Luka poked his head around the corner of the wall and looked down the length of hallway checking to see if anyone was in view. He didn’t want to be seen. He had already said his ‘goodbyes’ to people and he really didn’t want to go through the process all over again. The hallway was empty but he kept close to the wall as he crept along to the suture room and pushed open the door. He moved quickly to the cabinet next to the door and opened it, started lifting a few items out, placing them in the bag that was hanging over his shoulder.
"Stealing?"
Startled Luka dropped the surgical dressing he was holding. It bounced on the floor and rolled away under a gurney. He slowly turned around . . . and his eyes found John sitting on the floor in a corner of the room, his legs stretched out in front of him. Luka eyed him curiously finding the image strangely disturbing . . . probably because of the bottle of scotch that John had placed between his thighs.
He felt compelled to ask. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing. Just . . . . . . . . . . . nothing. What are you doing? I mean . . . apart from stealing."
Luka turned away, walked over to the gurney and bent down to retrieve the wayward dressing. He held it up. "Do you know how much this costs?"
John frowned, then shook his head. "To be honest . . . I don’t really care . . . Take it. Take it all. Here . . . I’ll help you."
He pulled his knees up to his chest and struggled to his feet, using the bottle between his legs as leverage. He then walked, somewhat unsteadily, towards the cabinet, carelessly clunking the bottom of the bottle on the edge of a gurney.
"What else do you want? Dressings . . . syringes . . . . . . . . . . sutures . . ."
Luka held still as John reached into the cabinet and started pulling things out. He managed to take possession of a few of the items but a couple dropped onto the floor as John wasn’t taking much care as to where he was placing them.
"I only wanted a few things. I was making up a small kit . . . just for emergencies."
"Hey, you don’t need to justify yourself to me." John turned to look at him . . . and frowned, narrowing his eyes, trying to force him into focus. He turned back to the cabinet . . . and then turned away, the task instantly forgotten. He walked, unsteadily, back to the corner of the room, clunking the bottom of the bottle on the edge of a chair. He turned around, leaned back against the wall and allowed gravity to assist him to the floor.
Luka watched him for a moment and then turned his attention back to the cabinet, putting back the items that he didn’t need, taking out the ones that he did. When he had finished he zipped up the bag and closed the cabinet. He then moved to the door to make his exit . . .
. . . and hesitated . . . looked over his shoulder . . .
Sighing heavily, he turned around and walked across to the corner of the room dragging a chair with him as he went. He positioned the chair squarely in front of John and sat down. John looked up at him, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. He then looked down at the bottle in his hand. Lifting it up he offered it to Luka.
Luka shook his head.
John smiled. "You don’t want to drink with me . . . I’m okay to fuck with . . . but not to drink with."
Now Luka’s eyes widened in surprise. He didn’t say anything, but he automatically looked over his shoulder, checking the door.
John sneered. "What . . . you don’t want people to know. Let me guess . . . I’m not that pretty . . . not that special."
Luka felt his jaw tighten. He had replayed that night over in his head many times, replayed those words . . . but it jarred him to hear them again. He closed his eyes, recalling the anger and frustration he had felt . . . towards her . . . towards the man sitting in front of him . . .
He relaxed his jaw and took a deep breath, blew it out slowly, letting go of the memory. It didn’t matter. Not now. He opened his eyes and watched as John put the bottle to his lips. He leaned forward and stretched out his hand. John stared up at him, his _expression suddenly guarded, his eyes suddenly suspicious. Then he wavered, unable to maintain the defense. He looked away as he handed over the bottle.
Luka examined the label. It looked cheap. Very cheap. He sniffed the neck doubtfully and then took a mouthful. He winced. It was as bad as he knew it would be. He swallowed quickly, managing to suppress his natural instinct to cough. "This is not good whisky. Where did you get it?"
"Haleh consfic . . . confic . . . . . . . . . . . . she took it off a drunk."
Luka smiled as John amended his words. "And you felt that it was okay to drink it."
"Why not? Perfect end to a perfect day. You ever have perfect days?"
