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"Booty call," Mike says, half-hard and laughing. "My place. Your booty. Fifteen minutes." He whisper-growls it like Chris Walken would, because they agree he's the coolest guy in the world, and Mike's ready for Tom to laugh back, to toss off a dirty promise, but no. Literally.
"No. Not tonight, Mike--"
"Hey, no prob. You're busy. It's okay. Not a lot of notice. Some other night--"
"No, I mean, not your place. Mine. Fifteen minutes. Your booty." And the bastard hangs up.
For once the Lion's Gate bridge isn't traffic hell, and Mike zips across fast as Lex Luthor. Helps that he's driving one of Lex's cars, the cool silver Ferrari that the dealer calls a chick-magnet and Mike secretly calls a super-fast Tom-reacher. It's perspective, man.
The road's slick with that fucking Vancouver rain, leaves whistling past the window, but Death can kiss his ass. Nothing's stopping him from take four in his co-starring role as Tom's bed buddy. Fortunately, Death's busy elsewhere, and the car shoots along the coast to casa Welling. He's only been twice to Tom's post-split digs: once to help him move, and once for the house party.
No action the first time, because it was their pre-action days, though there was flirting like nobody's business, and just some hot necking in the bathroom the second time, while Kristen banged on the door, threatening to pee all over Tom's imported carpet if they wouldn't stop "consummating your love." Girl thinks she's very funny.
Yeah, making out with Tom that first time--so hot and weird and hot again. Because it's Tom, and no one who looks like Mike, sexy-Lexy crap aside, has any business with someone who looks like Tom. He's strictly super- model territory, leggy hotties like his ex, not ex-geeks from Indiana. You'd never know from the way Tom's like in the sack, though, how crazy he gets when Mike's going down on him...
A tire screech, an old guy waving his cane and shouting what sounds like, "Mucking asstard," and Mike tries to focus on anything but Tom's big cock. Or Tom's mouth on Mike's not-badly-sized cock. Or Tom's mouth saying, "Yeah, like that," while Mike fucks him into the mattress. Oh, yeah.
Mike's winging up the driveway before his brain stops the NC-17 preview and pops out the "Why here?" question. A slam against Mike's housekeeping, site of takes one through three? No way. He knows Tom's a neat freak so it's all clean sheets on the bed and pizza boxes in the trash; Mike even got a cleaning lady, Zorah, who mutters at him in Polish but does magical things with her Mr. Clean and a couple of rags. Place sparkles, dude, and smells lemony-fresh. Laziness, then? Ditto in negative. Tom's got more energy than the Energizer bunny on speed--he sure as shit fucks like it, and Mike has to squeeze himself just a little as he runs up the steps.
One knock, and Tom's already there, flinging the door open and blowing Mike's profound thoughts into the night. Jesus. It's like God stole all the pretty in the world and gave it to Tom. White shirt open to the waist, black pants sliding down over those hips--
"You going to stand there all night, Rosenbaum?"
When Tom tilts his head and smiles, Mike's knees do this wobbly thing. His dick, too. "You're in my way, you big Wookie."
Tom steps back, kicks the door shut with a naked size fourteen, and says, "Want a beer?"
"Like I ever don't?" An icy Molson's suddenly in his hand. "Now that's what I call service. How ‘bout a blow job?"
"Upstairs, then you can have anything you want."
"Anything?" Mike leers mid-swig. "You, me, and the chandelier. Up for it?"
"The question is, ‘What are you up for?'" Tom gives him this mysterious look over his shoulder, half flirting, half something else that could be nerves.
"You don't have Al or Miles stashed up here, do you? Because I draw the line at a foursome with those two. Well, maybe Miles, but Al--never."
"Like I'd share you," Tom says.
Mike nearly walks into a wall. "Did you just growl, Welling?"
"Maybe. Is that a problem?" Tom turns and gives him a long green challenging stare.
