It`s time for Tuesday Tales!
Today we have a snippet from Touch of a Yellow Sun., Colors of Love #2, my current MM hockey romance WIP. In this opposites attract tale instigator and on-ice pain-in-the-ass Marek Hafer and yogi Shey Pierson find themselves living next door to each other. Talk about conflicting professions! Will the two men’s personalities clash as well, or will they be able to find some common ground to build a relationship on?
Our word prompt today is “Sour” and Marek is having one of his first conversations with his handsome, laid-back neighbor.
This story may have gay erotic scenes, strong social issues addressed and mature language. If those things offend now is the time to move onto another Tuesday Tales blog. Thanks for stopping by!
Window checking sort of became a daily event. Sue me. I liked the sunrise and sunsets here. A week passed with me standing at that stupid window every morning, sipping black coffee strong enough to strip the paint off the side of your house, staring down at Shey Pierson meditating. Finally, my curious and what some would call grating nature got the best of me. It took a bit of doing as the wooden pane had swelled in the summer heat, but I finally got the window up.
“Hey, while you’re sitting there doing squat why not pulls those damn weeds?” I shouted down at my neighbor, feeling pretty smug about my ability to be snarky/funny at seven in the morning. Not everyone can pull that off. It’s a gift.
He tipped his head back. All that gold hair fell from his cheeks and brow. He smiled at me. A dull kind of uncomfortably sour knot appeared in my empty stomach, as if someone had speared me with their hockey stick.
“Good morning, Mr. Hafer,” he called up, his voice kind of mellow and sing-songy. How did he know my name? Had I told him? I didn’t remember doing so but then again I could have. The queasy sensation in my lower belly intensified. Must be I was hungrier than I realized. “I’ll be picking some herbs when I’m done. Feel free to use my herb garden for your cooking if you want.”
“Yeah, I don’t cook.” This conversation had been a mistake. With him seated down there, looking back at me as he was, a wicked little fantasy bubbled up. One where I went down to the garden, pulled out my cock, and slid it between his lips, keeping his head tipped back with gentle pressure under his jaw. Not too much pressure, because teeth on prick is not pleasant, but just enough to ensure his mouth stayed on my dick as I began working my hips forward and—
“Oh no? Well, that’s a shame. I’ll make a bigger pan of my squash surprise and share some with you. Namaste, Mr. Hafer.”
And just like that, Yoga Man dismissed me. He righted his head and went back into his trance or whatever state his dippy mind slipped into. Well, fuck me sideways. I slammed the window shut with one hand, spilling wicked hot coffee on my bare foot. After a small dance, I tinkered with the miserable radiator, but it wouldn’t throw any heat. I made a mental note to stop and talk to Jenny Jenny – I would never be able to think of that name and not have Tommy Tutone’s song playing in my head – about the lack of heat. September was crawling into October. Some warmth was going to be crucial.
Copyright 2018 ©by V.L. Locey
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