A Man's Reach

by Jane Davitt




"Hang on… nearly got them," Blair panted, his fingers scrabbling wildly for the keys that he'd dropped behind the small fridge in the break room. Pulling it out would've been a bitch as it was wedged in firmly between two cabinets, and as Jim hadn't volunteered to retrieve the bunch of keys with his longer reach, Blair had gamely dived in.

Jim sat and watched, his breathing shallow and even through a force of will, his gaze mapping, memorizing the shape of Blair's ass, thrust upward impudently, temptingly. Blair's T-shirt had ridden up, too, exposing pale skin and a ridge of backbone made for following to its conclusion in either direction; the nape of Blair's neck, when the skin lay warm and hidden under the wealth of hair, waiting to be clasped in Jim's hand, or bitten, licked -- or the base, when the point of bone lay over the enticing cleft, dark heat trapped by skin.

Blair spread his legs wider and wriggled his ass, striving to add an inch or two to his reach. Jim swallowed hard, and licked suddenly dry lips that wanted to shape a moan. He was aroused to the point where standing up and walking away wasn't going to be an option for a while.

Sunlight through dusty windows struck sparks from Blair's hair, illuminating a dozen shades in a single strand. Jim had never understood how Blair could scrawl 'brown' so blithely on forms asking for his hair color. It was first cousin to a lie as far as his senses were concerned.

Liars needed to be punished. Jim toyed with some innovative ideas of his own along those lines that all seemed to require that Blair be completely naked and which all ended with him buried balls deep in Blair's ass grunting ecstatically as Blair (repentant and deserving of mercy) begged for harder, faster, do me, Jim, do me --

No one was around. He could stand up -- adjust himself and try not to come in his fucking pants -- and go to help Blair. Lean over him, his body pressed close, reach down, his breath hot against Blair's face, that cinnamon-fire hair a tickle against his, and --

"Got 'em!"

Triumphant, beaming, Blair gave a final backward squirm and straightened, turned, the keys grasped firmly in a grimy hand.

Jim sighed. All good things had to end. "C'est la vie," he muttered philosophically.

Blair frowned, not looking pleased at all. "Who's Larry?" The frown faded. "My ape, you mean? Huh? What? Jim, that was years ago!"

"Never mind," Jim said tiredly and waved at the door. "You go on. I'll be with you in a minute."

Blair hitched up his jeans, the denim pulling tautly across the question mark curl of his cock.

"Two minutes," Jim amended.

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