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You Rock!

By Drew Hunt

Published by

JMS Books LLC

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jms-books.com

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ISBN 9781611529180

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This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains

substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which
may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your
files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination
and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to
actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

* * * *

You Rock!

By Drew Hunt

“Good crowd tonight,” I say to a sweat-soaked Alex

Sherman—or Tank, as everyone calls him—when he gets into
the passenger seat of my Honda Civic and slams the door.

“Yeah.”
Tank begins to drum his fingertips on the dash. He huffs

out a breath, eyes facing forward. This is typical Tank behavior
when he’s distracted and has something on his mind but isn’t
ready to share. Alas, since his and the band’s return from New
York City three days ago I’ve seen a lot of distraction and
distance from my lover. Something went down while they were
there, but Tank hasn’t let on what. This naturally has set off my
insecurities and I’ve spent the past couple days dreaming up
ever more elaborate scenarios, most of which end with Tank
leaving me for someone else or…

I force my mind back to the present and tell Tank to

buckle himself in.

Tank pulls the seatbelt over his wet Vikings band T-shirt

that clings so invitingly to his wide, ripped chest. I turn away, not
wanting to cause us to have an accident before I even get us out
of the parking lot. And if the clingy T-shirt isn’t crash-causing
enough, the fact he’s pulled his hair back into a pony tail so the
back of his neck can dry just might be. I can already smell the
muskiness of my lover coming off him in pheromone-laced
waves. It’s all I can do not to put the car back in park, leap over
the console and lick every square inch of my man’s salty, fur-
coated flesh.

Yes, amazingly, Alex "Tank" Sherman—talented vocalist

of the recently discovered nu metal band The Vikings—is my
man. I shake my head. Even after three years of being a couple,
I still can’t get my head around the fact Tank is mine.
Unwelcome, the negative thoughts return and a voice tells me
Tank might not be mine for much longer. I push them away, but
know they’ll be back soon, no doubt with reinforcements.

The radio plays quietly in the background as I drive us out

of town. After each concert, Tank likes to listen to something
quiet and peaceful. He says it helps him chill and re-center. On
stage he’s every inch the bad-ass motherfucker of alternative
rock, but the real Tank, the one he only lets me see, is kind and
gentle and loving and…

Tank shifts in his seat then wipes his nose on the back of

his hand.

I give him a Kleenex. He takes it, nods and blows his

nose. Silence, save for the softly playing radio, continues.

“You so nailed ‘Rescue’,” I say when the silence becomes

uncomfortable.

“Yeah.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see him pull the hem of his T-

shirt away from his pants, no doubt to allow his stomach to dry.
I’m lucky to always get a seat in the front row at each concert, so I
know Tank always works his ass off to give the best performance
he can for his fans. I smile because I’m the one who gets to go
home with him. Or at least that’s been the case so far.

I force my mind away from the negative thoughts and

back to the discussion—if you can call it that—of “Rescue.” “Best
I’ve heard you sing it in ages.”

Concentrating on the road I feel more than see Tank’s

penetrating, denim-blue eyes zero in on me.

“It’s our song.”
I nod, putting a hand on Tank’s leather-clad knee.

“Rescue” is about us, how we met.

* * * *

I’d been in a relationship with my previous boyfriend for a

year. It hadn’t been going anywhere for about nine months of
that time but I couldn’t seem to pull myself free from the constant
circle of Jerry’s abuse and pleas for forgiveness. The one thing I
had stood firm on was not to agree to Jerry’s demands we move
in together. Jerry was a possessive bastard who believed every
man wanted in my pants and I wanted in theirs. It didn’t matter

how many times I’d told him I wasn’t interested in anyone else.
Jerry always believed what he wanted to believe.

Jerry and I went to an out-of-town biker bar to celebrate

our first anniversary. It had been Jerry’s idea. He’d heard the
beer was cheap. I’d much rather have gone to a wine bar or a
nice restaurant, but anything to keep the peace.

We entered the bar and were immediately hit by a wall of

sound: guitars, drums, and synthesizer. A quick glance over to
the far corner of the room showed a nu metal band was
performing. Much to everyone’s surprise, buttoned-up me liked
metal. Admittedly, I preferred the hair bands of the eighties, but
the newer alternative scene was okay, too. There was just
something about grinding beats, guitar riffs, and angrily delivered
lyrics that got me going. Just then, the huge vocalist stepped out
from behind the turntables. His leather pants were so tight I was
amazed he could still sing. And how deeply he sang.

But I was there with Jerry, so I devoted my attention to

him, although I will admit my eyes did stray back to the stage
every now and again.

As the evening progressed, Jerry became more and more

drunk. With every shot—whiskey was his drink of choice—he
became increasingly unpleasant.

I tuned out his snide comments about my weight and

patheticness in bed, and turned my attention to the live band.
They were impressive for a group of what I assumed were local
guys. The lead guitar and bass players seemed competent, even
inventive. The lead guitarist’s riffs were awesome. I didn’t
recognize the number they were playing; it must have been
something they’d written themselves.

But always my eyes drifted back to the long, dark brown

hair, broad shoulders, wide chest, narrow waist, and strong legs
of the vocalist, who confidently strutted his stuff at the front of the
stage. He moved with fluid grace, not easy for a man his size.
And despite the hard lyrics, delivered at volume, the man’s voice
wasn’t strained. He had control over the words, delivering them
with conviction and meaning. And the way he held that
microphone... it was like he was making love to it. I shuddered.

