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In His Kiss Box Set

8 Gay Interracial Romance Stories in 1!

By J.M. Snyder


Published by JMS Books LLC at Smashwords

Visit jms-books.com for more information.


Copyright 2017 J.M. Snyder

ISBN 9781634864466

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Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

All rights reserved.

WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

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In His Kiss Box Set

By J.M. Snyder

Car Trouble

Terrence Jackson is on his way home from another long day at the advertising firm he owns when he hears it—a steady chug-chug-chug beneath the hood of his brand new, candy-apple red Mercedes that he knows the sports car shouldn’t be making. He paid too much money for this damn thing to have it sound like an old man wheezing uphill. The late afternoon heat only adds to his discomfort. By the time he pulls into the driveway of his modest, split-level home, he’s ready to call the dealership and chew someone out for selling him a lemon.

By morning, he’s calm enough to call the firm first to tell them he’ll be late. His secretary answers. A pretty, young girl with a thick Southern accent, Melissa Jones is fresh out of college and, if truth be told, was hired more for her looks than her filing abilities. Though Terrence isn’t the least bit interested in the fairer sex, she’s nice to look at, and sounds sweet on the phone. “Would you like me to call Gary’s Auto for you, Mr. Jackson?” she asks, her voice bright despite the early hour. “They’re such nice people there. I always have them service my car.”

“I was planning to take it back to the dealer,” Terrence admits. “It’s not that old.”

Through his cell phone, he hears the rustle of papers as Melissa digs amid her obscure filing system to find the paperwork on the car. He’s already behind the wheel of his Mercedes, his tie not quite cinched tight just yet. The first beads of sweat trickle down the back of his thick neck into the cool cotton of his button-down shirt. He angles the rear-view mirror to take a look at himself—dark skin with a hint of reddish undertones like mahogany, short buzzed hair beginning to turn gray at the temples, large eyes the warm color of hot chocolate. He’s a big man, a one-time high school football quarterback now on the downhill side of forty and picking up speed. The muscle around his middle has begun to soften, and lines etch around his eyes when he smiles. Melissa calls him handsome, in a flirty, innocent way that suggests she thinks he’s past his prime.

After an eternity, she tells him, “No, sir. You bought the car last year, and you didn’t get the extended warranty. If you don’t mind me saying, I think the dealership would just rip you off. Gary’s is pretty cheap.”

For a young co-ed on a tight budget, Gary’s might be fine perhaps, but not for the principal of Richmond’s largest ad firm. Still, Terrence is touched she’d think him naïve enough to get rooked by the dealer.

“Besides,” she says amid a flurry of noise as she shoves the papers back into her unorganized drawer, “Gary’s is just down the street. If you have to leave your car there, you can walk to the office, or I can send someone over to pick you up.”

That cinches it. “All right,” Terrence teases, “you’ve convinced me. Do you get a commission or something for referring people that way?”

“I’m sort of seeing Gary,” she admits with a laugh. “I can call them for you—”

Figures. “Just give me the number. I know you have a million other things you need to be doing. I can’t tie you up any longer.”

As Terrence dials the service station, he turns the key in his ignition. The engine purrs like a kitten, without complaint. Maybe something just got caught up under the hood, he thinks as he puts the car into reverse. With the phone ringing in his ear, he eases his foot off the clutch, gives it a little gas…

A heavy knocking sound comes from the hood, as if gremlins beat against the metal, trying to get out. Terrence steps on the brake and the car stalls beneath him. Fuck.

Before he can restart the car, a young male voice answers the phone with a gruff hello. Despite the fact that it’s after eight in the morning, the guy sounds as if he just woke up. He even punctuates his greeting with a barely stifled yawn.

Terrence isn’t impressed. He hates businesses that answer the phone without announcing their name. The first thing Melissa says when she picks up the receiver is, “Jackson Ads.” Callers don’t have to wonder if they called the wrong number.

His voice is sharper than he intends it to be when he snaps, “This Gary’s?”

“Yeah. This is Gary. Who’s this?”

Terrence can almost picture the guy—one of those dark Italian boys, judging from his northern accent. He was probably dozing at his desk when the phone rang, and even now rubs his eyes sleepily, his dark hair a disheveled mess, his cheeks and chin rough with stubble he should’ve shaved off but didn’t.

And Melissa recommends this place?

“Listen up, son,” Terrence says, his already deep voice dropping a notch or two. A big guy like him can sound positively intimidating on the phone. “I need my car serviced, and my secretary suggested your place. Can you take a look at it today?”

Gary groans. Literally, over the phone, he groans in Terrence’s ear. As if this car were the last thing he needed right now. Terrence is about to hang up and just call one of the name brand places, Jiffy Lube maybe, Meineke or Tuffy or even Walmart, anywhere other than this rinky-dink little shop called Gary’s.

But then Gary sighs. “My mechanic should be in around nine. I only got one guy working today, so I don’t know how long you’ll have to wait.”

“Fine.” Terrence thinks he’ll wait all damn day if he has to, if only to piss Gary off.

Through the phone, he hears Gary scrambling around for something, a pen maybe, or a piece of paper. He sounds as organized as Melissa. “What kind of car is it?”

With a certain measure of pride in his voice, Terrence tells him, “A Mercedes.”

Gary groans again.

Rich prick, that groan says. A dull anger rises in Terrence at the implied prejudice he thinks he hears in that groan, and part of him hopes this Gary idiot is at the shop when he arrives, because he plans on telling him exactly what he thinks of the guy’s customer service and phone etiquette. How is it someone half his age can make him feel so unworthy and unimportant with just a few unintelligent grunts? Terrence wants to know that. Melissa likes this place? Did she actually say the people were friendly?

“Be here in a half hour,” Gary says, then hangs up. He doesn’t ask for Terrence’s number, the model of the car, his name, even.

Fuck. Terrence twists the key in the ignition so hard, the engine growls as if goosed. This time when he peels out of his driveway, he doesn’t give the car time to act up. It chugs to itself, once, then settles for a desultory knock every now and then to remind him it’s unhappy.

