Full o'Festive Spirits Read online

  A thought whipped away by the luxuriant swipe along his shaft that made Dylan’s head bounce off brick. Its impact eclipsed by the moist scorch of Gabriel’s mouth. Hilt deep, in one fell swoop. Dylan’s spine juddered, jolting his hips forwards as a god-awful racket grated through his gritted teeth. He was clinging on by his fingernails—literally—clawing at the wall, even before Gabriel began to drag his lips sloowwly back. Dylan’s balls were screwed so tight, it was all he could do to keep a grip on the need gnawing—Fuck no…I’d die. It didn’t help that he couldn’t keep track of the tongue hell-bent on driving him demented. Never still for a second, inciting a riot of sensation so staggering, there was nothing, nothing, but that mesmerizing mouth, and the man intent on devouring him with it. Dylan fumbled for, found hair, and clutched tight, as if that might, somehow, stop him unravelling.

  Christ…blow job? It was a lavishing. As inimitable as everything else Gabriel had done from…the moment they met. Every deranging word and deed, as incomparable as those eyes. Dylan was wound as tight as a silent shriek, every tendon taut with restraint; so intense was the urge to thrust, to bury himself balls deep in sultry heat.

  “I-aah!” Dylan shrieked when the hand clasping his hilt was whisked away and the head of his cock crashed against the back of Gabriel’s throat. “Gnrsstop…” he managed to…gargle. Pointlessly. Of course, Gabriel did no such thing. Instead, he splayed huge palms across Dylan’s arse cheeks and took him in deeper still, then swallowed around it.

  “GABRIEL!” His name clawed the alleyway walls when the blinding pressure burst in a blitz of bliss. Dylan came, shuddering, in a white-hot rush that was drunk down as egregiously as…Gabriel did everything. The slow trawl of his retreating mouth was followed by an oh, so leisurely lapping that felt frankly obscene. Sublime.

  “Oooh…” Fuck. Dylan blinked, blearily, before attempting to scrape his head off the wall, hazily aware of being tucked back into his boxers.

  Only then, did Gabriel deign to unfold himself; tugging Dylan’s jeans into place as he rose to his feet.

  “You. Are…” He began, breaking off to brush a whisper-soft kiss across Dylan’s lips. Engulfing him in his own scent…taste. “Delectable. Take me home, Dylan…”

  “I—fuck.” Delectable?

  “Hmm…then fuck me into next Christmas.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Gabriel

  “This way…” Gabriel grinned, grasping Dylan’s arm to tug him into the likely looking alley they’d finally happened upon. At last.

  After the blow-yer-sox-off kiss, Gabriel had given up the ghost on any notion of holding tight until they got back to the flat. There was only one thing on earth he cared to hold tight roundabout then—unless you were a stickler for the specific—in which case: one man and his cock.

  It perhaps wasn’t the most circumspect plot Gabriel had ever cooked up. Least of all, on the consequences front, as he might just blow any chance of further festivities ensuing. Ever. Dylan may very well decide he’d done more than ’nuff dabbling in his darkest dreams for one night, thank-you-very-much and potter off home satisfied by his (all too) brief stay in rental accommodations. Would Dylan elect to skip the main course, having sampled the starters? Excuse himself from the table, because his eyes had been bigger than his appetite for more? Or, might his wee snackeroo serve to wet his whistle for a feast o’plenty? Even on ‘in for a penny’ grounds? That was a lot of if’s ‘n’ buts—but—the butt in question was worth the risk of blowing the lot for.

  There was another reason o’course. It was irresistible—both in actualité and the fact that—if Gabriel was going to be Dylan's rent boy, then he sure as scuffed knees intended t’do a damn good job of it.

  If a job was worth doing… That was one of his Dad’s snippets of wisdom, but it was p’raps a bit of a stretch to suggest he’d be as proud as punch of his son on the job well-done front.

  “Wouldn’t do to deny you the full deal…” Gabriel explained. With impressive succinctness, when pondering the pros ‘n’ cons of doing the deedy had prob’ly lasted longer than its outcome.

  The same could oft be said of sex, if one was prone to pontificating such exploits, which pretty much proved that doing so was as pointless as ’twas tedious. Unless, perchance said sexploits outstripped the perusal of one’s belly button fluff aforehand. In both pass-time and duration terms.

