First Impressions |
Dawn Douglas
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First Impressions
M
ATTHEW
C
ARTER
walked into my life six months after I
accidentally became a household name.
I’
D BEEN
stupid enough to let a film student from the
University of Texas follow me around for a semester, waving
a camera in my face, as a favor to a friend of mine. A forensic
anthropologist, I specialize in the identification of humans
when their remains are found in advanced stages of
decomposition. Usually, it’s a lengthy, laborious process that
involves hours of research and absolutely no glamour. The
twenty-minute documentary the young idiot produced
should have been one of the most boring pieces of film ever
created. And it would have been, if two weeks before he
finished filming, I hadn’t been called in to consult on the
Klienschmidt case.
Henry Klienschmidt was a reclusive, eccentric
millionaire who died alone in his sprawling Southern Indiana
farmhouse perched on a hill in the middle of two hundred
acres of overgrown woodland and fallow cornfields. Passing
without either heirs or a will, Klienschmidt’s estate was so
tied up in red tape that his crimes probably would have gone
unnoticed forever if, during the due diligence on his assets,
an ambitious tax assessor hadn’t decided he needed to walk
every acre of the woods to make sure Klienschmidt hadn’t
hidden anything of value in them. The assessor, who was as
clumsy as he was obsessive, tripped half a mile from the
farmhouse. When he got himself back on his feet, the first
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Dawn Douglas
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thing he noticed was that he’d fallen into a poison ivy patch.
The second was that he’d tripped over a bone. A very big
bone.
Four hours and a little bit of excavation later, the
Indiana State Police had plane tickets waiting for me. Using
his daddy’s credit card, the idiot booked the seat beside
mine. I got there just in time to agree with the coroner that
the big bone was actually a human femur, and to identify
inconsistencies in the landscape that looked like thirteen
more burial mounds in addition to the five that the police
had already started uncovering.
And just like that, I ended up consulting on the
investigation of what turned out to be the most prolific serial
killer the state of Indiana had ever produced. Because of the
sensational nature of the murders—eighteen young women
over the course of twenty years—there was considerable
press during the investigation. I reluctantly allowed myself to
be interviewed a time or two, but I managed to stay in the
background for the most part.
Then, right after things started to quiet down and I’d
settled myself back at my lab in Austin, the idiot’s
documentary debuted. In what I had to assume was a
misguided attempt to thank me, he’d managed to make me
look like a modern-day Indiana Jones instead of the
exacting, meticulous asshole I knew myself to be. And worse,
he’d made the body identification process out to be some
sort of electrifying CSI/Law and Order love child. I’d been
fending off reporters, agents, and reality television producers
ever since. They were like cockroaches. If you smashed one,
you were guaranteed to wake up and find two more scuttling
along your floorboards the next morning.
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Dawn Douglas
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In the guise of “helping calm things down by letting you
escape for awhile,” the state of Texas had seized the
opportunity to capitalize on my fifteen minutes of fame and
booked me on an extended guest lecture junket. When I
realized that refusal wasn’t an option, I agreed to go. On the
bright side, all the travel gave me plenty of time to think of
creative ways to murder the idiot.
I
WAS
lecturing on taphonomy—the environmental process
that affects buried and scattered bones—at the University of
Colorado. It was in my contract that I mention the
Klienschmidt case at least five times during the course of
each lecture. At the two previous universities I visited, I’d
found an excellent way to work it into the presentation—I
went all the way through the speech as I’d prepared it, then,
at the end, chanted the word five times. Apparently, this had
earned me a bit of a reputation, and the anthropology
department chair had given me explicit instructions that my
solution wasn’t acceptable.
So I improvised. I made five tick marks on the lectern in
front of me and started the presentation by saying,
“Klienschmidt.” Then I marked off one. I was getting ready to
mark off the second when the door at the back of the lecture
hall opened.
What I noticed about him first wasn’t the way his ratty
Metallica T-shirt clung to young, corded muscles or the glint
of humor in his eyes—although those things were without a
doubt interesting. What set him apart in my eyes was the
fact that, even though he was fifteen minutes late, he didn’t
slip into a chair at the back of the room. He walked, quick
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Dawn Douglas
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but quiet, to the front row and took a seat. He was either too
cocky or too interested in the subject of the lecture to care
about the attention he was drawing to himself. Based on my
experience with undergraduates in mid-level anthropology
programs like this one, I was willing to bet on the first.