After a few feet, Terrence rolls down the window and a sweet spring breeze fills the car. A few beads of sweat have begun to trickle down the side of his face. He raises an arm, presses his jaw against his shoulder, and wipes the sweat away.

This is not going to be a fun day.

* * * *

 Terrence arrives at the auto shop a good ten minutes early. There are two cars parked in the shop’s meager lot, both junkers that obviously have not moved in years—grass grows up between the tires of one vehicle, and the other is rusted so badly, Terrence can’t figure out the car’s original color. His Mercedes gleams beside them.

Exiting his car, Terrence stops to check his reflection in his tinted window. Thick neck, broad shoulders, face and hands blends into the darkened glass as the bright white shirt he wears seems to glow in the sunshine. He straightens his tie, which is a muted pink color most men wouldn’t be secure enough about their sexuality to pull off wearing. Then he steps back, hikes up his slacks an inch, and admires his own appearance. For an old guy, Terrence thinks he’s looking pretty damn fine.

Running a hand over the top of his head, as if the short, kinked curls there would ever get out of place, he heads for the front door of the auto shop. As he approaches, he can see through the glass door at the tiny waiting room—no one is inside. The counter is empty, and even the bay doors leading to the garage are closed. No one’s home.

Of course not. Why did he even think Gary would roll his lazy ass out of bed just to cater to his whims? Damn.

Bitterly, Terrence yanks open the door and surges into the shop. Above him a little bell jangles at his entrance. The waiting room is smaller than he thought; he feels as if he fills the entire area, his large body cramped and uncomfortable. The idea of sitting in one of the miniature chairs in front of the counter is a joke. With a glare on his face he sees reflected back at him in the mirrored wall behind the register, Terrence leans on the counter, pissed.

He’s alone. No other customers, no one at the till, no noisy sounds through the door behind the counter leading to the garage. In one corner of the waiting room, a small black and white television flickers through a blizzard of snow. The only other sound is the steady drip-drip-drip of coffee that smells too weak to be any good. There’s a bell on the counter, one of those shiny silver ones like they have in hotels, and Terrence taps it impatiently. “Hello?”

No answer, which doesn’t surprise him. He notices another door beside him, presumably leading out to the garage, and he hits it with his hand to push it open. With the bay doors closed, the garage is unbearably warm. Terrence tugs at his tie, loosening it, as sweat beads on his neck and temples. Each step he takes echoes off the concrete floor. “Hello?” he calls out a second time, though he already suspects no one will answer. If he ever catches up with that Gary fellow…

The sudden ping of metal on metal is loud in the closed garage. Terrence whirls around. There’s a blue Camaro behind him, parked in one of the far bays. As he heads in that direction, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his slacks, he hears the shuffle of sneakers, a muffled curse. Closer, coming around the front of the car, he sees slim, denim-clad legs beneath the bumper, and one bare elbow sticks out from under the open hood. “Hello?”

He stops at the mirror on the passenger side and ducks his head to peer under the hood. He sees light brown hair the color of iced coffee, smooth as a curtain that hangs down to obscure the mechanic’s face. That hair is cinched loosely at the guy’s nape with what looks like a spare piece of rubber tubing, tied into place to keep it from his face, but the knot isn’t tight and the hair has slipped free to fall over slim, bare shoulders. Terrence isn’t one for long hair on guys, but he likes the way those feathery strands wisp over firm, pale skin, and his hands clench into unconscious fists in his pockets.

Then the mechanic notices him and steps back, startled. “Hey!” he cries, surprised. His voice is unusually loud in the closed garage. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

White wires snake into his ears, and when he tugs the ear buds away, Terrence can hear tinny music. He lets his gaze travel down the mechanic’s lean frame, over the smoothly muscled chest, the barely-there six-pack abs, the tapered waist, a pair of low-riding jeans that scarcely manage to cling to narrow hips. Just below the mechanic’s navel, a scant dusting of fine hairs starts up, trailing into his jeans. A hand curls into the pocket of his jeans, pulling them down a little as he shoves the ear buds out of sight.

Then Terrence looks up and, for the first time, sees the face hidden beneath that flyaway hair. Deep eyes the color of caramel stare out from light skin, and full, ruddy lips spread into an easy grin. “Hey there, big guy,” the man says, his voice lower now that he doesn’t have to shout over his music. “What can I do you for?”

Wouldn’t you like to know?

Unbidden, the thought of those pink, chapped lips clamped around his thick, black cock fills Terrence’s mind. He imagines fisting his hand into that soft hair, thrusting into that wide mouth, that taut body tight against his own.

Damn. What’s he here for, again? And why aren’t they naked already?

Stepping around the side of the car, the mechanic wipes his hands on a greasy rag. There’s a thin line of oil beneath one red nipple, marring his bare, muscled chest. For some reason, Terrence finds that incredibly sexy, that one imperfection. If he touched the guy, his fingers would look like that, spread out like oil on that creamy skin. This time when his hands fist in his pockets, he shoves them deeper and presses against the start of an erection. Somehow he manages to find his voice. “Are you Gary?”

The mechanic laughs, a sound like bells, and Terrence finds himself grinning in reply. Of course this demi-god isn’t the fuck-up he spoke with on the phone, but he’s glad he asked, if only to elicit this response.

Terrence feels a bead of sweat trickle down his back and he shrugs, partly in response and partly to chase that spot of dampness away. It’s the heat of the summer, the heat of the garage—fuck, the heat from the mechanic, coming off the guy in waves, that has Terrence so hot and bothered, aching for something he hasn’t had in a long time.

With a coy grin, the mechanic asks, “Do you want me to be?”

The way he stares at Terrence says he knows the effect he has on the older man. He leans one hip against the side of the car and he knows. Terrence opens his mouth and has to close it again because he can’t think of what he wants to say. He’s forgotten how to talk. All his thoughts are of the sexy, half-naked man before him—in his mind’s eye, he sees this guy bucking beneath him, that pale skin wrapped so tightly around his own chocolate-colored flesh, those pretty eyes closed in passion, those pouty lips curved into a salacious grin.

Get a grip, Terrence. You’re here for your car. Not to fall in love with this Adonis of a mechanic.

This time when Terrence opens his mouth again, the words are there. “Gary told me to bring my car in—”

“The Mercedes?”

