Like now, I was meandering down the road to his cabin after closing the door on the goose coop, and I could hear the chirrup of crickets blending in with the calls of the spring peepers. Also, as I drew closer, I could hear Kenan playing his guitar, his voice floating by on the cool June breeze as the subtle lights from his cabin came into view. Hearing that beautiful, sensual voice, thick with his southern twang, actually made me pause. He sanglike an angel. What a damn pity ketamine had strangled his career to the point it had passed out on the floor of the Grand Ole Opry in front of hundreds of fans and reporters.
His battle with addiction had been a hard road for him to walk. A road that saw many stumbles from recovery until, somehow with the grace of whatever gods one worshipped, he ended up at a snowy airport just when a lonely man had landed.
I might never know exactly how or why we met that day. Call it kismet, providence, or destiny. Hell, maybe it was written in the stars. I had no clue, but that chance meeting brought me great joy and love. Things I did my best to ensure I gave back to him every day.
I walked on, hands in my front pockets, until I stood at his front gate. The arch now thickly covered with purple clematis, planted here by Mrs. Blum, who knew how long ago.
“Evening, lover,” he called out, sitting on an old rocker on the porch, as I strolled through the arch and up the tiny flagstone path. His little house was similar in size to mine, but it felt more homey. No doubt because a lovely lady had lived here for many years with her hubby and their child. Not that men couldn’t have homey homes, but this man did not. I’d never really cared if I’d decorated my house nicely or had blooms in the yard. Now I sort of maybe wished my place was as pretty as Kenan’s. Maybe it was just the man himself that made this little woodsy cottage so damn attractive.
The front door of his house was open to allow golden light to stream over the front porch. His guitar sat across his lap, his thick, curly hair free. Dressed in ripped jeans and nothing else, my mouth watered as I closed the distance. I loved seeing him like this almost as much as I adored seeing him naked. The man wore denim like no one else. And that hair…
“Go on,” I said as I climbed two squat stairs and leaned against the post holding up the newly repaired porch roof. “This a new one?”
“Hmm, yeah, a work in progress,” he replied as his dark eyes roamed hungrily over me. “I like you in those jeans.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“Yeah? You like the way they hug your thighs?” He gave me a wicked smile before his long fingers began plucking at the strings.
I chuckled just as a small bat flew past. His tiny wings silent as he caught a moth drawn to the porch by the light.
“I do yes.”
“Egoist,” he teased, lowering his head so that his hair cascaded over a bare shoulder to shield him from me. “I’m calling this “Flow” for some reason.” He began to play again. I let the song in progress play out, not wanting to stop his creativity. He’d only recently started writing songs again. What had prompted him, he didn’t say. Hell, maybe he didn’t know. I wasn’t creative, so I had no idea of what influenced a painter to create an oil, an author to pen a story, or a musician to write a song. Whatever it was, I hoped my love for him played a teensy part. Maybe it was just feeling more settled now that he had a home, a job, and someone who believed in him. He peeked up at me through that blanket of hair and sang a few verses.
“I flow to him in sleep whispers a smile. A dance, a thousand fey moments like water over the mossy rocks.
I flow to him like wind in silvery chimes. A brush, a touch tender as a quilt that warms me in the cold.
I flow to him like the snow goose on the wing. A calling, a voice ancient and true leads me to you.”
The strings quieted. I brushed at my eyes with my fingertips. “How do you do that?” I asked as he placed his old six-string against the wall and rose. He came to me, embraced me, andkissed the corner of my mouth. “How do you write such beautiful things?”
“You inspire me.” He kissed me on the mouth as his calloused fingers glided around my sides. I needed him so desperately that words failed me. Not that I was a wordsmith by any means, but even so, I could usually form sentences. Since I was now in a place where I was highly uncomfortable—aka expressing emotions—I launched myself into a safe, familiar place. Bawdiness.
“I would love to suck your dick. What do you think about that?” I whispered, and the kiss broke for a moment.
“I love you,” he replied with a twang of sweet Kentucky clinging to his words. This man was not scared of emoting. Good thing he was insightful and patient because he had his work cut out for him with me. Maybe there was a meeting for terminally petrified men afraid of being torn asunder emotionally, so they made stupid sex jokes to cover up that insecurity. Kenan had a group for recovering addicts that he went to weekly. Lyle had a group for veterans that he attended over at the VFW. Hell, Wilkes the mailman had a group for postal workers to combat their fear of dogs. He probably talked about geese instead of Dobermans. Surely, there had to be a small pod of terrified, emotionally stunted men out there somewhere who wanted to discuss their flaws. As soon as I had that thought, I knew it would never be a thing. Someone like me standing up in front of strangers to cough out a confession about how inept I was when it came to personal relationships? Never going to happen. I’d sooner stick a cattle prod up my rectum.
Wrecked him? Damn near killed him. Ba dum tss.
Great. Let’s channel Rodney Dangerfield while we’re about to suck cock. Dork.
“Hey, are you with me here?”
“Yep, totally here. Ready to suck dick.”
He gave me that knowing smile of his. “Great. I would very much enjoy you sucking my dick.”
We made our way to his bedroom, kissing, fumbling, and laughing until we fell into his wide bed, naked and eager for each other. I rolled over him, my cock aside his, and licked into his mouth. He dug a heel into my ass, his not-so-subtle way of telling me he wanted more.
I latched onto a tight dark nipple, enjoying how he writhed under me as I sucked the tiny nub and then blew cool summer air over it. His cock leaked steadily, leaving a small trail along my belly as I worked my way lower. His skin was warm, peppered with curls, and smelled of soap and Kenan. It was an aroma I would never tire of smelling. The closer I got to his weeping dick, the more his hips rolled. Not to brag, but he did love my blow jobs. I took pride in how fast I could get him to blow a nut. Generally, not very long at all.
I settled between his thighs, glancing up to see him stuffing a pillow behind his head so he could watch me. My fingers tightened around the base of his cock. A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth before I touched the tip of my tongue to his slit. He sucked in a sharp breath.
“Sexiest thing ever,” he huffed as I smeared the droplet over my lips with my tongue. “Suck me. I’m so damn horny.”
“Hey, we could have been fucking like rabbits, but you were too concerned that Aunt Priscilla would hear us through the hotel walls.” I licked a wide stripe down his cock and back up, laving the swollen head several times as I fondled his nuts. His lashes fluttered as his head fell back onto the pillow. I took a moment to relish the beauty of him lying nude save for a golden star of David around his neck before me. Long, glorious hair spread out on his pillow, chest rising and falling, cock rigid. “You’re the most beautiful man I have ever seen.”
