Whining About the Last Can of Who Hash
Thanks for having me on Cup of Porn. I come bearing much porn, a little schnapps-laced hot chocolate, and a whine about once having been associated with that enemy of Who Christmases, the Grinch. Now in my holiday novella “The Christmas Proposition,” Mel’s sister brings him a little milk of human kindness in the form of some of that laced hot chocolate, calling him a Grinch as she mixes her holiday curmudgeons in need of redemption.
Mel says that he wasn’t always the man who hated Christmas, denying that his shoes are too tight or his heart three sizes too small. But I was once accused of being the Grinch Who Stole Christmas, although I was—in that time honored excuse—merely following orders.
Since birth, my Christmas day has been nothing but a blur of visits to relatives so as not to offend any that were left out. I never even remembered what I opened in the morning. As an adult, I had to add in my in-laws. All of it added up to ten hours of Christmas day spent in the car. One year, there was a blizzard. I mean, ten inches-an-hour stuff. My parents and my sister left extra early on their odyssey. My wife and I had to make stops with her family first, and once confronted with those first ten inches, it was clear we wouldn’t be doing the eight-hour round trip to my grandmother’s. (I so wish I had another connotation for those first ten inches). Somehow I failed to see the joy in sliding down a mountain sideways as we had done one other year.
My parents, realizing they’d be snowed in at my grandmother’s, urged us to take the left over Christmas Eve feast back to our house. As we hurried back home, we stopped to raid the freezer: lasagna, eggplant parmesan, cherry cheesecake, and the Caesar salad.
We had barely shaken the snow off our boots when our phone rang. It was my mother. They had turned back, despite the complaints from my grandmother. (Everyone else made it, you know.) But that wasn’t why she was calling. “You took all the food,” she complained.
“You told me to.”
“The lasagna and the eggplant.”
“You told me to.”
“The salad. You. Even. Took. The. Salad.” Cindy Lou Who could not have issued a more plaintive whine at finding Santa stealing her tree.
So yes, dear friends at Cup of Porn, I even took the last can of Who Hash. A vegetarian, though, I did not take the large steaks in her freezer and she and my father did not starve during the blizzard.
So now that I’ve covered the whine part, I’ll leave you with a little bit of Eli and Quinn heating things up.
From Bad Boyfriend, Now available.
Somehow Quinn could guess Eli was afraid to get in the car. But he wasn’t afraid of Quinn. The way things were going said this would be one hell of a night. That was the scary part. Because while Eli could stand to have something unforgettably hot on the books for future jerk-off fantasies, the idea that this could be the high point, that he’d have hit his sexual peak at twenty-two and never have a night this good again, made him hesitate. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life measuring everything else against a one-night stand.
“If you’re coming with me, get in the car,” Quinn said and disappeared behind the door.
But if Eli didn’t get in the car, he might never get another chance with a guy this hot.
He yanked at the door handle and jumped in.
“About time,” Quinn said and pulled away from the curb.
Quinn stomped on the brake and looked over.
“My seat belt.” Eli tugged it around him. “Okay.”
Quinn turned and looked out of the driver’s window, like he was checking for traffic, but Eli could see his shoulders shake. He was laughing at him.
“Why is that funny?”
“Is everything always life or death?”
“Yes. I mean, just because it isn’t at the moment, it could be. Don’t you ever watch disaster movies? Zombie apocalypses?”
“That actually makes some sense. Are you sure I’m not drunk?”
Eli could stand being laughed at if it meant the sex was going to be as good as he knew it would be. Just see if Quinn could laugh when Eli deep throated him. “Where do you live?”
Eli wasn’t sure he had cab fare on him to go that far into the suburbs.
“Don’t worry. I’ll bring you back,” Quinn said. “But it is a long ride. I don’t want you to get bored and change your mind. Unzip.”
“What?” But his hand was already on his zipper.
“Open your pants and take out your cock.” Quinn accelerated up the ramp to the expressway north.
Eli’s dick didn’t need much coaxing to want free of his tight black jeans.
“Move your hand. Let me see what you’ve got.”
Quinn’s approving groan echoed in the car and along Eli’s bones. “Sweet-looking cock. Looks wet. Are you that hard for me?”
“Yes.” God, Eli could get off on nothing more than that voice telling him what to do.
“Let me taste it.”
Eli’s hips jerked as he rubbed his thumb across the head and offered it to Quinn. Even though Eli expected it, the wet heat of Quinn’s mouth made Eli jump like it was on his dick instead of his finger.
Quinn checked his mirrors and then whispered, “Give me the rest of your fingers.”
Eli fed them to him, knew when Quinn soaked them with warm spit from the stroke of his tongue what he would say next.
“Now jack yourself. Don’t come, but I want to hear you panting.”
Cars streaked by them, white and red lines of light, and Eli closed his eyes as his hand closed around his dick. It wasn’t wet enough, and it was his left hand, but doing this because Quinn told him to had him groaning in just a few strokes.
Eli gave in to it, the coil of heat in his belly snaking through his balls.
“You look so good like that. Anybody in a truck going by is going to see it too. See you jerking yourself off, mouth open and begging for a cock in it. Maybe someone will follow us. Maybe I’ll let him fuck your mouth while I fuck your ass.”
Eli bit his lip, abs starting to strain because fuck, he was close already.
“You get off on people watching, huh?”
He didn’t. At least he never did before. But now, with Quinn in this dark, quiet car, nothing but the hum and rush of wind, Eli wished he dared to open his eyes and see if anyone was watching while driving next to them, staring at his dick as he stroked it. His breath caught in his throat and he gasped.
The command snapped through him, leaving him hanging on the edge.
“Put your hands on your thighs and look at me.”
The air in the car was so heavy Eli could barely breathe. He rubbed his hands on his jeans, trying to soothe the ache sinking down from his balls. He opened his eyes.
Quinn’s gaze flicked over him and then back to the road. “Christ, you’re fucking hot. Let me taste you again.”
If Eli touched his cock, he was going to come. If Quinn sucked on his fingers again, Eli was going to come.
“I thought you were good, come on.”
Eli clenched his jaw, his ass, his thighs, his abs and ran a finger over the slit, a hiss breaking through his lips.
Quinn didn’t wait for him but lunged onto his finger, sucking it deep. “That’s it. Put your hand on your dick again.”
“I’ll come.” And he almost never came without something in his ass, but this was fucking torture.
Quinn didn’t say anything, and Eli tried a light stroke. The ache, the need, came roaring back, shaking loose inside.
“Don’t,” Quinn growled.
“Please. I’ll get hard again. God, please.”
“No.” Quinn’s voice shook, and he slammed to a stop at the bottom of a ramp.
Eli opened his mouth, and Quinn leaned over and kissed him.
“Put it away now. We’re almost there.”