Terrence nods, relieved.

Tossing the rag into the open hood of the Camaro, the mechanic winks at him. Winks. “Bring her around. Let me take a look at what you got.”

It’s been a long time since a young guy has flirted so openly with Terrence. He feels the mechanic’s hot gaze follow him as he turns and walks back to the waiting area. Just for kicks, he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, pulling the silk pants taut across his large buttocks. Even at his age, he knows he still has a fine ass, and he wants the mechanic to know it, too.

Behind him, a wrench clatters to the concrete, and Terrence has to suppress a smile. You’re not the only hot thing in here, white boy.

* * * *

The mechanic opens the bay door for Terrence, who drives into the garage. As he parks, the guy tugs the bay door down behind the Mercedes. Hitting the brake, Terrence watches the guy in his rear-view mirror, a thoughtful expression on his face as he listens to the choppy sounds of the motor. The engine drowns out the world, unbelievably loud in the closed garage. Finally he waves at Terrence to turn it off.

Climbing out of the car, Terrence frowns. “What do you think the problem is?”

The mechanic jogs to the front of the car. When he passes Terrence, he pats Terrence’s stomach with the back of his hand as if they’re best buds. The almost careless gesture of camaraderie sets Terrence’s nerves tingling, and through his shirt, his skin seems to burn from the guy’s quick touch. “Pop the hood for me, will you?” he asks.

Terrence turns his back to the guy and leans through the open window into the car. Over his shoulder, he watches the mechanic watch him—those dark eyes widen, trained on Terrence’s ass. His silk slacks hide nothing; they show off every curve, along with the trim cut of his thighs. His shirt flattens out across his back, pulled straight along his broad shoulders, and from the corner of his eye, Terrence sees the mechanic bite his lower lip.

Good. He wanted that reaction.

Pulling the hood release, he stands and turns to smile at the guy, who runs a hand through his hair to push it from his face.

The man has to clear his throat before he can speak, but he doesn’t manage to tear his gaze away from the slight bulge at Terrence’s crotch to meet his eyes. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

The mechanic lifts up the Mercedes’ hood and leans under it. The shadows fall across his bare back, turning the tan skin a dusky hue, and Terrence has to resist the urge to touch him. At the small of his back, his jeans pucker slightly, allowing a glimpse of white boxers.

Terrence wonders what the guy would do if a finger eased down that gap in the fabric. Just thinking that makes his groin ache sweetly. His voice is thick with lust when he grumbles, “Well?”

With nimble fingers, the mechanic pokes around beneath the hood for a minute before replying. “It could be a number of things.” Glancing up, he winks at Terrence again and says, “I don’t want to bore you with the details.”

“I doubt you could bore me.”

The mechanic’s gaze slides down Terrence’s body like a magnet drawn to his crotch. There’s a faint smile on his lips, one that entices Terrence to step closer. Leaning over the side of the car, he stares at those pink lips and, in a low voice, says, “Try me.”

Those eyes rise to meet Terrence’s steady gaze. The look in them asks, Really?

Oh God, yes, Terrence wants to say. Please. Try me. Right now there’s nothing he’d like more.

But the guy clears his throat and stands, and the moment is gone. “Let me get some information from you,” he says, trying to be professional. “Follow me.”

“Anywhere.”

There’s that look again, the one Terrence thinks says, God, I want you. The urge to say the words out loud grows with each passing minute.

He follows the mechanic into the waiting area, both of them entering the room through different doors to emerge on either side of the counter. Here in the bright light of the waiting room, the mechanic looks paler than he did in the garage; his skin takes on a porcelain, almost translucent, shade. Terrence pictures his hands cradling such fine flesh, night encircling the day.

When the mechanic leans one hand on the counter to duck down, Terrence wants to touch those long, white fingers, see how dark his own skin would look against them. He wants to cover that hand with both of his, draw those dirty fingertips to his chest, his belly, lower. He wants to feel it grip him below the belt, ease into the fly of his slacks, grasp the hard darkness in his briefs.

He actually begins to reach out when the mechanic stands. A blank invoice replaces the guy’s hand. “Fill this out.” He looks at Terrence, not at his eyes but at his mouth, as if wondering what it’d taste like. “Please.”

“Sure,” Terrence says, taking the paper and a pen he’s offered. Their fingers brush, the touch as brief and electric as a summer storm. The mechanic leans over the counter and watches, not even bothering to hide the fact he’s reading as Terrence fills out the form. “I’m Terrence Jackson.”

“Jimmy.”

Terrence looks up to find the mechanic staring at his short, kinked curls, his chocolate eyes, the thick eyelashes which curl almost girlishly. Then the man clears his throat and says again, “Jimmy. That’s my name.”

“Jimmy.” Terrence allows his mouth to curve into a beguiling smile. So this deity has a name after all. “Are you a good mechanic?”

Jimmy laughs. “I’m good with my hands, if that’s what you mean,” he says with a wink.

Damn, the audacity…Terrence’s cock goes from a mild ache to a painful throb in the confines of his slacks, suddenly harder than it’s been in a long time. “How good?”

Jimmy smiles. Terrence can’t help but wonder what he’d do if asked to show just how good because hell, he wants to find out.

Apparently, Jimmy remembers he has a job to do, because he turns from the counter and heads for the door leading back to the garage. With a hand against the door, he stops. “There’s coffee there, if you want to wait. I may be a little while—”

“Take your time,” Terrence says. “I have all day.” To watch you, he adds silently, and before Jimmy turns away, Terrence gives him a wink of his own.

Jimmy’s eyes widen slightly, then he grins before disappearing through the door. Terrence wanders to the window that separates the waiting room from the garage and doesn’t care how obvious it is he’s watching the mechanic. Jimmy heads towards the Mercedes, one hand shifting the front of his jeans as he walks. Terrence sees his own reflection grin at him in the window. So I’m not the only one with a hard-on right now.

Pouring a cup of the coffee, Terrence leans against the window to sip at the tepid liquid and watch Jimmy bend over the hood of his car. Before he leaves Gary’s, he wants a piece of that.