Luka thought for a second and then he shrugged, stretched out his arm, offered the bottle back. John stared at it. He didn’t really want it. But he didn’t want to show that he didn’t want it. He took it back, took another mouthful . . . and grimaced as the liquid burned its way down his throat. He closed his eyes . . . which was a mistake as his head began to swirl. He opened them quickly . . . and felt the need to fill the silence.
"I buried my grandmother today."
Luka leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees, interlocking his fingers. "I know."
"Buried Eric too." He glanced up at Luka. "Not really . . . should have buried him though." He closed his eyes, screwing up his face, shaking his head. "I don’t mean that."
Luka leaned further forward and asked softly, "What happened?"
"You don’t want to know . . . really. So . . . you all packed and . . . everything?"
As he finished asking the question he looked up . . . and was suddenly conscious of Luka being a little too close to him, his head towering over him. He shifted, trying to slide himself up the wall . . . till he got to a point where he couldn’t go any further and he ended up sliding back down. "Oops."
Luka stood up and tried to help him, grabbing him by the elbow. John wrenched his arm back, a look of annoyance on his face. "Don’t touch me . . . Look . . . do me a favor? Leave me alone."
Luka frowned and took his hands away. He stared at him for a moment and then shook his head disdainfully . . . if he wanted to sit here wallowing in self-pity then that was up to him. He took a step backwards and turned around, pushing the chair out of his way. He crossed to the door and stepped through it . . . straight into Kerry Weaver.
She was just as surprised as he was. "Luka. I thought you’d gone?" As she was speaking, her eyes flitted between his face and the bag that was hanging off of his shoulder.
"I forgot something," he said holding her gaze.
She nodded her head and waited for more information. When it was obvious that no more was forthcoming she said, "Okay then . . . well have . . ." She stopped, deciding that the phrase ‘good trip’ was not exactly appropriate, especially as she knew where he was going. ". . . have a safe trip."
He nodded his head. "Thanks."
She turned on her crutch and started to walk away . . . then stopped, turned her head back. "Have you seen Carter?"
He shook his head. "No . . . Why? I mean . . . he’s not working is he?"
"No . . . but he was around earlier. His father called . . . looking for him."
He watched her walk away, then stared at the door to the suture room. He shook his head and took a step down the hallway . . . stopped. He closed his eyes, ran a hand over his face. Then, gritting his teeth, he took a step back, turned, pushed the door open and walked back into the room, marching right up to where John was sitting.
John looked up at him. "You still here?"
"Get up," Luka said sternly, his voice matching the look on his face.
John’s eyes widened slightly . . . then narrowed as he scowled.
"I said get up." Luka leaned forward and grabbed John under his right armpit, started pulling him upwards. John resisted, discarding the bottle, trying to wrestle his way out of Luka’s grasp.
"Get off," he snapped.
"Get up," Luka snapped back.
John allowed himself to be pulled to his feet but only because he believed that, once he was standing, he would be in a better position to fight Luka off. Except he discovered that once he was upright, he seemed to have no control over his limbs . . . which, although slightly amusing, was a little disconcerting.
"What are you doing?"
"Getting you out of here."
Luka started pulling him towards the door and John now discovered that he didn’t have any momentum of his own . . . only that dictated by Luka. Everything went blurry as he was marched rapidly out of the door and along the hallway. But, bizarrely, he did manage to wave at Jerry as he was propelled past the admit desk and out through ambulance bay doors.
The cool evening air should have been pleasant but the effect on John was abrasive. Luckily, Luka had parked his car on the street so they didn’t have too far to go. When they got near to it Luka reached into his pocket and took out his keys, blipped the locks. He opened the passenger door and, placing his hand in the small of John’s back, gave him a shove. "Get in."
John started to bend his head . . . but then snapped it upright, the smell of leather instantly overpowering his senses. "I think I’m going to be sick."
Luka grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him away, turned him around, pushed him back against the side of the car. He then tried to force his head down towards his knees. "Just breathe."
"Ow."
Luka relaxed his grip and John lifted his head, eyeing him warily.
Luka softened the look on his face. "Okay?"
John, who by now was looking more than a little green, shook his head. "No. I need to sit down." He leaned back against the side of the car and, before Luka could stop him, neatly slid to the ground.
"Carter. Get up." Luka bent down and took hold of his shoulders, gripping them tightly, shaking him roughly. "Carter."