The man represented power, control, and more than a little
danger. I was hooked.

It didn’t take Jerry long to realize my attention wasn’t on

him. He spun me around to face him, his face red with rage. A
quick glance down confirmed his fists were clenched. I stepped
back, knowing what was coming. There was never any
reasoning with Jerry when he got like this. Jerry must have
interpreted my moving away as me ignoring him. This was
something he could never tolerate. I didn’t see his punch coming,
but I sure felt it land. It sent me sprawling to the dirty bar floor.

I heard a scream from close by, and fearing a fight was

about to break out, I began to pick myself up, determined to get
out of the way. I’d learned from bitter experience it was never a
good idea to leave myself vulnerable when Jerry was like this.

Finally on my feet again—the room spinning around me,

the music becoming less coordinated—I glanced back over to the
band. The singer leapt from the stage, his shoulder-length hair
streaming behind him. Despite everything else that was going on
around me—people pushing each other, chairs scraping and
voices raised above the loud and increasingly out-of-synch
music—I focused on the rock god steaming his way toward us.
That was the last thing I needed, more people joining in. I moved
back another step but found myself pressed up against the bar.
There were people on either side of me. I was trapped.

I felt another blow, this one just above my left eye. At least

the solid presence of the bar stopped me from falling again.
There was flashing. Had they turned on disco lights? I could hear
Jerry screaming something at me, although the dominant sound
was some kind of ringing. Very surreal.

I don’t remember much after that. Tank later told me he’d

pushed his way over, throwing aside anyone who wouldn’t or
couldn’t get out of his way. Apparently Tank had pinned Jerry
against a wall and started to beat the crap out of him. But before
he could get in many good punches the bouncers finally arrived
and broke things up.

Tank then told me he'd half-carried me to the far end of

the bar. I dimly remember sitting on a bar stool, an ice-filled

towel held above my eye. I also remember seeing Tank’s full red
lips moving. They were close and getting closer. Tank assured
me I had leaned forward and kissed him soundly. Pity I have no
memory of that, because kisses to or from Tank are always
worth remembering. If I’d been more myself I’d never have had
the balls to kiss a stranger, much less one who could snap me in
half without breaking a sweat.

* * * *

I looked at my wrist watch and let out a long sigh. We’d

been sitting in the ER waiting room for two hours. The place was
packed with genuinely sick people and here I was with a
headache and a small cut that had stopped bleeding ages ago.

“It’s okay if you want to leave. I could be hours y—”
“I’m staying,” Tank growled and crossed his arms over his

wide chest.

Tank insisted the cut had needed stitches and he was

also worried about a possible concussion. I’d protested I was
okay but I might as well have saved my breath.

So here we were, waiting, poor Tank overflowing an

orange plastic chair.

“Sorry.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What for?”
I let out a breath. “This. The waiting, you being

uncomfortable on these chairs.”

“They’re just as uncomfortable for you, and I’m not the

one who also has a headache.”

I had no idea why someone as awesome, as sexy, as

amazing as Tank would even give a man like me a second look,
much less be willing to spend time waiting with me in the ER. I was
Mr. Average. Reasonable looking, but with prematurely receding
hair, and a boring job as a paralegal, not to mention I was on the
wrong side of thirty and carrying around a few extra pounds.

Tank tilted his head to one side. “What now?”
I realized, too late, I’d been staring. “Uh, was wondering

why you don’t have any tattoos.”

Tank shifted in his seat and looked down. “Don’t like them.”
That was surprising. Everyone else in the band was inked

up. And the size of Tank’s arms would make for a perfect canvas.

Before I could think about it any further a nurse in blue

scrubs came into the room and announced, “William Prout?”

I got up to follow the rapidly disappearing nurse. To my

surprise Tank stood and followed me. The nurse tried to tell him
he couldn’t accompany me, but she, too, might as well have
saved her breath. I was quickly coming to realize that if Tank
wanted to do something…he did it.

I soon learned the real reason why Tank didn’t have any

tattoos. The doctor had just begun to stitch up my forehead when
Tank’s face went a ghostly white and he slumped to the floor in a
dead faint.

* * * *

“Blaze is a complete asshole!” Tank announces, pulling

me back from memories of that night.

I take a quick glance over at his sneering face. Is this

what he’s been brooding about for the past few miles? “What’s
he done now?”

“You didn’t hear?” Tank raises his voice. I flinch and pull

my hand away from his leg. “Sorry, babe.” Tank reaches for my
hand and kisses the knuckles.

I smile and return my hand to his knee.
On stage, Tank is a bad-ass rock vocalist, growling and

screaming his lyrics, but off-stage he’s the gentlest, kindest,
most loving and protective man I’ve ever met.

* * * *

“You’re quiet,” Tank said, resting an arm across my

shoulders as we walked out to the hospital’s parking lot.

“Been a long day.” No way would I admit I was scared of

going home. While Jerry didn’t have a key, he would most
probably be waiting outside my building, his anger fueled by

even more alcohol. “I can drop you off at home, or take you back
to the bar if your car is there.”

