Undertow - 1. Chapter 1

Sam made a mental note: reviewing jet ski safety was exponentially more difficult when the father of your teenage customer was nestled under the counter in front of you, scraping his fingernails up and down your thighs.

Scrubbing at his short, blond hair, Sam coughed into his fist. "If you get in trouble—"

"I know. Wave the red flag. You already said." The girl popped her gum. Her fingers tapped on the sandy counter. Very polite. Apparently, in between giving blowjobs to Sam on Saturdays, Tim had spent some time instilling manners in his daughter.

"Right. I said that. Just reviewing." Fingers nudged at Sam's navel, which he tried to brush away, but the teasing was taking its toll. Sweat beaded between his shoulders, and one drop slid down his bare back to the waistband of his swim trunks. Sam glanced down at the rental contract. He took evil pleasure in his next words. "Is your mom or dad around?" The light scrape of fingernails on his leg paused.

"Uh." The girl wrinkled her nose. "I'm sixteen, you know. I don't need them to sign for me."

Sixteen. It's like they were playing leapfrog. Sixteen. Twenty-six. Thirty-six. Your dad couldn't even buy a beer when you were born, sweetheart. Sam shifted his feet and jabbed Tim in the cheek with his knee. He got a pinch for his pettiness.

"I know. But if you can get one of them to sign, it'll save you the deposit."

The girl glanced left, then right. She leaned over the counter, and her long, honey hair spilled around her face. Her breasts stayed lodged in her bikini top, but it was a close thing. "Would you believe I'm more responsible than the two of them put together."

Sam nodded. "Yes. Yes, I would." He waived the security deposit, and the girl sauntered off, jet ski key in hand.

Tim waited two minutes before he moved or spoke. Sam knew because he was counting the seconds silently, and at one hundred and twenty, Tim said, "What the fuck, Sammy? A security deposit?" Warm breath skimmed up the left leg of his swim trunks. Sam's thigh muscles tightened. His cock followed suit.

He struck back the only way he knew how. "That was your daughter," he said through clenched teeth. "Your sixteen-year-old daughter nearly caught you sucking my cock." A passing beachgoer smiled at him. Sam offered a small wave in return. Took the opportunity to point at his sign. Sun-n-Surf Rentals! Come on and get wet!

Tim snaked his fingers under Sam's suit to pinch his ass. Again. "Thanks for the newsflash. Listen, I'm also going to explode if I don't touch you soon, so can we change the subject? I've been thinking about this all week. Thought Saturday would never fucking get here."

"So you could hide from your family under my counter?"

"So I could get on my knees and suck your dick." The tone had more than a hint of self-recrimination, but didn't exactly drip remorse. Sam took what he could get.

"Then what are you waiting for?"

Tim's punch of laughter was swallowed by the sound of his daughter firing up her jet ski. "Come here, Sammy." His hands did double duty – yanking Sam forward until his belly was tight to the counter while he pulled his trunks halfway down his thighs.

Plastering a bored look on his face got harder every weekend. Five clandestine blowjobs under his belt meant Tim has learned what made Sam burn. Any awkwardness was long gone – washed out to sea with Tim's guilt. Not that Sam cared one iota about that. He spread his legs when coaxed and tried to even out his breathing. Along the back of the counter, out of sight, was a wooden shelf. He'd nailed it there himself. It was meant to hold pending contracts, receipts, and the like, but he'd found it functioned well as a grab bar when the strength went out of his knees.

Like it was doing now. Sam ducked his head on a moan, coughed a little to cover it, and snuck a peak at Tim. A visual to match the sensation sparking down his thighs and across his abdomen didn't help his unsteady legs. Tim was hard at work reducing him to an inarticulate mess and over the moon about his task. He'd learned early on how Sam liked his balls worked over. Rough, confident hands and an eager tongue on his sac put him into orbit if he could wait through the slow buildup.

He rarely could. Tim undid him in a matter of minutes, had Sam begging under his breath. Plus it'd been seven days since they'd seen each other. Watching Tim lap the wrinkled skin around the base of his dick killed the last of his resolve. He unclenched one fist from the shelf and wove it through Tim's hair. "You want it?"

