with those wide green eyes. Such an odd color. Like old, oxidized pennies.
“Why the hell would you think it was my idea?”
“You said from
