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aeroport_artSorry for the mega-long wait! Summer kinda snuck up and pounced from nowhere, and the last few weekends (my usual time to write) have been crazy and busy and full of alcohol :P
But seriously. Does everyone drink this much during summertime? I knew I loved it for a reason. I am, in fact, currently a little inebriated from some after-work drinks this evening.
At any rate, it'll make this chapter that much more relevant as I introduce to you a very sloshed, impressionable Nate Fick.
The West Coast Two-Step: Part One
MASTER POST
The West Coast Two-Step: Part Two
Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18
The next couple of hours are hazy.
Nate remembers getting in Roth’s carriage—the feel of velvet upholstery beneath his hands, mesmerizing and warm. Roth’s arm snug around Nate’s shoulder, his bare fingertips tracing pins and needles down the side of Nate’s neck.
The taste of espresso on Roth’s tongue, smoky and dark.
It could be minutes later, it could be hours. The carriage shudders to a stop, even though Nate can still feel the rattling continue in his bones. Les is heavy on top of him, in a good, engulfing kind of way.
They’re kissing. That much he can gather.
The wall at Nate’s back suddenly gives way and he gasps into Les’ mouth, pitching backwards until Les catches his arm and saves him from an ungainly tumble to the gravel-strewn ground.
Les’ laughter is warm and enthused. “God, Jerry. You trying to kill us back here?”
“Sorry, sir. I—ah, I’m terribly—“
Nate feels himself hauled upright, then prodded out the door.
Then in through another door.
There are some stairs.
They haven’t stopped kissing.
“Les,” Nate pants when Les yanks his collar down and puts his tongue right at the divot between Nate’s collarbones. His tongue is shockingly hot there, but grows cool as he licks his way up, leaving a wet trail.
Nate trips over the top stair.
“Easy, cowboy,” Les chuckles, and his affected drawl sounds so much like Brad.
God. Brad.
He might be drunk, but he hasn’t forgotten what he came to do.
Nate attacks Roth’s mouth with renewed determination. Then, with the confidence of the truly inebriated, Nate slides his hand into Roth’s back pocket, pilfers his key wallet, and slides it up the cuff of his sleeve.
“Handsy,” Roth chides, but he’s one to speak as he steers Nate towards the bedroom, walking him backwards until—huh, no more room to go, Nate’s feet hitting something solid.
Roth puts both his hands right under Nate’s ass and lifts, Nate’s legs automatically wrapping around Roth’s waist. He feels himself tipped back, then dropped.
He bounces.
They’re on Roth’s bed.
Fuck, Nate blearily thinks. They’re on his fucking bed. And Les’ mouth is everywhere—teeth tugging his earlobe, a lick beneath his Adam’s apple, a sharp nip at Nate’s collarbone.
Les makes a small, dissatisfied grunt, which confuses Nate for a second until Les follows it with a hearty suck at the side of Nate’s neck, which makes him remember—
Ah, that’s right. Brad’s hickey is right there, beneath Les’ mouth.
It’s almost too much, but in this state of mind Nate simply slides his hands up the sides of Les’ body and lets himself be taken.
Les starts to peel the layers off of him, one piece at a time like Nate is a gift to be unwrapped. First, his tailcoat goes. Then his vest—his collar, his suspenders pushed down, his waistband undone.
“You’re hard,” Les pants, almost wonderingly.
Is he? Nate looks down. Well shit, of course he is. Les is rubbing at his trousers, open-handed along his thigh where Nate’s dick is trapped down one pant leg.
“You’re gorgeous,” Les murmurs against Nate’s neck, before undoing the rest of Nate’s fly and putting his hand down there.
Nate arches, hips rocking of their own accord as his consciousness floats somewhere above him, like a disembodied spirit. He feels his cock pulled out and the relief from constrictive clothing is instantaneous. Nate sighs.
“So fucking gorgeous,” Les repeats. “And you’re mine, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Nate mindlessly agrees, wriggling under Les’ hand that’s holding Nate’s dick like he doesn’t know what to do with it. “Come on,” Nate urges. “I know you know what to do with it.”
“That so?” Les grins, then squeezing his fist up towards the head of Nate’s dick, milking out a drop of precum that he thumbs at, teasingly. He kisses Nate on the mouth, then says, “I don’t know, Nathaniel. Maybe you ought to show me what to do.”