"Only if you don't do it again." Possessive chicks? No, thanks. Possessive Tom? Mike's cock thumps happily. Doesn't hurt that they're walking into Tom's bedroom, where, hello, candles, not to mention a box of condoms on the bedside table and a new tube of flavored lube. "Somebody's planning to score tonight," Mike says.
He finishes the beer and puts it on the antique bureau thing--on this month's Discovery, for Tom's sake. That's when Mike notices the ties. Five or six of them on the bed, sprawling like snakes in the sun. "Had a fashion dilemma? You could've just skipped the clothes. Trust me, I wouldn't mind."
"No."
"That a hint that I'm fashion-challenged?" Mike looks down at his wiener-dog tshirt and old jeans, then back at Tom, who's watching him intently. "Because I like to think I'm a fashion rebel."
"I like how you dress. It's very...you. So, no."
"Oh," Mike says, as the lightbulb goes off. "Oh!" It gets even brighter as he pictures Tom naked and tied to the four-poster bed, moaning and--
"I want to tie you up." Tom says it casually, like this is everyday conversation, ‘Pretty wet out today. Care for some bondage?', but he's not blinking.
"Me?" The thing is, Tom looks enough like an eighteen-year-old virgin to play one on tv, and it's always a shock when he drops a pervy line. The tall beautiful bastard probably knows it, except with Tom you can never tell.
"You see anyone else here?"
"Yeah. You."
"My house, my rules; your body, my tongue."
Mike has to swallow a few times to get the words out. "Interesting logic."
"We don't have to," Tom says, taking a step closer. His hand's on Mike's hip, skimming the edge of the tshirt before moving under, his thumb doing these tiny circles. "I'm not a pervert or anything. I just like the idea of you there only for me, so I can look and touch and do you slowly."
"You think I'm not into it? I am. Here's proof." Mike grabs Tom's wandering hand and places it over his hard cock.
Tom's eyes close for a second. "Good." He rubs a few times, then moves away. "Take your clothes off." He's already peeling off his shirt, then his pants, which he leaves in a pile, a sure sign that Tom means serious business.
It takes Mike a little longer because he's watching the floorshow. Tom has spoiled porn for him: no one else looks like that, flat, hard and curved in all the right places, with the face to match. And his cock--big and ready for action, straight and cut and just, wow.
"Strip, Rosenbaum. Now."
Nothing like inspiration to hit super-speed. Mike's naked in no time, and throws himself backward onto the bed, his arms spread. The candles shiver in the breeze while the ties scatter. "What are you waiting for?"
"My brain to start working again." Tom's got that look Mike jerks off to on his alone-nights, that mindless lust thing mixed with surprise, like he can't quite believe this is real.
"It's not like you need your brain," Mike tells him. "Just your mouth and your hands."
Tom's on the bed, just like that, straddling Mike's hips. He scoops up a stray tie, a grey silk one, then fixes Mike's left wrist to the brass headboard. "That okay?"
"Great."
Tom does the right one next, sitting back to check out his handiwork. "You look good like this. Really, really good."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
"Try not to cream myself before we get started. Need to level the playing field." To reach the lube, Tom has to stretch, and for a second his cock presses against Mike's.
"Do that a couple of times, and there won't be a playing field." Mike's not even sure that makes sense, but doesn't care, not when Tom's rubbing lube into his hands before spreading it over Mike's cock. The smell of strawberries fills the room, and Mike gulps it in. "Does that stuff taste as good as it smells?"
And Tom, who likes to complicate simple questions, moves down Mike's body and tastes him, a slow lick around the head, before answering. "Yes."
"Do that again."
"No," Tom says, smirking, his lips shiny. "Not yet."
So that's his game. Mr. Control-Freak Welling wants him to beg. As if. Just because his pretty shiny mouth is a breath away from Mike's slick cock, so close it hurts, just because Tom's staring up at him with those big green eyes...