More than anything else, that was probably why I
decided to call him on the interruption. My patience, never
particularly abundant, had been stretched thin by the past
month on the lecture tour. I stopped in the middle of my
sentence and hit him with a look that, I’m not embarrassed
to say, has been known to send seasoned Texas state
troopers back a step.
“Well, it seems we have a late arrival,” I said dryly,
raising one eyebrow at the young man who’d interrupted me
before I could drop in my second Klienschmidt. “Thank you
for joining us, Mr.—?”
The boy met my eyes without flinching. “Carter.
Matthew Carter. And I’m sorry I’m late, Dr. Holt.”
The frank apology surprised me, but the sincerity in his
voice came as even more of a shock. I watched him for
another heartbeat, then nodded and continued my lecture,
reluctantly impressed to have found what appeared to be at
least one bright young mind on the speaker circuit. I finished
the talk a little under thirty minutes later. I spent most of
the time I spoke trying to ignore the undercurrent of
awareness running beneath my skin that Mr. Carter’s
presence sparked. It was a distraction without a doubt, but
not an unpleasant one. Inconvenient, yes, but not
unpleasant. And I only had to tack two Klienschmidts on to
the end.
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Passing on an offer for dinner with several members of
the university’s paleontology staff—although there was an
effeminate blond who’d been hinting at working with the
Missing Persons Identification database, my pet project,
whom I might have enjoyed spending some quality time
with—I finally made my way to my rental car, carrying my
briefcase and shaking my head. If one more person told me
how much they’d enjoyed the idiot’s documentary, I wouldn’t
be held responsible for my actions. And that was a chance I
decided the state’s insurance company would rather I not
take.
I was tempted to forego the hotel that night all together
and start back south toward Texas. This was the last leg in
my trip, and I was more than ready to get back to home
base. But I was tired and hungry, and I figured getting an
early start in the morning would be sufficient. When I looked
up and saw Matthew Carter leaning against the side of my
car, I felt a wave of very pleasant surprise, and all at once, I
wasn’t as tired anymore.
In my life I’ve had one serious relationship—my ex-wife.
It took six months of marriage for me to realize that, even
though I’d had lovers of both sexes, soft breasts would never
satisfy me the way lean planes of corded muscle could. We
parted amicably, and I’ve never had the desire to enter into
another long-term commitment. I viewed emotional
entanglements as much more work than they were worth.
When I’m attracted to someone, provided the feeling is
mutual and the timing convenient, I answer the needs of my
body. Simple as that.
I was very attracted to Matthew Carter.
Probably two or three inches under six feet, he was a
head shorter than me and had the taut, lean build of a
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swimmer. His hair was thick and shiny, cut short on the
back and sides but long enough to fall across his forehead in
front. He had high cheekbones and tan skin, and he looked
at me with a gleam of nervous interest in his gray eyes that
went straight to my dick.
Delicious.
But he was a student, and even assuming he was an
older student, he couldn’t have been more than his early
twenties. A twenty-year age difference. At best. My
conscience and my body argued with one another, and I tried
to ignore the way my stomach tightened at the sight of Mr.
Carter’s full lips curving into a tentative smile. I nodded a
greeting at him.
“Mr. Carter,” I drawled. “This is a surprise.”
The boy flushed and cleared his throat. “I—uh—wanted
to apologize again—for being late today.”
I brushed the apology away. We both knew he wasn’t
here for that. “You did that already,” I countered wryly.
Matthew swallowed. “I know, but….” He trailed off
nervously, like he wasn’t sure what to say, and then took a
deep breath. “W-would you like to get some dinner, Dr.
Holt?” he finally stammered, eyes fixed firmly on the ground.
Hm. I thought about that for a second. My instincts
were good enough to pick up on the not-at-all-subtle clues
telling me that dinner wasn’t the only thing he was
interested in, but they were also good enough to tell me that
this—approaching a man—wasn’t something Matthew did
often. Maybe not something he did ever. I took a moment to
weigh my interest in the young man with the effort it took to
deal with someone so obviously inexperienced. Under normal
circumstances, I probably would have brushed him off, but
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for reasons I didn’t fully understand, he’d captured my
attention.