“You remember what that doctor said: no driving for

twenty-four hours. And he didn’t want you to be alone tonight.”

“Yes, but—”
Tank gave me a half hug. “No buts.” He pinched my ass,

making me yelp. “Except this one.”

I looked around to see if anyone saw us. But I was with

Tank, and I knew he’d step in if…

“We could go back to my apartment, but Jerry—”
“He the asswipe you came to the bar with?”
I shivered and nodded. Tank pulled me closer and kissed

the butterfly bandage on my forehead. “I’ll deal with that
tomorrow, but tonight you’re coming home with me.”

“But—”
I received a slap to my ass. “What did I say about buts?”

* * * *

Tank lets out a breath. “He started playing the wrong

fucking song at the start of our second set.”

I must have zoned out again because it takes me a few

seconds to remember Tank is talking about Blaze, the drummer.
All the other members of the band had accepted me from the
start, but for whatever reason, Blaze had taken a permanent and
instant dislike to me.

If I didn’t know better I’d believe Blaze was gay and jealous

of me for stealing Tank from him. But he was in the middle of
divorcing wife number three. He had five kids from his marriages
and at least two others from women he’d had affairs with.

Putting aside my dislike of the drummer, I try to sound

positive. “You all managed to get on track again. I’m sure the
audience just thought you were doing a bit of improv.”

Tank huffs and goes back to tapping the dash.
“Just shows what professionals you are.” Silently I

exclude Blaze from that statement, but Tank doesn’t need to
know that. The two men have been friends for years, Tank being

Blaze’s best man at each of his weddings. I give his knee
another squeeze. “And it also shows that that agent was right to
get you signed to a label.”

“We haven’t signed yet.”
Two months earlier the band had been approached by an

agent who’d picked up one of their demo CDs, had liked what
he’d heard and come to see them perform. He’d been
impressed, of course, and said he wanted to represent them and
get them signed with a label. The lead guitar and bass player
were all for it, but the DJ and Blaze were both opposed. Tank
couldn’t seem to make up his mind. I don’t know why, he won’t
ever talk about it with me. The other members, including Blaze,
sought my legal advice, even though I tried to tell them I was
only a paralegal. But after they’d insisted, I’d looked over the
contract. It seemed reasonable to me. They would be expected
to sign for three years and produce three albums; they’d get a
hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars advance on record
sales. But knowing my limitations, I’d steered them in the
direction of an entertainment lawyer.

I assumed things went well after that, as they’d flown to

New York to meet with the label’s executives. I hadn’t been able
to get time off work, although I hadn’t actually been invited to go
with them anyway. The lack of an invite hurt, even though none
of the other guys had taken their partners. I glance over at Tank,
still nervously drumming. Things haven’t been the same since
New York. What hurts the most is Tank pulling away, not wanting
to make love with me. He’s claimed tiredness and stress, but I
know there’s something else. I take comfort from the fact he
asked me to come to tonight’s concert and drive him home
afterward.

The silence stretches out between us. Sure, it’s usual for

Tank to be subdued after a performance, but this is different, and
it makes me uneasy.

In an attempt to restart the conversation, I say, “As soon

as you all got it together after Blaze’s mistake you really kicked it
up a couple notches.”

“Yeah, but I came in half a bar too early on ‘Deadly

Diversion’,” Tank says and resumes his drumming.

If there’s one thing I could change about this awesome

man it would be for him to be less self-critical. He’s a
perfectionist and is too down on himself if anything doesn’t meet
up to his exacting standards.

“I thought you were fucking amazing on stage earlier.” In a

softer voice, I add, “and I’m hoping you’ll be fucking amazing off
stage later.”

I see Tank’s beautiful smile in the mirror. “You’re only

saying that to stroke my ego.”

I match his smile, relieved he’s starting to come out of his

funk. “There’s something I’d like to stroke even more.” My hand
goes higher up his leg. He raises up to press into my touch.

A minute or so later he gasps and pushes my hand away.

“Take the next right.”

“Huh?” That isn’t the road home.
“Turn right,” Tank says, more urgently.
I flip on the signal and make the turn. What’s going on?

Where are we going? Tank’s mood has gone back to being distant.

As I continue to drive in silence, the negative thoughts

come flooding back and I feel powerless to hold them at bay. I’m
the reason Tank is undecided about signing the recording deal.
There aren’t many rockers who are out and proud. Without me,
Tank could easily pass for straight. He’s told me he’s slept with
women in the past, got one pregnant once but she decided not to
keep the baby.

“Left here.” Tank points.
We’re in the middle of nowhere. It’s late evening; I haven’t

seen a streetlamp or another vehicle for over a mile. There’s just
this dirt track with tall trees looming up on either side. I slow
down so I don’t drive us into a ditch.

Ditch. The word echoes in my head. Tank must be

ditching me now that he’s on the eve of becoming a major star.
That has to be it. That’s why he’s so nervous. I glance over at
him. He’s starting to shiver.

“Cold, babe?” I ask. The AC is on; it’s at least eighty

degrees outside.

He nods. I turn off the AC but a couple of minutes later

he’s still shivering. Tank doesn’t do drugs, so I know it isn’t
withdrawal.

Concern for the man I love easily shuts out my pity party

and I reach into the backseat for the afghan.