* * * *

After an hour of watching Jimmy’s strong, jean-clad legs and tight ass through the window as he sips the horrid coffee, Terrence can’t take it anymore. He tosses the cup aside and pushes through the door out into the garage.

Even though it’s only mid-morning, it’s sweltering in the enclosed garage. The minute Terrence is through the door, the heat hits him like a wet sponge, sticky and warm. The air is so close, it squeezes the sweat from his pores; he feels it bead like dew on his forehead and scalp. How that skinny white boy can stand it, he has no clue.

As Terrence approaches his car, Jimmy doesn’t hear him. His back is to Terrence and he’s leaning under the hood, his jeans hugging a slim, tight ass. His makeshift ponytail hangs over one shoulder, allowing Terrence to see the thin sheath of sweat glistening across Jimmy’s bare shoulders. He wants to run a hand across those shoulders, wipe away the sweat clinging like condensation to that smooth skin. Or press his face between the narrow shoulder blades and lick the sweat away.

The ear buds must be back in place, because as Terrence comes closer, he hears Jimmy singing softly. His voice is husky and slightly off-key, but the low murmur surprises Terrence, and he finds himself drawn to it. He wants to hear that soft song first thing in the morning, beside him in the bed. He wants to wake to hear it echo off the tiles in his bathroom, raised over the sound of the shower, or fall asleep to it, low and intimate between them in the darkness.

It’s been way too long since he’s been with another.

Jimmy hears Terrence step up behind him and the song stops on his lips. Without extracting himself from under the hood, he glances at Terrence and grins. “I think I’ve found your problem.”

“What’s that?” Terrence leans beside him against the side of the car. They’re only inches apart now, the space between them electric, and he stares at the bunched muscle on Jimmy’s arm, the lithe strength coiled there. He wants this guy, now, and he doesn’t care if Jimmy knows it.

With a shrug, Jimmy says, “I don’t want to bore you with the details, remember?”

Terrence laughs. “I told you, I doubt you could bore me.”

A smile crosses his face as he turns back to the engine beneath the hood of the car. Terrence watches him struggle with a stubborn bolt, the wrench in his hand slipping without purchase. When Jimmy leans in for a little more leverage, Terrence reaches out as if to catch him and threads a finger through the belt loop on the back of Jimmy’s jeans. The movement brings him closer; he smells the manly scent of sweat coming off the mechanic. Gasoline and oil and animalistic musk conspire to drive his libido crazy. Another step closer and the front of his slacks will touch Jimmy’s hip, and the hardness shoved down his briefs would leave no doubt about his intentions.

Jimmy’s elbow flares out as he wrestles with the bolt, bumping into Terrence’s chest. “Sorry,” he says, throwing a quick look over his shoulder.

When he sees how close they’ve become, Jimmy takes a step sideways. He stops fiddling around under the hood and stands—Terrence’s arm is draped around his hip, his fingers still entwined in Jimmy’s belt loop. One hand strays to pluck the ear buds from his ears, and when he drops them, they dangle from the MP3 player hidden in his pocket. His voice is barely there when he sighs, “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Terrence keeps his voice soft, his tone low, and the word rumbles between them like thunder. Releasing the belt loop, he lets his hand drift to Jimmy’s hip, and before he can stop himself, his fingers brush over the damp skin at Jimmy’s waist. The touch is feathery, light. In the darkened garage, his black fingers look like shadows on Jimmy’s pale skin. Beneath his fingertips, he can feel Jimmy’s nerves dance.

The sound of Jimmy clearing his throat is loud in the quiet garage, and it echoes off the corrugated metal walls. Terrence manages to raise his gaze from that smooth skin, like velvet beneath his fingers, to see the twinkle in Jimmy’s warm eyes. It encourages him, and his hand moves around to Jimmy’s stomach, which flutters at his touch.

Coyly, the mechanic asks, “You do this often…pick up guys in service stations?”

“No.” Terrence leans heavily against the side of the car and scoots a little closer. His head is ducked down, about level with Jimmy’s shoulder, and he stares at the pinked nipple pointing at him, begging to be licked. He wants to take that tender bud between his teeth, bite at it, tease it until it swells in his mouth. He wants Jimmy writhing beneath him, aching for him. “What about you? You often accept invitations from guys you meet at work?”

“Is that what this is? An invitation?” Jimmy’s voice drops, seductive. “For what?”

Terrence grins. As if he doesn’t know.

When he doesn’t reply, Jimmy turns back to the car’s engine. Terrence watches his own hand skim across the pale expanse of skin, over Jimmy’s waist, to his back again. Jimmy ignores the touch, leaning beneath the hood of the car to tackle the bolt again.

“You’re all talk, Mr. Jackson. Get a guy’s hopes up with your game and then call a time-out before things even started.” He sounds disappointed. “You should really be in the waiting area, you know. The garage is off-limits to customers.”

Terrence still doesn’t answer. He leans against the car beside Jimmy, fascinated by the way his skin looks against the mechanic’s. On its own accord, his hand trails up Jimmy’s back, cutting a path through the sweat, over his shoulder blade and around his shoulder and down the curve of muscle above the crook in Jimmy’s arm. The mechanic doesn’t respond to the touch, or Terrence’s thumb swirling around the dry skin of his elbow, or the way his fingers tickle through the hair on his forearm.

Still, nothing.

Finally Terrence’s hand drops to the waistband of Jimmy’s jeans, then dips lower. Down over the denim-clad hip, down his thigh. He watches the mechanic’s stoic profile as he eases a hand around Jimmy, just below the swell of his buttocks, his fingers smoothing across the denim covering Jimmy’s inner thigh. The mechanic catches his breath but doesn’t say a word. Encouraged, Terrence lets his hand drift up a little, until the curve of Jimmy’s ass sits in his palm. His fingers splay between Jimmy’s legs along the seam of his jeans.

Suddenly the bolt loosens in Jimmy’s grip and the wrench falls from his hands, clattering through the engine to fall to the floor of the garage.

Terrence grins. Now that’s the response he wanted. Ever so slightly, he squeezes Jimmy’s ass.

The mechanic gasps and arches his back, pressing into Terrence’s hand.

