Take This Man: Gay Romance Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

between Luther’s shoulder blades and breathes, shallowly, in and out. Luther gasps below him. Luther’s quieter than any of Owen’s other lovers ever were. It used to worry Owen, before he’d come to understand that Luther would always be subdued about his feelings, even in bed. Luther doesn’t talk, or scream. A quick moan here, or a muffled curse there, is about as vocal as he’ll ever get. Owen’s learned not to expect Luther to tell him what he likes and doesn’t like.
    Owen figures it out in other ways. He knows Luther’s in ecstasy when this one muscle in his lower back twitches, just so , beneath Owen’s hands. He can trace Luther’s pleasure along the hard, bunched line of muscle down his forearm. When Luther fists the covers, twisting the sheets between his fingers until his knuckles go white, it means he’s happy.
    Owen cups Luther’s fist with his own large hand, so he can trace the peaks and valleys of Luther’s knuckles. Luther shudders and opens his fist just enough for Owen to slide his hand in. When Owen does, Luther sighs. He twists his grip until his slippery fingers slide between Owen’s.
    The steady panting of their combined breath is loud in Owen’s ears as he stares at the sight of their hands, locked together, against the bright white of the sheets. On another night, a different night, Owen would worry about how unavoidably gay that image is, but since he’s pretty sure that this is the last time he’ll ever get to do this, it seems okay. Owen clutches Luther’s hand tight in his, and thrusts in time to the tempo of Luther’s breath, driving Luther—driving them both—ever closer to the edge. Owen loses himself in the rhythm, in the steady back-and forth of their bodies, and does his best not to think about the morning.
    Owen wakes at sunrise, just as the first streaks of light stain the slate-gray sky outside a faint, rose-quartz pink. Luther’s still asleep, wrapped up in the blankets like the Christmas—Hanukkah—present that he isn’t, and Owen knows it’s time to leave. He has to go before Luther wakes up and tries to stop him. If Luther wakes up, and Owen’s still here, he’ll feel compelled to do the right, polite thing and talk Owen out of it, even though Owen’s presence is the last thing Luther wants in his life. Luther proved that much last night.
    It takes Owen only a few minutes to dress. He’s big, and broad, and burly. He doesn’t need a lot of time to look good. His freckled face, coal-black hair and gunmetal gray eyes do the job credibly. Owen doesn’t even reach for a change of clothes this morning, just slips on the same black jeans, wife-beater (the better to show off his beefcake arms, all tatted up), and motorcycle jacket he’d worn the night before. His bag is by the door, fully packed.
    Owen stands to leave, pausing only to think back to the disaster of the party the night before. He’d insisted Luther go, had tried to tell him he’d book himself a hotel room and be gone in the morning. Owen recalls the way Luther had fought with him about it, made a scene in front of his friends and finally (after Owen had refused to let him back out of his prearranged plans) dragged Owen to the party with him. The hours there had been awkward and strained. Luther had been tense and irritable the entire time, and refused to socialize with anyone. He’d spent the evening in a secluded corner with Owen, glowering, white-faced and silent, as he’d resolutely ignored the profusion of both presents and alcohol that swirled around them.
    Owen tiptoes through the living room as quietly as he can in size-twelve combat boots and tries to summon up a righteous surge of anger at the memories. He’s surprised, instead, by how much he really wants to stay. Luther still feels like home to Owen, even after he’s clearly moved on to other people and a better life.
    Owen’s so distracted by his thoughts that he almost doesn’t see the flickering glow of candlelight,