With a quiet growl, Nate gathers moisture in the back of his throat, then spits messily into his right hand. Reaches down, pushes Les aside, and grabs hold of himself.
He hears Les breathe out noisily and feels a little bit smug. He starts to stroke himself.
“Fuck,” Les swears. The word sounds harsh and foreign when he says it. He’s certainly not a swill-mouthed ruffian like the men in Nate’s posse; Brad and Ray drop curses like pronouns, and Stafford speaks his own indecipherable brand of rudeness.
When Les swears, it doesn’t give Nate the little thrill at the base of his spine that Brad does when he’s on one of his diatribes, coolly stripping down policies or railing against whatever’s annoying him at that given moment.
Hell, Brad swears when he isn’t even thinking.
Fuck, Nate, he’s said before, words catching in his throat like it physically hurts him to say Nate’s name. He can almost feel Brad’s hand on his dick, jerking him at a punishing pace.
“Shit,” Nate says, squinching his eyes shut. He’s getting close. He fists himself harder, concentrating on the tip.
“Come on, Nathaniel,” Roth urges, and the sound of his voice throws Nate for a moment. He loses his rhythm—spits into his palm again for more lubrication, but before he can get back to business, they’re suddenly interrupted with a knock on the door.
Nate and Roth both pause, looking at one another. Roth’s face swims a little, and the ceiling behind him swirls in slow motion.
“Don’t get that,” Nate urges, wanting to come.
The door knocks once more and Roth calls over his shoulder, “Not. Now.”
A muffled response comes through. “But Mr. Roth, you told me to inform you, under any condition, if she were to pass through.”
Nate sits up with interest. He must look overeager, for Roth frowns, then presses a swift kiss to Nate’s mouth.
“Stay here,” he orders.
Nate flops back down to the mattress. He idly strokes himself, looking for all the world like a blissed out lover. His concentration, however, is fully focused on Roth’s back as he strides across the room and begins exchanging hushed tones with his valet.
“Where is she now?”
The valet mutters something Nate doesn’t catch, but Roth’s response is clear. “Have her wait in my office. I’ll be there shortly—”
Shit. If Roth’s going to need his office key, he won’t be happy to find it stuck up Nate’s sleeve. He fingers the billfold under his cuff, ready to leave it in the sheets at a moment’s notice.
Luckily, the valet says something that changes Roth’s mind. “All right, then,” Roth says quietly. “Downstairs. Don’t let her out of your sight.”
Roth shuts the door behind the valet with a quiet snick. Nate goes back to touching himself, bringing his dick back to hardness.
Roth climbs on top, expression rueful as he looks down to where Nate cups himself.
“You have no idea what you look like,” Roth sighs. “I wish we had all night.”
“No one’s making you leave,” Nate says hopefully. He’s only half-faking too, because honestly, he’s still itching for some carnal release.
“Something’s come up. I have to attend to it, and it’s going to take longer than I feel comfortable making you wait.”
“I’d wait,” he responds faintly.
But Roth just shakes his head firmly, brooking no argument. “I’m sorry, Nathaniel. I know this is abysmal timing, but work never waits.” He bends down for one last kiss, then rolls off and swings his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll have Jerry take you home. It’s the least I can do.”
Nate sits up, feeling Roth’s key wallet slide down his sleeve. “All right. But let me use the lavatory first.”
-----
Nate rounds the corner of the hallway, making his way to the bathroom.
Whoever Roth’s meeting is a woman. And how many business partners could he possibly have that are women? It has to be Cocheta, inside this very house. If he had his Army Outlaw on him, Nate has half a mind to stampede downstairs, find her, and take the shot he didn’t have the stomach for back in Reno.
Unfortunately, now is not the time and place. He’s probably too drunk to hit the side of a barn, especially with a pistol he hasn’t got. So Nate continues with his original plan and lets himself into the bathroom.
A few splashes of cold water sober him up temporarily. He wipes his face on the hanging towel, then gets right to work.
Out comes the billfold containing Roth’s keys. There are five in the wallet, and Nate makes sure to unclip the one that matches the lock of the office door.
From the ankle of his stocking, Nate withdraws the small bottle of graphite powder he’d tucked there before coming. He unrolls the piece of paper wrapped around it and smoothes it flat on the marble countertop.