I reached out and laid a hand on Matthew’s shoulder.
He jumped a little, the movement so slight I might not have
noticed at all if I hadn’t been watching for it, and his eyes
flashed up to mine. But he didn’t move away. My interest
raised another notch. Novice or not, it seemed this young
man knew what he wanted. In a heartbeat, I decided what
the hell and threw down the gauntlet.
“I was planning to order room service and eat at my
hotel,” I said, keeping my voice carefully free of inflection.
Matthew tensed slightly.
“A-are you sure? There are a lot of great restaurants
near here, and it would be my trea—”
“You’re welcome to join me, though. Or perhaps another
time?” I continued, interrupting him smoothly. I figured that
put the ball firmly in his court. He could decline easily
without having to worry about either of us being
uncomfortable. Or he could accept an offer that very clearly
included more than just a meal. I waited for a reply, idly
curious about his decision.
He was very still for a moment, then looked up at me
through his lashes. The almost feminine gesture was very
much at odds with his masculine physique and demeanor
and sent a curl of heat through my stomach that swayed my
curiosity in the direction of hope. I was surprised by how
relieved I was when Matthew smiled again and relaxed. “I’d—
like that. If you’re sure you don’t mind, Dr. Holt.”
Reaching around him, I opened the passenger door.
“Call me David,” I said by way of an answer.
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Dawn Douglas
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I spent the drive to my hotel subtly guiding Matthew
into telling me about himself. He was reluctant at first, but a
few minutes into the drive, he loosened up quite a bit. I
found out that he was twenty-two and would be graduating
with a double major—his bachelor’s degrees in biology and
anthropology—in a few months. He wasn’t sure what he
wanted to do next. From the sound of his MCAT scores,
though, which he’d been charmingly reluctant to share with
me, he would have his choice of graduate programs if that
were the direction he decided to go.
I also found out that he’d been following my work for
years, starting with a research paper when he was a
freshman that far predated the idiot’s documentary, and that
a good part of his nervousness was due to the fact that he
was a little star-struck. That made me chuckle—that always
made me chuckle, the very few times it happened. Without
thinking about it, I shook my head and patted Matthew’s
knee. “I’m certainly no one to idolize.”
His eyes widened with shock. “You’ve got to be kidding—
you’re a—rock star of forensic anthropology.”
I snorted another laugh and started to put my palm
back on the wheel but stopped abruptly when I felt
Matthew’s fingertips on the back of my hand, keeping me
from taking it off his leg. I looked sideways at the young
man. He was trying to meet my eyes and having trouble
again. Yes, definitely a novice. But a brave novice, all the
same. Taking pity on him, I let my hand relax onto his leg
and squeezed lightly, but didn’t say anything else. Neither
did Matthew.
Easy conversation resumed once we reached my hotel
room. This time, talk centered on fieldwork I’d done
throughout my career. Matthew was familiar with several of
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the cases I mentioned. He’d spent a summer interning with a
cultural anthropologist, as nearly every student in the field
did, but he’d never been able to find a forensic specialist
looking for an intern. He was fascinated about the process of
scouting a site, taking it from a crime scene to an
excavation, and then finishing with it once the earth had
given up all of her secrets.
When he got in my car, I’d expected the evening to
conclude with a physically satisfying interlude; the fact that I
was sincerely enjoying Matthew’s company was a very
pleasant surprise. In my everyday life, it was easy to forget
that he—and students like him—were the reasons I had
enjoyed the teaching portion of my career. Talking to
Matthew brought back fond memories of the enthusiasm of
undergraduates, and I made a mental note to consider
serving as a guest instructor next term.
The hotel room reserved for me as part of the lecture
package by the university wasn’t large, but it was quite high
quality. The sheets and pillows on the king bed were
plentiful and clean, the sitting room furniture was
comfortable, and the service was excellent. Matthew and I
both ordered steaks, and I think we were each surprised
when they arrived. Nothing makes time pass more quickly
than good conversation. I surprised myself by opening up
and sharing anecdotes from some of the cases I’d consulted
on, making self-depreciating jokes at the way I could get
caught up in a case and completely tune out the rest of the
world.