“Do you want a piece of me?” Terrence murmurs.

“Yes,” Jimmy gasps. He grips the sides of the car with both hands and moans as Terrence rubs between his legs, the denim as soft as suede down there. “God, yes, please.”

Stepping around behind him, Terrence runs his hands up over Jimmy’s buttocks and around to the front of his jeans, where he fists the erection straining at his crotch. So he’s been hiding this from me, Terrence thinks, rubbing it against my car and hoping it’ll go away before I see it and want to take care of it. Through those jeans, Terrence cradles the hard cock in both hands and kneads gently, pulling Jimmy back against him. His shirt sticks to Jimmy’s skin, growing damp beneath the mechanic’s sweat, and his own erection rubs at the cleft of Jimmy’s buttocks, hard and eager. For him.

“I want you, Jimmy,” he sighs.

Jimmy’s head leans back to rest on Terrence’s shoulder, his body limp and weightless in Terrence’s arms. His hands cover the strong fists at the front of his jeans. “Please,” he says again.

With open lips, Terrence kisses Jimmy’s sweaty shoulders, licking and sucking each time his mouth touches the mechanic’s skin, wanting more. He tastes of summer and salt and a tangy cologne Terrence smells only when he presses his nose into Jimmy’s pale flesh. Behind his ear, Terrence licks the hot metal of the back of an earring and his hands slide up the sheen of Jimmy’s stomach, searching for his nipples. He rubs the nubs between his fingers until they harden like stones beneath his touch. “I want to take you home and wrap you up and never let you go. Will you let me do that, Jimmy? Do you want me to do that?”

“Yes,” he sighs. He moves against Terrence, the heat of his body igniting the fires in their bodies. “Yes, please, yes. God, yes.”

He turns to catch Terrence’s mouth with his. His mouth tastes sweet, like peppermints and lollipops and cotton candy. His lips are incredibly soft, rose petals and velvet—the crush is infuriating. Terrence wants more. He needs more, right here, right now. His whole body throbs for this guy in his arms, and he doesn’t care if they’re seen. His nerves trill for release, his blood pounds in his ears, his world threatens to drown in the rush of lust which has overcome him. Vaguely, he recalls his phone conversation earlier with Gary…what did he say? Only one mechanic on duty?

Must be my lucky day.

Terrence fumbles with the button of Jimmy’s jeans. The zipper glides down from the pressure of his erection alone. With hasty hands Terrence shucks off the jeans, pushing them down to Jimmy’s knees in a fluid movement. His boxers follow. Jimmy turns, presenting himself to Terrence, who falls to his knees as if to worship the thick cock jutting out at him. A thin trail of sandy hair starting at Jimmy’s navel tapers down until it splashes into dun-colored curls kinked around his dick and balls. The pale skin of his narrow hips gathers into a ruddy shaft, tipped with a plum-shaped cockhead the same shade as his lips.

Almost reverently, Terrence wraps his fingers around that thick length. With a moan, Jimmy thrusts into Terrence’s hand. He tugs Jimmy’s cock toward him in one long, gentle stroke, and when his fingers bump against the flared tip, he purses his lips and kisses the blind eye before him.

A musky scent wafts up at him from Jimmy’s crotch, a warm smell, primal, which brings Terrence to the brink of desire. As his mouth opens and he takes the tip of Jimmy’s dick in, his tongue licking down around the slit beneath his cockhead, Terrence’s other hand fumbles at his own crotch, hurriedly unzipping the silk slacks to free the beast roaring at his groin.

Greasy hands fist in Terrence’s short-cropped hair. “Oh God,” Jimmy moans as his cock disappears inch by inch into Terrence’s hungry mouth. “Oh yes, oh please.”

Suddenly Terrence is wearing too many clothes. As he stands, he leaves his slacks puddled around his ankles. His large cock is twice as thick as Jimmy’s, and the sight of it makes the mechanic’s eyes widen. “I want that,” he says, his hands drifting to stroke Terrence’s length. “In me. Now.”

With a grin, Terrence starts, “Once you go black…”

But Jimmy turns to present his firm buttocks to Terrence. “Jesus, man. Just fuck me, please?”

Terrence likes the way he asks so sweetly. With his hands on Jimmy’s hips, he positions the guy in front of him. Jimmy grips the side of the car with whitening knuckles as Terrence leans down over him, kissing his back. Those kisses find their way down his spine, over the hump of his buttocks; Terrence squats behind Jimmy, mouth pressed to white skin trembling beneath it. Then his lips are on the skin Jimmy’s kept hidden, kissing between the smooth buttocks, his tongue licking secret flesh which aches for his touch.

He finds a sensitive spot just behind Jimmy’s balls and this time when the mechanic tries to speak, words fail him. All that comes out is a string of syllables which might be Terrence’s name and might be something akin to pure pleasure. His legs slide further apart, his knees buckle slightly, and his hand strays to his dick, damp with Terrence’s spit. Working one finger into Jimmy’s clenched hole, Terrence spreads him gently, his other hand stroking his own swollen cock.

Jimmy leans down under the hood of the car, standing on tiptoes to present as much of himself as he can to Terrence. There’s an old condom in Terrence’s wallet, the color beginning to fleck off the foil packet, but it’s heavily lubricated and doesn’t tear as Terrence slips it on. “Please,” Jimmy’s saying, over and over again as he humps against the side of Terrence’s Mercedes. “Fuck me, please, please.”

Standing, Terrence guides himself into Jimmy. The mechanic makes a low, guttural sound which enflames Terrence’s senses and boils his blood. It’s animalistic and raw and lusty, and purely sexual. As his hands trail around Jimmy’s waist, finding his thick cock, the mechanic grabs onto the side of the car and moves with a dancer’s rhythm. He’s tight and warm and unbelievably real, and each thrust sends an ocean of desire washing through Terrence. His teeth sink into Jimmy’s shoulder, eliciting another moan.

Their coupling is quick and hot and sweaty. Jimmy locks his arms against the car, his legs firmly planted, his body taking the brunt of Terrence’s thrusts. “Yes,” he gasps, “yes, harder, yes.” He leans back against Terrence, his hips moving with their heated rhythm. “Yes. Yes.”