The droplets of water Nate presses into the paper make for a good surface, so that when he lays the key over it and sprinkles graphite powder, a clear outline of the jagged teeth are recorded—at least Nate hopes so, that his bleary eyes aren’t just tricking him. Fuck, he’s beginning to wish he hadn’t drank so much, no matter how unbearable it felt to have Brad’s vibrating frustration aimed at him during the entire dinner.
At any rate, it just means Nate has to concentrate twice as hard now. He carefully pinches the key off the paper, dusts the powder off into the sink, and returns the item to Roth’s wallet.
What’s left is a delineation of Roth’s office door key.
Nate slips it into his trouser pocket.
The hard part done, Nate tidies up the bathroom, wiping away all traces of graphite. He gives one last touch to the stencil in his pocket, reassuring himself that it’s there, then leaves the room to go say his goodbyes to Roth, who is politely waiting in the master bedroom.
There is kissing involved, and when Roth thumbs the side of Nate’s neck it feels unusually sensitive, sparking arousal through him. Nate uses the impulse to grab Roth’s ass, simultaneously returning the key wallet as if it’d never been pilfered.
With that, Nate makes his exit.
Outside, Nate climbs into the back of Jerry’s carriage, feeling frustrated with himself. He’s still drunk, still horny. The main target of his mission recedes in the distance, while ahead of him—well, let’s just say Nate doesn’t relish the thought of going home to Brad in this volatile state. Brad seems to bring out the irrational in Nate, which is dangerous at a time when he needs to be in top form.
With a churlish flip of the latch, Nate closes his eyes against the night breeze that courses through the open window.
Good. He’s going to need to sober up before getting home.
But seriously. Does everyone drink this much during summertime? I knew I loved it for a reason. I am, in fact, currently a little inebriated from some after-work drinks this evening.
At any rate, it'll make this chapter that much more relevant as I introduce to you a very sloshed, impressionable Nate Fick.
The West Coast Two-Step: Part One
MASTER POST
The West Coast Two-Step: Part Two
Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18
The next couple of hours are hazy.
Nate remembers getting in Roth’s carriage—the feel of velvet upholstery beneath his hands, mesmerizing and warm. Roth’s arm snug around Nate’s shoulder, his bare fingertips tracing pins and needles down the side of Nate’s neck.
The taste of espresso on Roth’s tongue, smoky and dark.
It could be minutes later, it could be hours. The carriage shudders to a stop, even though Nate can still feel the rattling continue in his bones. Les is heavy on top of him, in a good, engulfing kind of way.
They’re kissing. That much he can gather.
The wall at Nate’s back suddenly gives way and he gasps into Les’ mouth, pitching backwards until Les catches his arm and saves him from an ungainly tumble to the gravel-strewn ground.
Les’ laughter is warm and enthused. “God, Jerry. You trying to kill us back here?”
“Sorry, sir. I—ah, I’m terribly—“
Nate feels himself hauled upright, then prodded out the door.
Then in through another door.
There are some stairs.
They haven’t stopped kissing.
“Les,” Nate pants when Les yanks his collar down and puts his tongue right at the divot between Nate’s collarbones. His tongue is shockingly hot there, but grows cool as he licks his way up, leaving a wet trail.
Nate trips over the top stair.
“Easy, cowboy,” Les chuckles, and his affected drawl sounds so much like Brad.
God. Brad.
He might be drunk, but he hasn’t forgotten what he came to do.
Nate attacks Roth’s mouth with renewed determination. Then, with the confidence of the truly inebriated, Nate slides his hand into Roth’s back pocket, pilfers his key wallet, and slides it up the cuff of his sleeve.
“Handsy,” Roth chides, but he’s one to speak as he steers Nate towards the bedroom, walking him backwards until—huh, no more room to go, Nate’s feet hitting something solid.
Roth puts both his hands right under Nate’s ass and lifts, Nate’s legs automatically wrapping around Roth’s waist. He feels himself tipped back, then dropped.
He bounces.
They’re on Roth’s bed.
Fuck, Nate blearily thinks. They’re on his fucking bed. And Les’ mouth is everywhere—teeth tugging his earlobe, a lick beneath his Adam’s apple, a sharp nip at Nate’s collarbone.
Les makes a small, dissatisfied grunt, which confuses Nate for a second until Les follows it with a hearty suck at the side of Nate’s neck, which makes him remember—
Ah, that’s right. Brad’s hickey is right there, beneath Les’ mouth.
