A "unicorn" as defined by the smart asses at Urban Dictionary as:
She wondered how her life could get so complicated just as she'd finally decided what she wanted. Jack. She had to do it before she backed out. Jaw set, she stood.
“Where ya going baby?” He tugged her back down, pressed her back onto the thick rug. She looked up at him. He had his arms on either side of her and leaned down, brushing his lips against hers. “Stay.” He whispered.
“Okay but I have,” he cut her off with a kiss so fierce, so intense she moaned. His tongue swept into her mouth, lips firm against hers. He intoxicated her and brought her release all at once. She put her feet on the floor, needing to feel something solid, something to assure herself she hadn’t floated away on a cloud of desire from the mere touch of his mouth on hers. She broke away.
“Wow. What was that for? Not that I’m complaining.”
He grinned, making his eyes sparkle, in turn making her core begin its usual meltdown around him. He ran a finger down her face. The look in his eyes alarmed her—it contained regret, and very little hope.
She propped up on her elbows. “What? Really Jack why did you do that? We haven’t touched each other in nearly two years. Why now?”
“Because you needed it.”
She made a frustrated sound and looked away from him. He pushed her back onto the rug again, in one swift movement had her hands pinned over her head. She struggled against him. “Fuck you, Jack. Let me go.” Her earlier resolve seemed to have vanished. Confusion flooded her brain. But her body thrummed, recognizing and loving his power over her. “Okay. If you insist.” He possessed her mouth once more, ran a hand down her breast, flicked her nipple while keeping her wrists still under his grasp. She shifted, wrapped a leg around his waist. His need pressed against her body and she arched into it, her world once again a swirl of dark emotion—a darkness she let herself own, gladly and willingly.
The hand slipped inside her shorts, reached her sex, pressed against it. Sara sighed. “You take orders very well,” she whispered into his neck as her long-neglected body fielded its first true release since…well, since the last time she’d been with him. He pressed fingers high into her, making her bite down on a squeal of pleasure. “May I? Please?”
Behind the Scenes with The Realtors
The Beer Festival (Blake meets Rob)
Blake stumbled, nearly fell onto the concrete which had suddenly buckled under his feet. He grimaced and braced himself against a metal pole holding up one of the hundreds of tents in the street. “Hey man, you okay?” A random voice filled his ear. He nodded, waving the stranger away, unwilling to speak, lest he puke. Or cry like a little kid.
The crowd flowed around him. He held onto the cool metal for dear life, willed himself sober. Didn’t work. Never had. He ran a hand down his face, forced himself to get a grip. Christ almighty she was just a woman. A god damned female. He gulped, his hands curled into fists, still feeling her skin, her silky hair, heard her voice, her laugh, her…”Fuck!” He yelled, and pushed away from the tent, launched himself into the throng.
He smiled at the guy behind the nearest beer booth, shoved his sample cup across the portable bar. “Whatever you’ve got that’s hoppy.” The guy started babbling but Blake had stopped listening. The same words kept pounding his nerve endings. “It’s over Blake. I can’t be what you need me to be. I’m sorry. I don’t love you.”
He groaned, and sucked back the bitter brew, moving on to the next booth and the next filling, drinking, talking and hearing nothing but “I don’t love you” over and over and over again. After another hour, he saw double and even triple. How he came to be sitting at a table, head in his hands, he never remembered. But he later acknowledged it as the moment that his life changed forever.
“Hey, you all right?” Blake sat up, winced at the wave of nausea that flowed through him and tried to focus on the tall, blond man now kneeling next to the chair.
“No. Go ‘way.” He waved the guy off, tried to stand. “Whoa.” He sat, quickly, or more likely fell back in the seat. “Shit.” He glared up into the sunlight, pain already stabbing behind his eyes. “You are really….tall.” The man smiled, and Blake had a minute of something like…”Oh hell, I’m gonna hurl.” He lurched up and stumbled around the back of the nearest tent, and emptied his stomach, mostly liquid, onto the curb. He sat, wiping his mouth, feeling like the world’s largest loser, until the edges of his vision dimmed and went black.
Sunlight pierced the fog of his brain. Blake tried to figure out where the hell he was, but all he knew at that moment was agony. A hangover headache to end all headaches had his skull in a vise. He groaned and sat up, nearly losing the epic battle to keep the contents of his stomach in place. “Welcome back sleeping beauty.” He glared up at the really good looking guy who towered over him, a glass of fizzy liquid in one hand, a soccer ball in the other. “Here. Drink this. Trust me.” Blake took the glass, sipped it and tried to put it on the table. The other man stopped him. “Nope. Finish it then lie back down for another few hours. It’s your only hope.”
Blake glared at the guy, gulped it down, moaned and laid back. A blanket found its way up his body, a hand landed on his shoulder and he leaned into it as if on reflex as the room faded again.
The unmistakable sound of a British voice calling a soccer game drug Blake awake again. He blinked up at the ceiling, took inventory of his head, his stomach, found that he might live after all and sat up. The strange man, his savior, or perhaps a serial killer who preyed on drunk men at beer festivals, tossed a soccer ball from hand to hand, intent on the large television in front of him. Blake got to his feet, shaky but needing to find a bathroom.
“End of the hall,” the man pointed to the left. “Take your time. Towels are in the cabinet.” Blake had about a millisecond of worry, then shrugged. If the guy wanted to kill him he had already passed on too many opportunities. He took a longer look, fully appreciating the man’s long legs, bare up to a pair of soccer shorts, and his equally bare torso, lean and cut. He shook his head at himself. Cut the shit Thornton. Get a shower. Get out. Go home. Face reality.
He emerged, toweling his hair, back in his filthy jeans, embarrassed beyond belief. “I’m sorry. Uh, I don’t even know your…”
“Rob,” The guy stood at the far end of the hall and Blake did another double take. Jesus Christ but the man was a perfect specimen. Bright yellow hair cut short, small hoop earring in one ear, a dark green tattoo of a hop flower gracing his left pec. Blake gulped, suddenly very uncomfortable and incredibly horny.
“You’re a brewer?” He nodded to the tatt. Taking a step towards the man, reaching out, compelled by something he couldn’t identify but would later thank everything he held holy. Rob's nearly hairless skin pebbled under Blake’s touch. He ran fingertips over the outlines of the intricate art on the man’s—on Rob’s—flesh. He sighed, closed the distance between them and let his hand wander up, grip the impossibly handsome rescuer’s neck. “You are really tall,” he whispered, before leaning in and capturing full lips with a kiss. Keeping it light, non-committal, he explored, and Rob let him.
He tasted coffee, salt, toothpaste, but the feel of a man’s firm hard body under his hands again made him moan and his cock stiffen faster than it had in months. He groaned as Rob put a hand on his zipper, and another to his cheek, stopping the kiss but keeping their lips within centimeters of each other. “I loved watching you sleep.” He whispered, running a rough thumb over Blake’s lower lip. “But you should probably go.” He stepped back, leaving Blake empty handed. He slumped, put his hands on his hips.
“Sorry.” He mumbled, and turned away. “Can I borrow a shirt? Mine is, ah…” he gasped at the feel of strong hands on his shoulders, turning him slowly, pulling him close. “Oh shit…Rob.”
“Sh…” Rob whispered, before covering his mouth, sweeping into his mouth, drowning out the sorrow, the anger, everything but the taste and feel of pure, unadulterated male. He slid hands down Blake’s back, clutched his ass. And the sounds of their moans as hot flesh met heat, as Blake’s magically discarded jeans got left behind on the hardwood floor and Blake’s life began, all over again was all he heard. And all he needed to hear.