Lower Than the Heart

He ate a leisurely breakfast after only five hours of sleep and sat in the cottage’s combination kitchen and dining room and looked out on the ocean and watched, Scandinavian movie style, the waves gently roll into the sand. He didn’t even think much in the way of thoughts. He knew he should have thought about what Buster had said concerning his life and what he needed and was avoiding. But all of that was counter to what Buster had done for—no, not for, to—Trent the previous day. That was the confusing part. He had treated Trent like he was just some convenient hole for him to get off in—and, god, could the man reload and go again fast. Leaving aside anything he said—and all of that so much more direct and ribald than Trent had ever heard before—what he actually did was just use Trent. And he used him roughly and impersonally.

And yet, now, when Trent could go back to Washington early and get right back to work and save a few expensive production days at the theater, he was dawdling. He told himself it was to get his father’s tackle box fixed. But as soon as he’d said that, he gave that same horselaugh Buster had.

No, Trent knew he definitely was still here this morning because he wanted to go back and be fucked again the way Buster had fucked him before—and not just once. So, how did that set with the life’s advice Buster had given him?—that love wasn’t the answer for a man; a buried cock and an ejaculation were. That it was all about something lower than the heart. He didn’t want to even begin to unravel that one today.