Tim buried his face in Sam's pubes and gave a low laugh. It rumbled through his cock, and Sam's toes curled. "Not yet," Tim said. He nudged Sam's legs further apart. "Come on. Let me in," he said, reaching with his tongue.

"Fuck. Fuck," Sam whispered, trembling all over. He opened his legs as far as he could and sank into a slight squat, then gasped when Tim's tongue found his hole. Tim's head felt huge between his thighs, and Sam knew he couldn't look normal, hunched over the counter like… well, like he was getting rimmed by a married man.

"Fuck this," he groaned and reached for the pull-cord to the bamboo blinds. They fell closed, cutting off most of the light and noise from the beach. Now the only sound was Sam's own harsh breath and the obscene, wet, grunting noises Tim was making. Much better. Free to look debauched instead of unaffected, Sam took a strong hold of the wood shelf and ground down onto Tim's face. The counter was sandy and hot from the sun, and Sam panted against it, moaning on each exhale. He clenched his legs around Tim's head. "Tim."

Tim tensed beneath him, then groaned.

The wicked tongue disappeared, the hands too, but returned a minute later in a totally different place. Neat trick. Tim pressed close, steadying him with sharp teeth on his neck and a pair of hands on his jutting prick. "Tim," Sam said, louder this time, and was rewarded with gentle nip to his collarbone.

"Shhh."

Sam huffed a laugh. "Better gag me then."

"Don't tempt me." He rubbed himself into the cleft of Sam's ass, and they both went still. "Sammy?" Tim's voice trembled on the last syllable.

As if he even need to think about it. "Okay. Yes," Sam whispered. He flapped his hand at the file drawer near Tim's elbow. "In there." He dropped his head back onto his arms.

"I have it," Tim said a moment later. Breathing erratically and dripping sweat onto Sam's back, he popped the top on the lube. Sam looked back in time to watch him squirt some onto his fingers and fumble the cap closed. Then, nothing.

Sam gave it fifteen seconds. "You okay?" He watched Tim rub the lube between his fingers, too pensively for Sam's taste. "Tim?"

Tim gulped. Trace broken, he reached forward, grabbed a handful of Sam's hair and pushed his head back down. "Yeah. Just relax. I'm going to take my time here."

"Um…okay. Not too much time, right?"

"Sam." Tim smacked one butt cheek. "You're going to be the death of me. Now relax, and for God's sake, don't fucking talk. You know what that does to me."

"Okay."

"Shut up."

"Okay."

Tim's fingers skimmed across his hole, once, twice, then slipped inside. Sam bit down on his wrist, hoping he could keep his orgasm at bay without gnawing a hole in his arm. Tim didn't make it easy. The two fingers explored until Sam's knees were knocking together, and he couldn't hold back a sharp cry when he felt the rough pad of Tim's thumb tease the head of his cock. He slapped it away. "Don't."

"Christ, you make me hot." Tim licked a path to Sam's ear. His thumb returned to spread the welling moisture around the head of Sam's prick. "Don't want to stop. Want to hear you lose it." True to his word, he wrapped his fist tight around Sam and pumped him, slowly, in perfect time with the fingers petting his prostate.

Sam kept quiet until the last moment, when his balls were tingling and drawn tight up against his body and his cock was dripping freely. "Come on," Tim coaxed, panting and pumping. "Come on."

Sam ducked his head and blinked through sweat tears to watch Tim bring him off. "Oh fuck, yeah," he rasped. Tim answered him with a growl and pressed his fingers deep. His other hand raced up and down Sam's cock, moving twice as fast as before. Giving in, Sam cried out, "Tim!" and came, shooting three quick, strong spurts onto the floor before Tim angled his prick upward, so that the last of his come leaked out in several smaller, weaker pulses to coat Tim's fingers.

And it was done. Not their usual Saturday routine, save Tim's ability to beat the learning curve. He played Sam better each time, and why was that so fucking scary?

Sam stayed puddled on the counter, head cradled on his forearms, sweat dripping over his sandy cheeks and into his eyes, while Tim pulled away, letting cool air in where a moment before there'd been hot flesh. "Jesus," Sam croaked, then shuddered when Tim lifted him up against his chest. "Do you need—?"