  Suspecting that a dally with Dylan would be worth a forever of fretting didn’t quite tally with Gabriel’s gung-ho jump into the deep end of a dark alley, but pfft. Just because something made sense, didn’t mean it was a worthwhile pursuit. Quite the contrary; the opposite was more oft than not true…and a helluva lot more fun.

  The second they were safely ensconced in their alcove, Gabriel pounced. Before Dylan could think better of it. The impact when their bodies crashed snatched Gabriel’s breath away. ’Twas akin to flinging himself at a wall of hard heat. Hmm, from top to toe. The next wee while was a mite muzzy; lost to lips ‘n’ tongues entwined as fingers tangled and gasps splintered the silence.

  “Say yess…” he pleaded, for he didn’t dare believe that Dylan would allow himself to be sullied thus.

  Gabriel was a smidge sure that Dylan had never rented himself a boy before. Less certain whether he’d been intimate with a man. One thing was crystal-clear; no one who oozed such louche sensuality, was as taut of tush and glinty of grin, would ever need resort to paying for his pleasure. Unless, o’course, renting was a kinky proclivity, purely for kicks. Dylan could pick up before he sat down in a gay pub. Standing at the bar for a few seconds should suffice, particularly if he propped his elbow on it.

  “I-yess.” Even his velvety voice seeped sex. Dylan was a detonation waiting to go off; dynamite poured into denim ‘n’ leather. Gabriel never could resist pressing a button…but he didn’t intend to scarper this time. Nope. He fully intended to stick around, even if it all blew up in his face. Even if? Rumbled. ’Twas a teeny tad tricky to pull the wool over your own eyes, but Gabriel did manage it more oft than might seem feasible. On accounts of being as stubborn as fuck and fond of telling a story and swearing by it…until, p’raps he forgot the plot. No matter, that was surely why improvisation had been invented.

  Gabriel did appear to have got to grips with his rent boy ruse, if Dylan could be considered indicative. He seemed content ’nuff to go along with the somewhat abrupt plot twist to proceedings, even when Gabe; unable to endure the will he/won’t he for a second longer, planted his palm wherein the answer lay. Even when? Particularly. Dylan’s hips flexed forwards as his head snapped back, both o’which were reflex reactions. If he got any harder, he would do himself a mischief in such shrink-tastic strides. That problem could be eased in a jiffy…but would Dylan still want Gabriel afterwards? Damned niggle, nagging away again. It was patently not going to relent ’til he stopped ignoring it. Bummer. Upfront ’tis then. Dylan was driving him doolally. See? Lethal. Gabriel would be paying for tube tickets next.

  “I want you…” he murmured at plush lips, before adding, in the interests of full disclosure; “…inside me.” while tugging on the button of torture-tight strides.

  Gabriel didn’t expect, nor even hope, that Dylan would reply. Or, at least, not verbally, when he could just put a stop to the slow slide of his zip…or allow matters to proceed apace.

  “Yess…”

  Yes!? To all of it? Even when Dylan surely knew what Gabriel was about t’do? Hold yer hosses, Farrell…this is a looong way from the home not-so straight…he cautioned himself, but whether he did a lot of listening was anyone’s guess. Especially while trickling his very own fingertips along solid proof of Dylan’s inclinations as things stood—which was exactly what Gabriel didn’t intend to do for a second longer—stand, that is.

  “Pleease…” Dylan groaned, as if in full agreement with said thought. About a heartbeat afore Gabriel acted upon it. ’Twas a work of moments to yank the snug-as-a-bug jeans over the sublime swell of his arse, but a breathless
forever before Gabriel’s finger slipped into the waistband of Dylan’s pants to unveil what he’d longed to get his mitts on since the moment they met. His mitts? His mouth would beg to differ if it wasn't salivating too much to bother—even if his tongue didn’t have far finer endeavours to be getting on with.