“Thanks.” He spreads the thick blanket over his knees and

up his chest—the chest I love to stroke, lick, and worship. Tank
has an amazing chest. Heck, everything about him is amazing. I
hold back a sob. What will I do without him?

I grip the wheel tighter and set my jaw. I wonder if he’s

picked this middle of nowhere location so if I kick up a stink when
he dumps me, no one will hear me. Because I won’t give up this
man without a fight. I’ve stood by him, supported him when the
Vikings hardly had any gigs, only performing to a handful of
drunks in dive bars. I’ve helped, directly and indirectly, over the
past three years to make them the success they are now.

I shake my head. What the hell am I thinking? Tank and I

are solid. We love each other, we say the words often and I
know he means them.

* * * *

We’d been together a couple of months—okay, seven

weeks and four days—when Tank turned to me, cupped my face
in his hands, leaned in to kiss me before saying, “I love you,
William Prout.”

Up until that point I’d prided myself on not being a girl

where Tank was concerned. I hadn’t ever spoken aloud the
classic line, “Why me when you can have anyone?” even though
I’d thought it many times. I’d puffed up with pride when Tank first
introduced me to the band as his boyfriend. I’d stayed strong
when we’d been at my apartment when the doorbell rang and it
was Jerry. Tank had dealt with the situation calmly, but I knew
there was power and a steely determination just under the
surface of his control. He’d told a bewildered Jerry that he didn’t
want Jerry anywhere near his boyfriend. Jerry had opened his

mouth to say something, but must have caught the look in Tank’s
eyes and left without another word.

But when Tank said those three magic words my

resolution to stay manly crumbled and I bawled like a girl,
pressing my face into his oh-so-wide shoulder.

“William?” Tank rubbed circles on my back. “You okay?”
“You tell me that you love me, you turn every dream I’ve

ever had about being in a relationship into reality, and you ask
me if I’m okay?” I could feel hysteria rising. “Hell, no, I’m not
okay. I’m a damn mess.” And to prove it I cried all the harder.

Okay, so when I break a resolution I shatter it and stomp

all over the pieces.

Sex, or rather lovemaking, with Tank, was always mind-

blowing, but that night—the night my awesome rock god told me
he loved me—was the best ever.

Tank gently held me at arm's length, then gave me the

tenderest of smiles that turned what little remained of my dignity
into a pile of quivering Jell-O. He ran his large hands along my
shoulders and down my arms, briefly squeezing my hands
before dropping his arms to his sides. I continued to just stare at
Tank, unable to believe my luck. This man loves me.

Tank crossed his arms and took hold of the hem of his

long-sleeve T-shirt. In one slow, fluid movement he peeled it up
his chest and over his head. He then shook his head, his long
mane of dark brown hair freeing itself and magically settling back
into place—looking as if he’d just stepped off the set of a hair-
product commercial. Okay, so I’m biased. I think Tank could
model a paper grocery sack and still look stunning.

My eyes hungrily drank in his chiseled features, his

strong, square jaw with its permanent five-o’clock shadow, down
his powerful neck to the shoulders that had to be a yard wide, his
awesome pecs, the brown nips just peeking out from the lush
carpet of brown hair that covered much of Tank’s trunk. I didn’t
used to think much about nipples but I couldn’t seem to ever get
enough of Tank’s. When we lay in bed at night after we’d made
love I would often play with his nipples, fascinated how they
could change texture and stiffness, seemingly at will.

But before I could lean in and suck on those amazing

nips, my attention was drawn to Tank’s hands. They were
undoing his belt buckle. He then lowered his zipper and pulled
down both pants and underwear.

I’d seen him naked many times since that fateful first night

when Tank had brought me home from the hospital and carried
me to his bed where all we’d done was sleep. I’d wanted to do
more but Tank had insisted we would have plenty of other
opportunities for that. He’d insisted what I’d needed most was
sleep. And, as I would soon come to realize, Tank had been
right, as he was on most things. That first night I’d slept like a
baby, safe and secure in Tank’s strong arms.

“You’re giving me that look again,” Tank said in a low,

sultry voice.

“There’s a lot to look at,” I said, sweeping my gaze over

his muscles.

My attention fixed itself on Tank’s dick which was starting

to rise to the occasion. It, like the rest of him, was big.

I admit it. I’m not fond of how my own body looks. But

then anyone, save a professional body-builder, would feel
inferior next to Tank. So before he could encourage me to strip
off my own clothes, I sank to my knees and licked the head of his
dick as it peeked out from its collar of foreskin. I hadn’t been with
an uncut guy before, and the first time I’d been up close and
personal with Tank’s dick I hadn’t known quite what to do. But
that soon changed and I couldn’t ever imagine going back to a
dick that had gone under the surgeon’s knife.

“You’re still giving me that look,” Tank’s voice rumbled

even lower in his chest.

“I’ve still got a lot to look at,” I said before leaning in and

licking a pearl of pre-cum that had gathered at his piss slit. “And
a lot to taste.”

Tank huffed out a laugh but I didn’t care, I had other, more

important, things to focus on. Getting that big boy into my mouth
and down my throat was quite a challenge, one I hadn’t, up until
that point, managed to master. I was determined this would be
the day when I would succeed.