There is nothing else for Terrence but the guy before him, the taut body against his, the long hair tickling his nose when he buries his face into it, the pale skin reddening beneath his ministrations. Terrence likes the way his skin looks against Jimmy’s, yin and yang, night and day, his black fingers gripping the white dick tight, his dark cock pumping between buttocks like the pale flesh of an unripe peach.

Suddenly Jimmy pushes back, away from the car, impaling himself completely onto Terrence’s shaft. In Terrence’s hand, the mechanic’s cock spasms; Terrence strokes Jimmy, harder, faster, teasing his orgasm from him. Ropy strands of white cum arc into the air to splatter the oily innards of the Mercedes’ engine.

The sight rouses Terrence to the brink of release. One final thrust and he comes, too, driving deep into the mechanic as he feels the hot rush of his semen stymied by the condom. Without pulling free, he hugs Jimmy close, holding him tightly.

“Yes,” Jimmy sighs, his voice weak now, shuddering and spent. He lets himself be folded into Terrence’s embrace, his face turning towards Terrence’s, hungry for another taste. As their lips meet in a tender kiss, Jimmy whispers, “God, yes.”

* * * *

About an hour later the engine’s idling, unbearably loud in the garage, but the knocking has stopped and the motor purrs like a kitten. Jimmy’s hands and chest are streaked with grease, and his unbuttoned jeans are the only reminder of their mid-morning tryst. “That should about do it,” Jimmy says, leaning into the open window of the Mercedes. “Nothing a new set of spark plugs couldn’t fix.”

Terrence sits back in the driver’s seat so he can look up at the mechanic. There’s a sparkle in Jimmy’s eyes he put there. Such a sexy guy. In a place like this…who would’ve thought?

Lifting one large, dark hand off the steering wheel, Jimmy raises it to his lips and kisses it. His fingers curl around Terrence’s with a possessive air. “I hope I don’t have to wait for another problem with your car before I see you again.”

Running a hand along the damp skin of Jimmy’s neck, Terrence pulls him down to claim a kiss. “You have my address and number.”

Jimmy’s lips are soft and tender, his breath hot against Terrence’s mouth. “I’ll call you when I get off.”

“You already got off once.” The pink flush rising into Jimmy’s cheeks is so damn cute, Terrence has to kiss him again. “You promise to call?”

“Shit,” Jimmy drawls. “How can I not?”

The way he says it makes Terrence’s heart swell and skip a beat. He thinks it just might burst into a million shards like a shattered windshield, and he feels twenty years younger. Hell, thirty. He hasn’t felt this giddy over someone since college.

On the passenger seat beside him, his cell phone rings. The sound is shrill in the emptiness around them. It’s Melissa, Terrence knows—he has a two o’clock conference call he’s going to miss if he doesn’t leave now. He rolls his eyes and Jimmy snickers. “I’ve got to go. Call me.”

With a grin, Jimmy kisses him again. It seems now they’ve started, they can’t stop. One kiss leads to another, and another. Between them, Jimmy promises, “I will. As soon as my shift is over, I swear. Maybe we can do something tonight.”

“Maybe.” Terrence gives him a saucy wink, a promise in itself.

Jimmy steals another kiss. “I’ll clock out at six. Gimme twenty minutes to go home and clean up—”

“Don’t bother with all that.” Terrence puts the car in reverse and slowly starts to back out of the garage. Jimmy walks beside the car as if he’s afraid to let him leave. “Just come over. You can clean up at my place. I got a shower. It’s big enough for two.”

“Now that sounds like a plan,” Jimmy says with a laugh. As the car exits the bay door, he steps back. “See you then!”

Terrence gives him a small wave, then answers his cell. Before his secretary can say anything, he tells her, “I know, Melissa. Conference call in thirty minutes. I’m on my way.”

She laughs in his ear. “I was getting worried about you, Mr. Jackson. Don’t tell me you’ve been at Gary’s this whole time?”

He doesn’t think he was there long enough. But Jimmy’s promised him tonight, and there’s tomorrow morning if he’s lucky, and who knows how much longer after that?


THE END

* * * *

Closing Time

It was a little after ten o’clock in the evening when the last of the bar’s patrons staggered out to their cars. A light dusting of snow fell, silent on the sleeping city streets. Just another Thursday night, cold and blustery—nothing special, bartender Mitchell Nolan thought as he swept the floor. He pushed the broom along with a steady rhythm, brushing up the sawdust and peanut shells scattered across the hardwood floor. Around him the room was empty and dark, the only light from the recessed bulbs above the gleaming length of the bar. They cast long, warm shadows from the chairs stacked on top of the bar.

Mitchell had considered closing early, letting everyone take a few extra hours off, but in the end he decided business was going too well and it was only Christmas Eve, not really a holiday. He would’ve forgotten about it completely if one of the college girls he employed to wash dishes hadn’t brought in an armful of long stemmed, ruby red roses and handed them out to her co-workers as presents.

She even gave Mitchell one, which he’d stuck in a vase on the bar and vowed not to take home. He’d let it wilt there, just dry up and crumble away, then toss it out. He didn’t need it sitting on his coffee table at home to remind him he didn’t have anyone to give it to later. There was nothing special about the holiday for him, not anymore.

Dancing the broom along the underside of the barstools, Mitchell swept out gum wrappers and pretzels, and tried not to think back to the last time Christmas had meant something to him. How long had it been now? Three years, maybe, since he’d last seen Jamal.

If he closed his eyes he could still see the pain in his ex-lover’s dark eyes, soft and compassionate and sad, and he could hear the words fall from his lips as if Jamal were here in the bar, speaking them all over again. It’s not you….

Didn’t they all say that? It wasn’t him, it was never him. A sigh, a gentle kiss, maybe a clap on the back, and then goodbye. It’s not you….

If it’s not me, Mitchell thought, angrily pushing the broom across the floor, then why am I the one who’s alone?

If only someone could answer him that, maybe it would take some of the sting out of the holiday. Dear Santa, how’s that for a Christmas wish? Tell me what I’m doing wrong. Maybe you can tuck it in a box and stick it under the tree? Give me something to open tomorrow morning, that’d be nice.

