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  “Let me make you forget all about Scott Carmichael.”

  A muscular arm slid around Paul’s waist and for an instant he fought the urge to comply with Mitch’s offer of companionship but a flash of togetherness with Scott overrode his rising need. He groaned and clasped Mitch’s hand.

  “Come on, Paul. Let the past go.”

  Warm lips touched his nape as Mitch’s solid chest pressed against his back. For an instant, he closed his eyes and let fate grip his mind.

  Mitch slid his mouth along Paul’s neck, nibbled his skin with his teeth and lapped his earlobe with his tongue. Mitch’s breath was hot on Paul’s jaw as he brought his mouth upward, his lips caressing, coaxing.

  God! Why can’t I move on?

  Mitch tightened his arm around Paul’s waist, holding his body against the rigid length of his own. His lips kissed a hot trail up the incline of Paul’s neck and lowered again to play along his collarbone. One hand slid from the clasped position at Paul’s waist onto his fly.

  “Mitch.” Paul bit his lip as the words inched from his mouth. The feel of Mitch’s warm body at his back brought a flood of memories to the fore. He closed his eyes, trying to pretend it was Scott making a pass at him.

  “Live for the moment,” Mitch whispered against Paul’s ear. He drew in a deep breath, pressing his chest tighter against Paul’s back. “Or if it will make you feel any better, pretend I’m Scott.” He chuckled slightly.

  The notion that Mitch was willing to appease his reluctance by pretending to be his old lover brought a small smile to his lips. He was a very transparent person and apparently he wore his feelings on his shoulder like a bright red applet for everyone to see. Remorse surged through his insides. Losing Scott had hurt him deeply.

  Mitch’s hand pressed atop his fly and the warmth was quick to penetrate his jeans. Paul sucked in a quick breath. The weight of Mitch’s fingers pressing atop the denim fabric was enough to make him want sex. He stifled a groan and tried to decide whether to break Mitch’s hold on him.

  “I love your body.”

  Paul winced. The hand at his fly slid upward to his waistband—then slowly slid between his skin and the denim fabric. He tightened his abdominal muscles, pressing his buttocks against Mitch’s crotch. The action brought all sorts of emotions to the fore. Did he want Mitch to pursue him or did he want to break free and pretend the episode never happened? Did he want to continue to pine away for a lover that vowed never to return or did he want to give Mitch a chance? He groaned in agony.

  Mitch’s hand slid lower on Paul’s ropy abdomen. His fingers delved into the dark bush at Paul’s crotch. Heat surged through Paul and he made a last ditch effort to fend off the advancing sexual arousal that began in his crotch and rapidly spread through his loins. The hot male hand lowered, cupped his balls and fondled his cock.

  Hot breath puffed against Paul’s neck as his body was held tightly and fondled. Mitch kissed his neck and poked his tongue into his ear as he reached his fly with his other hand and lowered Paul’s zipper.

  Arousal spread through Paul like an advancing brush fire. His nerves tingled with the assault on his cock, the fondling that grew in intensity the longer he allowed it to continue. Mitch’s warm strong fingers stroked every sensitive pore of his cock and balls until his knees began to feel weak. His temples started to pound. His cock grew hard, pressed into Mitch’s palm and begged for more attention. The urge to give in surged through his insides.

  “Pretend I’m Scott,” Mitch whispered, his fingers circling Paul’s cock. “Let me love you.”

  Mitch’s teeth slid across Paul’s earlobe, nipping his flesh with just enough force to make him wince. He stifled a moan of surrender as Mitch freed his hard cock from the confines of his jeans. The warm night air immediately embraced his naked flesh as it poked through the opening in his pants and made him keenly aware that he didn’t want to deny that he was aroused and wanting to fuck. He drew in quick breath as Mitch wrapped his fist around his cock.

  I can’t do this. God help me. I can’t do this.

  Paul’s thoughts tumbled as his emotions battled his body’s failing defenses. The tight fist on his cock was beginning to move, slowly, tempting him to give in, then speeding up in an effort to bend his will. He reached for the hand, mingled his palm with the hair-roughened back, felt the strong fingers wrapping around his flesh—

  “Mitch, stop.”

