Here it is at last. Melanie and Emma posted their MI stories about a million years ago, but I have managed to finish mine at last. (See Manual Labor and Sudden Storm for reminders) Richie in a toolbelt, jeans, and a hardhat. Methos in a sweater and jeans, of course, waiting inside by the fireplace. This story has explicit m/m sex. If you don’t like it, or if you’re under age, don’t read this story. I don’t own the characters, although they’re spending an awful lot of time at my place these days. No harm, no profit. A huge thanks to Emma for the beta read and to everyone that helped me think of a title for this thing. What a mess! Indy, I had Blame it on the Rain stuck in my head all night long. Michelle and Emma, I swear the titles with the four letter words were probably the best. Okay, here we go. Please send feedback. The muses and I love it. (n.memmott@gte.net)

R ichie ignored the first few drops of rain that pinged off his hard hat and pelted his shoulders. In Seacouver brief pockets of rain were nothing to get excited about. Instead of tapering off, however, the trickle of rain turned into a full fledged shower. Seconds later he was completely soaked. Damn, he thought as streams of water began to run off the front of his hat. This is just what I needed. Holding his sodden t-shirt away from his body he considered his options. I might as well stay and finish this last stair. I can’t really get any wetter.

It took him another fifteen minutes and two swollen thumbs to finish the repairs on the porch steps, but now he knew old Mrs. Miller could get out of the house safely. Slipping his hammer back into the tool belt riding on his hips, he headed up the stair and knocked on the door. “Mrs. Miller?”

He could hear shuffling sounds inside, but two long minutes passed before the door cracked open. Richie smiled at the stooped, white-haired figure peering around the door. “Mrs. Miller, I’m finished with the stairs.”

“Richie? Good heavens, I’d forgotten you were out here. I just wanted to lie down for a little nap. You should have gotten out of the rain, young man.”

“That’s all right. I won’t melt. I’m gonna head home now, though.”

“Not without a plate of my famous Christmas fudge. Wait right there.”

The door slammed in Richie’s face, making him laugh, but he obediently waited where he was. Even when an icy wind began to blow through the porch, Richie remained in place. He managed to keep his teeth from chattering when Mrs. Miller finally returned with a plate of fudge. A huge plate, Richie noticed, sighing to himself. He didn’t have the heart to tell Mrs. Miller that he and Methos had made an enormous batch of fudge themselves the previous week. The memory made Richie curve his lips wickedly and hasten his departure. Brushing aside any further thanks, he kissed the old lady’s cheek and tried not to run down the newly-repaired steps as he headed next door to the house he and Methos shared.

His enthusiasm was dampened somewhat by the rain that drenched the clothes that had just begun to dry while he was on the porch. The front door was closer, but Methos would bitch if he dripped all over the carpet. Instead, he angled towards the side of the house and the mud porch just off the kitchen.

At the sound of the kitchen door opening, Methos abandoned his exploration of the refrigerator and watched Richie come in. Propping an arm on the still open refrigerator door, he cocked his head to one side and looked Richie up and down. He said nothing, however, he just arched a brow, shook his head, and turned back to the refrigerator.

“What?” Richie asked, although he was pretty sure he knew ‘what’.

Methos withdrew from the refrigerator, this time with the beer he had come to the kitchen for, and replied, “I knew our elderly neighbor was going to con you into fixing her porch, but I thought you at least had the sense to get out of the rain.”

“She needed some help, Methos. Those steps were dangerous, and her kids never come around. When the rain started, I was so close to being done that I just kept going.”

Methos chuckled softly, set his beer on the counter, and walked over to take Richie’s hand. “I know,” he assured the redhead gently. He was close enough now to see Richie’s teeth chattering, and he released his lover’s hand impatiently. “You’re freezing! For heaven’s sake get out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold!”

“We… we’re immortal re… mem… ber,” Richie observed, his shivers more pronounced now that Methos had reminded him that he was cold.

“So? I don’t even want to catch a cold for one day, for one hour. Strip, now!”

Richie tried to comply, but the wet material was too much for his numb fingers. He bent his head to focus on the buckle of the tool belt, and his forgotten hard hat tumbled to the floor.

Methos sighed and picked up the hat, examining it from all angles before setting it on a nearby countertop. “Nice hat, kid. Worried about falling objects on Mrs. Miller’s porch?”

“I just… felt like wearing it,” Richie muttered, still struggling with the belt buckle.