Most days being alone didn’t bother him—or rather, he wouldn’t let it bother him. He didn’t need the hassle of a relationship, he told himself; he was happier alone. Jamal had been the right one at the time but he wasn’t the one. It hadn’t been love with a capital “L”—Mitchell knew that. But was it too bad to want someone to talk to, someone to laugh with, someone more than just a friend?

Mitchell didn’t think so, not when he knew he was going to be lonely and all he wanted was someone holding him, strong arms and comforting kisses that would make the time pass when he swore the darkness would stretch on forever. Was that too much to ask?

Someone to love him, like the country songs that played on the jukebox in the corner, four for a dollar. He wanted someone like that, a love worth singing about, worth fighting for, worth locking up early and going home for…maybe he’d never find something like that. He’d been looking for so long now it wasn’t worth the effort anymore. He’d given up.

After Jamal had left, Mitchell had had enough and there’d been no one else since.

He’d stopped looking.

So maybe it was him after all, despite whatever Jamal claimed. Maybe it had been him all along.

* * * *

The bell above the door tinkled quietly as someone entered the bar. Mitchell looked up from the floor and frowned at the young black man standing just inside the double wooden doors. Should’ve locked those.

The man was Mitchell’s age, maybe a few years younger, and wore a bulky winter coat he held closed at the neck with one hand to keep the snow out. His cheeks were a dark red, like cherry-tinted cappuccino, flushed from the bitter wind. As he surveyed the empty room, his dark eyes glistened. When his gaze settled on Mitchell, he grinned, revealing straight, white teeth that almost shone in the dim light. Then he tugged off the striped cap covering his head to reveal a head full of long, tight curls that sprang free above a heart-shaped face. Running a hand through his hair in some attempt to tame it, he called out, “Hey there.”

Despite the late hour and the weariness clinging to his bones, Mitchell found himself smiling back. The stranger’s skin was a smooth, dusky shade the color of heavily creamed coffee. Those eyes reminded him of Jamal’s, but it was his hair that made Mitchell look twice. “Hey yourself,” he replied, leaning on the broom handle. “Sorry, but we’re closed.”

“I figured.” The man looked around again with interest. “My car won’t start. I just wanted to know if maybe I could use your phone?”

His smile brightened, making Mitchell’s heart skip nervously. Damn. He stared as the man unsnapped his coat. Now he’d never get to sleep tonight, thinking of the way that hand ran through those curls and imagining it on his own body, clenching in places he hadn’t been touched in a long time. He wanted to dip his fingers into that hair, feel it in his hands and see those dark eyes staring up at him, hooded and sated, sweat pricked along that smooth brow, those ruddy lips curled around his….

Stop it! He thrust the images away. He didn’t need to think that, didn’t need to make it harder for himself, not tonight.

The stranger cleared his throat and asked, “Do you mind?”

“Mind what?” Then Mitchell realized the man had asked to use his phone. Shaking his head slightly, he grinned. “Oh, sorry. The phone, right?”

The man nodded, and Mitchell leaned the broom against the bar as he walked around behind it. Without taking his gaze off his guest, Mitchell pulled the phone out from beneath the register and set it on the countertop. “Here you go.”

He leaned on the bar, watching the way the man’s tight jeans pulled along his thighs as he approached. The man had strong legs, and when his coat was open all the way, Mitchell saw narrow hips and a slim frame that hinted at more strength. Dear Santa, strike that last wish. You want to leave something under my tree tomorrow morning? This one will do just fine.

Flashing Mitchell those pearly whites again, the stranger said, “Thanks.”

Where have you been all my life? Mitchell wondered, staring at the faint auburn highlights that twined within the stranger’s curls. They shone like copper streaks in the light above the bar. As the man dialed a number, the receiver held against his ear, Mitchell studied the curve of his thick eyelashes, his fleshy lips, his well-manicured fingernails, and wondered who was at home waiting for this one to arrive. Someone had to be upset he wasn’t with them on Christmas Eve. Someone had to be worried sick, wondering where he was and why he wasn’t home yet.

He was probably calling that someone now—a pretty girl maybe, or a sexy boyfriend, someone who would answer the phone breathlessly and drive all the way over here just to pick him up and take him home. If he were mine, Mitchell thought, watching the consternation play across the man’s face as he listened to the ring of a distant phone in his ear, I wouldn’t let him out of my sight. I’d fly over here and snatch him back and hug him close, and his car would never break down. His life would be breakfasts in bed and long nights full of kisses, and there’d be a dozen expensive gifts under his tree just waiting to be opened tomorrow….

“Hello?” The man glanced at Mitchell as he picked at the buttons on the phone. Mitchell held his breath, waiting. “My battery’s dead. Sure, I’ll hold.”

Hold? Mitchell thought. That was odd. “You calling home?”

The man laughed and shook his head. “The dog wouldn’t be any help to me now. I’m calling Triple A. This is why I have them, right?”

Mitchell felt that skip in his heartbeat again. So you’re alone too. Before he could think about it, before he could stop himself, he reached across the bar and touched the stranger’s hand.

The skin was cold beneath his fingertips, so soft but oh so cold. “You’re frozen.”

“It’s chilly out there.” The stranger’s voice was a whisper, and his eyes widened as he watched Mitchell’s fingers play across his knuckles. His other hand relaxed its grip on the receiver.

Surprising himself, Mitchell asked, “Would you like me to warm you up?”

Slowly, that dark gaze rose to meet his, and the look Mitchell saw in those eyes gave him the answer he needed. As the man swallowed with an audible click, Mitchell reached under the bar and pulled out a shot glass. Without looking away from that blazing gaze, he filled the glass with whiskey. “What’s your name?” he asked, pushing the glass towards the man.

“Romy Lariner,” the stranger replied. “It’s short for Romeo.”

“Romeo.” Mitchell rolled the name over on his tongue and decided he quite liked the way it sounded in his voice. “I’m Mitchell. Are you still on hold? I can give you a ride, if you want.”

“A ride?” Romy asked, as if he’d never heard the word before. He dropped the receiver back into its cradle, his gaze never dropping from Mitchell’s. “You sure?”