  “You don’t mean that.” His fist moved faster on Paul’s engorged cock.

  Paul sucked in a quick breath. His cock was being fondled so deliciously that it took all his willpower to resist. “I’m sorry.” He tried to wrench his body free, despite the onset of orgasm gathering in his balls. “Oh damn!” His voice was barely an audible whisper as he realized that he had let the situation go too far. “Damn you!”

  Mitch groaned deep in his throat and increased the speed of his fist on Paul’s cock. He tightened his arm around his waist and nibbled his nape with his mouth. Paul could feel Mitch’s chest muscles tighten and he knew he wasn’t going to relent and let him loose. He closed his eyes and pressed his back into Mitch’s sturdy frame as the climax bore down on his body.

  A crescendo of sensations burst forth inside him, flooding his body and making his limbs weak. He leaned heavily into the sturdy form at his back and released the pent-up need he had been harboring. Semen shot from his cock, into the darkness and onto the lawn. He bit his lower lip and bucked his cock into Mitch’s hand. Warmth surged through his veins. The release felt like heaven—regardless of the strange hand that had brought him to the apex.

  The orgasm ended much too soon. Paul’s chest heaved with the exertion. He ceased to move, leaning his body into Mitch’s broad form. He felt spent, as though he had fucked for an hour. Reality hovered on the horizon, ready to remind him that the hand still grasping his cock didn’t belong to Scott, but rather to Mitch Wilson, a man he barely knew. He opened his eyes. The yard was pitch black save for the tiny pinpoints of orange lights given off from the string of Halloween pumpkins illuminating the railing of the back deck. He straightened, caught hold of Mitch’s hand and pushed it from his body.

  “I didn’t mean for that…to happen, Mitch.”

  Mitch drew in an audible breath and pulled his arms from Paul’s waist. He gripped Paul’s hips and ground his hard erection into his buttocks. “Let’s go to your room. I’m hard as a hammer.”

  Paul shook his head. The mere thought of taking Mitch to the bed he had once shared with Scott made his gut wrench. “No.” Paul hurried to push his cock inside his fly and zip up. He turned toward Mitch as voices drew near from the front of the house. Four males walked down the sidewalk toward them, their voices loud and peppered with laughter.

  Paul swallowed down his sudden nervousness. The remnants of the orgasm Mitch had given him still lingered in his body and the thought that he shouldn’t have let the sexual interlude happen, spun round in his mind. He stepped off the sidewalk to one side as the four passed, buying a bit of time before he had to explain to Mitch why he had allowed him to fondle him to climax. Thank God for the darkness.

  Paul’s chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing. He watched Mitch turn toward the front yard once the four people had passed by. Paul felt the pang of regret as he watched his back through the gloomy darkness. He should catch up to him and say something. He shouldn’t let him leave without a single word of explanation. He bit his bottom lip.

  “Mitch.”

  Mitch halted his feet and turned toward Paul. “Look, there’s no need to explain,” he said his voice slightly angry. “I’m a big boy. I can take a bit of rejection without throwing myself off a building or jumping in front of a speeding truck.”

  Paul shook his head and walked toward Mitch. “Let me explain.” He lowered his voice as he drew near. “I’ve been so fucking confused that I just wasn’t thinking straight.” He combed one hand through his hair. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.” He tried to study Mitch’s
face through the murky darkness but his features were impossible to see clearly. “I’m not ready for another relationship at this point.” He paused, staring at Mitch.

  “A fuck is a fuck, Paul. I wasn’t suggesting we move in together.”

  Mitch turned and strode off and Paul stared at his form as it disappeared in the dark night.

  Chapter Three

  Paul sat on the porch, a cup of beer in his hand and watched as the foursome dressed as the Wizard of Oz came down the sidewalk. He smiled at the sight. There was no doubt who they were—even in the dim light given off by the flickering candles illuminating the pumpkins sitting beneath the oak tree at the end of the sidewalk. Troy Vickers, a second year law student and a gay with a penchant for dressing in drag, was Dorothy. Mike Harper, Tim Sullivan, and Jacob Marler were dressed as the tin man, the scarecrow and the cowardly lion, though he couldn’t readily say which was which.