"No." The arms around his waist tightened. "You put me right over when you said my name. God, Sammy." Tim tilted his head forward to rest between Sam's shoulder blades for a moment, them swiped his Coke off the counter and took a long swig. Sam held his tongue when Tim used a new Sun-n-Surf beach towel as a napkin.

That was when their routine took another detour.

Tim turned him, and Sam followed bonelessly. His trunks were still around his ankles, and he left them there, murmuring something sappy (and unintelligible, thank fucking god) when Tim pulled him close. Tim's swimsuit was gone altogether, but before Sam could wonder when that had happened, Tim's fingers were on his chin, tilting it up.

They'd never kissed. Not because of some agreement or ridiculous code of ethics; they'd just always skipped that part. Tim was in too much of a hurry to get on his knees, and Sam hadn't found any reason to discourage that kind of enthusiasm, not that he would've minded being kissed beforehand. But post-fuck kisses were different than sloppy, desperate pre-fuck kisses – mostly because they weren't about fucking.

Which was damn dangerous. Something Sam realized right at the same time he discovered that Tim's mouth was as good for kissing as it was for everything else. He only let Sam breathe when 'lightheadedness' edged toward 'death by lack of oxygen', and spent as much time licking at Sam's lips as he did exploring his mouth. It was back and forth, give and take, exactly what Sam craved, and he wondered…how the hell did Tim know?

Tim curled his hands around Sam's neck, and his thumbs brushed over his jaw. "Sam," he breathed, putting them forehead to forehead. "I think…"

Sam waited.

"Things have to change," Tim said, pulling back. His hair was sticking up in short tufts, and before he could smother the affectionate gesture, Sam patted it flat.

"Is that so?" Sam could be flip. He was twenty-six and had his own business on the beach. He owned flip. "What were you thinking? Sundays instead? Don’t you do church or something?"

"That's not what I meant." Tim rolled his hips. Sam's dick twitched, then began to swell. Still wet and sticky, it grazed Tim's own damp groin. Smiling, Tim rocked them together once before retreating. "I meant," he ducked to kiss Sam again, "I want to see you before next weekend."

Sam's fingers tightened on Tim's hips. "Um."

"It's like this." Tim forged ahead. "You're in my head all the damn time."

"Well," Sam stuttered, "you need to get out more."

"That's what I'm trying to do."

"No." Sam shook his head. Tim's wandering fingers derailed his protest. "That's not what I meant. Stop that!" He batted Tim's hands off his ass and pulled up his trunks. "You're married. You have a daughter. I just rented her a jet ski," he hissed in a loud whisper.

Tim's eyebrows shot up. He answered in the same strained, hushed tone. "So it's okay to fuck in your little shack, with my wife and daughter fifty yards away, but not okay to meet me for dinner, when they're in the next county?"

A swell of voices nearby gave them both pause, but the group moved on. Sam counted to sixty, partly for privacy, partly for patience. And partly to get a handle on his emotions so he could lie through his teeth. "We're fucking, not dating. There's nothing emotional about this."

"There's not?" Tim's jaw hardened. "Are you sure?"

Sam's mouth fell open. "Jesus, Tim! Do you really want that?"

The slide of bare feet on wood paralyzed them both just as a key rattled onto the counter on the opposite side of the blinds. Tim glared at Sam, and Sam glared back, the question of their intimate non-intimacy still hanging in the air. The bamboo blinds began to shake, and a voice called out, "Hello?"

Tim hissed, dropped to a crouch, and slithered under the counter while Sam rolled his eyes. "Just a minute!" He yanked the blinds open to Tim's daughter, flushed and still dripping warm Gulf water. Sam plastered a smile on his face. The girl grinned back. She had Tim's eyes.

"Did you have fun?" Sam asked.

"A blast. Thanks. I wish I could afford it more often."

"Tell you what," Sam said, feeling reckless. "I have a special going. Buy two sessions, third one is free."

"That's for adult riders only." She pointed to the chalkboard hanging on the side of the shack, where Sam had his prices and specials listed.

Sam swept her key off the counter and replaced it on a hook behind him. "Thought you said you were responsible." He winked.

