Gathering Storm Read online

  Gathering Storm

  a M/M erotic romance

  by Alexa Land

  Book Four in the Firsts and Forever Series

  Dedicated to R.L.M.

  With much love and gratitude <3

  Chapter One

  “Say my name, baby.”

  Crap, what was this guy’s name again? I should probably know that, given the fact that I was riding him like I was racing to the finish line of the Kentucky Derby. Since I actually had no clue, I went with a diversion. “Your big cock feels so good,” I purred, bouncing a little harder and faster. He reached up and twisted both my nipples like he was trying to tune in his favorite radio station, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

  “Say my name, Hunter.”

  Gah! I stepped up my diversion tactics and moaned, “Oh God, I’m so close.”

  “Yeah babe, cum for me,” he said as he thrust up into me. The fact that I wasn’t even remotely hard seemed completely lost on this guy. I took hold of my cock and began to stroke it for all I was worth.

  “Oh shit, oh shit,” I gasped, closing my eyes and throwing my head back as I rode him feverishly. Who says men can’t fake orgasms? It’s totally doable, especially if your sex partner is too self-absorbed to realize you aren’t actually jizzing on his six-pack.

  “Oh fuck baby, yeah.” He thrust wildly, then let out a long, loud, “MMMMNNNNNNFFFFGGGGGGGG” as he came. I almost asked him if he wanted to buy a vowel, but didn’t think he’d get it.

  When he finally stopped twitching like he’d just taken ten thousand volts to the nut sack, I reached underneath me and held the condom in place as I eased off of him. “That was fucking incredible,” he said, once he’d caught his breath.

  “Yes it was, sweetheart.” I snuggled up beside him and slipped my arm around his waist. “You’re welcome to spend the night if you want to.”

  But he untangled himself from me and swung out of bed, saying, “Thanks babe, but I gotta be up early in the morning.” He sauntered into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  Brushing off my disappointment, I muttered under my breath, “Sure, use my shower. Make sure to use a ton of my Bulgari body wash while you’re at it.”

  I got up and wandered into the living room, looking around for my underwear. I finally found it dangling from the top corner of the mirror in the entryway. That had been a nice shot. I probably couldn’t have done that intentionally if I tried. Just to test it out, I flung the little black briefs at the corner of the mirror. Nope, missed. I retrieved the underwear again and pulled it on, then wandered around gathering up the rest of my clothes, which I carried to the walk-in closet.

  When Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Whoever was dressed, I walked him to the door (he had used so much body wash that I could practically see a cloud of fragrance around him, like a cartoon). He turned toward me, and I thought I was going to get a goodnight kiss. But instead, he whipped out his iPhone and asked, “Mind if I get a picture? My friends are never going to believe I banged Hunter Storm.” Before I could answer, he blinded me with the flash and said, “Awesome.”

  That right there sums up the glamorous life of a porn star. Jealous?

  “Okay. Well, see ya,” I said as I held the door open for him.

  He paused right in front of me on his way out. “You don’t have a clue what my name is, do you?”

  “Nope.”

  He considered that for a beat, then said, “I don’t care. You’re smokin’ hot,” before disappearing down the hall.

  I locked the door behind him, then went into the living room and sprawled out on my couch, still in just my underwear. According to the silver clock on the end table, it was only ten-thirty. Ugh. I considered getting dressed and going back out to the bars, but was feeling highly unmotivated at the moment.

  So instead, I reached for my phone and shot a text to my friend Christopher. It said: I have terrible taste in men. And also, I think you should come over so we can play Madden. Your winning streak must end, I fear it’s going to your pretty blond head.

  I didn’t really expect him to come over. He was engaged to a hot cop named Kieran with huge biceps that must tear through shirts like the Incredible Hulk. Why would he leave that to come play video games with his home-alone-at-ten-thirty-on-a-Friday loser of a friend?

  He texted back: You do have terrible taste in men, I keep trying to tell you that. It’ll take me twenty minutes to get there, I’m going to walk over. See you soon.

  The hot cop must be working. I texted Yay! and reached for my game controller, so I could practice before he got here. After a few minutes, though, I glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows comprising one wall of my living room and noticed it had started raining heavily. I dropped the controller and went to retrieve my friend, throwing on a black overcoat and stuffing my feet in a pair of boots before grabbing my keys and an umbrella.

  Once outside, I started jogging toward Christopher’s apartment, along his usual route. By the time he and I crossed paths, he was soaked, his cotton sweatshirt providing no protection from the rain. I threw my arm around his shoulders and held the umbrella over both of us, and he kissed my cheek as he slipped his arm around my waist. “Hi, Hunter. What are you doing out here?”

  “It wasn’t raining when you started walking over, so I figured you could use an umbrella.”

  “That was very sweet of you, but you probably shouldn’t be out here by yourself.”

  I sighed at that. “I’m not going to let fear rule my life, Christopher.” I had a stalker, another super fab perk of being a porn star. In the past few weeks, his threats had gone from harmless loser in his mom’s basement to unholy spawn of Norman Bates and Hannibal Lecter. It was really special.

