Verliebt in Einen Jungen Wolf

Shit, maybe I made a mistake. I should have taken the kid to Mexico, like he wanted. Jim sighed, and took another long pull from the stein of foaming dark beer. He was sitting alone at a back table in the German tavern, working on his second round.

Alone, that was the operative word here. None of the locals were inclined to intrude on the hulking American with the ice blue eyes. He seemed to be brooding, and when such men brooded, it was wise to keep your distance.

Alone, because Blair was still pouting about the place Jim had chosen for their vacation. Christ, why was the kid being so snotty about it? Jim was the one footing the bill, he should be the one to choose where they went, right? He'd spent one brief tour of duty stationed in Germany when he was younger, and had fallen in love with the place. When Simon had threatened to suspend him if he didn't take some R and R, it had been the first place he'd thought of.

There'd been no question of traveling alone, of course. Blair was his Guide, his anchor. Jim needed him nearby at all times. Blair had been excited about the trip: three weeks to do as they pleased, not worrying about crooks or psychopaths or terrorists. He'd brought home brochures featuring sun washed beaches and ancient, vine draped stone temples. When Jim had told him that he'd already booked them for Germany, his face had crumpled like a kid who had just been informed that Santa Claus is just a wino in a red suit, and dad puts those presents under the tree, and you're a little old to believe in that, aren't you, sonny?

Blair had tried to talk him around. He'd coaxed and wheedled, going on about the therapeutic value of sun, sand, salt water, and tropical drinks featuring tiny paper umbrellas. He'd played Jimmy Buffet on the stereo till Jim was ready to use the CDs as frisbees. As the departure date drew closer, Jim had started to weaken. It was the thought of Blair on the beach that was doing it.

He could picture his young companion stretched out on a blanket, surrounded by blinding white sand, dressed only in a pair of minuscule Speedos. He could imagine that straight, slim body slowly toasting to a delicious brown, the light sprinkling of hair on his arms and legs and belly turning to spun gold. The sun would bring out the red highlights in his tumbling mane of dark curls...

Jim shook his head rapidly, dispelling the image, and took another hasty swallow of beer. His mouth had gotten very dry all of a sudden. It did that when he thought about Blair too much. It did that quite often these days.

Blair. Exasperating, endearing, hyperactive, constantly yapping little puppy. Never stopped moving, never shut up. If Blair were there right now, he'd be talking a mile a minute. He'd be commenting on the local drinkers, complaining about the taste of the beer, relating German folktales he'd gleaned from his studies, challenging Jim to a game of darts that he knew he couldn't win... But he wasn't here. Dammit.

Jim took another gulp, and wondered how drunk he'd have to be to excuse what he wished he had the nerve to do. They had a single room, to spare expenses. They had a single large bed, same reason. At least that was what Jim had told Blair.

Truth of the matter was, this was an excellent excuse to finally get to lay down beside the young man who had been steadily driving him crazy with lust. Jim was considering going back to the b and b drunk, crawling into bed, and rolling on top of Blair. Just to see what would happen. If Blair pitched a fit, well, hey, sorry. Damn, I was drunk. If he didn't... Jim had never been too drunk to fuck, and he wasn't about to start now.

The strong German beer was giving him a mild buzz. He thought about Blair, back at the b and b. Was he in bed yet? Blair slept in his skivvies, and he favored silk boxers these days. Jim remembered one particular pair. They weren't the baggy white type he was familiar with. No, these were black emblazoned with tiny red chili peppers. And the soft material clung, rather than bagged...

Jim started for the door, tossing a few marks on the bar to cover his bill.