I lost track of time as I tongue-worshiped Tank’s dick and

balls. It didn’t help that images of Tank on stage singing into his
microphone kept popping into my head. It was positively
pornographic what he did with that thing.

“Suck me, babe, please,” Tank moaned.
I got a huge kick out of how much power I was able to

wield over this guy. I held this rocker’s nuts in the palm of one
hand and his dick in the other. I could do what I wanted with
them. To prove it, I applied gentle pressure to his nuts, which
elicited the sexiest moan from Tank.

But I knew I couldn’t tease him for long. I had my secret

mission to complete. It had been impossible to find a dildo the
exact length, girth, and shape of Tank’s dick. I’m not sure what
the clerk at the sex store thought when I examined pretty much
every false phallus they had. In the end I found a dildo that came
close, so bought it, took it home and, when Tank wasn’t around,
practiced conquering my gag reflex.

Once, twice, three times I went down, taking more of Tank

in each time, but, God, the last couple of inches were the thickest.

“It’s okay, babe, you’re doing great as you are, you don’t

nee…” The fourth swallow was the charm. “Oh, Christ!” Tank
yelled, grasping the sides of my head. “You did it!”

Yes, with my airways totally blocked off, tears streaming

down my cheeks, and snot running out of my nose, I’d finally
taken all Tank had to offer. I swallowed a couple of times before
needing to come up for air.

“Wow!” Tank said, relaxing his grip on my head.
I had to give it to him; he didn’t ask me to go back down

again. But I was determined to prove I could. And I did.

As I continued to go down on my lover, I realized deep

throating was kinda like riding a bike. Once you learn how, you
never want to stop pedaling. However, I mistimed things and
Tank came much sooner than either of us expected and the
majority of his juices went straight down my throat, robbing me of
his unique flavor.

* * * *

I unconsciously lick my lips, remembering all the many

times I’ve savored Tank’s taste.

“Should be just up ahead,” Tank says. “Look out for a red-

painted sign on your right and take the little track down to the lake.”

This is the most Tank has spoken for the past twenty or

so minutes. His hands fist in the afghan, and he rolls the fabric
around his arms. I can’t help thinking that I’ve tasted him for the
last time. But when I glance quickly over to the passenger’s seat,
my fears yet again are eclipsed by my concern for Tank.

I lay the back of my hand across his forehead. He doesn’t

appear to have a temperature. I then move the hand down to
squeeze his left biceps through the blanket.

“Tank?”
“Nearly there.” He lets out a long breath.
I hope so, because whatever we’re about to arrive at is

creeping the hell out of me.

“Just over this rise.”
The Honda’s headlights sweep across calm, dark water,

then grass, before picking out a checked tablecloth with a picnic
basket at its center. I stare, uncomprehending, but have enough
presence of mind to bring the car to a halt.

With the engine off, the inside of the car is silent, save for

the ticking of the cooling engine.

Tank lets out a breath. “Well, better go and do it,” he says

more to himself than me.

Before I can ask him what it is, Tank throws aside the afghan,

unbuckles his seatbelt and is jumping out of the car. Not knowing
what else to do, I undo my own seatbelt and open my door.

Tank is there to help me out of the car, not that I need it. I

give him a confused look; he ducks his head, takes my right
hand and leads me over to the lake, the almost-full moon
reflecting off its glass-like mirrored surface. It’d be romantic if it
wasn’t so weird.

Quickly Tank walks around the blanket and lights a series

of Tiki torches that I hadn’t noticed earlier.

“You hungry?” Tank asks, kneeling on the blanket and

flipping open the lid of the picnic basket.

I’m more confused than hungry. What the hell is all this about?
“I had them put in all your favorites.” Tank digs through

the basket, and isn’t looking up at me.

“Tank?”
“They said they’d put in some of those baked potato chips

you—”

“Tank!”
He finally looks up.
“All this.” I gesture to the food, the tablecloth, the flickering

torches, the clearing in the woods, the lake. “It’s…I don’t know.
What’s going on? Are you trying to lessen the blow?”

“Blow?” His brow wrinkles in confusion.
“Of you dumping me, ’cause of the recording contract? If

I’m not around you can go back to being straight. That’d be
easier for your future success. I know you’ll be successful
because you’re an amazing singer and person and…” I grind to a
halt, determined I won’t give him the satisfaction of my tears.

The pained look on Tank’s face tells me I’ve hit the nail on

the head. Despite his on-stage persona, Tank is a sweet, caring
man. Having to do this for the sake of his career must be tearing
him up inside. Even though I feel more miserable than I can ever
remember, a big part of me still wants to comfort Tank, tell him I
understand why he has to do this. And I do understand. This is a
huge opportunity, one Tank must embrace. He’s a very talented
musician and deserves to have that talent recognized.

Despite my best efforts, I feel tears pricking at the corners

of my eyes. I turn away, not wanting Tank to see.

I begin to trudge back to the car, each step another nail in

the coffin that was my life with the amazing Alex Sherman.

“William, no!”
I keep on walking.
Tank hurries after me, catches up and tugs on my arm,

but I ignore him.

“Stop. William, stop. Look at me, God damn it!”
I spin around, my fists clenching, but I know I could never

hit Tank. Looking down, I see Tank on one knee gazing up at
me. There’s something in his right hand.