Methos brushed Richie’s hands aside and loosened the buckle himself. His eyes bright and his voice husky after the brief contact with Richie’s jeans, Methos commented, “I like this belt, too. Or I like you in it, anyway.”

“Oh, yeah?” Richie gulped, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Oh yeah,” Methos agreed. “Maybe you’ll wear it again for me sometime.” He paused, then added, “The hat, too, I think.”

“What will you be wearing?”

“Nothing,” Methos promised. “Nothing at all.”

Richie groaned as his body’s response to Methos’ words strained against the fabric of jeans rendered even more confining by the rain.

“Poor thing,” Methos soothed, pressing Richie down into a chair one of them had left in the mud room. “Let’s get you out of these wet things.” He lifted one of Richie’s legs and without thinking braced a muddy boot against his own jeans. His lips tightened as he felt the wet bootprint soaking into his pants, but he unlaced the boot without comment. Drawing the shoe and sock off, he motioned for Richie to lift his other foot. When Richie’s feet were both bare, Methos tugged the frozen immortal to his feet and started to lead him to the living room.

“The carpet…” Richie worried.

“You read my mind,” Methos grinned, dismissing Richie’s concerns. “I started a fire in the fireplace half an hour ago, and I threw that fur rug Amanda gave us on the floor…”

Richie’s teeth still chattered, but his face glowed with a warm smile of anticipation. His smile widened further as he recalled his skepticism when Amanda brought them the rug. It had seemed better suited to MacLeod’s island cabin than the home he and Methos shared in a quiet Seacouver neighborhood. But the cleaners knew them by name now, and had even stopped raising their eyebrows at the stains they were asked to remove from the bearskin. Amanda would be proud, Richie thought wryly, that they had put the rug to such good, and frequent, use.

He instinctively looked over to share the memories with Methos and found he could no longer think at all. Methos was staring at his chest. Richie hadn’t considered that the rain had rendered his t-shirt nearly transparent, but Methos had zeroed in on the dark circles visible beneath its white expanse. Unconsciously Richie took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, displaying his chest to even better advantage for his lover. Soon, however, Methos’ eyes were not enough. Richie wanted Methos’ hands exploring his chest, too. Oblivious to the attractions of his wet t-shirt, Richie started to tug it out of his jeans.

Methos stopped him quickly. “You’d better let me do that,” he suggested. “You’re still too cold.”

It was a perfectly logical suggestion, but the excitement vibrating in Methos’ voice revealed the true motivation behind the elder man’s helpfulness. Richie shuddered as Methos’ warm hands made contact with the chilled flesh of his abdomen. Methos would have removed his hands, but Richie caught them and pressed them to his bare stomach once more. “Please,” Richie murmured. “You’re so warm . . .”

Methos curled his hands into Richie’s flesh and used the backs of his wrists to inch the damp t-shirt up Richie’s chest. The slickness of Richie’s skin, however, foiled the slow and steady progress Methos had intended. Gentle upward pressure sent his hands sliding over Richie’s ribs and straight into the hard buds of Richie’s nipples. Almost absently, he began to stroke, pinch, and tug at the puckered nubs, his attention focused on Richie’s expressive face as it registered each touch. Eventually his hands worked their way back to Richie’s sides, but one careless motion had Methos’ hands skidding around Richie’s back, coming to rest on Richie’s shoulder blades. The abrupt movement nearly propelled them both backwards into the couch, but although they teetered awkwardly for a few moments, they did not fall.

Just the hint of full body contact brought about by the mishap replaced Methos’ patient arousal with a bolt of lust. He yanked the t-shirt over Richie’s head as soon as he was certain their balance was restored, then leaned back and absorbed the full impact of his partner’s skin glistening in the firelight. Like a switch had been flipped on inside him, Methos felt hunger flooding through him.

Take.

Ravage.

Mine .

With a snarl that emanated from deep inside himself, Methos bent his head to take a bite of Richie’s bare shoulder. Richie’s breath hissed past Methos’ ear as the elder’s teeth tightened their grip a fraction. Methos pulled away and allowed his eyes to glitter into Richie’s fiery blue gaze, but the lingering taste of Richie on his tongue was too much to resist. He licked his lips, smirking when the blue eyes narrowed, but it wasn’t enough. Succumbing to the call of the skin still reddened from his teeth, Methos returned to Richie’s shoulder. He used his lips this time, and the gentle roughness of his tongue, to absorb the flavor of Richie’s flesh.