"Please," Mike says. "Please do it again." When Tom does, Mike arches up, trying to push his cock into Tom's mouth. "Suck me, Tommy. Suck me hard."
Instead, Tom opens Mike's legs with his hands, and kisses the inside of his thigh. Another kiss, then he licks the same spot before nipping him. It's so fucking good, and so fucking not-good-enough that Mike can't even speak, just lies there with his hands trapped over his head and Tom driving him crazy between his legs. He's now getting the whole bondage thing, which always seemed like a waste of time before, the whole wanting-but-not-being-able- to-have aspect, so that even the smallest kiss is as good as a blowjob. Or almost.
And he's never had the chance to watch like this before: without the ties, he'd be all over Tom, holding his head as he fucks Tom's mouth, always a race to the finish line. Now the rush is still there, the need, but the teasing is short-circuiting his brain, the sight of Tom slowly kissing a path down his leg, looking seriously gone with his eyes half-closed. Like, Tom's licking his ankle--his ankle!--and it's the hottest thing in the world. And Mike can't do anything except moan and spread his thighs even wider, praying that Tom gets back to his cock sometime this year.
Then this weird shift happens behind his eyes, and Mike, who's always been easy with the lovin', gets this surge of something past lust, a little darker, a little scary. "Tom...?"
"Yeah?"
"You ever do this with anyone else?"
Tom shakes his head. "Never really thought about it before you." He bends Mike's knee to kiss behind it, then stops. "You ever?"
"Hah. The Hollywood girls like it hot and fast so they can hit their next audition."
"And the guys?"
"The guys, too." Tom's still not moving, like maybe he's waiting, so Mike, who's not really into big declarations, says simply, "You're different."
There's a flash like someone has flipped the light switch, but it's just Tom smiling. While Mike's still recovering from the glare, Tom apparently moves, because he's suddenly deep-throating Mike's cock. Fuck, he thinks, and maybe says, the burn in his wrists matching the heat on his cock. Fuck. One thrust, just one, and Tom draws back.
"Want a taste?"
Mike nods, not even sure what he's agreeing to, then Tom's leaning over him, his cock against Mike's stomach. Tom's tongue tastes sweeter even than usual, and Mike sucks it, then pushes his tongue deep into Tom's mouth. Tom's *there* for it, until Mike starts rubbing up against him.
"Nice try, Mike."
The teasing starts again, Mike's mouth the focus this time. Tom licks Mike's lips, tickling the scar, pulling away whenever Mike aims for fuller contact.
"Ever consider a career in torture?" Mike gasps. "The Spanish Inquisition guys could've used you."
"You don't seem to mind," Tom says, looking pointedly down at Mike's cock. "Unless we've slipped into Backward World again."
"Funny, Welling."
"Is this funny?" Tom sits up and jacks him slowly, two slippery hands working Mike's cock.
"If you ever untie me, you're so going to pay."
"Oh, really? What are you going to do to me?"
"Fuck that smug smile off your face."
"Tempting, but it can wait."
Tom's holding the lube again, squeezing a line down Mike's chest, then rubbing it in. He focuses on Mike's nipples, drawing circles with his thumbs that end with light pinches. With Mike's chest smooth from a recent shirtless scene he's extra sensitive, and it's almost too much; he actually has to bite his lip, like this is a bad porn movie, to keep from whimpering.
When Tom goes after Mike's nipples with his tongue and teeth, Mike does whimper, and Tom slides his finger into Mike's mouth. "You love it, don't you? I've wanted to do this forever. Remember the shoot when you were on the plane, lying on that white bed without your shirt? I wanted to hold you down, tie you up, and suck your nipples, then your cock, you looked so hot."
At the sting of teeth, Mike sucks harder, pretending that thick finger is Tom's cock. And still Tom doesn't stop, kissing Mike's nipples, biting them until they ache, until Mike's ready to die or come or both.