“You’re like an artist,” Matthew commented, eyes
glowing. “You don’t have time to think about the little things
like making polite conversation.”
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Dawn Douglas
| 11
I choked on the iced tea I was sipping. “First a rock star,
now an artist. Obviously, you need to spend more time in the
field. It’s not quite that glamorous, I’m afraid.”
Comfortable with me now, Matthew just rolled his eyes.
“You know what I mean, Dr. Holt.”
The sexual tension had diminished as we talked, but as
we neared the end of our meal, I could feel it increasing
again. I decided to wait, to watch and see what happened.
Abruptly, I realized that I didn’t want to push Matthew. I
wanted him, but I also genuinely liked him. Even if I didn’t
sleep with him, Mr. Carter had given me the gift of his
company this evening, and I was grateful for that.
It turned out I had nothing to worry about. Matthew had
already made up his mind. About two-thirds of the way
through his steak, a bite of medium rare beef poised on his
fork, Matthew broke off suddenly. All at once he looked
nervous again. “I—Dr. Holt—there’s something I want to—”
“That’s twice in the last few minutes you’ve called me
Dr. Holt. I thought I asked you to call me David,” I
interrupted gently.
He looked nonplussed for a second, then nodded. “I—
yeah—David,” he finally said. “I don’t know exactly how to
say this. I mean I’ve never—but you seemed interested—and
I want—”
Clearly, he was aggravated by his inability to convey his
thoughts. If I’d been a nicer man, I might have helped him.
But truth to tell, his fumbling was endearing.
Erotically endearing.
“You want?” I prompted.
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Matthew set his fork down with a clank and looked up
at me miserably, eyes filled with confused frustration. And at
that, I finally decided to take pity on him. “Matthew,” I began
slowly, setting my own fork down. “Do you have a—crush—
on me?”
His jaw dropped open. Literally. His chin hit his chest,
and his cheeks filled with color. The crush comment had
been a joke, an attempt to set him at ease, but I wasn’t sure
if it worked or not. Socializing with people has never been my
strong suit—I’m much better at dealing with things that have
been buried for a few decades. Just as I was beginning to
worry, a slow smile spread across Matthew’s face, and he
nodded.
“What are you going to do about it?” I asked.
“I’m not exactly sure,” Matthew admitted.
“Fair enough.” I tilted my head and stood up, food
forgotten. I held my hand out to him. A slight tremor in his
wrist was the only sign of nervousness as he put his smooth
palm in my rough one and stood. We were standing close,
not quite touching, but I could feel the warmth of his body
through our clothes.
Leaning down slowly, giving him time to move away if he
wanted to, I touched my mouth to his. I explored his lips
gently, enjoying the firm feel of them—fresh and tentative
and unsure—under mine. The skin of his face was soft, only
a hint of stubble, but it was enough to remind me how much
I enjoyed all of the delights of a man’s body. Matthew held
himself tense for a few seconds, then all at once relaxed
against me, leaning into my chest. When I felt his hands
sliding up my arms to grip my shoulders, I let my tongue
play against the seam of his closed mouth, encouraging him
to open for me.
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He tasted like steak and tea and something else that
was uniquely him. My body hardened uncomfortably in my
pants as I deepened the kiss, licking inside his mouth. I felt
more than heard Matthew gasp, fingers tightening on my
shoulders. The reaction was flattering, to say the least. I was
twenty years his senior, but at a few inches over six feet with
muscles toned from a combination of good genetics and
intense labor at my lab and excavations sites, my body was
nothing of which to be ashamed. And in forty-two years, I’d
learned a thing or two about how to use it.
I let my hands slide around Matthew’s waist and under
his T-shirt, finding the smooth skin of his back and playing
over the sleek muscles at his side and abdomen. Christ, he
was perfect. Reluctantly, I pulled my mouth away from his.
We were both panting when I did. I started to move away a
little, but Matthew followed me, tightening his arms around
my shoulders. That made my lips twitch with amusement.
He had nothing to worry about—I wasn’t going far.
I used my face to nudge his head toward one shoulder,
revealing the lightly tanned side of his neck. I turned my
attention to the newly exposed skin, licking, sucking.
