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giving Hank the disconcerting feeling
    that he‘d somehow just read his mind. Russell moved his hands over Hank‘s skin,
    stroking along his hips and ass. He circled the puckered entrance and played down the
    sensitive skin between his ass and balls, his mouth still locked tight over Hank‘s
    throbbing cock.
    Russell moved his fingers back to Hank‘s entrance, again teasing and circling,
    finally pressing the tip of his finger just inside. Hank opened his mouth with a thought
    to protest the invasion, but found he couldn‘t form any coherent words. ―Ah,‖ he
    managed, and ―mmmph…‖
    As Russell held, stroked, sucked and teased him, speech continued to elude Hank,
    and finally thought did as well. He surrendered himself to the white hot pleasure
    eddying through his body. He was sweating and felt dizzy and his heart was beating
    far too fast. He realized he was trembling and he couldn‘t seem to catch his breath.
    His balls were tight and he knew Russell couldn‘t pull him back from the brink this
    time. Seconds before he came, the wet, perfect suction was withdrawn, replaced by
    insistent fingers that literally pulled the come from him.
    ―That‘s right,‖ he heard Russell say over the blood pounding in his ears. ―Come for
    me, Hank. You‘ve earned it.‖ Hank‘s body was wracked with spasms and he cried out,
    nearly doubling over as the most powerful orgasm he‘d ever had ripped through his
    body. He gripped Russell‘s shoulders, holding on to keep from falling. When the
    spasms finally subsided, he sagged against Russell, his ankles still tangled in his jeans.
    He felt Russell turn him and pull him down until he was on the larger man‘s lap,
    his back against Russell‘s chest. He was awash in sensation, endorphins rippling
    through his blood, while at the same time his body was limp, as if his bones and
    muscles had melted in the heat of his climax.
    Unable to do anything else, he lay heavily in Russell‘s arms. As thought began to
    return, confusion came along with it. What the hell had happened? Instead of feeling
    his usual power rush after using a whore, he felt totally drained. Without realizing it,
    Hank Seeley, who‘d never cried past the age of eight, not even when Reese had walked
    out for good, felt tears welling into his eyes. Angrily he blinked them back and tried to
    sit up.
    Russell put his arms around him and held him tight. ―Let go of me,‖ Hank
    protested, the tears again threatening. ―You did your job, now let me up.‖ His voice
    came out strangled and thick. What the hell was happening to him?
    ―Shh,‖ Russell whispered. ―Just rest, Hank. Take it easy. I‘m in no hurry.‖ He
    leaned down, nuzzling Hank‘s neck, his arms still around him. His touch was both
    strong and tender, his voice kind.
    That gentle touch, something all too rare in his life, suddenly brought Hank back to
    one of the few good memories he had of his father, though the memory was bittersweet.
    It had been at the funeral of Hank‘s maternal grandfather, the one person Hank ever
    truly loved. Hank was eight, and already had learned big boys didn‘t cry or show any
    emotion whatsoever, as they would only be dismissed or berated.
    He sat hunched over in misery on the hard wooden pew at the church, the finality
    of Pop‘s death suddenly hitting him like a punch in the stomach. It was then he truly
    understood he would never again go fishing with Pop, or listen to his crazy stories
    about when he was a kid and had to walk five miles uphill both ways to school. Pop
    would never again ruffle his hair, or rub his scruffy chin lightly against Hank‘s nose in
    lieu of a kiss goodnight.
    Hank furiously willed himself not to cry, trying to distract himself by thinking
    about the new bike he had waiting at home, when his father‘s hand came to rest gently
    on Hank‘s shoulder. His father rarely touched him, except in anger when he‘d had too
    much to drink, and Hank was being a pest. But now his touch