Tom finally stops, lets his finger slip from Mike's mouth, and moves even higher up the bed. "Since you like sucking so much..."
But he doesn't feed Mike his cock, not right away. Instead, he rubs the head over Mike's lips, and Mike darts out his tongue to taste him. Though Tom rumbles, he doesn't move closer, so Mike can only lick or have his lips traced. He has to admire Tom's willpower because Tom loves having his cock sucked. The last time they were together Tom was barely inside Mike's door before he said, "I need your mouth," so Mike blew him in the foyer with Tom leaning against the wall, his hands locked behind Mike's head. Then he fucked Tom all night in his bed.
Before Tom, Mike was never really into giving head. Call him selfish, but he likes to get it, likes a hot mouth taking him deep. Giving it is too impersonal, like any mouth would do, except with Tom.
Tom always makes him aware that fucking Mike's mouth is part of the thrill, excited that Mike would do this for him, and says as much every time. And sure, it's flattering and hot, but Mike even gets off on the taste of Tom's cock, the textures of it, the soft brush of dark hair when Tom's in all the way.
So Mike does what he can so that Tom will give it to him, not just the head but the shaft stretching his jaw. When Tom finally does, just gives this little thrust and a soft sigh, Mike opens wide, hungry for it.
"Oh, fuck. Mike," Tom says in a low voice. "God. I love you like this, tied up with my cock in your mouth."
Mike almost doesn't mind that he can't jack Tom while he sucks him, that he can't hold his balls or slide a finger inside him. Hard to care with Tom's big cock riding his tongue, pushing against the back of his throat, swelling inside his mouth. He can feel the vibration of blood under the surface, the pressure building as Tom rocks in and out; another minute or two and Tom will come, so Mike sucks for all he's worth, while Tom says, "Mike, Mike," above him.
At the last second Tom groans and pulls out, grabbing onto the headboard. "I wish I had Superman's stamina. Hell, I wish I had anyone's stamina. It's just...Your mouth is screwing with my plans."
"Think about Al and Miles getting it on. That always works for me," Mike says helpfully. "It's the anti-Viagra."
Tom laughs. "I want super-stamina, not permanent impotence. It would help if you stopped waxing your chest. All of that skin..." The laugh fades, and he shivers. "Al and Miles. Naked. Together. Yeah, that does help. For now." He shakes his head, then repositions himself between Mike's thighs, wrapping his hand around Mike's cock. "Now it's your turn to lose control."
"I lost that when I stepped through the door. No, when I got into my--"
The rest's lost when Tom takes the head of Mike's cock in his mouth. ‘Lost' is a good word overall. Mike can barely remember what sex before Tom (SBT) felt like. No apples and oranges here--more like juicy sweet pineapple versus a dusty raisin under somebody's shoe. He's babbling without speaking and knows it, but that's what Tom does to him, Tom and his pretty ripe mouth, Tom and his busy pink tongue, Tom, who is doing things to Mike's cock that are probably illegal in forty-nine states, and should be, because, God.
The muscles in Mike's arms are stretched to the limit, and he's not thrusting down Tom's throat only because Tom's got him by the hips, controlling the rhythm, which is slow, slow, slow, then so fast Mike's eyes actually fill. Just when Mike's ready to explode, Tom moves even lower to suck Mike's balls, one at a time, then both together, while still jacking his cock. The headboard groans when Mike does, and if he spreads his legs any wider he's going to split in two.
He loves how Tom's so noisy about it, too, slurping and lapping, wet sounds that are nearly as hot as his mouth. Mike's thighs are now wet as his balls, and Tom rubs them while he returns to Mike's cock, licking up and down the sides, sucking the head, holding it tight between his lips.
With anyone else, Mike would go for a joke, create some distance to keep this light and manageable. (Jokes as good conditioner.) But when he opens his mouth, all he can get out is Tom's name and a string of four-letter word with the occasional "Please" thrown in. Tom looks too pretty, his hair wild, his chin shiny with lube and spit, tossing these little smiles Mike's way like he's never been happier.