  When we got back to my apartment, I dropped my umbrella in the entryway and flung my arms around Christopher, who held me for a good long time. He was a great hugger. “Thanks for coming over,” I said.

  He rubbed my back. “I’m glad you texted. I thought about calling you earlier, but figured you’d be out having fun on a Friday night.”

  When I finally let go of him, I asked, “Is Kieran working?”

  “No. There was some kind of plumbing crisis at the house. His brother Brian called a couple hours ago and had a screaming fit over the phone.”

  “So naturally, Kieran dropped everything and ran right over.” I took his hand and led him into the apartment.

  “Well, the house does belong to both of them.”

  I towed Christopher into the master bathroom. My earlier ‘guest’ had left damp towels (three of them – really?) all over the floor. After I handed Christopher a clean towel from the cupboard to use on his damp curls, I scooped up the wet ones and deposited them in the laundry hamper that was right there in the corner. Then I unbuttoned my dripping overcoat and hung it on a hook as I used my foot to push off one of my boots.

  “Wow, that’s quite a look,” he said with a little grin, rubbing his hair vigorously. “A trench coat, galoshes, and see-through underwear. And you went out in public like that.”

  I looked down at myself. I’d forgotten I was wearing nothing but the sheer black briefs. “The coat was completely buttoned up. And I was on a mercy mission,” I said with a grin, pushing off the other boot. “I knew you’d be out there looking like a sad little half-drowned kitten, so I didn’t have time to plan my wardrobe.”

  Christopher’s blue eyes flickered down to the briefs one more time. He had zero interest in me sexually (trust me: zero. I couldn’t believe it at first, either), so that extra glance was nothing more than incredulity at what I was wearing. I decided to tease him about it anyway, and wiggled my eyebrows at him. “You totally just checked out my package. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

  He threw his towel at my h
ead and grinned at me. “I did not. Get dressed, Hunter.”

  I pretended to be disappointed. “You’re the only person that’s immune to my porn star superpowers,” I said, then turned and trudged from the bathroom.

  Christopher followed me, peeling off his soaked sweatshirt. “The only one, huh?”

  “Well, straight guys are immune, too. But they don’t count.”

  I went through to my walk-in closet and pulled some things from the shelves as Christopher said, “Man, it’s like Johnny Cash came by and hijacked your wardrobe. Why do you wear nothing but black?”

  I handed him some clothes and said with mock seriousness, “It matches my soul.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Actually, you wouldn’t know this because, as I said, you’re immune to my superpowers, but I happen to look damn hot in black. That’s not all I own, though. Look, there’s a blue shirt right over there.”

  I pulled on a pair of old jeans and a t-shirt while Christopher changed into the sweats I’d given him. When he finished, I took his wet things and put them in the dryer, which was tucked away in a little closet off the kitchen. I grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge, and found a packet of weird peanut butter-filled crackers in the cabinet. Christopher ate those things almost exclusively, because he had an odd eating disorder. Well okay, technically, it was a, what did he call it? Trauma-based phobia involving food. He’d been getting help at some kind of specialized clinic and was able to eat a couple more things these days, but those gross little crackers were still the mainstay of his diet.

  He was a couple pounds heavier now than when I’d met him four months ago, but still looked fragile as a little porcelain doll. His appearance was deceiving though, because Christopher was tough as nails. He’d survived things in his life that would have killed lesser men, and I admired the hell out of him for being so strong.

  We went to the living room and settled in on the sofa, and after I handed him his game controller and the snack, I draped my legs over his lap. Here was another of the many great things about my best friend: he accepted my almost constant need for physical contact without judging. I’d actually be sitting on his lap right now if I didn’t outweigh him, and I really believed he’d let me do that without making me feel like a freak.

  As the game loaded, I asked, “So, why didn’t he just call a plumber?”

  “What?”

  “Kieran’s brother, Brian. Why didn’t he just get a plumber to come to the house, instead of calling up your honey and harassing him?”

  “Because it’s more fun to harass Kieran.”

  “Brian sounds like a total douchebag.”

  “Yeah, he kind of is. But I feel bad saying that.”

  “Why, because he’s in a wheelchair? People in wheelchairs can be douches, too, you know. It’s not just a term reserved for the ambulatory.”

  Christopher smiled at that. “I know. But I always feel like a jerk when I think badly of him.”

  “The guy calls his own brother a faggot, treats him like his personal buttmonkey, and trashes the house they grew up in faster than Kieran can repair it. Somebody seriously needs to tell him that losing his legs in Afghanistan didn’t actually give him a get-out-of-nice-free card.”

  He grinned and said, “I believe you’re misusing the term buttmonkey.”

  “Doesn’t it mean, like, personal servant or something?”

  “I’m pretty sure it means ass-kisser.”

  “Perhaps there are nuances to the term buttmonkey that you aren’t taking into consideration.”

  “Well, I never claimed to be an expert.”

  I smiled as I clicked through the on-screen menu. “I’m glad you’re here, Christopher.”

  “Me too.” After a pause, he ventured, “So, who was Mr. Damp Towel?”

  “How do you know I didn’t leave wet towels all over the bathroom myself?”

  “He missed the trash can when he threw out the condom.”