John opened his eyes and stared quizzically into Luka’s face. "My name is John. Why doesn’t anyone call me John? I mean . . . what’s wrong with John?" He screwed up his face, as though trying to make sense of something completely incomprehensible. He closed his eyes. ". . . and now there isn’t anyone to call me John."
It was the last thing he said before he descended into that dark oblivion of the hopelessly drunk.
**************************************************************
The buzzing woke him. More than the light that was painfully piercing his eyes. He tried to analyze the buzz not quite sure where it was coming from . . . until he realized it was deep inside his head. He shifted slightly . . . and triggered a sequence that had repercussions in other parts of his anatomy. The buzzing in his head intensified, hurting the back of his eyes, and a wave of nausea rippled through his intestines. He moaned, conscious enough of his condition to do it as softly as he could, and took a deep breath, lying perfectly still, trying to relocate his sense of equilibrium.
The feeling was familiar but it had been a while since he’d felt it. Over three years in fact. Well over. He probably would have been disappointed in himself . . . if he’d been capable of any deep and meaningful thought. He shifted again . . . v e r y . . . s l o w l y . . . and felt something else familiar . . .
"Fuck."
He snapped his head upright . . . and instantly regretted it as the throbbing in his head reached a crescendo. He grimaced, forcing his head back down, closed his eyes and held his breath. When the pain finally subsided, he opened his eyes and looked at his wrist.
He stared at the handcuff . . . getting angry . . . well . . . trying to get angry . . . . . . . wanting to get angry . . .
But . . .
The truth was he found he didn’t actually care. And it wasn’t because he was incapable of feeling anything other than the effects of his hangover. It had more to do with the fact that he felt as though all responsibility had been taken away from him, that he didn’t have to make any decisions or take any action. He could live with that . . . if he was going to live . . .
His eyes strayed from his wrist to the nightstand . . . to the glass of water . . . to the two painkillers lying next to the glass. Considerate of him. He rolled over . . . v e r y . . . s l o w l y . . . onto his right side and reached out for the pills. He popped them into his mouth and downed them with the water. As he did so a thought crossed his mind, one that he found mildly ironic: that the last time he had woken up handcuffed to Luka’s bed Luka had been drunk; now he was the one who had been drunk . . . yet he still ended up handcuffed to Luka’s bed. He pulled gently on his wrist, wondering if anyone would wonder where he was . . . if anyone cared . . .
With that discouraging thought he closed his eyes, pulled the covers over his head, and curled himself up into a very tight ball.
**************************************************************
Luka opened the door to his apartment as quietly as he could, closed it just as quietly. He made his way to the kitchen and deposited a brown paper bag on the counter. Taking off his jacket, he walked over to the coat stand, glancing towards the bedroom door as he did so. He hung up his jacket, returned to the counter, and started taking items out of the bag. After he had removed the third item, he glanced towards the bedroom door again . . .
This time it held his attention. He dropped a can of insect repellant back into the bag and slowly walked towards the door. He took hold of the doorknob but, before opening the door, he turned his head, placed his ear against it and listened . . .
Silence.
He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and cautiously opened the door, looked towards the bed. He could see John curled up under the covers but, apart from his right hand, no part of him was visible.
"Ca . . . " he started to say and then stopped. He turned around and walked away . . . stopped . . . turned around and walked back.
"Jo . . ." He turned around and walked away again. It felt strange saying it. He mouthed the word silently a few times. ‘John. John.’ He shook his head, looking doubtful . . . because it didn’t feel right. He turned around and walked straight into the bedroom, right up to the bed, paused for a moment, then reached down and peeled back the covers.
John opened his eyes and stared up at him. "You know I’m annoyed . . . right?" The delivery was flat, devoid of any emotion, matching the _expression on his face.
Luka nodded his head. "I know."
"Good."
Luka tried to smile a sympathetic smile but, for some reason, it ended up as a grimace. "I’ll get the key."
"Why . . . are you throwing me out?"
Luka shook his head. "No."
. . . and with that John took hold of the covers and pulled them back over his head.
**************************************************************
It was about an hour later, when Luka was sorting through his paperwork, that the summons came.