  Oooh crikey. Gabriel couldn’t see as well as he’d wish (festooned in fairy lights in much the fashion of a helter-skelter) but strewth… He was damn near knocked off his knees by Dylan’s scent—so, making do with the sepia snapshot version was p’raps fortuitous—in terms of getting on with the job. Or he’d still be here ’til next Christmas, admiring the scenery, which wasn’t an unwelcome prospect, but might prove crippling long before Gabriel got fed up of his new profession…

  The next few minutes blurred in a mind mangling mist of bliss too intense to be wrapped up in a parcel o’words. A heady cocktail of tongue tingling, spine shivering pleasure, punctuated by the most delicious grit-strewn groans that had e’er graced Gabriel’s earholes. A slip-slide of lips so heavenly he never wanted to stop, unless they had a hope in hell of disgracing Dylan’s cock again. A life of never being permitted that privilege now loomed like a wasteland in Gabriel’s head. A future so barren and bleak he’d done his damnedest not to dwell on it.

  A feat only made possible by the present whereabouts of his mouth, and the fingers fisted in Gabe’s hair—his hat must’ve gone amiss—tugging in a lusciously helpless sort o’way. Dylan’s thigh muscle trembled beneath Gabriel’s left palm. The other hand was wrapped around the hilt of Dylan’s cock; so hard, so hot, its heat radiated up his arm, licking along his veins like tongues of flame.

  “I-aah!” Dylan gasped when the head of his cock crashed against the back of Gabriel’s throat. “Gabngsstop…” Words that sounded as if they’d been gargled through grit, but Dylan should’ve spared himself the effort, cos that was less likely to happen than a four-poster bed appearing in happy alley.

  This was p’raps apparent when Gabriel finally allowed his palms the unparalleled luxury they’d been coveting for what felt like forever. Ne’er let it be said that Gabriel knew not the meaning of delayed gratification. Pfft. ‘Well worth the wait’ was understatement so preposterous ’twas best not opined—which was just as well—the butt clasp forced Dylan’s cock far too far down Gabriel’s throat to snatch so much as a breath. Let alone declare such nonsense.

  “GABRIEL!” Never had his name sounded so sweet. ’Twas a slice of stollen shriek smothered in icing sugar. Doused in cherry brandy and set alight.

  Dylan’s superb spine spasmed with such aplomb, every muscle quivered beneath the torrent o’plenty that pulsed down Gabriel’s throat…an elixir he didn’t intend to let go to waste. If he’d retained the wits to muster a rent-worthy reason for the lapping dance Gabe then indulged in, he might have mooted ‘doing a thorough job’. But that would have been a fib so treasonous his tongue should be lopped off…and Gabriel was rather partial to it. Now, he just had to hope that Dylan proved a tad taken with it too—or at least its current location—as ’twas hell-bent on spending a very lot of time dilly-dallying about his person.

  “Oooh…” Dylan groaned, when Gabriel regretfully tucked him back into his pants, and then sort of staggered to his feet, with much the finesse of a giraffe. If crippled of kneecaps and cock.

  Dylan looked an itty bit abashed in a resplendently rumpled fashion. A state of such charming dishabille, Gabriel couldn’t have refrained from reassuring him o’that for all the tat in Tinseltown.

  “You…are…delectable. Take me home, Dylan.” Words he whispered at berry lips afore slipping his tongue between them. P’raps in part, to see if ’twas still allowable—but mostly—resisting their proximity was nigh on impossible.

  “I-fuck…” A summing up of the situation as sublime as ’twas succinct. Dylan was clearly a man of many splendored gifts indeed. Gabriel had better start writing his letter to Santa. Sharpish.

  Please, please, let them be my pressies.

  P.S. Not just for Christmas.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dylan

  “Hmm…then fuck me into next Christmas.”

  There was nothing Dylan wanted more in that moment. This, even before he’d recovered the breath, or the wherewithal, to follow through on that thought.

  There had been the briefest window of opportunity, when he realised what Gabriel intended; a moment when the Ghost of Christmas Party Poopers suggested that this was the gift-wrapped solution to all his problems. A blowjob in a back alley that would deliver Dylan from a decision he would then have to live with. As architect of his own downfall. Having done just that. Fallen—hard—for a rent boy. Typical.

  Fucknows how ‘only’ getting blown could be considered any less of a folly. In what…the ‘little bit dead’ sense? It was surely splitting hairs to suggest that entering one orifice was a hell of a lot different from another. That was just geography. You sure as shit couldn’t fall halfway off a cliff. Suggesting that being given a blowjob by a rent boy was any less definitive than shagging one, was about as feasible as remaining suspended in mid-air while congratulating yourself on not being splattered on the rocks.

