Tempting Memory

Jude looked through the window of the cab, the world beyond the window still a bit foggy in his brain, although he was beginning to sober up. He was home. Not his home, of course. This continued to be Bronson’s apartment house. Nice enough, but nothing fancy. Bronson had put all of his eggs in the Logjam basket, and as they started down the other side of the peak of success, his fortunes had slid a bit too. For thirty years, everything that he had and was able to do had been invested in Jude.

And the sex had been good that long—well, almost that long. Bronson always seemed tired now. Jude had always come home for the cock. He was home again. He turned his arm to where he could see the forearm and the address and telephone number written on it in ink. He could feel his cock harden. The young blond was fresh, a new, big cock. Jude could still feel the sensation of running his hand over the length of the young drummer’s cock through the tight material of the guy’s jeans. Jude was in heat. A real groupie for Jude, not just in what he said and offered, but because he had mimicked Jude’s signature look. He’d give Jude everything Jude wanted. Bronson hadn’t . . . not for weeks.