  “Ugh,” I muttered. “I hadn’t noticed that. And I literally don’t know who he was. Right in the middle of sex, he was all—” I lowered my voice several octaves, “— say my name, baby.” In my normal tone of voice I continued, “And I completely drew a blank.”

  “Oh man, that’s awkward. So what did you do?”

  “I faked an orgasm to distract him.”

  “You did not. Men can’t fake orgasms.”

  “Sure we can.” I shot Christopher a bright smile. “If you need evidence, I can pop in one of my films.”

  “Porn stars always finish on camera. The movie doesn’t end until there’s a money shot.”

  “Yeah, but the bottom’s cum shot is usually spliced in at the end, after about twenty minutes of wanking that are edited way down.” I glanced at my friend and asked, “Didn’t you ever fake an orgasm when you worked as a prostitute?” He’d been a teenage runaway, supporting himself the only way he could for the last five years. A couple months ago, he’d finally been able to quit the business. He was now a rising star in the art world after a smash-hit debut show, and was about to open his own gallery. Christopher was a total success story, another reason why I admired him so much.

  “I faked everything but that. People tend to notice if you don’t ejaculate.”

  “The guy tonight didn’t. And that sounded very professorly, by the way.”

  “What did?”

  “Ejaculate. I usually just go with jizz, splooge, bust a nut, cream – I could go on, for about a day and a half. But you get the idea.”

  “I do,” he said with a grin.

  I rubbed my eye then and exclaimed, “Hang on, my contacts are killing me. I’ll be right back,” as I jumped off the couch and headed for the bathroom.

  When I returned a couple minutes later, I said, “Okay, promise not to laugh.”

  “At what?”

  “I needed to take my contacts out, and I’m completely blind without them. So I had to resort to these.” I stuck a pair of thick, black-framed glasses on my face and said, “When I picked them out, I was shooting for a retro-hipster vibe. But I kind of ended up with mathlete.”

  Christopher shot me a brilliant smile. “You look so cute.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I look like I’m here to fix your computer.” I dropped back onto the couch and draped my legs across his lap again, picking up my controller.

  “I’m serious, you look adorable. I can’t believe I haven’t seen these before.”

  “I’m getting far too comfortable with you. The romance is dead. Next time you come over, my hair will be in curlers and I’ll be sporting a green face mask and ratty housecoat.”

  He laughed and said, “I’m totally picturing that.”

  “Well, stop it.” I was smiling too. I was never happier than when I was hanging out with Christopher. I would say he was like the brother I never had, but I actually had three brothers and they were all complete tools.

  We played the football video game for a while, and every so often, Christopher snuck a look at me. Finally I said, “Out with it. What is it that you’re thinking about saying to me?” Before answering, he executed a game-winning move that made me collapse against the couch and yell, “Holy crap, not again!”

  Then he balanced his controller on the arm of the couch and said, obviously choosing his words carefully, “Hunter…do you really think it’s the best idea to bring strange men back to your apartment? It just seems so risky. I mean, that stalker’s somewhere out there. We even know he’s local, since he hand-delivered a threat letter to your production company.”

  “My taste in men isn’t that bad. I’m not going to pick out a total psychopath and bring him home with me.”

  “But Hunter, this guy’s not going to be wearing a tag that says, ‘hi, I’m psychotic.’ In all likelihood, he’s going to blend in with everyone else. Remember what I told you about the man that attacked me? He seemed completely harmless. I didn’t have a clue what he really was until it was way too late.”

  A little ov
er a year and a half ago, when my friend was still working as a prostitute, he’d been drugged, raped, and almost beaten to death by one of his customers. That incident was at the root of his food phobia, since the drugs had been hidden in a sandwich.

  The assailant was still at large. When the police ran out of leads and let the case go cold, Christopher took matters into his own hands and began distributing sketches of his attacker all over the city. He learned that a couple boys had disappeared around the time of his assault, and were presumed dead. A pattern linked Christopher’s attacker to those disappearances, which could mean that man was even more dangerous than anyone had imagined. But Christopher didn’t worry about his personal safety, or about drawing the attention of a possible killer. He was more determined than ever to bring his attacker to justice, and was still out there every week with his sketches. He was incredibly brave.

  I leaned in and gave him a hug as I told him, “I know you’re concerned, and I appreciate that. I really do. But like I said, I’m not going to let fear dictate how I live my life. So far, it’s just a bunch of letters. I really don’t think there’s much to worry about.”

  Christopher pulled back to look at me, a crease of concern between his eyebrows, and reached out and tucked a strand of my shoulder-length blond hair behind my ear. “It’s more than that. You know that as well as I do, which is why you went to the police with those letters. It’s just not safe bringing strangers home with you, or going home with them. Actually, that’s risky with or without a stalker out there somewhere.”

  “I know. But what am I supposed to do, put myself under house arrest?”

  “I think you’re in denial, Hunter. Maybe that’s why you haven’t really changed your behavior since all of this began. I think this scares you so much that you’re refusing to address it head-on.” He was probably right, but I just looked away and shrugged noncommittally. My friend watched me for a long moment, then asked, “What happened to the idea of hiring a bodyguard? Are you still looking into that?”