  In balancing on the precipice terms; wasn’t ‘wanting Gabriel’ the point at which Dylan’s foot um, slipped? Not this act, nor even the intoxicating kiss that led him up a blind alley with his back to the wall? The meeting of their lips had been but the instant at which the inevitable became the inexorable. He’d been in thrall to the dark tug dragging him towards Gabriel from its…advent. The rest had unfolded the moment he’d been spellbound by obsidian, further bewitched by those lips…that smile.

  Dylan had no idea how to respond to Gabriel’s…command.

  ‘Then fuck me into next Christmas…’

  How the hell should he answer that? In hope that he might muster something—anything—befitting, in the meantime, Dylan righted himself as best he could, then gathered up the carrier bags.

  “Only next Christmas?” That wasn’t too dreadful, Dylan decided; not when accompanied by a smile too dark to disgrace daylight. The answering grin that twinkled in bottomless brown lit up the entire alley like bloody Oxford Street.

  “Good boys don’t demand that all their Christmases come at once.” This came accompanied by a toothy beam best suited to beguiling Santas.

  Oh, fuck it.

  “And have you been?” Dylan asked, utterly unable to believe he’d allowed his lips to utter such a travesty.

  “A good boy? That’s for you to judge, methinks. I wouldn’t like to blow my own bugle.”

  Fuck. Dylan’s face flushed what felt like a furious shade of mulled wine. Christ, if there was ever a time in which to partake of a Christmas tipple, roundabout now was well past its drink-by date.

  “I’m not exactly an…authority on the subject. In the specific sense,” he admitted.

  “I refuse point blank to believe you’ve never had a blow job. By rights, I should’ve had to elbow my way through the throng like a shopper in hot pursuit of a Hatchimal…” This was grinned over Gabriel’s shoulder as he set off, tree tucked under one arm, (ever more) battered hat back in situ on his (even more) tousled hair. An observation Dylan’s port wine hue could well have done without.

  “What the fuck is a Hatchimal?” he spluttered, following that bobbing hat back to the street.

  “‘Tis an interactive pet. The must-have pressie nippers are plaguing their parents for. I want a Pengualas,” Gabriel pouted; all eyes and bottom lip.

  “I can’t believe I’m about to ask this…I presume it’s a penguin, of some sort?”

  “Yup, I love them. They just don’t give a shit. Have at it, world, if you think you're hard ’nuff. Do your worst, see if I care. I’d buy you a Draggle though, methinks.”

  “A Draggle.” Dylan repeated, in what he suspected was much the tone he might say ‘carbuncle’.

  “Yup. An apt tribute to your flinty glint and—I believe—fire breathing propensities.”

>   “My what!?” Dylan gaped, hoping it suggested ‘affront’ although it was a damn sight more akin to ‘gobsmacked’.

  How the hell had Gabriel decided (discerned) this based on such a brief acquaintance? During which time Dylan had not once lost his rag, nor shown the slightest sign of aggression…nor even given Scrooge a run for his money on the curmudgeonly front. Except, perhaps, for those first few minutes. A lifetime ago.

  ‘Mildly grumpy’ Dylan may well have been but, in his own defence; he had been stuck behind a goddamn counter, enduring bloody idiots who were never right, despite their opinion to the contrary. It was a bit bloody rich. Only Dylan could have managed to stumble on a rent boy who side-lined in character analysis and had the brass neck to cast aspersions on anger management issues. Surely sex workers were paid as much for their silence on such matters, as they were for the other…services they provided their punters?

  ‘Services’ Dylan had expressed neither appreciation of, or thanked Gabriel for. Am I even supposed to? Simple courtesy surely demanded it? Whether it was customary, or not.

  “I, um…” Lifting his chin, in an attempt not to seem humbled—either by the situation, or his own embarrassment—Dylan tried to force some words past a tongue that felt as thick as his forearm. “Gabriel…I—”

  “S’okay, ’twas a pleasure,” he winked. Fuck. How does he do that? ‘’Twas a pleasure’? How the hell could blowing a punter in a back alley be— Could I possibly be anymore stupid? It was reciprocal courtesy…what else? Gabriel was au fait with hat etiquette, for chrissakes. Correction. Dylan had happened upon a mannerly rent boy psychologist. You really couldn’t make it up. Not unless you were bloody insane.