"I need to pee."
Sighing softly, he dropped the letter he was reading on top of a pile on the kitchen counter and opened a drawer in one of the units, took out a small key. He walked in to the bedroom, a look of amusement on his face.
"Don’t . . . don’t . . . laugh at me."
Luka frowned, wiping the _expression from his face. "I’m not laughing at you . . . it’s just . . . the situation."
He took hold of John’s wrist and inserted the key into the lock of the handcuff. Once it had been removed John pulled his hand away, and struggled upright, climbed out of the bed. He then walked out of the bedroom, apparently not caring that he was naked . . . apparently not caring how he came to be naked.
Luka followed him out . . . but made his way back to the kitchen where he picked up the letter that he had been reading . . .
He could hear the stream of piss hitting the pan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the sound of water running in the basin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The water ceased and John poked his head around the bathroom door. "Is it okay if I take a shower?"
Without looking up Luka said, "Of course."
He started reading the letter again . . . and failed to get past the first word. He scowled, shook his head, started reading the words softly under his breath . . .
. . . he could hear the sound of water running in the shower . . .
He dropped the letter and tossed an irritated glance towards the bathroom door. Then, still scowling, he walked over to the T.V, switched it on, picked up the remote control from the coffee table and adjusted the volume. Satisfied he returned to the kitchen, picked up the letter . . .
Now he couldn’t hear the water . . .
Was it still on?
He threw yet another irritated glance towards the door. This was ridiculous. He walked over to the bathroom door, placed his ear against it. He could hear the sound of water but no sound of movement . . . and the thought suddenly entered his head that he may have slipped . . . fallen . . .
He opened the door . . . and he could see John outlined through the frosted glass of the shower, leaning forward against the wall, his head resting on one arm, the other hanging loosely by his side. Luka stood there and watched . . . but he could go now . . . now that he knew that he was okay . . . he could turn around and walk away.
**************************************************************
If he’d thought about it, really thought about it, he probably would have walked away. But seeing him there . . . in the shower . . . seeing the water hitting the top of his head, dripping through the ends of his hair, over his neck, running in rivulets down his back, over his ass, between his thighs . . .
Except . . . he didn’t see it. He imagined it. He was good at that, at using his imagination . . .
He should have walked away.
He wanted to. Well, a part of him wanted to . . . a very large part. But another part, a smaller but more dominant part, wanted him to stay. So, he stayed . . . feeling invisible.
Except . . . he wasn’t.
John wasn’t that insensible to his surroundings that he didn’t know that he was there. He knew. Only too well. Was it another example of the sixth sense that had seemed to develop between them? Of course not. He had seen the door open and had swiftly turned away, burying his head in the crook of his arm, trying to imagine that he wasn’t there . . .
He just wasn’t very good at it. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a good imagination. He did. It just went off in the wrong direction . . . and that’s ‘wrong’ as in a direction that wasn’t intended . . .
Luka stepped closer to the shower, reached out and opened the door. John turned his head . . . One look that’s all it would have taken. The right look. One that said ‘No’. Luka looked for it, in his face, in his eyes. It’s not that he could have mistaken it, he convinced himself of that, because he wouldn’t . . .
John stared back at him . . .
Maybe he was allowing himself to be seduced by the sound of the water.
. . . feeling his eyes . . .
Seduced by the memory of what had gone before.
. . . eyes staring into his face . . .
Or maybe he was just allowing himself to be diverted from the events that had dominated his life for the past few weeks.
He didn’t succumb that easily. But his face didn’t give the response that it should have done and his body responded in a way that it shouldn’t have done.
John turned his face away and shifted his position, hiding his erection . . .
. . . and Luka watched him as he tried to hide it. He should have been elated by the fact that John was hard but he was too distracted by the effects of his own arousal.
John looked back at him. "Do you mind . . . I’m naked here?" He was trying to sound assertive but he faltered, ended up sounding embarrassed.
Luka studied him carefully, reading his face . . .
. . . John turned away again. Part of him wanted to disappear but there was nowhere to go. So he did the only thing he could. He turned around, leaned back against the wall of the shower, and stared brazenly into Luka’s eyes.