Methos’ ministrations brought his hips into glancing contact with Richie’s arousal — brief, tantalizing touches that caused his own erection to swell despite the closed fly of his jeans.

Torturing himself further, Methos’ hands grabbed Richie’s ass and ground their denim-clad cocks together. Although the friction of their bodies was generating plenty of heat, Methos’ hands grew clammy from Richie’s jeans. Grimacing, the ancient immortal forced himself to let go of his prize. “Let’s get you out of these pants,” he suggested when Richie moaned in disappointment. His hands on Richie’s fly, he added, “They’re in my way.”

“You’re the boss,” Richie grinned.

Methos stilled as the words punched through him. Careful, Richie, he thought. He must have spoken, as well, because Richie answered him.

“Hey!” Richie exclaimed at Methos’ serious expression. He took the other man’s chin in his right hand and met the wary hazel eyes directly. “I’m safe with you, aren’t I?” he teased, trailing his left hand down Methos’ arm.

“Yes,” Methos acknowledged, feeling the weight of the word as a vow. Oh yes, he repeated to himself as something clicked into place in his mind.

“Then...” Richie shrugged, serious himself for a moment, “Whatever you want.” A second later his solemn expression fractured into a grin once more as he qualified his offer. “For tonight, anyway. “

Methos could see it now, the humor on Richie’s face, the relaxed posture of his body. Impatient with the complicated tangle of emotions still seething just beneath his skin, Methos made a conscious effort to match Richie’s mood. Reaching for his usual nonchalance, he shrugged back. “Tonight’s good for me.”

His smirk was in place, his breathing was even, but Methos’ hands shook as they finished opening Richie’s fly. As the zipper reached its end and Richie’s erection sprang free, however, the knot of emotions came undone in a rush of desire. The nerves vanished, and Methos’ hands were confident as they slipped inside Richie’s jeans, glided along his hips, and cupped the smooth globes of his ass inside their denim prison. Methos’ fingers circled slowly, rubbing and squeezing, stretching the denim as far as it would go. When it was clear that no further access was possible without removing the jeans altogether, Methos tried to lower the material without removing his hands. The wet cloth reluctantly bared Richie’s bottom, but clung stubbornly to his legs.

“This would be a hell of a lot easier,” Methos observed, “if you didn’t wear your jeans so tight.”

“I like them tight,” Richie replied. His lips quirked knowingly at Methos. “And so, I might add, do you.”

“True,” Methos conceded, kneeling down to get a better angle on the material. The motion caused Richie’s swollen cock to brush against the elder’s adam’s apple, and Methos swallowed convulsively. The ancient immortal took a deep breath to steady himself against the surge of heat that flooded through him, but the scent of Richie’s arousal only made the flames inside him burn hotter. “Turn around,” he managed to croak at last.

Richie complied, and now it was the curves of Richie’s ass that demanded Methos’ full attention. Closing his eyes to block the arousing sight, Methos managed to peel the tough cotton down past the tops of Richie’s thighs. I can’t do this blind, he thought desperately. It’s taking too long.

Opening his eyes once more, Methos ignored the distraction of Richie’s legs as they emerged from the jeans long enough to make sure the pants were a soggy puddle around Richie’s ankles. Slender fingers reached out, testing the resilience of Richie’s thigh muscles, skimming up and down the backs of Richie’s thighs and calves.

He was going to go insane, Richie’s mind screamed as Methos’ attentions sent his blood rushing hotly throughout his body. The feel of Methos’ talented hands caressing his legs was wonderful, but it was creating an almost overwhelming need for more. The slight breeze of Methos’ breath on his balls was the sweetest torture imaginable. He lifted each foot obediently when Methos pressed lightly on his achilles tendons, and the jeans were tossed out of the way. Now, Richie thought. Now he’ll really touch me.

Richie looked down and caught Methos staring at his feet. Actually, all he could really see was the dark head hanging down, hunched shoulders rising and falling with each deep breath and white-knuckled fists clenching and releasing. There were times when Richie valued Methos’ control over himself, but this was not one of them. Placing a firm but gentle finger under the narrow chin of his beloved, Richie tilted his face upward.