It’s almost too much, but in this state of mind Nate simply slides his hands up the sides of Les’ body and lets himself be taken.
Les starts to peel the layers off of him, one piece at a time like Nate is a gift to be unwrapped. First, his tailcoat goes. Then his vest—his collar, his suspenders pushed down, his waistband undone.
“You’re hard,” Les pants, almost wonderingly.
Is he? Nate looks down. Well shit, of course he is. Les is rubbing at his trousers, open-handed along his thigh where Nate’s dick is trapped down one pant leg.
“You’re gorgeous,” Les murmurs against Nate’s neck, before undoing the rest of Nate’s fly and putting his hand down there.
Nate arches, hips rocking of their own accord as his consciousness floats somewhere above him, like a disembodied spirit. He feels his cock pulled out and the relief from constrictive clothing is instantaneous. Nate sighs.
“So fucking gorgeous,” Les repeats. “And you’re mine, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Nate mindlessly agrees, wriggling under Les’ hand that’s holding Nate’s dick like he doesn’t know what to do with it. “Come on,” Nate urges. “I know you know what to do with it.”
“That so?” Les grins, then squeezing his fist up towards the head of Nate’s dick, milking out a drop of precum that he thumbs at, teasingly. He kisses Nate on the mouth, then says, “I don’t know, Nathaniel. Maybe you ought to show me what to do.”
With a quiet growl, Nate gathers moisture in the back of his throat, then spits messily into his right hand. Reaches down, pushes Les aside, and grabs hold of himself.
He hears Les breathe out noisily and feels a little bit smug. He starts to stroke himself.
“Fuck,” Les swears. The word sounds harsh and foreign when he says it. He’s certainly not a swill-mouthed ruffian like the men in Nate’s posse; Brad and Ray drop curses like pronouns, and Stafford speaks his own indecipherable brand of rudeness.
When Les swears, it doesn’t give Nate the little thrill at the base of his spine that Brad does when he’s on one of his diatribes, coolly stripping down policies or railing against whatever’s annoying him at that given moment.
Hell, Brad swears when he isn’t even thinking.
Fuck, Nate, he’s said before, words catching in his throat like it physically hurts him to say Nate’s name. He can almost feel Brad’s hand on his dick, jerking him at a punishing pace.
“Shit,” Nate says, squinching his eyes shut. He’s getting close. He fists himself harder, concentrating on the tip.
“Come on, Nathaniel,” Roth urges, and the sound of his voice throws Nate for a moment. He loses his rhythm—spits into his palm again for more lubrication, but before he can get back to business, they’re suddenly interrupted with a knock on the door.
Nate and Roth both pause, looking at one another. Roth’s face swims a little, and the ceiling behind him swirls in slow motion.
“Don’t get that,” Nate urges, wanting to come.
The door knocks once more and Roth calls over his shoulder, “Not. Now.”
A muffled response comes through. “But Mr. Roth, you told me to inform you, under any condition, if she were to pass through.”
Nate sits up with interest. He must look overeager, for Roth frowns, then presses a swift kiss to Nate’s mouth.
“Stay here,” he orders.
Nate flops back down to the mattress. He idly strokes himself, looking for all the world like a blissed out lover. His concentration, however, is fully focused on Roth’s back as he strides across the room and begins exchanging hushed tones with his valet.
“Where is she now?”
The valet mutters something Nate doesn’t catch, but Roth’s response is clear. “Have her wait in my office. I’ll be there shortly—”
Shit. If Roth’s going to need his office key, he won’t be happy to find it stuck up Nate’s sleeve. He fingers the billfold under his cuff, ready to leave it in the sheets at a moment’s notice.
Luckily, the valet says something that changes Roth’s mind. “All right, then,” Roth says quietly. “Downstairs. Don’t let her out of your sight.”
Roth shuts the door behind the valet with a quiet snick. Nate goes back to touching himself, bringing his dick back to hardness.
Roth climbs on top, expression rueful as he looks down to where Nate cups himself.
“You have no idea what you look like,” Roth sighs. “I wish we had all night.”
“No one’s making you leave,” Nate says hopefully. He’s only half-faking too, because honestly, he’s still itching for some carnal release.
“Something’s come up. I have to attend to it, and it’s going to take longer than I feel comfortable making you wait.”
“I’d wait,” he responds faintly.