Despite being at an obvious disadvantage, John held this gaze unflinchingly. It was Luka who finally broke the contact . . . but only to allow his eyes to wander over John’s body. Under such intense scrutiny, John felt himself dissolving, and his hands automatically went to his cock, trying to conceal it.
Luka smiled and returned his gaze to John’s face. Then, very slowly, he kicked off his shoes . . .
John tried to keep his face impassive as Luka proceeded to strip off all of his clothes. Socks followed shoes . . . then sweatshirt . . . But he closed his eyes when Luka moved his hands to the waistband of his pants . . . When he finally opened them again Luka was standing naked in front of him . . .
**************************************************************
Luka stepped into the shower, water instantly splattering onto his chest, running down over his stomach, over his groin, down his legs . . .
John pressed his back firmly into wall of the shower, trying to retreat. Luka moved swiftly, not allowing him the time to think. He stepped closer to him, brushing his hands away from his groin, replacing them with his own, taking a firm hold of his cock, squeezing it tightly . . .
John groaned. He couldn’t help it. He tilted his head back against the wall of the shower and he groaned, thrusting forward, pushing his cock further into Luka’s hand . . .
"Oh fuck." The word was out before he could stop it.
Luka could see how tight his chest had become, how constricted his breathing. He squeezed harder, eliciting another groan, and then released, moving his hand to caress John’s balls, to stroke between his thighs . . .
"Fuck . . . . . . . . . . . . . fuck." The words were muttered softly, in between ragged breaths.
Luka moved closer, widening his legs, pushing his groin into his . . . skin touching skin. He slid his hands between their bodies, took both of their cocks into both of his hands, meshing them together . . .
. . . another groan . . . from both them, separate sounds merging into one . . .
John looked down . . . the sight, as much as the feel, blowing his mind . . . he reached out, brushed the tips of his fingers over the head of Luka’s cock . . .
. . . the touch was light, unbelievably gentle . . .
Luka closed his eyes, focussed his mind on that one area of his body, trying to intensify the sensation. He thrust his hips forwards and upwards, rubbing the head of his cock into the palm of John’s hand. John curled his hand around it, feeling the softness . . . the hardness . . .
. . . he took his hand away.
Luka opened his eyes, raised his right hand, pressed it hard into John’s stomach. He pulled upwards, pushing his fingers along his ribs towards his chest running his hand over his nipple, taking the nipple between his fingers, squeezing it . . .
John winced, parting his lips, pushed forward, thrusting his cock hard into Luka’s groin. "Oh God . . ."
Luka stared into his face . . .
That look . . . wonderfully hopelessly irretrievably . . .
. . . lost.
Luka was suddenly overwhelmed by the passion of John’s responses, knowing that he was on a knife-edge, precariously balanced between wanting and not wanting, so wrapped up in the moment that, if pushed, John would surrender, right there, right then . . .
It took every ounce of his self-control to step back, to remove all contact.
They stared at each other, time standing still . . .
. . . until, finally, Luka had to speak. "I . . ."
He stopped, realizing his voice sounded weak, ineffective against the rush of the water. He swallowed, started again, this time louder, more assertive. "I . . . want to."
John closed his eyes, opened them slowly . . . but said nothing, neither consenting nor dissenting.
Luka, neither encouraged nor discouraged, looked up and nodded his head towards the shower. "Do you need to . . . ?"
John flicked his eyes upwards, flicked them back. He nodded his head but it was almost imperceptible, only discernible because Luka was scrutinizing his face so carefully.
There was nothing more to say . . .
Luka stepped backwards out of the shower, turned around, and took a towel from the rail. He rubbed the towel over his chest and then wrapped it around his waist. John watched him as he made his exit. After he had gone he rested his head back against the wall of the shower and closed his eyes.
He should leave. Dry himself off, walk into the bedroom, pick up his clothes, get dressed and leave. He wouldn’t talk to him. He wouldn’t even look at him . . .
He opened his eyes and looked down at his cock. That’s what he didn’t understand. How he could be so fucking hard. He took hold of his cock gripping it angrily, twisting it painfully . . . making it harder. Because he hadn’t had sex in fucking ages, that’s why. He let go of his cock smacking his hand against the wall of the shower.