  “Your pumpkins are sick looking, Paul Simpson,” Dorothy exclaimed pointing one hand at the oak tree. “I hear you’re in mourning. Is that true?”

  Paul raised his beer cup and took a gulp. Of all the damn people to stop by—I have to be accosted by Dorothy and her little band of men. “Where did you find those costumes?” he called, hoping to thwart Dorothy’s attempt to call attention to his moping state.

  Dorothy smoothed a hand down her skirt. “Over on Forty-Fifth Street. There’s a wild party store on the corner with all sorts of groovy getups.”

  Paul watched the group move on down the sidewalk. There were three other off-campus rentals on the block and each was decorated to celebrate the holiday. He raised his cup and took a drink of beer. For the past four hours, the house had been deluged with students in various costumes, and some with little clothing on at all. He smiled and shook his head. Nudity was a public offence in Westfield but the police seldom ventured onto the street during any holiday. The gay community pretty much set their own limits as to what they would tolerate from the college students. Aside from out and out lewd acts in broad daylight on the front lawn, there was little the gays couldn’t get away with.

  The night seemed long, or was it merely because of his down mood? Paul moved from the front porch away from the belching smoke machine and took refuge beneath the oak tree. He perched behind the row of lighted pumpkins, away from newcomers to the house but close enough to the street that he could watch those passing by on the sidewalk. He thought about Mitch Wilson and their earlier encounter in the evening. He sighed. His body felt comforted by the sexual release. He stretched his legs out in front of his body, leaned his back against the trunk of the old oak tree, and closed his eyes for a moment. He had almost been able to imagine Mitch’s hand on his erection to be Scott’s—almost. The reality of the situation had brought his mind back to the present. It wasn’t something he found possible to achieve—pretending another man was Scott. They had meant too much to each other or at least he had thought so. He shrugged his shoulders. Perhaps Scott hadn’t loved him, as much as he thought he did, else he wouldn’t have been able to desert him as he did.

  Noise up the avenue drew his attention. He blinked his eyes, trying to make out the figures as they came toward the house. There were three forms walking in the street. Paul sat up straight and stared at the figures. He could hear their voices and for a moment, he thought he recognized one low toned voice. He strained his ears. Too much beer and the glass of wine he had shared with Wally Newcomb had distorted his senses—but he had thought he needed the extra libation after the fiasco with Mitch. Squinting his eyes, he tried to make out the tall form in the middle of the three as they drew nearer the front gate. Is that Scott? He bit his bottom lip. His body froze, his muscles tightened as he stared in wide-eyed wonder at the trio.

  “You can’t take it with you, Carmichael.”

  Oh my God! That is Scott. Paul’s gut clenched. His mouth went suddenly dry.

  “I can do anything I like, Reynolds.”

  Paul listened to the exchange. He had no idea what they were talking about but just the mere fact that one of them was Scott and he was headed in his direction brought his attention span to the brink of alertness. The voices had sounded somewhat angry. Had Scott sounded belligerent when he addressed the one he called Reynolds?

  Realizing the trio was indeed headed toward the old house and they would be entering the front gate momentarily, Paul scrambled up from beneath the oak tree. His legs felt somewhat rubbery and he spilled the remaining beer in his paper cup as he hurried to get to his feet and take cover. Suddenly he felt as though he didn’t want Scott to see him in his drunken state. Coward!

  He hid behind the tree, cautiously, peering around the rough bark, watching as the three pushed through the old gate and started up the sidewalk. He pinned his eyes on the figure in the middle of the trio, biting his bottom lip and clutching his shirtfront with one balled fist. His eyes misted. For a second he thought he might throw up his emotions became so tangled at seeing Scott again.

  Paul followed Scott’s movements with his gaze as he leisurely strode about the decorations in the yard. The dim illumination of the lighted pumpkins and the eerie atmosphere created by the ensuing gray mist from the smoke machine gave Scott’s impressive form a ghostly appearance as he lingered outside the house. His companions didn’t seem as interested in inspecting the Halloween decorations as he was and soon left him to seek out beer inside the old house. Paul hid behind the tree and watched, his heart wrenching and his gut tightening in a painful knot.

