Loving Edits Read online

  “Please.” Paul’s muffled cry sounded needy even to his own ears. He tilted his hips and spread his legs, wanton and unashamed of his needs as he rutted back and forth against the Spaniard. Mick straddled him and pushed his cock at Paul, rubbing it back and forth across Paul’s lips so he could taste the drops of pre-come that were coating the bulbous head.

  “Missed this,” Paul mumbled. “Missed you,” he said again, licking up each drop of clear fluid, making wet, smacking noises as he savored his former lover’s taste. “Give it to me,” he begged, opening his mouth to accept Mick’s engorged cock.

  Paul was too close and barely able to hold back. He felt himself shooting in a gush, filling Tono’s mouth as he swallowed him down effortlessly. Tono pulled away and reached for Mick, tonguing the puckered, pink skin that quivered in anticipation, and when he’d moistened the area sufficiently, he positioned his cock, even as Mick continued to fuck Paul in the mouth. Tono breached him forcefully, pausing to give Mick a few seconds to adjust before he stepped up his movements. Mick gasped and hooked his right hand around Tono’s waist to bring him even closer, urging him to fuck him harder and deeper in a voice gone ragged with desire.

  Paul was still coming down from his high, but Mick’s voice and the thought of what Tono was doing while he had Mick down his throat was making him hard again. Mick pushed in and out of Paul’s mouth in tandem with Tono’s thrusting, while Paul just sucked harder. He allowed Mick to control the movements while he took his own cock in hand and began to snap his hips violently in an effort to catch up with the other two. Soon the room was filled with the sounds of three men grunting and huffing out strangled breaths as they chased the triple orgasms that began as a slow burn that flamed into an inferno of sensation, igniting their bodies from the inside out. They were hot and sweaty and reeked of sex and need. The explosion of semen from three different sources happened almost at the same time, causing each one to cry out in a different way. They collapsed in a tangle of limbs; boneless, gasping, and panting in exhaustion.

  “Jesus,” Mick moaned.

  “Welcome home, babe,” Paul whispered, cradling Mick against his chest.

  Tono pulled Mick away suddenly, cocooning him within his strong arms and legs in a primitive display of possession.

  “Mio,” he growled, narrowing his eyes and waiting to see how Paul would react, but the blond had fallen asleep with a smile on his face.

  Mick pressed closer, caressing Tono’s face. “Soy tuyo, majo.”

  “¿Siempre?”

  “Always.”

  Chapter 5

  TONO awoke to the sound of Mick’s voice crying out in pain. He sat up abruptly, disoriented from the newness of the location and the copious amounts of booze that had been ingested the night before. Memories came rushing at him, primarily those of Paul going down on Mick. He turned to look at the other side of the bed and was relieved to see that it was empty. The only one beside him was his lover, who was curled up in pain and grabbing his left leg, which seemed to be the source of the discomfort.

  “Shh,” Tono crooned, rubbing Mick’s limb, trying to stretch it out so he could massage it effectively. “I’m here, cariño.”

  “Majo,” Mick whispered, “is Paul gone?”

  “Yes.” Tono could tell that Mick was exhausted from trying to hold it in. His head was bathed in sweat; the dark curls clung to his forehead, which was scrunched up and lined in agony.

  “When did it start?”

  “About an hour ago,” Mick replied, “but I didn’t want to subject Paul to any of this.”

  “You should have woken me up,” Tono admonished. He’d seen this happen many times in the last few months and knew exactly what to do. The muscles in Mick’s legs were taking on a life of their own. They jumped and hopped about, twitching uncontrollably—a result of dying motor neurons, according to the doctors. His left leg was starting to spasm, and Tono began the deep massage technique he’d learned from his sports therapist, hoping it would ease the cramping. He rubbed and kneaded the skin lovingly, torn up by the sight of his handsome man in the throes of something he couldn’t control. He soothed Mick with words of love while he massaged with strong hands, ignoring the tears that rolled down his own cheeks. Fortunately, Mick had his eyes closed, so he remained oblivious to everything but his own pain. Eventually the twitching stopped, the cramping eased off, and Mick fell asleep, clutching Tono’s T-shirt.

