“Yeah, here I come. . . oh, man, I couldn't wait, but I did, I did, I never wanted it to end, I wanted to fuck you all night. . . but then, oh Marc, you kissed me, and. . . oohhhhhhhhhhhh”
Marc felt the cock inside him buck, felt it shoot, again, again, again, and how he wished that hot come wasn't being wasted inside the tip of that condom, how he wished that every drop was shooting deep inside him, settling inside him. But he took each explosion by bouncing on that cock more, all the while gripping at Parker's hairy shoulders, not wanting to let him go, not believing he'd kissed him, shocked that it was his kiss that had led Parker to finally climax.
At last, spent, their bodies separated, Marc found himself sliding to the floor while seeking breath. Parker leaned back against the bed, his massive chest heaving from exhaustion, from release. Marc got on his knees, took hold of the cock and slipped the condom off. He took the semi-hard cock into his hand and sucked it dry, tasting his sweet come and wishing for more.
“Oh, wow, I needed that,” Parker said. “You?”
“Obviously.”
“Regrets?”
“I'm sure I'll have them in the morning.”
“Morning's not for awhile.”
“You up for another round?” Marc asked.
Parker never got a chance to answer, as a noise downstairs distracted him.
“What the hell?”
He gathered himself up, tossing on a pair of shorts before making his way down. Marc followed, having slipped on his own shorts. A few more lights were on, more than they had left on before going upstairs to fuck their brains out. Someone had turned on those lights, and she was sitting on the sofa, staring up at the two men who had suddenly appeared, half-naked, their activity of choice obvious.
“Well, you boys have certainly been busy for awhile—and noisy.”
Marc couldn't believe someone else was in the house, a woman to boot, and by all means one who had heard every grunt, every thrust, every begging request to be fucked, hard, hard, the words echoing in his mind even as he looked at this fabulously dressed creature before him. She was couture up and down, and had the attitude to make it look even more expensive. On her face, along with perfectly done make-up and a cigarette with a tip stained crimson, was a smile that belied her amusement.
“My Parker, such an animal, isn't he?”
“Your Parker?”
Before she could answer, Parker stepped forward and planted a kiss on the woman's cheek. “Hello, Rose. You should have given me more notice, don't you think?”
She waved his concern away.
“So, let me guess,” she said to Marc, “you must belong to someone else, right? Because if I know anything about Parker—and I know everything about Parker—it's that he always wants what he can't have—who he can't have. Though from what I just heard, he got all of you. And you got all of him—of which there is plenty.”
“I'm sorry,” Marc said, clearly embarrassed, “but who are you?”
“Allow me to introduce myself, since Parker here seems to have lost his manners as much as he seems to have lost his clothes,” she said, “I'm Rose Emerson St. John.”
“St. John? As is. . .”
“Yes, dearie, I'm Parker's mother.”
* * * *
It was two days later when Rich North came home to Eldon Court, driven in a taxi. He was glad to be home, but uncertain about what he would find. He'd phoned Marc to tell him, and Marc had been noncommittal as to whether or not he would be there. But as Rich emerged from the taxi and stepped onto the walkway, he saw Marc waiting for him on the porch, the familiar cup of coffee at his side. That bit of normalcy gave Rich hope that he and Marc could weather this latest storm of theirs.
“Hi,” Rich said. “I'm glad you're here.”
“Where else would I be? This is my home.”
Rich made his way up the stairs. “Our home. That's sounds nicer.”
He made to kiss Marc, who turned his head slightly so Rich got his cheek.
Okay, baby steps, we'll see how the rest of the day goes. Rich was about to ask Marc about their neighbors and if there were anymore threats from Danvers Converse when out of the corner of his eye he saw new activity at Number Two. A woman emerged, and from where Rich stood she was dressed like a lady on the Champs Elysees, walking with an attitude that dripped money.
“Who the hell is that?” he asked Marc.
But Marc gave no answer except the barest hint of a smile. Rich looked from the woman to his lover and back again. She looked like she was headed their way, her dark hair bouncing with her every step, as though she hadn't a care in the world, and truth be known it had been sometime since anyone on Eldon Court had walked with such carefree ease. Suddenly she veered off the sidewalk, her destination clear: Number Four Eldon Court, the home of Jack and Edgar. She knocked on the door so loudly Rich could hear it from his porch.
“What the hell?” Rich asked.
The door opened and Jack appeared, and the moment he saw who was standing at his front door, his smile widened as he opened his arms to warmly embrace her. Rich looked over at Marc, whose mouth had similarly dropped open.
“Oh, I don't like this at all,” Marc said. “She said nothing about. . .”
Rich shot Marc a questioning look. “You know her? Who is she and what is she doing coming from Number Two—Parker's home—and why does she know Jack?”
Questions indeed, too many.
So, it appeared that further change had come to the little village of Wonderland, a fresh breeze had brought with it a lady who dressed to the nines and danced to her own drummer. Her connection to Eldon Court, however,