His sincerity registered a minute later, and her eyes lit up. "I am! Cool! Thank you!" She bounced in place, clapped her hands, and Sam was so caught up in the moment, he didn't notice when she went still. "What's that?" she asked, pointing behind him.

"Huh?" Sam glanced over his shoulder. Tim's suit was a twisted mass of material in the middle of the floor. "That's…my swimsuit," Sam said finally, voice thick with dread.

"That is so weird," the girl said. She jabbed at the air with her finger. "My dad has that exact same suit."

Hysterical laughter bubbled up Sam's throat. "What a coincidence."

"Wait till I tell him that the hottie at the rental shack wears the same trunks he does. He'll think he's cool or something."

Sam blinked, then jumped when Tim touched his leg. "Um…thank you?"

"You're welcome. Hey, are you busy later?" She leaned over the counter. The bikini held. Barely. "We're staying until after dinner, and my parents won't miss me if I disappear for awhile."

"Oh." The hand on Sam's thigh tightened possessively, and the urge to laugh was unbearable. "I'm sorry. You're very sweet, but—"

She pouted. "Too young?"

That would do. "Right. Too young."

"It was worth a try," she said, flipping her hair. Sam ducked out of the way before it whipped against his face. "Maybe you'll change your mind."

Sam reached for the cord to the blinds. "Have a nice day," he said before letting the bamboo roll down. He was listening so intently for receding footsteps that he missed Tim sliding out from beneath the counter.

"Damn," Tim whispered. "This can't go on." To Sam's questioning look he said, "I've got sand everywhere."

It was easy to blame the sudden tightness in his chest on anger, so Sam did. "You think this is funny?"

"Am I laughing?" Tim brushed at his arms and legs. "Sam," he said with a sigh, "there are some things you don't understand. I know what you're thinking. But the truth is my wife doesn't care about…" He gestured back and forth between them.

The countertop pressed into Sam's back, solid and just the right height to lean on. He hoped his laugh sounded as bitter as it tasted. "How naïve do you think I am?"

Tim planted his feet and crossed his arms over his chest. He'd yet to retrieve his suit from the floor. "She knows."

"She knows," Sam repeated. He worked his tongue into his cheek, but didn’t echo Tim's stance. Why the hell should he feel defensive? He wasn't married. He wasn't cheating. "She knows that every Saturday for the past month you've been getting off with another guy while she works on her Coppertone tan?"

Finally, Tim dropped his eyes. Bastard. "Not exactly."

"And your daughter?"

"She has no idea. That's something Lisa and I agreed on."

"Way to compromise." Sam turned back to the counter and began sorting through the next day's reservations. When had his life become a soap opera? He gave up the pretense of reading and shoved the stack of papers aside. "You are seriously fucked up."

Tim hooked his trunks off the floor, shook them out, and stepped into them. "I know." Sam tensed when he reached out, but already his body betrayed his good sense. Tim's skin against his set his heart tripping faster. "I want to give you something," Tim said, cupping Sam's face in his hands.

Again? was the breezy response that flew to Sam's lips, but he bit it back. Still, the thought made something hot uncoil in his stomach and snake between his legs. "And what would that be?"

Tim grabbed a piece of scrap paper off the counter. He scratched something using Sam's aqua Sun-n-Surf pencil but didn't hand it over immediately. Instead, he stared at it, a small frown on his face. "Listen," he said, voice catching on the last syllable, "I've never done this before. This is exactly what I promised Lisa I would never do, so if you're condemning me, well…you have the right." In slow motion, he held the note out to Sam. "Take it. Call me. Please."

Sam did, vowing to rip it up the moment Tim slipped out the back door.

"Please, Sam. I want more than this, don't you? I need more than this. I need you." Sparing them both Sam's answer, he slipped away.

Sam popped the top on his cooler and indulged in a rare mid-afternoon beer. He drank it in four gulps, not once looking at the paper still clutched in his opposite hand. The empty can gave with a satisfying crunch when he squeezed, but the scrap paper crumpled without a sound. He threw both away.

An hour later, he fished the note out of the trash, shook off the drops of spilled beer, and spread it out near the back of the counter. The digits were stained, but readable.

By closing time, he had them memorized.