“Metho... ohh,” Richie’s attempt at speech trailed off in a gasp of wonder as Methos opened his eyes and revealed the desire burning in them. Richie could almost hear his control breaking as he grabbed huge handfuls of Methos’ sweater and hauled his lover to his feet. In the next heartbeat he had fused their mouths together in a hungry kiss. He knew he was bruising Methos’ lips, knew his teeth nipped a little too roughly, but it was not enough. God, he was starving — as though it had been days instead of hours since he had tasted Methos, since he had touched him.

Touched him.

Richie’s hands relaxed their death-grip on Methos’ sweater and slid underneath it instead. He could feel the vibration under his hands as Methos rumbled with pleasure at the contact, and Methos’ hands seared his flesh where they rested at the curve where his back met his buttocks. Suddenly all Richie could think about was having that heat along the full length of his body, of having Methos’ naked skin touching him everywhere.

Growling his impatience to make his need a reality, Richie released Methos’ mouth and yanked the sweater over Methos’ head. Having the warm smoothness of Methos’ chest plastered to his own heated body was pure bliss, but Methos’ jeans chafed and scraped. Richie reached for the fastening of Methos’ jeans, but a hand covering his stopped him.

“Later,” Methos said huskily. “Lie down.”

“But...”

“I’m the boss, remember? Lie down.”

Methos’ voice was soft and low, but Richie could hear the steel underneath it. His pulse stuttered, then resumed at an even faster pace as he obeyed Methos’ command.

Seeing Richie sprawled on the bearskin rug was almost enough to make Methos forget the plans that had sprung to life in his mind. Gathering the threads of his self control, Methos turned and walked towards the bedroom.

“Uh, Meth ..:”

Methos paused and turned back to Richie.

“There’s lube under the middle couch cushion.”

“I know,” he nodded, struggling to keep the feral grin off of his face.

“Then what...?”

“Never mind. I’ll be right back.” Methos raised a hand when Richie would have spoken again. “Just stay right there.”

Richie groaned and threw his head back onto the rug, but he did what Methos had asked.

Once he had rounded the corner and was out of the living room, Methos collapsed against the wall. Fighting to quiet the talons of need raking his insides, Methos began translating the words cold shower into every language he knew. After a moment the urgency had faded enough that he could complete the task he had set for himself.

Walking into the bedroom, Methos opened a deep drawer in the bedside table and surveyed the contents. When he didn’t immediately spot what he was looking for, Methos began to shift the top layer off to one side. Frowning when the bottle he was looking for still did not appear, he began removing things from the drawer.

Bottle.

Bottle.

Tube.

Toy.

Very special toy.

Bottle.

Spray bottle.

The pile on the bed had grown to a considerable size when Methos finally spotted the massage oil he was looking for in the bottom of the drawer. Of course it’s on the bottom, Methos groused to himself. But at least he’d found it. Seeing Richie’s skin shine with oil always made him want to taste it, but while he loved the taste of Richie’s skin, massage oil generally tasted terrible. This oil, however, was actually edible.

Methos arched a speculative eyebrow at the cock ring nestled next to the massage oil, but decided against using it. Richie could come as many times as it took to get the oil massaged into every nook and cranny of his body.

The thought of his lover in the throes of orgasm forced Methos to unbutton his jeans. Teetering on the edge of his control once again, Methos considered using the cock ring himself. The way he was going, it might be the only thing that could keep him from spending himself the second his erection came into contact with Richie’s bare skin. Still, Methos held back from using anything more exotic than the massage oil. He would just have to find a little self control somewhere. Yeah, right, he chuckled ruefully as he picked up the oil and headed back to his waiting partner.

W hat is the Old Man up to? Richie wondered as a minute ticked by without Methos’ emerging from the bedroom. He shifted slightly on the rug to get a better view of the hallway and was distracted by the sensual shift and glide of the fur beneath him. With a murmur of pleasure, he turned his cheek and snuggled it deeply into the rug. He wasn’t consciously aware of sliding his hair-roughened legs against the grain of the fur, but he registered the sensation at an unconscious level. He spread his fingers and allowed the fine hairs to stand up between them. Closing his fists, Richie savored the way the fur trapped between his fingers went taut, then slack when he opened his hand again.

The restless movement of Richie’s body began to take on a rhythmic quality. Where is he? Richie wondered, his passion growing more frantic with each gasping breath. He instinctively reached for his aching, weeping cock, but stopped short of a full stroke. He should wait for Methos... He really... should... Richie threw his head back on a long moan as his need overcame his good intentions. One stroke blurred into two, three, then an ever-quickening pattern that brought him to the brink of release.