  He had dreamed almost nightly about Scott, imagined his warm body nestled against his, envisioned his muscular limbs and tight buttocks. He had dreamed of holding him and plying his skin with hot wet kisses before trailing his mouth down to his crotch and sucking his cock. Night after night he had awakened in a cold sweat, his cock hard and his balls aching from want.

  Scott moved toward the porch steps, paused, then glanced over his shoulder.

  Paul jerked his head behind the tree, almost upsetting his balance in the rushed attempt to remain hidden. Did he see me? Does he know I’m hiding behind the tree? He held his breath and waited, hoping against all odds that Scott would go inside the house and not linger any longer in the yard. He strained his ears, listening for footsteps on the wooden porch, hoping to identify some sound that would tell him it was safe once again in the dark yard.

  Seconds of agonizing waiting seemed to turn into long minutes of frustration before Scott traversed up the three steps to the porch and disappeared inside the house and Paul gathered the courage to peek around the tree in search of him. Finally, finding the porch empty except for the creepy Halloween decorations, he released a pent-up breath and leaned his forehead against the tree. Apparently, he had succeeded in evading Scott’s scrutinizing gaze before he ventured into the house. He felt relieved and troubled at the same time. He combed one hand through his hair. Why in hell am I acting this way? On one hand, he had pined for Scott since the moment he watched him leave, yet now that he was in his midst again, he was uneasy about facing him. He shook his head. It didn’t make any sense.

  “Maybe I need professional help.” He glanced around, wondering why he had spoken the words out loud. A soft chuckle leapt from his throat. I should give up booze. It was clear he couldn’t hold his liquor but then as the evening began he sought to get drunk. Clearly, he had reached his goal. He was drunk. His head was swimming and his vision was blurry. He turned his back to the tree and leaned against the unyielding surface. What was he to do—remain hidden until he spied Scott and his two companions leaving the house? A pang shot across his chest. Did he really want to miss seeing Scott again?

  He closed his eyes and tried to think rationally. So what if he was drunk? It wasn’t likely that Scott had returned to the old house with specific intentions of having a Halloween fuck. It was more likely that he had dropped in for the free beer and wasn’t planning on seeing him at all, let alone stripping and having a butt fuck. He grimaced. His thoughts were racing out of contro
l.

  Voices were audible again, coming from the house. He peeked around the side of the tree, searching the darkness for movement. There were six people emerging from the house and shouting their goodbyes to others still inside. Loud music started playing with the calling of those on the porch and laughter erupted. The voices carried through the still night, slicing into Paul’s brain with alarming accuracy. He was alone and never more aware of it than at that very moment. It seemed everyone who had ventured to the house that evening had been accompanied by another person.

  A flash of memory stabbed his brain. He had turned Mitch away—deliberately rejected his sexual advances. He could have had companionship with him—fucked until the sun rose and streamed across the bed in yellow shards. He could have enjoyed him touching his body, taking him to new sexual heights. So what if he wasn’t Scott Carmichael? Scott had chosen to leave him, to find other diversions. Or other males to fuck with.

  “I don’t owe Scott any allegiance.” His voice was slurred from the liquor. His tongue felt thick. He swallowed to ease his dry throat and drew in a deep breath. It was time he got on with his life. If only he could get past the memories of all the fun times he had with Scott. He heaved a sigh. There was no one like Scott Carmichael when it came to having a good time. He was carefree and jovial—perhaps the very reason he had fallen for him in the first place. His easy-going nature had allowed him to forget about his compulsions for a time, to live in the moment and enjoy life.

  His argument made his stomach churn. He swiped one hand across his face, then massaged the back of his neck. He hated being at odds with himself. It never proved worthwhile. Sometimes he lost sleep because he was convinced that if he argued his case long enough, he’d reach a decision. “Perhaps that’s one of the traits of a compulsive personality.”

  Weariness seemed to overtake his body. He slumped against the tree, closing his eyes. He wished the night would be over and all the people milling about the old house and yard would go home. He needed solace and nothing would please him more than to slip quietly inside the house and shut himself up in his room. He brought his gaze overhead, searching for the moon and signs that the evening would soon end. A full silvery moon greeted his gaze, hanging in the black sky as though suspended on an invisible string. He stared at it, becoming lost in its luminous beauty.