Matthew shuddered in my arms when I bit at the cord of his
throat.
“Dr. Holt,” he gasped, voice rough.
I smiled against his skin. “Do you like that?”
“Yes,” Matthew moaned in reply. I could feel his erection
straining against his jeans. He was rubbing hard back and
forth against my thigh. “Please—” he continued on a breath.
I pulled his T-shirt up in response, and he let go of me
to raise his arms eagerly. As soon as it was off, he stepped
back into my embrace, and then I was kissing him again,
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leading him toward the bed and laying him on it. We rolled
together for a few minutes, tongues fighting, legs in a tangle.
We ended up with him stretched on his back, me on my side,
kneading his firm pectorals, pinching the nipples. Matthew
moaned again, his head thrashing back and forth.
“Dr. Holt, Dr. Holt,” he chanted.
I replaced one of my hands with my mouth, alternately
sucking and biting, and ran my palm down to the front of his
pants. I rubbed up and down the length of him through his
jeans for a few minutes until he was bucking against my
hand. I don’t know if he even realized what I was doing as I
unbuttoned and unzipped them. The haze of passion in his
eyes cleared a little when I told him with a motion to lift up,
and in one move I stripped the rest of his clothes from him
and threw them on the floor.
Lying naked in front of me, Matthew Carter’s body was a
thing of beauty. The fact that I was still fully clothed made
me feel powerful and in control. It was a heady sensation. I
devoured him with my eyes—starting at his sun-streaked
hair and going down to his exquisite, almost hairless chest,
sculpted abdomen, and beautiful cock—perfectly shaped,
straight and hard, rising from a light thatch of curly pubic
hair, crowned with a glistening drop of pre-cum.
“D-Dr. Holt?”
This time instead of a passion-filled moan, my name
was a question. My eyes left his dick—not an easy thing to
make them do—and went to his. And I was reminded again
of his inexperience. I trailed my fingers down his sides,
letting the pads of them brush his hard stomach and
hipbones. Matthew shook as one of my hands came to rest
just under his testicles. I pushed his legs apart a little and
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cupped his balls, squeezing and petting them gently. I
brought my other hand to his cock. Wrapping my fingers
around it, I stroked him up and down and let the pre-cum
oozing from his tip lubricate my motions.
“Have you ever been with a man, Matthew?”
“I’ve—only—a little. I’ve n-never gone all the way with a
g-guy.” My ministrations made his voice faltering and
uneven.
“What have you done?” I tightened my grip and jerked
him a little faster. With my other hand, I pushed his legs
further apart. His knees rose instinctively to give me better
access when I began playing with his perineum, occasionally
letting my fingers drop down to brush his anus. “Has anyone
touched you here?”
His breath was coming fast now, and he was pushing
his ass backwards toward me. I moved my hand away from
him, and his eyes flew open, glittering with desire. “Don’t
stop,” he panted. “Please don’t stop.”
“Then answer my question, Mr. Carter.” I hardened my
voice a little. By the way his dick swelled in my hand, he
enjoyed the subtle show of dominance.
“Th-there have been two guys. F-friends. One of them
was in high school. We just jerked one another off, and we
kissed a little.”
“And the other?”
“He—we—were roommates. Neither one of us had a
girlfriend, and we were talking about how much we wanted
someone to—” Matthew broke off, clearly embarrassed.
“Someone to what?” I pressed the tip of my finger
against his asshole at the same time I squeezed his dick. I
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thought he was going to come off the bed, but I held perfectly
still, waiting for his answer.
“Someone to go down on us.” The words came out in a
rush when he realized my movements had stopped. “We were
drinking, and one thing led to another. Please, Dr. Holt,”
Matthew begged.
I thought I’d teased him enough. I leaned forward and
kissed him again, roughly this time, and then pulled away
from his lips and turned my attention to the task in front of
me. I brought my hand up and pressed a finger against his
lips. He opened for me, big-eyed and willing, and sucked it
into his mouth. I endured the torture of his wet tongue
swirling around it for long seconds before I pulled away.
Matthew whimpered when I did.