Mike is so close, really, seriously on the edge, when Tom grips Mike's knees and bends his legs to his waist. Then pretty, boyish, innocent-faced Tom is rimming him, his tongue perversely deep, pulling Mike as far open as he'll go, and growling the whole time. Yeah, Tom's like an animal now, and Mike's so wet, so ready, that when Tom uses his finger instead of his tongue, Mike starts to shake, not just his thighs but his whole body. For a minute he's not even sure that he hasn't come.
He wants to. He needs to, with Tom's finger buried inside him and stroking, while Tom licks and kisses Mike's balls. Forget the cursing--he's praying now, "God, Tom," over and over again. By two fingers he's wordless, just this whimpering mass, only loosely aware that Tom's using the lube now, spreading it over Mike, spreading it inside him, that he's pulling a condom on, until Tom says, "Mike, I need to fuck you."
"I'll kill you if you don't," Mike says, and how low can his voice actually go?
Tom's holding Mike's thigh in one hand, his own cock in the other, positioning it against Mike's ass. All Tom has to do is--
That's it. Just a little push, and Mike tries not to tense at the growing fullness, the pressure as Tom works his cock inside him. Mike's not even sure it'll fit, that he can take something that big, but he forces himself to relax, and Tom sinks deeper.
Tom's eyes are barely open, and he's breathing in short, harsh bursts, sweat running down his chest. He keeps trying to speak, and fails beyond a syllable or two, half of Mike's name. It's clearly killing him to move this slowly; Mike's the same way when he's penetrating Tom, working against his cock's command to shove and fuck and come.
"It's okay," he tells Tom. "I can take it."
And he does: Tom rocks forward, another inch, then another, and the last few are an easy glide. Mike realizes that his eyes are closed only when Tom says, in this amazed way, "I can't believe I'm in you."
When Tom doesn't move, still acting stunned and maybe even overwhelmed, Mike does go for the easy joke, not for distance but to relax Tom. "So, what are you going to do about it?"
Tom snickers, breathing again as he loosens his death-grip on Mike's thigh. Crisis averted.
Then it happens, just like that: Tom starts to fuck him, slow and steady at first, and that's enough. Mike hooks his legs around Tom's waist and lets Tom stake his claim with long thrusts that Mike can feel from his toes to his fingers, behind his eyes and in his balls. With his arms bound, Mike has no choice, which is strangely incredibly hot, just lying there and being fucked by Tom, being stretched and filled by him. It's intense enough already, so intense he doesn't even need Tom's hand on his cock, but still moans like a bitch at the double strokes inside and out.
The room's spinning, which might be the candles flickering, the two of them panting, the headboard cracking against the wall, the rise and fall of Tom's body into him. Tom's speaking again, a blur of words as he picks up the pace, as he fucks Mike harder and faster, jerks him roughly. Everything's wavering now, and Mike's just his cock and his ass, both so hot it almost hurts; all he can think is, ‘Tom's in me. Tom's in me.'
He blinks a couple of times, just to see Tom's flushed face, the soft line of his mouth, and that's all he needs, Tom's face, his hand, his cock. Mike twists and arches, throwing himself against Tom, and comes hard, falling somewhere so deep he's not sure he'll ever get out. There are waves and there are waves, and this is tidal; he flows through it for what feels like an hour, finally collapsing.
"God, Tommy," is all he says, and Tom cries out, this high sound, and shoves himself balls-deep into Mike, stays there without moving before his head goes back.
Mike swears that he can feel the bursts as Tom comes inside him, even through the rubber, these hot surges. Tom looks wasted, his eyes squeezed shut, his nipples dark red and stiff, and Mike pictures Tom's cock spilling cream, pictures it so clearly he can nearly taste Tom on his tongue.
"Fuck, Mike."