“William.” He stops, swallows, wipes his eyes, and returns

his penetrating denim-blue gaze to me. “Shit, I’d got this whole
fucking speech planned out, but…” He shakes his head. “I need
you, now more than ever. If it wasn’t for you, the band, including
me, wouldn’t be where we are now. Heck, we would’ve taken the
advances and blown the lot. But you, you showed me, us, that
wasn’t smart. I’m not smart without you.”

“So you’ve decided to sign the contract?”
Tank nods.
I close my eyes. I knew it. Yeah, it was a good deal,

especially for an unknown band. Tank says he needs me. I know
I can’t be his advisor, legal go-to guy, not without also having
Tank himself.

“William, open your eyes.”
I snap my eyes open, determined to tell him to go to hell.

But his next words floor me.

“Will you marry me?”
I open and close my mouth, but no words come out. Tank,

me, marriage? I must have misheard.

“I mean it.” Tank’s tone is growing more insistent, more

desperate. “I need you. I love you.”

I still can’t form words. Oddly, my legal brain kicks in.

Marriage between two men isn’t legal here in Texas.

Tank must be reading my thoughts because he says, “We

could marry in New York. I checked when we were there.”

I continue to stare amazed at him. Eventually I realize he

looks foolish, kneeling there.

“William?” Tank gives me the most pleading look I think

I’ve ever seen. “What do you say? I know I’m not exactly ideal
husband material, but I love you, I’ll work hard for us, I’ll keep
you safe…happy—”

Finally I manage to squeak, “Yes.”
“—healthy, safe, happy—” Tank continues.
“Yes!” I repeat more loudly.
I pull him to his feet and wrap my arms around his broad

and muscular frame. He winces. I’m not aware I have that much
strength. Kissing him with as much passion as I can—given the

recent roller coaster ride of emotions—I try to convey just how
much I want to marry this man.

“I thought you wanted to break up with me.”
“No, never. Here, put this on,” Tank says, finally breaking

away from my hug. “I hope it fits, I had to guess at your finger size.”

We both look down at the box he’s been holding all this

time. It’s empty.

“Shit!” he says. “I must have dropped it somewhere. Shit!

I’ve been planning this for days and I’ve fucked it up.”

I kiss him again. “This,” I say, taking in the torches, the

blanket and the picnic basket. “is perfect. You’re perfect.” Then I
see something glint on the ground a foot or so from where we’re
standing. I bend down to retrieve it. “This what you’re looking for?”

Tank gives me one of his most beautiful smiles. “See?

What would I do without you?”

I hope he never has to find out. “So…I waggle the fingers

of my left hand. “You going to do something with that ring?” Was
it unlucky to wear it before the ceremony? Is all this real? Am I
going to wake up in a minute and find it’s a dream?

Tank brings my fingers to his lips and kisses each in turn.

With each kiss I hear a soft, “I love you.” He then slides the gold
band onto my ring finger. It fits perfectly.

Even though I’m shaking, my mind firing in God knows

how many directions, I realize something is missing. “Did you get
a ring for yourself?” I scan the ground but don’t see anything.

“Uh, not exactly. Well, not yet.”
I look up at him in confusion. This only increases when

Tank raises his T-shirt and pulls it over his head. Instantly my
eyes take in his cobblestone abs, sweep up to his firm pecs
and… “Oh, my, God!” Tank’s left nipple has a metal barbell
through it.

“Got it done in New York,” Tank admits.
I reach out to touch it but he stays my hand.
“Be gentle. It still hurts!”
My gaze moves between Tank’s left tit and his face.

“Why? I mean you’re…” I know how afraid he is of needles.

“I thought about getting a tattoo but then figured this

would be quicker.” He winces. “It might have been, but it hurt like
a motherfucker. The guys had to hold me down while the tattoo
guy did it.”

“Why?” I ask again.
I start to explain my question—I know why the other band

members would have to hold him down—but Tank saves me the
trouble.

“I did it for you. Sure, I could have gotten a matching

wedding ring, but I wanted to do something…something that’d
show you just how committed I am to this…us.”

“Oh, Tank.”
“You’re everything to me. The label wasn’t happy about

having a gay rock star, but—”

“You told them about you, about us?”
Tank gives me a look. “Of course. You’re more important

than any recording deal.”

I swallow. Can he get any more perfect? I ask myself as

fresh tears run down my cheeks.

“The guys backed me one hundred percent. Even the

agent went to bat for us. It took some negotiating, but eventually
the suits at the label agreed.”

I nod, knowing now why Tank and the others had stayed

in New York a day longer than they’d planned.

I lean in and deliver a soft kiss to the skin just above

Tank’s left nipple. “Tank, I…”

“The tattoo guy said he would be able to replace the

barbell with a gold hoop in about six weeks.”

I nod, remembering an article I’d read about piercings and

how long it took for them to heal.

Tank cups my face in his hands. “Will you be ready in six

weeks to fly to New York and marry me?”

Yet again my mouth falls open. I nod stupidly. Yes, he can

get more perfect.

“Is that a yes?” Tank smiles. “We’ve got to go back there

anyway to sign the contracts and I’d like to take you with
us…and bring you home as my husband.”

I nod again; clear my clogged throat and say, “Yes! I love

you, Alexander Philip Sherman.”