Methos was on the verge of stepping into the living room when Richie’s moan brought him up short. He knew that sound, and was not surprised when he rounded the corner and saw Richie lying on the rug, pumping himself. The damned oil just had to be on the bottom, he groaned to himself as his own body tightened in response to the view. Biting back a heated oath as the first liquid drop pearled on the tip of his considerable erection, Methos stepped carefully towards the living room. The closer Richie came to orgasm, the more difficult it was for Methos to breathe. He let out a tiny whimper at the almost unbearable pressure in his jeans. Somehow Richie heard it and, even more astoundingly, stopped his strokes.

“Methos, I’m sorry, I…”

“It’s all right,” Methos reassured him. “Finish.”

Richie blinked inquiringly at Methos. “Are you sure?”

“Please,” Methos asked quietly, his voice cracking.

Tentatively at first, then with increasing sureness as he saw the fierce arousal on Methos’ face, Richie resumed his motions.

Methos nearly came undone at the beauty of the sight before him. Richie’s skin glowed in the firelight and his cock glistened with the moisture leaking from the tip. Blue eyes burned into his, so much so that he couldn’t gaze directly at them for too long. When Richie finally came in a series of heavy spurts, Methos shouted with him.

Catching his breath, Richie looked anxiously at his lover. The front of Methos’ jeans was damp from the liquid that had been flowing steadily since Methos’ return from the bedroom, but his erection was still pressed firmly against the denim.

“Methos, you’re…”

“I’m fine,” the elder immortal insisted.

“Methos..”

“I...” Methos stuttered.

“Take off your jeans,” Richie urged him.

“That’s not a good idea just now.”

“Let me take care of you.”

“Richie...” Methos groaned as his body leapt at Richie’s suggestion. “I can wait,” he protested when he could speak again.

“I don’t want you to.”

Arching an eyebrow and shrugging in acquiescence, Methos carefully unzipped his jeans and lowered them to the floor. Kicking them clear of his feet, he knelt next to Richie and spread his knees wide.

Raising himself up on one elbow, Richie pondered the logistics of the situation. After due consideration, he brought his feet around towards the fireplace and rested his forearms on Methos’ thighs. His agile tongue darted out to capture the drop currently making its way down Methos’ shaft. Next Richie traced the path of each of the veins clearly evident on his lover’s tumescence. Pulling back briefly to admire the deepening color of Methos’ arousal, he dared a glance at Methos’ face. Hazel orbs blazed a silent command into his, and he grinned, but did not comply.

When the unspoken demand continued, Richie finally took pity on his needy partner. Without further ado he took Methos’ cock deeply into his mouth and sucked strongly. Methos was close, he knew. If he could just take a little more... draw just a little harder... At last, Methos’ release flooded into his mouth, past his throat.

Looking down at the beaming redhead licking his lips, Methos drawled, “Pretty proud of ourselves, aren’t we?”

“Hey,” Richie laughed, “What can I say? I’m good.”

“Mmm,” Methos agreed. His own arrogant grin flashed before he added, “But I’m better.”

Richie stilled. “What have you got in mind, Old Timer?”

“Nothing you won’t like, I promise.”

That’s what worries me, Richie thought wryly, but he allowed Methos to lay him stomach-down on the rug. Uncertain what to expect, Richie felt his muscles tense and began to lock up. He heard a bottle being uncapped, and jumped when something wet dribbled onto his back.

“Relax,” Methos whispered close to Richie’s ear.

Groaning, Richie forced the tension from his body. “I’m sorry, Meth. I know…”

Reacting instantly to the strain in Richie’s voice, Methos silenced his lover’s repentance with gentle fingers against the contrite lips. “Shh. No apologies. No contests. Just let me touch you.”

“Can’t keep your hands off me, huh?” Richie quipped with a spark of his earlier confidence.

“No,” Methos admitted, “I can’t.” The depth of his desire seeped past the benign humor in his tone. “How could I possibly resist anything so beautiful?” he asked, his voice and hands each caressing every part they could reach.

Seeing that the first dribbles of oil had been absorbed into Richie’s skin, Methos turned his attention to more specific body parts. Pouring more oil into his palms, Methos began to work it into Richie’s left arm, starting at the shoulder and progressing slowly to triceps and elbow, past the forearm, and finally ending at the palm and fingers. Satisfied that the left arm had relaxed fully, Methos crossed over Richie’s body and gave Richie’s right arm the same meticulous attention.