“Shh,” I hushed him as I moved my hand back between
his legs. Gently, I worked part of my damp finger into his
body as I masturbated him. It was a while ago, but I’d been
twenty-two once upon a time. I knew he wasn’t going to last
long once I stopped teasing him and started concentrating
on making him come. I changed the angle and tightened my
grip slightly. Then I pushed in with my other hand, and
when I felt the bundle of nerves that was his prostate, curled
my finger against it and pushed. That first brush had him
screaming my name as thick ropes of semen jetted out of his
body and onto his chest and stomach. He was shuddering
and almost crying when he finished, and his dick was still
three-fourths hard. Ah, the beauty of youth. But I’d
accomplished what I wanted to—I’d made him cum. Before it
happened again, and I knew it would, I would teach him how
to pleasure me.
He was still coming down, so I went into the bathroom
and came back with a damp washcloth. I enjoyed cleaning
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Matthew up almost as much as I enjoyed getting him messy.
He really was a beautiful young man. The feel of my hands
on him was enough to bring him back to full erection, but I
knew that now he’d be able to relax and take things a little
more slowly.
Once he was clean, I threw the washcloth on to the floor
and stretched out beside Matthew again. He rolled into my
arms, and I was barely able to suppress my surprise at the
rightness of the way he felt in them. I determinedly ignored
it, though, and stroked my hand over the back of my new
lover’s curly hair. When Matthew spoke, his voice was
muffled in the side of my neck.
“I—I want to touch you too.”
“Then do it,” I countered affectionately.
I managed to stay passive, in control, while Matthew
undressed me. He explored my body tentatively at first, but
his mouth and hands grew more sure of themselves as I let
him know with quiet sounds and subtle motions how much I
was enjoying his ministrations. Sometimes I guided him with
words—“harder—yes there—gently—now, more”—but for the
most part I let him do as he pleased. When he lowered his
face to my throbbing cock and began cautiously licking it, I
finally reached the end of my control. He didn’t know how to
take me deep, but whatever he might have lacked in
experience, he more than made up for in enthusiasm.
If I had let him suck me for long, I would have exploded
in this throat. And that wasn’t what I wanted. Yet.
I pulled him up, meeting his confused hazel eyes. “Why
are you making me stop? I wanted you to—”
“It’s time to make a choice, Matthew. Do you want me
inside you?” I interrupted gently.
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Matthew’s eyes darkened with a mixture of fear and
desire, but he nodded. He turned into my body and clutched
at me almost desperately, and I felt an echoing rush of
intense emotion for the boy. I began kissing him again; it
served two purposes—letting me get hold of myself so the
next stage of our lovemaking wouldn’t be over before it
started, and helping Matthew work up the courage to let me
take him further than he’d ever been.
I seduced him with firm caresses over his shoulders and
back, letting my tongue dance with his. My hands moved
lower, and I was squeezing his perfect ass cheeks, pulling
them apart then pressing them together again. I shifted him
until he was lying on his belly and dropped lines of kisses
across his shoulders. His body was tense, and I could tell
that he was nervous. That wasn’t going to work. If I couldn’t
relax him enough to help him enjoy it, then as much as I
might want to, I wouldn’t take him.
When I’d gone to get the cloth to clean him up earlier,
I’d brought a tube of excellent lubricant back from the
bathroom with me. I reached down, picked it up, and flipped
open the top. Matthew’s ass clenched in response to the
sound. Turning his face toward me, I stretched my length
along his side and began stroking his hair.
“It’s alright, Matthew,” I soothed. Turning the bottle, I
drizzled liquid across the tense muscles of his back. “Just
relax. We’re not going to do anything you don’t want to do.” I
started massaging him in long strokes, shoulders, back, ass,
and thighs, and was rewarded when I felt the tension leaving
his body. He was moving restlessly now, rubbing himself
against the mattress. I took that as my cue to return my
attention to the place I wanted to be. I drizzled more oil,
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watching, then followed with my fingers as it dripped into the
cleft between his buttocks.
I kneaded and squeezed, parting his legs. At first I
restricted my touch to only the outside of his body, running
the tips of my fingers across and around the sensitive nerves
of his anus. I kissed his shoulder again, and when I felt him
backing toward me, his body pushing instinctively against
my hands, I penetrated him again.