We kiss; I give him a hug, mindful of his healing chest.
“You’re shaking,” Tank says, kissing my ear. “Are you cold?”
“No. It’s just I can’t believe all of this. It’s wonderful,

perfect, but so unexpected.”

Tank smiles. “I know. Ever since we got back I’ve been

planning this evening, shitting myself that something would go
wrong or you’d say no or—”

I kiss him to stop him rambling. “I’m saying yes and

everything is perfect. Thank you.”

My stomach lets out a rumble. I realize I haven’t eaten

anything since breakfast. I’ve been too keyed up about Tank’s
odd behavior. Now the mystery is solved, I guess my body is
telling me to get back to the business of feeding it.

Tank takes my left hand, the hand that wears his ring, and

leads me to the center of the blanket. Kneeling, he pats a space
next to him and I lower myself to the ground.

Tank searches through the picnic basket and extracts a

burger bun covered in Saran wrap. “Pulled pork and coleslaw.”

My stomach rumbles its agreement. I reach for the bun

but Tank moves it away.

“No, no. This is your special night. You aren’t going to lift

a finger.”

I raise an eyebrow; the idea of Tank feeding me is more

appealing than I would have thought.

He unwraps the sandwich, breaks a piece off and feeds it

to me. This soon proves messy, but rather than using the paper
napkins I can see in the hamper, Tank leans in and licks away
the errant food.

One lick turns to two then three. Before I know it the

sandwich is forgotten and Tank and I are trying to eat each
other’s faces. Tank is a great kisser at the best of times, but
here, in this quiet little oasis, his kisses seem to take on extra
depth and meaning. Maybe it’s also because we haven’t made
out for a few days, since before New York in fact.

“Need to fuck you,” Tank says, lifting his lips from mine to

draw breath.

“Eager much?” Okay, so I’d have preferred him to have

said he wanted to make love to me, but I guess the urgency we’re
both feeling excuses this. “Got any lube in that picnic basket?”

Tank grins.
“Thought you’d get lucky, did you?”
His grin widens and he reaches in to the basket. I wonder

when he’s packed this and how he got it here. Tank is many
things, but he’s hopeless in the kitchen. Then I remember him
saying that they had put some of my favorites in the picnic basket.

“Who are they?”
“Huh?” Tank looks up, a couple of packets of lube in his hand.
“They, the people who brought the picnic here.”
He smiles. “Jessica and her sister.”
Jessica is Blaze’s soon-to-be ex-wife.
“When she learned I was going to ask you to marry me

she said I needed to make it really romantic and suggested a
candle-lit picnic. I don’t think Blaze is very romantic with her.”

I choose to say nothing. I don’t want Blaze getting

between us, especially when I’m about to get porked by Tank’s
huge dick. Okay, so I’m anxious for the action to begin, also. So
much so I push on Tank’s shoulders, forcing him to the ground
with a humph of exhaled air. I then climb on top of him and begin
to rub my now itching ass on his leather-coated crotch.

“Eager much?” Tank throws the question back at me.
For his big dick to reach the places only it can reach, yes,

I am eager. I lift up enough to slide down my jeans and
underwear but realize I need to take off my shoes as well. This
just slows things down. In my hurried struggle to get naked I fall
off of Tank. He has the good grace not to comment or move.

I decide to tease him. “I’d have thought you’d have used

the opportunity of my absence to get your dick out.”

Immediately he fires back with, “Didn’t want to start

without you.” He smiles and follows up with, “And besides, I
didn’t want to spoil your fun.”

He’s right. I like to unwrap my gifts, and Tank’s dick,

whether soft or hard, is a gift. From the lump in his pants I can
see it’s in the latter state.

Even though it will delay my own gratification, I decide to

tease my husband-to-be by climbing back on top of him and
rubbing myself up and down his still-covered crotch. The cool,
smooth leather feels wonderful as I slide my heated skin against it.

“Why haven’t we played this game before?” I ask.
Tank bucks up into me, almost throwing me off. I guess

I’m in the classic cowboy position. Yee haw!

But after a couple of minutes riding his crotch I realize I

need it unclothed, so I climb off and get to work unbuttoning and
unzipping.

It comes as no surprise that he’s gone commando. Tank

says it’s not done to wear skivvies on stage. It probably breaks
the rock star code or something. Personally I think it’s incredibly
hot to watch him perform, knowing he’s freeballing.

“Well hello there,” I say to Tank’s dick when it pops out of

its leather prison. “You've been trapped in there for too long,
haven’t you?”

“And whose fault is that?” Tank grumbles.
“Ignore him,” I say, leaning down and kissing Tank’s dick.

“He’s just a grouch because I haven’t put out yet.” I look up. “But
I will.” I treat Tank to a wicked smile before looking back to
Tank’s center. “When he hands over the lube, that is.”

Tank’s growl of frustration has me biting my lip to try and

not laugh. He thrusts the packets at me and gives me a stare that
tells me I better not fuck around any more. Not wanting to upset
my man further I get to work greasing up first my asshole, then his
dick. The latter hasn’t lost anything of its magnificent stiffness.

We’d long ago been tested and were clean, so there was

no need for condoms. A good thing because I doubt Tank would
have wanted to waste any more time.

“At last,” he gasps when I start to sink down his rigid and

veiny pole.

