The possibility that the death of Clint Folsom’s movie star parents twenty years ago brings the promiscuous NYPD homicide detective back to his L.A. hometown. Here, while trying desperately to discern the real events and meaning of his parents’ last moments on the treacherous curves of the Pacific coast highway and what part they played in twenty-year-old murder and suicide cases, Folsom faces ghosts, both recent and past, of his own. A lover who Folsom has tried to give up when the other man married is the L.A. detective who brings Folsom back to California. And the convoluted network of his parents’ own lovers await their renewed chance at Folsom as well.
As Danny pulled into the motel, all of this history swept over me. I couldn’t talk immediately, and when I could, it came out in a hoarse croak. Danny got the wrong idea.
“Clint,” he said. His voice was hoarse too. One of his hands wrapped around my neck and brought my face to his, my lips to his. His other hand went to my basket, and I responded to him.
“Danny, no,” I whispered. “Why are we here? Rental car and then hospital. That’s what this trip was about. I said I didn’t need a place to stay.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. This is the motel. We have a room here. I meant from the beginning that we had a room here. Just now. The kiss. Your cock. I know you want me, that you still want it.”
“No, Danny. It’s a mistake. I don’t—”
“I’m getting out of the car and going into the room, Clint. You can sit out here in the car if you want. When you’re ready, though, I’ll be on the bed.”
By the time he reached the door to the room and was inserting a key into the lock, I was by his side.
We didn’t make it to the bed for the first time. He took me on the carpet between the door and the bed doggie style, me on all fours and him crouched over my pelvis and riding me hard. And then on the bed, every which way, all of the ways we had fucked before. He strapped my wrists to the headboard with his knotted belt and made me take his cock, hard and deep, in punishing thrusts, as my groans and grunts and whimpers harmonized with the angry squeaking of the coils of the box springs.
He was the Danny of old, with all of the power in his cocking that he’d had when he’d claimed me as his territory in New York. And there, for an hour, I was his again—completely, with full satisfaction—with no thought to my resolve or my pride or to his wife, Sharenda, no doubt waiting for him in a one-bedroom love nest across town.
“Should I cancel out on the room?” Danny asked between kisses, as we cooled down, our bodies still stretched out against each other, my rump cuddled into his crotch, and his dick still deep inside me.
“No, we can keep it for a while,” I murmured.