He should leave. Dry himself off, walk into the bedroom, pick up his clothes, get dressed and leave.
Just because he hadn’t had sex in ages . . . not since the failed proposal, when she had withdrawn from him, in more ways than one . . . and he didn’t blame her . . . okay, he did blame her . . . but that wasn’t an excuse for . . .
He should leave. Dry himself off, walk into the bedroom . . .
He screwed his face into an attitude of quiet desperation and took hold of his cock, his painfully erect cock, and squeezed it, stroked it. He didn’t need him for that. If he wanted to he could do it right here, right now, just to show him how much he didn’t need it, didn’t want it . . .
Oh fuck.
. . . he wanted it . . .
. . . badly . . .
. . . if for nothing else than to drown out the memory of the past few weeks of unrelenting misery when he felt that he was suffocating, the life being sucked out of him . . .
As always, he was hit by a tidal wave of guilt that threatened to smother him. Sometimes he believed that he needed it, the guilt . . . that, for some perverse reason, he wallowed in it. He wrapped his arms around his chest not wanting it to be true. Because what he really wanted, more than anything else, was to feel alive . . .
**************************************************************
He didn’t leave . . . but you knew that.
He was lying on the bed, eyes closed, concentrating on his breathing until the blackness got too much for him. He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, his eyes settling on a brown stain . . . well, yellowish brown . . . more yellow than brown . . . ochre . . . definitely ochre. It was probably damp . . . caused by . . .
. . . a nudge to his ribs. He looked over. "What?"
"I asked . . . on what side would you be more comfortable . . . on your left or right?"
John stared at him blankly. Side? Sideways? Whenever he had sex side on it was always long and slow. He didn’t know if he wanted that . . . should he tell him . . . that all he wanted was a quick fuck . . . that he wanted him to do it the way that he did before . . . hard and fast . . . so that he didn’t have to think . . .
He looked away, stared up at the stain on the ceiling. "Right side."
Luka nodded and pushed his hip gently and John rolled over, twisting his waist. But when he went to move his shoulders Luka stopped him.
"No . . . I want to see your face."
"Why?"
Luka frowned and then smiled. "Why not?"
John stared at the stain and wondered if Luka had told his landlord about it. It could be serious, an indication that something was . . .
Luka tapped his thigh. "You need to move your leg up."
John took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and moved his leg whilst Luka grabbed a pillow from the top of the bed, folded it over and placed it under his knee. For some reason, the position made John feel vulnerable . . . which he found strange . . . because what was more vulnerable than being handcuffed? He moved his hands from his sides, placed them on his stomach, locking his fingers together . . . and then traced the outline of the stain with his eyes . . .
. . . he felt Luka’s hand on his hip, running along his thigh, around his knee, down his lower leg to his ankle . . . felt his hand gripping his ankle adjusting the position of his leg . . .
He hadn’t noticed before but the stain had a darker edge . . . like the iris of an eye . . .
. . . Luka rolled away from him, onto his back, reached behind him . . .
It was also mottled, dark spots scattered through it. Definitely some kind of water penetration . . .
. . . he heard the sound of something tearing . . . .
Some of the spots were a lot darker . . . and a lot larger . . . there could even be a pattern there . . . or perhaps, a shape . . .
. . . he heard the sound of something . . . wet . . .
A face. He could definitely make out the shape of a face . . .
. . . he felt wetness on his ass, between his cheeks . . .
He pulled away sharply. "I already did that."
"Why?"
John stared at him, slightly puzzled. "Why not?"
Luka shrugged and applied the lotion anyway, sliding the palm of his hand between John’s cheeks, caressing the skin gently. He then tried to push into him, rubbing the tips of two slick fingers against his tightly clamped entrance.
John flinched and flicked his eyes nervously in Luka’s direction . . . found Luka staring back at him. "Sorry."
"Relax."
He tried to, by taking a deep breath, blowing it out slowly consciously trying to relax the muscles as the air flowed out of him. Luka tried to push his fingers in again . . . and John automatically clenched around them . . .
"Sorry. Look . . . this isn’t working . . . it’s not . . . it’s just . . . . . . . . . . I don’t feel . . . comfortable."