After kissing the last fingertip and laying it to rest on the rug once more, Methos sat back and surveyed the results of his labor. Richie’s breathing was deep and even, his eyes were closed, and a slight smile curved his lips.

Good. That’s better.

Even as he watched, one blue eye opened and the smile widened.

“Is that it?” Richie asked, a hint of a challenge in his voice.

“What do you think?”

“I think there’s more,” Richie grinned in anticipation.

“You sure you can handle more, Brat?”

“I can take anything you can dish out, Old Timer.”

“Quite possibly,” Methos allowed. Much better. Leaning close, he whispered, “Let’s find out, shall we?”

In one easy movement he lifted himself up and over, so that he straddled Richie’s body. He leaned down to press a kiss just below the curls that teased the nape of Richie’s neck, then returned for a more lengthy investigation of the area. Running his tongue along the tendons there, Methos observed, “You’re tense right here.”

“Uhh... mmm,” Richie agreed, or maybe he just moaned — he wasn’t sure himself.

Slender fingers replaced the moist tongue and began easing the knots from Richie’s neck. When the last, lingering knot of tension had receded, lips and tongue traced the line of Richie’s spine. Loving hands followed close behind, soothing the stiff muscles all the way from Richie’s broad shoulders to the small of his back. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire, the swish and slide of skin on skin, and the rasp of their breathing.

Methos could tell Richie was nearly asleep now. Time to wake him up, he thought, smiling to himself. For a moment, all the ancient immortal did was breathe — soft, warm gusts of air back and forth across the sensitive flesh of Richie’s ass. Richie shifted slightly, humming quietly, but made no other sign that he registered the contact.

Licking his lips, Methos prepared for the next stage. Placing the tip of his tongue at the top edge of the cleft in Richie’s bottom, he hovered there for a moment before placing the flat edge of his tongue down and drawing a line upward to the small of Richie’s back. The unexpected wetness startled Richie out of his doze, and he shivered as the caress was repeated and spread across the width of his bottom and back.

Richie groaned with pleasure when strong hands took over where Methos’ mouth left off, traveling farther down to knead the twin globes that begged for attention. Each upstroke eased the curves a little farther apart, revealing the opening hidden between them and then concealing it with each downstroke. Every rocking movement of the massage caused the tiny hairs on the rug to shimmy over the front of Richie’s body. In spite of the relaxation induced by Methos’ attentions, a new tension began to steal over Richie, one centered on the awakening arousal beginning to rise beneath him.

Just when he thought Methos’ clever tongue was going to massage him from the inside, Richie felt the playful nips on the sensitive skin high on the backs of this thighs. Surely he wasn’t going to stop there? The expert pressure on his thigh muscles felt heavenly, but more carnal needs had begun to demand satisfaction. Part of him reveled in the sensual pleasure of being massaged, of being learned by his lover. Another part of him just wanted to be taken with all of the passion he knew Methos felt for him. Torn between the two desires, Richie could do nothing except remain where he was and submit to Methos’ ministrations.

Sensing his partner’s growing restlessness, Methos asked, “Had enough?”

He was being given an out, Richie realized. All he had to do was take it. All he had to do was say the word and Methos would be inside him.

But he had heard the regret in Methos’ voice right alongside the passion. Methos wanted this, wanted to keep massaging him. And since indulging the Old Timer this time was going to be such a pleasure, Richie said, “No way. Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” Methos assured his partner as he worked his way from heel to toe on Richie’s right foot. “We’re not nearly done yet.”

“Thank God,” Richie moaned as Methos set the right foot down and picked up the left one. Despite his rising passion, Richie savored the slightest touch of Methos’ hands and mouth as they pleasured his foot. Kneading and stroking, nipping and laving — every inch received the same meticulous attention.

When the last toe had been thoroughly relaxed and he thought Methos must have finished, he felt a hand trail up the side of his leg to his hip. Now, Richie thought. Now he’ll take me.

Instead of heading back towards the center of Richie’s body, Methos’ hand shifted downward slightly, flexed into Richie’s hip, and propelled Richie off of his stomach and onto his back.

Startled by his abrupt change in position, Richie blinked up at his partner. “Meth? I think you missed a spot back there.”

“No, I didn’t. I’m saving it.”

“Oh?”