But Roth just shakes his head firmly, brooking no argument. “I’m sorry, Nathaniel. I know this is abysmal timing, but work never waits.” He bends down for one last kiss, then rolls off and swings his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll have Jerry take you home. It’s the least I can do.”
Nate sits up, feeling Roth’s key wallet slide down his sleeve. “All right. But let me use the lavatory first.”
-----
Nate rounds the corner of the hallway, making his way to the bathroom.
Whoever Roth’s meeting is a woman. And how many business partners could he possibly have that are women? It has to be Cocheta, inside this very house. If he had his Army Outlaw on him, Nate has half a mind to stampede downstairs, find her, and take the shot he didn’t have the stomach for back in Reno.
Unfortunately, now is not the time and place. He’s probably too drunk to hit the side of a barn, especially with a pistol he hasn’t got. So Nate continues with his original plan and lets himself into the bathroom.
A few splashes of cold water sober him up temporarily. He wipes his face on the hanging towel, then gets right to work.
Out comes the billfold containing Roth’s keys. There are five in the wallet, and Nate makes sure to unclip the one that matches the lock of the office door.
From the ankle of his stocking, Nate withdraws the small bottle of graphite powder he’d tucked there before coming. He unrolls the piece of paper wrapped around it and smoothes it flat on the marble countertop.
The droplets of water Nate presses into the paper make for a good surface, so that when he lays the key over it and sprinkles graphite powder, a clear outline of the jagged teeth are recorded—at least Nate hopes so, that his bleary eyes aren’t just tricking him. Fuck, he’s beginning to wish he hadn’t drank so much, no matter how unbearable it felt to have Brad’s vibrating frustration aimed at him during the entire dinner.
At any rate, it just means Nate has to concentrate twice as hard now. He carefully pinches the key off the paper, dusts the powder off into the sink, and returns the item to Roth’s wallet.
What’s left is a delineation of Roth’s office door key.
Nate slips it into his trouser pocket.
The hard part done, Nate tidies up the bathroom, wiping away all traces of graphite. He gives one last touch to the stencil in his pocket, reassuring himself that it’s there, then leaves the room to go say his goodbyes to Roth, who is politely waiting in the master bedroom.
There is kissing involved, and when Roth thumbs the side of Nate’s neck it feels unusually sensitive, sparking arousal through him. Nate uses the impulse to grab Roth’s ass, simultaneously returning the key wallet as if it’d never been pilfered.
With that, Nate makes his exit.
Outside, Nate climbs into the back of Jerry’s carriage, feeling frustrated with himself. He’s still drunk, still horny. The main target of his mission recedes in the distance, while ahead of him—well, let’s just say Nate doesn’t relish the thought of going home to Brad in this volatile state. Brad seems to bring out the irrational in Nate, which is dangerous at a time when he needs to be in top form.
With a churlish flip of the latch, Nate closes his eyes against the night breeze that courses through the open window.
Good. He’s going to need to sober up before getting home.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-06-16 05:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 05:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-16 06:29 am (UTC)“Easy, cowboy,” Les chuckles, and his affected drawl sounds so much like Brad.
God. Brad.
At least Nate still remembers him. While mauling someone else! But I suppose that's something.
Brad and Ray drop curses like pronouns, and Stafford speaks his own indecipherable brand of rudeness.
Love.
Shit. If Roth’s going to need his office key, he won’t be happy to find it stuck up Nate’s sleeve. He fingers the billfold under his cuff, ready to leave it in the sheets at a moment’s notice.
But wait, what was Nate going to do if Roth tried to take his shirt off? That seems like a little bit of a risk...
With a churlish flip of the latch, Nate closes his eyes against the night breeze that courses through the open window.
Hmph. I'm feeling quite churlish, myself.
You've nicely laid out Nate's conflicted feelings about all this. But I do not feel sorry for him at all. Not at all! Brad and I are one on this issue.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 05:17 am (UTC)Also, can i just say HIIIIIII!!! Missed you babe, always <3
no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 06:24 am (UTC)Yes, I am...not one to compromise on such things and, indeed, think Nate is being Very Misguided. Like whoa. He deserves a pretty epic bitchslap, I'm just saying.
But as always, LOVE!
no subject
Date: 2011-06-16 07:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 05:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-16 12:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 05:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 05:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-16 08:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 05:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-17 05:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 05:24 am (UTC)