Luka sighed and took his fingers away from John’s ass, moved his hand around to his balls, to his cock . . . his very limp cock. He took hold of it and squeezed it, let go of it, took hold of his balls, pulling on them, let go of them, took hold of his cock, squeezing on it . . .
John lifted his head and stared at him. "What are you doing?"
Luka’s hand stopped in mid-squeeze. "What do you think I’m doing?"
John frowned. "It’s a bit . . . you know . . . mechanical."
Luka removed his hand from between John’s legs, placed it on his thigh. "What do you want me to do?"
John dropped his head back down on to the pillow, not saying anything.
Luka tried again, stroking John’s thigh, running his hand gently over his skin, roughing the hairs backwards and forwards. He slid his hand down between his legs, stroking his inner thigh, gently nudging his ballsac. He did this several times, deliberately making the touch light . . . delicate . . .
John stared at the stain, concentrating on the face . . . the eyes . . . nose . . .
Luka could sense John relaxing under his hand, the tension in his muscles easing. He stroked his thigh one more time and then slid his hand over his balls, caressing them gently . . .
. . . and the once clearly defined face became nothing more than a blur as John allowed the sensations to wash over him . . .
Luka moved his hand to John’s cock, his semi-hard cock, wrapping his hand around it, squeezing it, stroking it, squeezing it, stroking it. He rubbed his thumb over the head several times, then slid his fingers down the length of his shaft, teasing his balls as he slowly moved over them. He slid gently along his perineum . . . until he found the excess lotion. He swirled his fingers around in it . . . then pushed one finger straight into his ass, fighting against the natural grip. He rotated his finger, pulled out, pushed in, pulled out . . . added another finger, pushed in, pulled out, pushed in . . .
Luka glanced at John’s face and saw that his eyes were closed, his mouth hanging open. He retracted his fingers and eased himself into position behind his ass, placing the head of his cock at his entrance. Then he watched, waiting for the right moment in his breathing . . .
. . . and pushed the head of his cock into him . . .
. . . but no more than the head. He paused, giving John the time to think . . .
John concentrated hard on his breathing, trying not to think about the tip of Luka’s cock nestling in his ass . . .
. . . his cock . . . in his ass . . . his cock . . .
Luka watched fascinated by the micro-expressions that were playing across John’s face. Then he saw it, that sudden look of panic. By instinct . . . he couldn’t help it . . . his hand went to John’s balls grabbing them, holding them tight . . .
John’s eyes flew open, and he lifted his head off of the pillow, stared into Luka’s face. Surprisingly, for an action that was threatening, the _expression on Luka’s face was calm . . . benign . . .
John took deep steady, breaths, trying to slow his heart rate . . .
Luka relaxed his grip, squeezed gently on his balls. "Okay?"
John shook his head, eyeing him warily . . . then nodded. "Can I ask you a question . . . are you always this aggressive . . . or is it just me?"
Luka thought about it, thought about lying, decided against it. "Just you."
John raised his eyebrows, not exactly reassured. "Thanks for telling me."
"Do you mind?"
"At least you went for my balls . . . not my heart."
Luka frowned and for the first time experienced real doubt about what he was doing. That maybe this was a mistake. That maybe the weeks and months of thinking about him, thinking about fucking him, had clouded his judgement. That what he had envisioned was nothing more than a fantasy . . . one that was totally unrealizable . . .
He took his hand away from John’s balls, placed it on his thigh. "Can I ask you a question . . . are you always this self-pitying?"
A look of irritation flashed across John’s face . . .
. . . and Luka smiled. He much preferred this _expression. "Look . . . I promise I won’t go anywhere near your heart."
And with that Luka slid his hand between John’s thighs and took hold of his cock stroking it vigorously . . .
It was too much . . . for the both of them. John arched his back, placed his hands on the bed frame and forced himself down, impaling himself on Luka’s shaft as Luka thrust forward to meet him halfway.
**************************************************************
Was this the final stage of the process? Acceptance?
Yeah right.
To be continued . . .
Copyright Footer', 'This site is not affiliated in any way with "ER", its writers or production company, or NBC, and makes no profit from the show. The ERROS skin is by Brihana. The script is eFiction version 3.4.2© Tammy Keefer, http://efiction.org\r\n