Desperate Lovers by Adam Carpenter (good beach reads TXT) 📕

reading Jack’s mind, Edgar stopped the blowjob and silently guided Jack to the nearby sofa. Jack dutifully lay back on it.

He knew what was coming. Edgar slipped a towel under Jack’s ass to spare the sofa any stains and retrieved a bottle of lubricant, stowed in the top drawer of the end table. He squirted a coat of the slippery material onto his already wet cock and then slipped a lubricated finger into Jack’s asshole.

“Fuck me, Eddy,” whispered Jack.

“You think you can handle all of this?” teased Edgar. “You want all of this in your ass?”

He needn’t have asked, he knew the answer, it was just part of their dirty foreplay, and so he lifted Jack’s legs and knelt beneath him, his stiff cock pressed against Jack’s willing hole. Slowly, he pushed his stiff meat against the pliant opening, and it slid inside.

“Oh, fuck,” gasped Jack, lifting his hips to accommodate the probe in his ass. “Give it all to me.”

Edgar complied, pushing the entire length into Jack until his hips rested against Jack’s ass. He carefully pulled his dick out by an inch and then plunged it back in, all the while tugging at Jack’s sensitive nipples.

As he fucked, Jack’s tight hole enveloping his cock, Edgar began to increase the frequency of his urgent strokes, pounding Jack’s ass so that the sounds of naked flesh smacking against naked flesh filled the house.

Edgar went at Jack’s ass like a jackhammer; as if this was his only outlet for the uncertainty he was feeling over their situation. Jack, on the other hand, was willing to be used and relished the sensation of having his ass used by a monster dick.

“Yeah, fuck me, Eddy,” he said.

Suddenly, unable to control himself any longer, Jack shot a hot geyser of come, which covered his hairy chest. Coaxed by Jack’s tightening sphincter, Edgar’s own cock convulsed and blew a hot load in Jack’s ass. Spent and sweaty, Edgar collapsed on top of Jack. After a moment, he looked into Jack’s eyes.

“Thank you,” he said, kissing his partner. “I needed that.”

“Everything will be okay,” said Jack. “I promise.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Edgar, arising from the sofa. He began to gather the clothing he’d strewn about the floor.

Relaxed by the sex and unwilling to continue keeping his secret,

Edgar decided that it was time to come clean with Jack. He poured them each a glass of wine and recounted the whole story for Jack—from the mysterious history of Number Two Eldon Court to meeting Parker St. John at the Mad Hatter.

“So, that was the phone number I found?” asked Jack, slowly letting this new information sink in.

“Yes,” confessed Edgar. “I was hoping that he could help me locate the man he claims is his father.”

“And they think you’re on their side?” asked Jack.

“They at least think that I’m friendly…open to possibilities, let’s say. Although,” added Edgar with a chuckle, “I’m not sure they think that after today.”

“Edgar,” asked Jack, carefully considering the wine glass that he held in his palm, “what does all of this have to do with your book?”

“Nothing,” replied Edgar, “maybe everything. The Saunders family goes way back in San Francisco politics…dirty politics. For some reason there was a cover up at Number Two Eldon Court, something the family doesn’t want made public, and I’m going to find out what it is.”

The image of the boulder nearly crushing them on the beach suddenly flashed in Jack’s mind.

“It’s dangerous,” he said, almost to himself. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’ll be fine,” replied Edgar. He still didn’t mention the gun. Jack, he knew, would never approve. Not that Edgar approved of guns anymore than his partner did—to Edgar guns represented everything bad in society—greed, hatred and war. But he viewed his pistol as a necessary evil; a tool that he could, hopefully, be rid of once the expected furor over his exposé had subsided. For now, he kept it close, just in case.

What Edgar really needed to know was the location of George Saunders. Was he at the Hillsborough mansion or somewhere else?

Hillsborough was only thirteen miles north of Wonderland, a short drive up the peninsula, but without knowing the old man’s whereabouts for certain, Edgar was at a loss to plan his nest move.

Two nights later, as he smoked a cigarette on his front porch his one remaining vice an idea occurred to him when he spied lights in the neighboring Number Two Eldon Court. If Parker St. John insisted on playing his twisted little game, then Edgar was going to up the ante. He might have been older but, as the adage goes, he was also wiser; and Edgar was going to use his experience to get what he wanted. Edgar donned a sweat suit that he had stored away long ago and shoved gloves, a ski mask, and his pistol into the pockets of the jacket.

“I’m going for a walk,” he announced to Jack, who was cleaning up the kitchen.

“What are you wearing?” asked Jack, a grimace on his face. “I thought you threw that old thing out years ago.”

“Waste not, want not,” replied Edgar. He kissed Jack lightly and slipped out the back door into the darkness. From the tool shed in the back yard, Edgar retrieved a length of rope and exited the yard by way of the side gate. Except for the distant sound of the ocean colliding with the rocks below Eldon Court, the street was quiet. Edgar walked briskly toward Number Two. To his surprise, the door was slightly ajar and Edgar took a deep breath before donning the ski mask and entering the house. Inside, disorder reigned—the same disorder, Edgar assumed, that had brought about the disrepair of the once proud Victorian. Thick dust coated everything in sight, lending a strong odor of mustiness that assaulted Edgar’s senses. Dirty sheets covered displaced furniture, and a ladder stood abandoned, near a far wall. Dark, rust colored stains covered the wall and, with a shudder, Edgar wondered if Troy Saunders hadn’t left those sinister marks.

Yes, there were definitely ghosts here. If only Edgar could get them to