“Oh, hang on, I forgot to…” I make to rise but Tank’s hands

clamp onto my thighs and force me down again. The tight grip is
likely to leave bruises but I know Tank will kiss them all better in
the morning if I ask him. “Only joking,” I smile down at him.

His expression lets me know he doesn’t appreciate my

humor. But all thoughts of teasing vanish when he thrusts up into
me and I’m filled to the max by his telephone-pole dick. Tank
loosens his grip on my thighs and I can begin to lift myself up. I
know the hands will return immediately if he thinks I’m straying
too far. I have no intention of doing that. I’m never happier than
when I’m being split open by my rock star lover.

Before Tank, I’d never been one to visit the gym on a

regular basis, but I soon discovered that I wanted to improve my
body for him. Tank had told me he didn’t care, but if I wanted to
lose weight, I had to do it for myself, not him. Whatever the
motivation, regular gym workouts mean I can keep up with Tank
in bed, or as in this case, in a clearing in a wood by a lake. I
squeeze my ass muscles, eliciting a groan of pleasure from my
man. That’s one exercise I didn’t learn at the gym.

“So fucking tight.”
“I aim to please,” I say, smiling down at him.
His long hair is spread out behind him; I don’t remember

when he untied it. All I know is that I have to lean forward to run
my fingers through it. But in doing so I put pressure on his
pierced nipple and Tank lets out a hiss of pain.

“Sorry.” I sit up.
“It’s okay. Will be great when it’s healed up and you can

play with it as much as you want.”

“Yeah.” The mental image that’s conjured up causes me

to spurt out a few drops of pre-cum that splatter on Tank’s belly.

“Ready to cum, babe?” Tank asks, taking hold of my

waving dick and giving it a few strokes.

I’m not really, but the rest of the night is ours, and

tomorrow is a Saturday so I don’t need to be at work. “Only if you
promise to fuck me again later.”

“And maybe you could fuck me?”
I’m treated to one of Tank’s special pleading smiles that

make my insides go all warm and squishy. It also sends me way
too close to the edge. I don’t usually top, it isn’t my thing, but I do
it for Tank when he asks. He doesn’t ask often, only on special
occasions. There can be no occasion more special than
agreeing to get married! I tell myself.

“Yes, Tank, yes!” I say as I teeter on the edge.
Tank’s hand on my dick speeds up, my ass clamps down

on the massive intruder inside of it, and I fire out several ropes of
pearly whiteness, at least one of which paints his barbelled left
nipple. A second or so later Tank lets out an almighty roar that
would be sure to send any mountain lions in the area running for
cover. My man is cumming; I can feel it slipping out between my
ass and his still rock-hard dick.

Reluctantly—my legs have started to cramp—I roll to the

side and Tank’s slick member slides out of my well-used ass. I
crawl up to Tank’s face and we share several deep but lazy
kisses.

The romantic mood is broken, however, when my

stomach reminds us that it hasn’t received much by way of
nourishment today.

Tank smiles before biting my bottom lip. “Time I start

feeding my baby again.”

“Only if I can feed you, too.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t argue and we raid the contents of

the picnic basket once again. I make a mental note to thank
Blaze’s wife. She has indeed picked many of my favorite foods,
as well as some of Tank’s.

“Chocolate sauce?” I ask, picking up the bottle.
Tank grins. “I asked Jessica to include that.” It’s Tank’s

turn to push me over onto my back, take off his pants then
straddle me. He then uncaps the bottle and squirts some of the
brown goo onto my chest.

My dick perks up, knowing what Tank is about to do next.

It and I aren’t disappointed when Tank treats my belly and chest
to a series of long and languid tongue strokes. He even spends
some time on my nipples; I complain this isn’t fair because I can’t
return the pleasure.

“Not yet, babe, but you will.”
I smile, thinking up some kinky uses for chocolate sauce.

Might even use squirty cream and aerosol cheese, too.

I groan. It’s going to be a long six weeks of waiting. But it’ll

be worth it.

“Come on, Mr. soon-to-be William Sherman-Prout.” Tank

pulls me to my feet. “You’re a mess. You need a bath in the lake.”

“Hey,” I dig my heels in, bringing us both to a halt. “Why

not Prout-Sherman?”

Tank gives me a look. “Sherman-Prout sounds better.”
I frown.
“Trust me, I’m a musician.”
I smile and let Tank lead me to the water, knowing he’s

right, as always.

THE END

ABOUT DREW HUNT

Having read all the decent free fiction on the net Drew

could find, he set out to try his hand at writing something himself.
Fed up reading about characters who were super-wealthy,
impossibly handsome, and incredibly well-endowed, Drew
determined to make his characters real and believable.

Drew lives a quiet life in the north of England with his cat.

Someday he hopes to meet the kind of man he writes about. If
you’re that man, or even if you’re not, Drew would like to hear from
you—

drew@drew-hunt.co.uk

. Visit him online at

drew-hunt.co.uk

ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC

JMS Books LLC is a small electronic press specializing in

gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender fiction (including erotica,
romance, and young adult), as well as popular and literary
fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. While our preference is for GLBT
stories, we accept stories containing any and all sexualities, as
well as general fiction without a romantic subplot. Visit our site at

jms-books.com

for our latest releases and submission guidelines!