Matthew moaned as I sank my finger into him, deeper
already than what I’d done before. The ring of his sphincter
was virginally tight at first but loosened as I moved my finger
in and out, rubbing and stretching him. Matthew’s moans of
pleasure echoed in my ears, and it wasn’t long before I
decided he was ready for a second finger. I worked it inside
him, scissoring and stretching. Without my telling him to,
Matthew had risen up instinctively and was in the right
position for me to take him—ass in the air, head down,
clutching the pillow. He was rocking back and forth on his
knees, fucking himself on my fingers; I could see that his
cock was painfully hard, as well.
It was time, as they say, to fish or cut bait.
“Matthew, I want to fuck you,” I told him, never stopping
my movement, dropping wet, open-mouth kisses on the
cheeks of his ass as I spoke. “Do you want that?”
His voice was a hoarse pant, but I was happy to realize
there wasn’t the slightest hesitation in it when he answered.
“Yes—I—yes. I want you inside me. I want you—filling me.
Don’t stop, God, don’t stop.”
That was all I needed to hear. I covered myself with a
condom—also obtained during my visit to the bathroom—
added a little more lube and went to my knees behind him. I
First Impressions |
Dawn Douglas
| 20
pushed forward slowly, giving his body plenty of time to
adjust to my size. It took everything I had not to just bury
myself in him, but I wanted this to be a good experience for
him. I wanted him to be desperate for me. From the sounds
he was making and his movements under me, he was well on
his way.
“Dr. Holt, oh God, Dr. Holt,” Matthew moaned.
“Am I hurting you?” The question was a gasp. Please,
God, don’t let him say I am, because I don’t think I can stop, I
thought to myself.
“No—no—feels good—feels really—good.” So I pressed
forward, filling him while he encouraged me with, “More. I
want more.”
And then, thank you, Lord, I was all the way inside him.
I held perfectly still for a long moment, letting my balls rest
against his skin. Finally, at his panted request, I started to
move in and out, fucking him slowly at first, and then
picking up speed. Matthew was still at first, but not for long.
I could tell by the way he jerked and gasped when I hit his
prostate. When he started fucking back at me, the gasps
came faster.
Together we adjusted the angle until my cock rubbed
back and forth over his prostate with every thrust, and then
Matthew was meeting me stroke for stroke, moaning
passionately. I could feel pre-cum streaming out of his cock,
wetting my skin and dripping onto the bedclothes.
“I didn’t know. God, I didn’t know,” he chanted, keening,
just this side of incoherent with pleasure. “Yes, yes, fuck me,
Dr. Holt. Please do it harder.”
And so I did.
First Impressions |
Dawn Douglas
| 21
I was riding him relentlessly now, getting close to
orgasm myself. Gritting my teeth, I changed the angle of my
hips so the head of my cock, not the shaft, bumped his
prostate, pushing on it, almost battering it, and reached
underneath him with one hand, closing my palm around his
dick again and squeezing.
It was like I’d touched him with a cattle prod. Matthew
went wild underneath me, and all at once he was coming,
pouring jets of semen onto the mattress with screaming
shudders that wracked both of us. It pushed me over the
edge. With a shout, I emptied myself into the condom while
buried in his no-longer-virgin ass. Matthew collapsed a
second later, me on top of him. I forced myself to roll to the
side, taking him with me. Still shuddering and shaking, he
curled into my chest. He was clinging to me so tightly it felt
like he was trying to crawl inside me.
And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I
didn’t mind the closeness. I craved it. I dropped light, almost
involuntary kisses on his head and held him.
“I’ve never—I never knew—how did you—I mean, you
didn’t even touch me until right at the end,” Matthew finally
whispered, still clutching my arms.
I stroked Matthew’s back and smiled into his hair, a
wave of unexpected tenderness washing over me. I’d been
with a virgin before—not many, because I usually don’t like
to take the time to teach them what to do, but a few. I’d
never felt like this, though. This boy, I wanted to rock, to
care for, to tell him that he was mine now, forever. Since I
don’t make promises I know I won’t keep, I settled for what I
could give him. I held Matthew and soothed him, whispering
soft words of praise into his ear.
