Corazón

Chapter 1“Is that your phone?” Mason asked as the relentlessly upbeat electronic noise interrupted the movie. Miguel pushed himself off the bed. “Yeah.” “Why don’t you just let it ring?” Miguel shook his head. “No, I’m expecting a call from Pedra tonight. She emailed me this morning and asked if I would be free to talk.” Mason frowned. “We had plans tonight.” “We’re just watching a movie. It’s not that big of a deal. Pause the DVD if you’re worried about it.” It wasn’t about the movie. Mason had seen it a dozen times, anyway—his DVD collection was not what one would call extensive. But it was the principle of the thing. He didn’t have family and friends and whoever else calling him when he made plans to spend the evening with Miguel. Mason would have pointed that out, except Miguel was already out of the room. Mason turned down the volume, trying to catch Miguel’s side of the conversation. He might be able to gauge just how long Miguel would be on the phone, though it wasn’t an exact science. Mason once listened to Miguel talk to his sister about the proper way to cook eggs for nearly two hours. It was even worse when they were in the same room, especially since half their conversations seemed to consist of a secret language of gestures, grunts, and giggles. “Oh…yeah, I know. Yeah…is he? How is Anton?” Mason caught his breath. Anton. Pedra’s fiancé always lurked in the back of his mind. Caramel skin, black eyes, full lips, and the best body Mason had ever seen. It was lean, defined, hard with muscle that betrayed the years he had worked in construction as a carpenter. He turned the television up to drown Miguel’s voice and leaned against his pillows. Mason was more than capable of admiring a body—male or female—without the admiration developing into a lust-fueled infatuation. But that was not true when it came to Anton. Mason had developed a strong hunger for the reserved man the moment they met. And he had reason to believe Anton felt the same sort of desire for him. It seemed impossible, given that he was engaged to Pedra, he attended Mass every week, and he had probably only said eight words to Mason since Pedra introduced them. But Mason had something better than any dream or any fantasy. He had a memory, and his c**k hardened the moment he brought it to the front of his mind. He had used that memory to get off with Miguel more than once. Miguel’s voice droned on. It only took a moment of consideration to make up his mind. He tossed the remote aside and rolled off the bed. Seconds later, he had the bathroom door locked behind him, and his shorts down around his ankles. Leaning against the sink, he wrapped his fingers around his shaft and closed his eyes. * * * * The Mexican sun beat down upon him, hot enough for Mason to feel the tips of his ears already starting to turn pink under the glare. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck, dampening the collar of his T-shirt, and he bent his head, running his hand over his wet hair and down the tense muscles of his nape in an attempt to not feel so sticky. A shadow fell across the ground in front of him. Feet followed. By the time he glanced up to see who was joining him on the porch, there was an ice-cold bottle of beer thrust into his face, condensation snaking down the dark glass. “You look thirsty.” Anton wasn’t smiling, but his jet eyes were soft. He waited for Mason to take it before sitting down next to him, his strong thigh brushing lightly against Mason’s. “Miguel and Pedra are still discussing the arrangements.” Mason took a deep swallow from the bottle. “Yeah. I guess there’s some disagreement over the final wishes. It’ll probably take them all night to work it out, knowing them.” Anton held a second bottle of beer for himself. Mason hadn’t even noticed it until he sat down, but now, he couldn’t stop staring at the calluses that roughened Anton’s fingertips. “What do you do when they start?” Anton asked. Mason dragged his gaze away from Anton and shrugged. “Wait. There’s really nothing else I can do. What about you?” “Work.” He nodded toward a small shed off to the side of the house. “Señor Cantu lets me use it whenever I wish.” “It sounds more productive than what I’m doing.” Mason looked up and kept his voice even and friendly. “Can you show me?” Without a word, Anton stood and began walking, glancing back only once to indicate Mason should follow. In spite of the heat, the man didn’t sweat. He glowed. His burnished skin stretched over powerful biceps, even more powerful shoulders, and taunted Mason every step of the short path between the porch and the shed. When he entered, he had to blink