  Tono disengaged him gently and left the room, knowing that sleep would elude him for a while. He made a stop in the hall bathroom before going out to the living room and throwing himself on the brown leather recliner.

  He stood again and went into the tiny kitchen, pulled out the bottle of aspirin, and tossed a couple down his throat. Using his hand like a cup, he let the tap water overflow while he gulped up enough to push the pills down. He decided to wash his face as well, splashing water liberally, making little puddles on the counter. His face was thick with day-old scruff, and he rubbed at it.

  There was a window over the sink which looked out over nothing but brick steps. Their apartment was in the basement, and the only reason they’d taken it was because there were only four steps down. The unit itself was level and easy to navigate, if and when it got to that point. It was a far cry from the spacious apartment in San Sebastian with the magnificent harbor view. He missed being able to sit out on their balcony for a drink or a chat, watching the boats and enjoying the gorgeous sunset.

  When Mick first broached his plans to come to New York for medical treatment, he’d insisted on paying for everything regarding their move and their stay. He felt guilty that Tono had taken an indefinite leave of absence to nurse him, depriving himself of a steady income that was easily in the six-figure range. Tono told him to shut up and let him decide what he was going to do with his career and his life. He’d been playing Jai alai for over ten years, and even though he still had a few good years left, he had lost interest as soon as he found out that Mick was sick.

  It had started around Christmas when Mick kept falling down. At first they’d thought he might have Parkinson’s or MS, or perhaps a brain tumor, all of which would have been preferable to the final diagnosis of ALS, a virtual death sentence. Tono was in denial for months, pretending it was a mistake until Mick finally broke down one day and begged him to leave if he couldn’t accept the truth. He stayed away for twenty-four hours, drunk out of his mind for most of them. He cried and punched holes in the wall, screamed and cursed at God, but eventually, he decided that he’d rather spend whatever time was left nursing Mick than be without him. He could grieve for an entire lifetime once he was gone.

  The only thing that kept him grounded and sane was his desire to record their story in book form. He knew it would be difficult because Spanish was his primary language, but he refused to write in anything but English, challenging himself to give it his best for the sake of his lover. Mick was American, after all, and who the hell would want to read a Spanish soap opera? He would make this love story good enough to rival anything he’d ever read. He owed it to Mick and to himself. How Paul factored into the equation was still unclear, and he had not been prepared for the instant attraction. He’d been sure that he’d hate Paul on sight, and he did, but there was a part of him―the hormonal think-with-your-cock part―that found the man sexy, worldly, knowledgeable, and disgustingly sweet when he looked at Mick. There was no denying the love that emanated from those steel blue eyes, and the thought of Mick touching Paul intimately made him want to kill the man, but he acknowledged that they had a long history—a formidable hurdle and difficult to overcome.

  He hoped that Paul would agree to help him, especially after tonight’s little orgy. That had been unexpected, but certainly it hadn’t been the first time he and Mick had invited anyone into their bed. Their relationship had been monogamous from the start, but Mick had introduced him to the idea of three-ways. Initially, he’d been shocked, but when he realized it was simply sex and another tool to enhance the
ir relationship, he’d warmed up to the idea. He’d agreed to be open to encounters of the third kind, if and when both of them were in the mood. The fact of the matter was they didn’t need it all the time. They were enough for each other, except on rare occasions when one of them had an itch that needed scratching. Apparently, tonight had been one of those nights.

  He pulled out his laptop and fired it up, intent on recording what had just happened. He kept a journal, apart from the novel, so everything stayed fresh in his head. It was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on writing when he was so caught up in Mick and his illness. The rough draft of his novel was complete, but he needed Paul’s editing skills before moving forward with it. He knew that this was where Paul’s expertise would be invaluable. He’d help him unravel his thoughts, which were disjointed and unorganized. Tono realized that he was taking on a difficult task. He’d never written a novel before, and this one was too personal for him to tackle by himself. Having Paul in his back pocket could be a huge benefit, according to Mick, if he agreed.