Shrugging, Mitchell nudged his glass closer. “If you want.”

Romy snagged the shot glass and threw it back. Mitchell watched Romy’s throat work as he drank the alcohol, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. When he set the glass down again, drops of the liquor beaded on his full lips, and Mitchell bit the inside of his cheek to keep from leaning over to lick them away.

Jesus. What’s gotten into you tonight? One minute you’re Mr. Lonely Heart, then he walks in—poof! You’re ready for action. With those curls and those lips, and that hard, tight body that would feel so good pressed against his? Hell, yeah.

“I can take you home,” Mitchell offered again, moving to refill the glass.

Romy covered the glass with one hand. The hint of a wicked grin played across his face. “Yours or mine?”

So he wasn’t the only one thinking such sordid thoughts. A small smirk toyed at the corner of Mitchell’s mouth. “Let me finish cleaning up here and then you tell me where you want to go. How’s that sound?”

“Promising,” Romy admitted. He leaned back against the bar as Mitchell came around the counter to retrieve his broom. Romy’s gaze trailed openly down Mitchell’s body to linger at his waist.

Suddenly Mitchell appreciated the dim lighting that hid the blush creeping into his cheeks. When he turned his back to Romy, he felt the man stare at the way his jeans hugged his buttocks, the denim pulling tighter with every brush of the broom across the floor.

It’d been forever since he’d felt like this, this hard, this horny, for someone he’d just met. Someone like Romy, watching him with such audaciousness, as if he wanted Mitchell just as bad as Mitchell wanted him. Sure, there had been a few offers here and there, drunk patrons looking for a quick fuck or a free drink, but Mitchell never mingled with the customers. He’d met Jamal that way, and look how that had ended.

He wondered if it were just loneliness making him feel this way—as if the world were aflame, the edges of his vision on fire and crinkling with lust. Or maybe it was something more, some sort of deeper attraction, something that might make it past the tinsel and the mistletoe. Mitchell didn’t know, but he was dying to find out.

As he swept, he tried to concentrate on the steady skritch skritch of the broom across the floor, but it was difficult with the heat of Romy’s smoldering gaze burning his backside, and damn if he didn’t hear a small groan behind him when he bent over to pick up a discarded quarter from the floor. Like what you see?

Apparently Romy did, because when Mitchell stood up again to pocket the quarter, the man was right behind him, hands on Mitchell’s hips, voice soft as it curled into Mitchell’s ear. “You almost ready?”

“Almost.” Mitchell side-stepped easily out of Romy’s reach. One hand trailed over his ass, catching in the back pocket of his jeans and giving a playful tug before it fell away.

Was it so bad they had just met? Mitchell didn’t think so, and he couldn’t wait to lock the doors behind them and lead the way to his car. Maybe on the way home—whose home, he wondered, mine or his?—maybe he’d let his hand drift to Romy’s knee. He could imagine the warm denim beneath his palm. Maybe Romy would curl his fingers into Mitchell’s, and maybe they’d make it as far as the bedroom before they gave into this sudden attraction between them….

A million maybes filled his mind, but he had to finish here first. Nodding at the jukebox in the corner, Mitchell suggested, “Why don’t you put on a song?”

Romy caught his hips again and pressed against him. A hardness pushing between his buttocks told him he wasn’t the only one aroused by their encounter. “I don’t have any change,” Romy murmured, his lips so close to Mitchell’s ear that his breath fanned along his neck, leaving a trail of flame in its wake.

“I’ve got some. In my pocket.”

He held his breath when Romy’s hand eased into the front pocket of his jeans. Fingers fumbled through a jingle of coins before finding what he wanted, and Mitchell closed his eyes at the gentle touch along his budding erection. With a soft moan, Mitchell leaned his head back to rest on Romy’s shoulder as those fingers worked in his jeans, stroking his hardening length with an almost forgotten caress that brought a gasp to Mitchell’s lips. A warm mouth kissed his neck, a hot tongue licking down his throat before hard teeth nipped at his collarbone, just a tiny bite, just enough to make the dick in his jeans a little thicker, a little more rigid.

“Romy,” Mitchell moaned. Because he liked the way that sounded, he sighed the name again. “Romy. God, please don’t stop, whatever it is you’re doing, don’t stop now.”

“You like that?” Romy whispered into Mitchell’s neck. Through the double padding of his pocket and underwear, Romy’s hand closed over the aching tip of Mitchell’s dick, squeezing gently.

Mitchell gasped, the broom gripped tight in both hands, all thought of sweeping or playing a tune on the jukebox forgotten. “Yes,” he sighed. “God, yes.”

With a flurry of little kisses just under Mitchell’s jaw, Romy asked, “What’s a pretty boy like you doing out alone on a night like this? Christmas Eve, and you’re stuck sweeping a bar. Who’s waiting for you to come home?”

“No one,” Mitchell managed, leaning back as Romy eased his free hand into the other pocket of his jeans. Strong arms hemmed him in, and firm fingers worked at his hidden erection. The broom fell from limp fingers to clatter to the floor; Mitchell placed both hands over Romy’s, massaging them through his jeans.

Romy’s coat hung open, and Mitchell leaned against his chest, enveloped in the warm, musky scent of a cologne that wafted around them, rising like steam from their heat. He arched his hips back to grind the solid erection against his ass. With nimble fingers, Romy reached into the depths of Mitchell’s pockets, rubbing soft skin with a maddening rhythm. Mitchell hadn’t felt this touch in so long he’d forgotten how good it was to have hands other than his own pleasing him. The thought of his body naked and sweating against Romy’s, the scent of their sex heavy in the air, this hardness against him thrusting in, again and again, his hands fisted in those curls, his lips swollen with kisses from that pretty pout….

Forget cleaning the bar, he was finished here. They’d be lucky if they even made it as far as the bedroom. “Come on,” Mitchell sighed, hating himself when he stepped out of Romy’s embrace. Turning, he let his gaze travel brazenly down the hard, strong planes of the body hidden beneath Romy’s clothing. “I’m not going to lie to you, Romy. It’s been years since I’ve had a lover, and I want you so bad right now, you just don’t know.”


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