more than once to adjust to the change of light. The scent of sawdust hung in the air, and a large workbench consumed the center of the small space. It took several seconds for Mason to see that Anton had circled the bench for something unseen on the other side, and he followed, drawn as much by curiosity as he was the man’s magnetism. His eyes widened when he saw the broad headboard. It was unfinished, but its elegant lines already emerged from the dark wood like one of Michelangelo’s statues. Intricate cutouts created a starburst pattern that repeated down its length. It only needed to be sanded and polished, Mason thought. Then it would be a masterpiece. “It was supposed to be a Christmas gift.” Anton caressed the edge like a lover. “I do not know what Señor Cantu will want me to do with it now.” “I don’t know either,” Mason murmured, more fascinated than ever by Anton’s hands. His fingers were so careful, so precise. He felt like he was all thumbs, but Anton knew how to find the shape waiting in the wood. Waiting for him. Without thinking, he reached out and took Anton’s hands. He brought them up to chin level, studying the creases in his palms. He expected Anton to protest. At the least, to pull away. Anton did neither. He stood there, patiently, allowing Mason the time to learn the rough pads, the weathered lines, the blunt nails. “They are ugly,” he said. “But, unfortunately, this is all I know.” “They’re not.” Mason held him for a moment longer, enjoying the scent of pine and oak and finishing oil. It went right to his head, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Anton smelled like that everywhere. His mouth watered at the thought of finding out, and he forced himself to lower Anton’s hands. “Not at all.” Before he could pull his own away, Anton grasped Mason’s wrists and repeated the gesture. “See?” His broad thumb stroked along the heel of Mason’s hand, though Mason couldn’t tell if it was deliberate or not. “Yours aren’t marked as badly as mine. Pedra would consider Miguel far luckier than her, I’m afraid.” Fresh sweat already gathered on his neck and back, but Mason shivered at the contact. At that moment, he considered Pedra the luckiest one of the four of them. If Anton didn’t let him go soon, his thin shorts wouldn’t be able to hide his erection. “Then I think she needs new priorities.” “I don’t know.” Anton held Mason’s hand flat and skimmed his fingertips from the wrist, across the palm, along his fingers and back again, his eyes lifting to weigh heavily upon Mason’s. “I think I would prefer your hands, as well.” Mason felt hypnotized by the steady, unbroken motion of Anton’s fingers. Each brush of contact sent a sharp spark of electricity from his wrist to his neck. As electrifying as the touch was, though, it was the soft words that tightened his groin. “Where do you want them?” A ghost of a smile curved his full lips. “I don’t remember offering a where.” Mason blinked. “No, but I just did.” “You barely know me.” “I know you well enough, I think.” Mason paused, glancing from Anton’s long fingers to his dark eyes. If Anton would stop touching him, he would stop speaking. “I know how good your hands feel.” Anton didn’t respond. Stepping forward, he finally released Mason’s wrist to lift a hand and brush his callused thumb over his lower lip. “I should not do this,” he murmured, though the words were so low, Mason was unsure whether or not Anton meant them for his ears. Mason parted his lips, his tongue darting out to taste the salty-sweet skin. He moaned at the contact, immediately greedy for more, then closed his mouth around the tip. Anton bent his knuckle, sliding his thumb out of Mason’s mouth, then straightened it, pushing against Mason’s lip. “I know,” Mason said, matching his low voice. “But you don’t have to stop.” “I do,” Anton disagreed. “But not yet.” His fingers spread, molding over Mason’s jaw. He ignored the sweat, the heat, the shivers that ran through Mason. All he seemed to care about was holding him still, each caress of his fingertips small and shattering. Angling his head, Anton leaned forward, stopping only when their mouths brushed against each other. Mason parted his lips with a soft sigh. Anton didn’t take the invitation, though. He kept the kiss almost chaste, but that didn’t discourage Mason. Far from it. It made him throb. Anton’s breath was warm against his skin, and it smelled sweet, like chocolate. But then Anton’s tongue touched his, and Mason melted into the kiss. He couldn’t help it; he didn’t have the strength to resist it. He found himself unable to move, Anton’s other hand coming up to cup the other side of his