  PAUL heard Baxter’s voice but couldn’t open his eyes. The conga line in his head was making the simple task of blinking difficult. He heard the discreet cough, smelled the coffee, and knew it was time to get up, even though he’d only been asleep for a few hours. He pushed himself into an upright position and held out his hand, grateful for the tall mug Baxter handed him.

  “Rough night?”

  “You have no idea,” he mumbled, sipping the steaming hot liquid cautiously.

  Baxter made a noise which sounded like a harrumph, shaking his head in disapproval. “And today is Monday, sir. You have a board meeting to attend in exactly two hours.”

  “I’m aware,” Paul groaned. “Don’t give me a hard time, Baxter. I’ve had enough drama for twenty-four hours.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mick is dying.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Paul looked up at the older man who was practically a father to him. His eyes were crinkled with concern. “He’s got that disease the baseball player had. Lou Whatever-his-name-was.”

  “You don’t mean Lou Gehrig, do you?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You know about it?” Paul was surprised. He’d never heard of ALS until Mick had mentioned it.

  “I’m afraid so. I had a cousin who had it.”

  “Is your cousin still around?”

  “No.”

  “How long before he died?”

  “Two or three years, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Jesus.” Paul raked his hair and stood. “It’s deadly, isn’t it?”

  “I believe it’s fatal, sir.”

  “So I’ve heard. However, I’m not sure it’s what Mick has. He looks perfectly fine, and all his parts work.”

  “Really?”

  Paul’s eyebrows went up quickly. “Not sharing, Baxter.”

  “You already did, Paul.”

  “Fucker.” Paul got out of bed and leaned into Baxter, instinctively groping for the support that had always been there in the past. He felt strong arms encircling him. “He’s dying,” Paul choked out.

  Baxter didn’t say anything because he knew there was nothing to say. If Mick had ALS, the prognosis was a foregone conclusion, so he held Paul quietly, trying to comfort him with some of his strength. He would need it to get through this trauma in one piece. Baxter knew it wouldn’t be easy; he’d nursed Paul through many drunken bouts after the breakup. Paul never confessed why he’d abandoned Mick, but he was obviously still in love with him almost seven years later. “Have you thought about getting a second opinion?”

  “Yes, but it’s going to take time to set something up. Meanwhile, I have to accept this at face value.”

  “It would probably be in your best interest to keep a distance.”

  “Can’t do that, Baxter, but thanks for the support.” Paul staggered to the bathroom and stepped into the shower, turning on the water full blast. The force of the triple spray knocked some of the sleep away, and the steaming hot water seemed to evaporate some of the tension and worry that lingered despite the hangover. Paul kept replaying last night’s conversation, trying to decide if it was all a dream or not. How anyone so sick could look so good was a mystery. Mick looked incredible, and his performance in bed was not that of a dying man. Surely he’d been misdiagnosed. The first order of business was to line up several specialists to get this entire situation under control. He was not going to let some Spanish fuckwad tell him that his friend and first love wasn’t going to be around for much longer. Mick was his age, for Christ’s sake. No one died in their thirties except by accident or a random act of violence. It was the twenty-first century, and there was a cure for everything. Paul had every intention of fixing the problem.

  He picked up the bottle of shampoo and began to scrub at his thick hair, energized by the thought of doing something positive. By the time he’d shaved and dressed in his three-piece navy blue Armani suit, he was filled with a new resolve. Determined to get to the bottom of this mysterious illness, he dialed his office from the car and asked to be connected to his secretary, Linda.