Tom kisses Mike's thigh, then pulls back, tossing the condom on the floor. When he leans over Mike to untie him, his cock brushes Mike's mouth, and Mike catches it, sucking the still-leaking head until Tom drops next to him. While Mike massages his wrists, Tom touches Mike's chest, drawing patterns with his fingertips in Mike's come.
Then Tom rests his chin on Mike's shoulder. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Why did it take us this long to get together?"
"Remember Jamie?"
"Yeah, but you could've given me a sign."
"A sign? I practically took out a billboard in Times Square."
"You're like that with everyone."
Mike thwaps him. "What about the time we went out for drinks back during the first season, and I got wasted and offered to blow you?"
"Like you said, you were wasted. You also proposed to Kristen, if you remember."
"And do you remember what she said?"
"No. I left after that. Got into my car and jerked off, if you must know, picturing you going down on me." Tom kisses Mike's ear. "So what'd she say?"
"She said, ‘Engaged isn't married, so just tell him how you feel.'"
"Why didn't you listen to her? She's a smart girl."
"After you turned down a blowjob from me? No way, man."
"I never told you why Jamie walked out on me."
"And?"
"I called her Mike when I was fucking her."
"You're shitting me."
"Nope. She said it was the last straw, and told me to go fuck myself, and then fuck you."
"I always did like Jamie."
"She's a great girl. We still talk. She's dating a pediatrician, and says she's never been happier."
"I like a happy ending," Mike says, stroking Tom's hair.
"She knows about us."
"You told her?"
"No. She just said, ‘So, are you fucking him yet?' The thing is, it was the day after our first time, and I thought, "Shit! Can she tell? Can everybody?'"
"Don't worry--you've got a good poker face. Too good."
"It's not like I don't want people to know. It's just...I don't even know what this is. Us."
"You mean if it's just booty and bondage? Or something else?"
Tom laughs. "Yeah. Because I'm feeling option two."
"Option two works for me."
After that, they lie there quietly, happy in option two.
*
Epilogue
Mike is a shit-disturber. He knows this about himself, but some things are hard-wired. Besides, the crew won't get mad at Tom: Tom's the professional, the one who cares about his craft, while Mike is...Well, twelve, and it's not exactly the world's best-kept secret.
It's the tie. On his way out the next morning, Mike took one from Tom's place, the snazzy grey silk one that he shoved it in his pocket when Tom wasn't looking. And he's wearing to the set today. With ratty jeans and a Hello Kitty tshirt.
They're not even filming his scene until that afternoon, but he's hanging around during Tom's, touching the tie, winking at Tom, whose poker face has shattered into a million pieces. Tom's flubbing his lines, too, blushing like he's channeling Clark Kent, and the whole cast is watching them like the gay circus is in town.
After the sixth take, the director finally shouts, "Okay, Avril Rosenbaum--get your butt out of here."
"Yeah," Kristen chimes in, smirking. "Play ‘Lex and Clark' on your own time, guys."
"Hey, it's not my fault Welling's spazzing out," Mikes says innocently, molesting the tie. "Those high-strung drama queens will freak at anything."
"You're dead, Rosenbaum!" Tom shouts, then charges, tackling Mike, and they wrestle on the floor, laughing like little girls.
"Should I get the hose?" Kristen asks, standing over them, and neatly catches a toppled vase.
The director sighs loudly, clearly missing the calm, rational cast of Touched by an Angel. "Okay, take fifteen, everyone."
"Make it twenty," Mike and Tom say together.
It takes them eighteen on the nose. One minute to tie Tom's hands behind his back, four to kiss him until he can't breathe, seven to blow him to quivering orgasm, four for Tom to return the favor, and two to look remotely presentable.
"What's up with Tom and Mike?" the make-up girl whispers loudly to Kristen. "They're all glowy."
"Oh," Kristen says, nodding sagely, "that's just option two."
*
The End