head as well. Part of him wondered if this was a dream. Had he passed out from heat stroke? If he had, it was the best dream he’d ever had. Definitely the most vivid. He felt every stroke of Anton’s tongue as it searched out the deepest corners of Mason’s mouth. He smelled the sweat and sawdust that were steeped in Anton’s pores. He tasted the beer and chocolate on Anton’s lip. Most vivid, though, was the thick, long line of an erection skimming against his stomach. Mason knew Miguel or Pedra could come looking for them, could barge into the shed without warning. But the threat wasn’t enough to force Mason to break the kiss. He couldn’t get enough of the way Anton tasted, and the kiss progressed and evolved into something overwhelming and hard. Mason moved into Anton’s body, grinding against his erection. Anton stopped, pulled back with his hands still cupping Mason’s face, and searched his eyes for long seconds. Whatever answer he sought, he must have found because he leaned back in, his mouth wet and succulent where it captured Mason’s again. He made a sound in the back of his throat that resembled a groan, but then it was gone. Just like Anton. “Yes,” he murmured. His hardened fingers caressed Mason’s jaw one last time before dropping away. “Miguel is the luckier one.” Anton took a step back, and another, and another. He was going to leave, and Mason knew he couldn’t do anything to stop him. Whatever had happened between them, it was just a moment of weakness for Anton. Or insanity. And now it was over. Even though Mason was still hard, and his lips were still tender from Anton’s assault. “I guess this shouldn’t happen again,” Mason said, hoping Anton would disagree. “You have Miguel.” As if that was enough. But I want you. Mason bit back the protest. “Yeah. Well…” He turned to the door, relieved Anton wasn’t blocking him at least. “I should get back before he misses me.” Anton’s mouth pulled into a soft smile. “I would, if I were he.” * * * * Mason bit into the fleshy part at the base of his thumb to stop his shout as he shot into his palm. Occasionally, he gave in to the temptation to fantasize that the meeting turned out differently. But he usually didn’t have to alter the memory in any way. He knew if he ever saw Anton again, he would be tempted to do more than just kiss him. How far would Anton be willing to go? The question was just hypothetical. It wasn’t like their paths ever crossed. They didn’t even live in the same country. Mason cleaned himself up and emerged from the bathroom just as Miguel was saying goodbye to his sister. He was waiting on the bed by the time Miguel returned. “What did she want to talk about?” Miguel flopped down next to him. When he leaned back against the headboard, the wood creaked, and for a split second, Mason was back in the shed again. “Cinco de Mayo.” He reached for the remote control and unpaused the movie. “We’re going down to stay with her and Anton for the celebrations.” Miguel was expecting an enthusiastic response, but all Mason could muster was a sharp question. “Why?” With a small frown, Miguel glanced at him. “Why not?” “Because it’s a hassle to cross the border just for a fiesta. And if you want a good party, there are about a million around here.” “But my family isn’t. I thought you liked Pedra.” “I do like Pedra,” Mason said quickly. “You know I think your family is great. When were you thinking of leaving?” Miguel relaxed and threw an arm over Mason’s shoulders. “The first. Pedra needs help getting everything organized.” His eyes remained fixed on the TV when he added, “This is the first time she has to do it without Mom.” Mason bit his lip. What was he supposed to say to that? Screw your dead mother, I don’t want to go? He wished he could just tell Miguel the truth. He didn’t want to be so close to temptation. He didn’t take his relationship lightly, and he had never cheated on anybody in his life, but deep down inside, he thought Anton would only need to crook his finger, and Mason would follow him. “I’ll get the whole week off work.” He settled closer to Miguel. “I’ve got some time saved up.” Absently, Miguel ran his fingertips up and down Mason’s arm. It was impossible not to note the differences to Anton’s. The only calluses Miguel got were from a computer keyboard. “It’ll be worth it. You’ll see. Everybody will be there.” Everybody was Miguel’s family and friends. And Anton. But if the house was bursting with people, it would probably be easier to avoid the other man. He kept mostly to himself and to his work. Mason would just be sure to stay where Anton wasn’t. Simple as that. “Yeah. I’m sure we’ll have a great time.”