  “Mr. Alcott’s office.” Linda’s voice came on the line, professional and crisp. He imagined her in her Ann Taylor suit with her dark blonde hair pulled back in her habitual ponytail. He was sure that her designer glasses matched her outfit; she always dressed with thoughtful precision, but he was also certain that she was gnawing on her pencil, an annoying habit he had yet to break.

  “Linda.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Call Johns Hopkins. Find out who’s their top neurologist and make an appointment for me.”

  “Are you okay?” Linda asked quickly, the concern easily apparent in her voice.

  “I’m fine,” Paul sighed. “I’m consulting for a friend.”

  “I’ll get right on it, sir.”

  Paul disconnected, moving on to his next problem. His life was all about dealing with each crisis as it came up. New book releases, movie deals, cover art, apprehensive and/or egotistical authors all fell into the things-to-do category. Since his father’s death, he’d become publisher and chief editor, so his appointment book was always full. Fortunately, he wouldn’t have to deal with the human variety of emotions today. His schedule, apart from the board meeting, was more about technical decisions. He knew there were no manuscripts waiting for him. He’d completed the last of his editing projects a few days ago and had yet to hear from the author who’d probably gone on a weeklong bender after seeing the abundant red slashes on his precious novel. It was always interesting to take calls from hysterical writers after they received his first edits. Did they actually think they’d get it right the first time?

  The glass and steel building that housed Alcott Press had been around for a while, so it wasn’t one of the tallest buildings in Manhattan; however, Paul’s penthouse office was strategically placed, and he had an almost unfettered view of the city and its surrounding areas.

  Linda was already waiting for him, coffee mug in one hand, datebook in the other. She reminded him of that girl in the movie The Devil Wears Prada. He supposed he could be just as difficult as that bitch, Miranda, but he was definitely better-looking, and younger, and way hotter. He smirked. If Linda could read his mind, she’d realize that he wasn’t the conservative publisher he pretended to be during his business hours. She’d been his secretary for only six months, so she didn’t know him yet. He had offered his father’s sixty-year-old, fire-breathing dragon of a secretary a retirement deal she couldn’t pass up, ridding the company of her hulking presence. He was determined to surround himself with younger people. He was slowly taking Alcott Press into the twenty-first century, and a large part was hiring bright, young minds who were savvy in the new world of e-publishing. Paul Senior had shied away from it, preferring to stick with the traditional methods. His contention, “a book isn’t a book unless you’re able to hold it in your hand and turn t
he pages,” virtually put a stop to any of Paul’s attempts to modernize. His death had given Paul the freedom he needed to open up a new division of Alcott Press, but with it came the accompanying responsibilities and headaches.

  “Any luck with the doctor?” He threw his briefcase on the sofa beside the door, placed his jacket on the coat stand in the bathroom, and walked to the center of the room where his desk sat on a pedestal, a leftover arrangement from his father’s days at the helm. Paul Senior had considered himself a king in the world of publishing, and raising his desk― giving him the added advantage of looking down on his employees and competition― was part of the imperial illusion. Paul took the coffee mug from Linda, placed it on the heating pad beside the phone, and made himself comfortable in his ergonomically correct, black leather chair.

  “I’m afraid the doctor can’t see you for another six weeks.”

  “Bullshit! Bribe someone, do whatever it takes, Linda, but get me an appointment. Tomorrow!”

  “Sir,” Linda sputtered, “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

  “Don’t you like your job?”

  “I love my job.”

  “Part of your job is being resourceful. I don’t take no for an answer, Linda. Understand?”

  “Yes, Mr. Alcott.”

  He waved her away and looked down at the papers on his desk, dismissing her effectively. Six weeks, my ass. He was going to see that man tomorrow if he had to force his way into the office himself. Money was power, and he had that to spare. He was not above using all the might of the Alcott fortune to get what he wanted. He was going to find a solution to this problem. “Impossible” and “never” were two words he’d deleted from his vocabulary. He had no intention of letting Mick go without a fight. Paul wasn’t sure if he meant the disease or Tono, but both problems needed resolving.