“It’s pretty tight,” Methos observed, reaching down to test the resistance of the muscles around Richie’s puckered opening.

“Yeah, it is,” Richie was forced to agree when he could breathe again.

“It’s gonna need a lot of work,” the elder continued huskily.

“Yeah, it is,” Richie choked out as he squirmed against the increasing pressure of Methos’ finger.

“It needs my undivided attention.”

“Mmmh... undivided....”

“So I’m saving it for last,” Methos informed his partner, removing his finger and returning to work on the quadriceps he’d been massaging.

“Oh Christ, Methos,” Richie complained even as he reveled in the strong fingers on his thigh. He bucked under Methos’ hands when Methos’ efforts to ease the tense muscles in his chest brought their groins into contact. Without thinking, Richie reached for the pillar of flesh so close to his own aching erection. Seeking to massage the member in his hands as thoroughly as Methos had massaged him, Richie was surprised to have his fingers pried away from their task.

“Richie, no.”

“Sorry, Meth,” Richie mumbled, lying quietly once more.

Shit. “Richie… I love your hands on me. I love your mouth on me. But if you touch me now, I’ll come right here.” Hazel eyes met blue as Methos continued, “I want to be inside you this time, Richie.”

When Methos would have resumed his massage, it was Richie’s turn to stop him. “Methos, don’t.” The older man stilled at once, and Richie used Methos’ own words to explain. “I love your hands on me. And your mouth — God, I love your mouth on me. But if you touch me any more I’ll come right now. I want you inside me this time, Methos.”

“Brat...” Methos breathed, smirking tenderly down at his lover.

The glow in Methos’ eyes tore the last thread of Richie’s patience. “Now, Methos,” he pleaded. “Now. Do it now.”

Now.

“You do have a way with words,” Methos acknowledged as his lower body clenched deeply. “I think I can accommodate you this one time,” he added, trying to sound cavalier, even patronizing, instead of desperately excited. With a studied pace that belied the passion tearing through his body, Methos picked up the massage oil once more. He coated his fingers carefully and inched one digit inside Richie’s eager body.

Richie accepted the invader easily, writhing and grinding in an effort to take more. Methos hastened to insert a second, then a third finger into Richie’s passage, marveling at the way passion had completely overwhelmed his younger partner.

Withdrawing his fingers, Methos prepared his cock to follow where his digits had already been. He hovered briefly at the entrance, but he could not resist the feel of Richie’s body contracting around him. Almost before he realized that he was moving, Methos found himself buried to the hilt inside Richie.

“Ahh... Methos... Again.”

Again. Oh, yes, again. Methos withdrew until only his leaking tip remained inside Richie, then pushed forward again. He must have used more force than he’d intended, because their bodies collided roughly when his full length was once again embedded inside Richie.

“Harder, Methos. Faster.”

Methos thrust harder, thrust faster, spurred on by his own need and Richie’s encouragement. He usually preferred to take care with Richie, to steer them as gently as possible through the fire that consumed them, but that was impossible tonight. Richie was meeting each thrust eagerly, demanding more. The avid student, the tender lover had been supplanted by an imperious red-haired god burning all around him.

“Methos!”

The urgency in Richie’s cry told Methos just how close to the edge his partner was. Although his hands lacked their usual grace, he had only to touch Richie’s straining erection and Richie exploded in a storm of passion.

With a final stroke Methos gave himself over to his own release, the slightest shift in Richie’s body causing him to shudder with a new spasm. When the last drops had been wrung from him, he collapsed on top of Richie.

It was Richie who broke the silence that had descended while they caught their breath. “Holy shit, Methos.”

“Yes, Brat?” Methos inquired lazily, drowsy in the aftermath of passion.

“That was...” Richie found he couldn’t find the words he was looking for.

Understanding perfectly, Methos chuckled indulgently, “Yes, it was.”

“I didn’t...” Richie hesitated. “I didn’t know I had that in me.”

“I did.”

“You did?” Richie asked, surprised. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I knew you’d figure it out when you were ready.”

“Did you like it?”

“Richie, you damned near killed me. Yes I liked it.”

“So we could do it again sometime?”

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

“Like now?”

“Now?” Methos asked, grunting when Richie flipped them both over and his back hit the floor.

“Oh yeah. Right now.”

“Now works for me,” Methos replied, his words muffled against Richie’s lips.

© 2001 Nikki Memmott