First Impressions |
Dawn Douglas
| 22
He stayed with me all night. Sleepovers were something
else I almost never did, but his leaving wasn’t even a
question. We touched and caressed one another but didn’t
have sex again. He wanted to, but I knew his body needed
time to rest and adjust. The conversation we’d enjoyed
earlier resumed naturally, and in the dark hotel room I
found myself opening up to this boy more than I had to
anyone else, ever. As much as I enjoyed talking to him, I
enjoyed listening, as well. His enthusiasm rejuvenated me.
We finally fell into an exhausted sleep, Matthew cuddled in
my arms.
When we woke up, we showered together, and I relented
to his begging and took him again, even though I knew it
was going to make him sore. Sitting in the hotel restaurant
eating breakfast a couple of hours later, I cocked my eyebrow
when I noticed Matthew shifting uncomfortably on his chair.
“I do hate to say I told you so,” I said with a pointed
look.
Matthew just laughed, hazel eyes sparkling. “Maybe,” he
admitted. “But it was worth it.”
I felt a flush of pleasure at the compliment and let the
corners of my mouth twitch up in a smile. All too soon, our
meal came to an end. I needed to get on the road, and I was
sure Matthew had a life to get back to, as well. We stood up
at almost the same time and walked out to my rental car.
“Where can I take you?” I asked Matthew.
He shook his head. “I actually think I’ll walk. It’s not far,
and I need to stretch my muscles.”
I nodded and held out my hand. “It’s been a pleasure,
Mr. Carter.”
First Impressions |
Dawn Douglas
| 23
He took my hand and shook it, neither of us letting go
even after the appropriate length of time for the gesture had
passed.
“Me too, Dr. Holt,” he finally said. His hand squeezed
spasmodically. “You don’t have to—I mean—I could—”
I cut him off with a shake of my head, pulling my hand
away from his. “Don’t, Matthew,” I said, keeping my voice
gentle. “We’re at different places right now. Accept it for what
it was.”
Matthew nodded but didn’t meet my eyes. “Do you think
we’ll ever—you know—again?”
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
This apparently satisfied him, because he straightened
his shoulders and took a deep breath. “Okay, then. Have a
good trip—David. And—thank you—for being my first. I-it
wouldn’t have been the same with anyone else. I won’t ever
forget you.”
I just smiled at him and patted his shoulder, then
climbed into my car. What I wanted to say was that I would
never forget him, either, but I couldn’t do that. Saying the
words would make the strange, intense feelings I had for the
boy real, and I couldn’t handle that. Not then. Part of me
hoped he could see in my eyes what I couldn’t verbalize,
though.
And when he looked at me in silence for a long moment,
then smiled again, I thought maybe he had. I watched him
as he turned and headed out of the parking lot. He was a
remarkable young man—beautiful, intelligent, passionate.
My eyes followed him until my mobile phone rang and
shattered the moment.
First Impressions |
Dawn Douglas
| 24
I answered distractedly, not bothering to look at the
caller ID. “Holt.”
“Dr. Holt! So glad I caught you. This is Leo Sattler, from
the University of Colorado. We were talking about the
Missing Persons database. I have a proposition for you,
and—”
I forced my attention to Leo’s voice, and when I looked
up again, Matthew was gone.
I
DIDN
’
T
see him again for two and a half years, when he
walked into my office and back into my life, but that’s
another story.
About the Author
D
AWN
D
OUGLAS
moved to suburban San Antonio, Texas,
from Illinois in 2004. She realized she wasn’t in Kansas
anymore when she went to a meeting of her local Democratic
party and she and the organizer were the only ones there!
Dawn was a reporter for several years but now works in
marketing. Next to spending time with her husband and
daughter, writing anything from freelance news features to
fiction is her favorite thing to do. In 2010, Dawn placed third
in a national humor writing competition sponsored by News
Portal Corporation.
You can write to Dawn at dawndouglas1981@gmail.com or
follow her blog at
Copyright
First Impressions ©Copyright Dawn Douglas, 2011
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
4760 Preston Road
Suite 244-149
Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art by Catt Ford
This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is
illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon
conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No
part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the Publisher. To
request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite
244-149, Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
Released in the United States of America
June 2011
eBook Edition
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-025-7
