by Jayce Ellis
André
Silence had never been a problem for me. Hell, after growing up with three brothers, I’d craved it when I got to college, and it hadn’t much changed since. After one week of Marcus, in my house, in my bed, every night? This silence was overwhelming and stifling and I hated it.
And honestly, I didn’t have time to hate it. Marcus had gone back to school on Sunday, and even though Clarymore was flying him out twice a month, they expected us to do actual work, not take-a-dick-pic-for-me-please work. Other than those twice-weekly Skype chats, I was pretty much on my own with this partnership.
It was a good thing Nancy Pennington was more understanding than the rest of her entourage, and damn sure more than Clarymore itself. They wanted me back on that on-at-all-hours thing, and I told Phil in no uncertain terms that was why Pennington had hired them. I was there for the small-firm feel; Clarymore was there to have poor souls forced to answer at three a.m. The Penningtons understood that I had a life, that I went home at a decent hour, and that wasn’t changing. I was definitely working longer hours, but I was trying to leave by the eight p.m. timeframe Marcus and I’d established at the end. Sometimes those evenings were for Pennington, sometimes they were my own clients. And who knew how long it would last, but so far I was doing okay.
Now I settled in front of my couch, scarfing down one of the frozen meals Marcus had made for me before he left. When I tell you that man could throw down in a kitchen? And he loved it. He rebuffed any suggestion that we eat out, because I felt bad about my gross ineptitude in that arena, and indulged himself in making everything from scratch. Pasta? Scratch. Bolognese sauce? Scratch. I was half tempted to send him up to Miss Muriel. The two of them would have an absolute bang-up time together.
The phone rang just as I finished my last bite, and I scrambled to answer it. Marcus and I spoke every night, but as I checked the screen, a fear settled in my stomach, ruining a perfectly delightful meal. It wasn’t Marcus, and thankfully it wasn’t George. But it was my youngest brother Tracey, and he never called. Ever.
“Hey, Tracey. What’s up? Is everything okay?”
The laugh on the other end was rich. “What makes you think there has to be something wrong to call my big brother?”
“Um, how about that you’ve never called before?”
“Fair enough. No, I honestly kind of just wanted to see how you were doing. We didn’t get a chance to talk much.”
Dear God, had it been just a week and a half? Two weeks ago? It seemed like yesterday, and like a lifetime. “Yeah,” I said. “Things got a little wild there at the end, and Marcus and I really did have things to do.”
Tracey was quiet for a second before speaking. “Is Marcus your boyfriend?” His words were barely a whisper.
“Would you have a problem if he was?” I wasn’t going to lie about me and Marcus’s relationship, but it was bad enough I dragged him down there with me, worse that I hadn’t insisted he stay behind—like he would’ve listened—but that he’d had to listen to and witness and was the subject of just as many of those small dings and jabs as I was. I wasn’t thrilled about him having to deal with it when he was hundreds of miles away.
“No, I don’t care. Or I don’t think I do. But George says you’re gay. And you never said anything about that to us. Are you?”
I pulled the phone back in my ear and stared at it. I very distinctly remembered the family meeting. George had pitched a fit, Wallace looked up from the book he was reading, shrugged, and got back to it, and Tracey? I racked my brain to remember. That’s right, Tracey had been visiting our grandparents in Georgia. I’d dropped the news and then Mom and Dad decided I needed to go to camp, for what I don’t know, other than it got me out of their hair. Somehow, I’d assumed they told him when he got back, or at whatever stage they thought it was appropriate.
“Trace, I’m sorry. This hasn’t been some big secret, and no one kept it from you on purpose. I truly assumed you knew. George wasn’t exactly shy about shitting on me.”
He snorted. “George wasn’t shy about a lot, but y’all had your own rooms. And no one wanted to be bothered with the baby, so y’all kinda left me in the dust. Besides,” he said, “we all made gay jokes a lot. It didn’t register that they meant anything.”
“True,” I conceded, because in my quest to fit in, I’d made more than a few of my own, “but I guess I imagined there was a point where you realized he was serious.” There was a long pause, but I could still hear Tracey breathing. “Trace? What’s wrong?”
Tracey blew out a noisy breath. “This was my first time home since the last time you were here.”
That was a surprise. A big one. “Trace, why?”
He sighed, and even though I could count on a hand of the number of times I’d seen my baby brother over the years, I could imagine him tucking one leg up under him and getting comfortable on the sofa or mattress or whatever he was on.
“I don’t know. Just that, that whole party felt, I guess, off to me. Does that make sense?”
That answer bore...no relation to my question, but Trace wouldn’t be calling if he didn’t want to talk. Eventually. So I could play along. “Makes perfect sense to me,” I said. “People aren’t too subtle about their questions or insinuations. Not about that.”
“If I heard bless him and I’ll pray for him one more time...” Tracey groused. “I guess I’d noticed George doing it too, but Aisha always shut him down. Hearing it at the party—which was supposed to be about Pops, right?—it was a lot.”
“Trace,” I started, then paused. This was truly none of my business, but... “Are you gay?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so. Shit, Dre, I don’t fucking know what I am, but it pissed me off being there, feeling like there might be something wrong with me.”
I laughed, but my heart was heavy. I’d known what I was getting into before I went home, but it was Pop’s seventieth. How could I have missed it? That it was starting to impact Tracey too? That made me angrier than when it’d been contained to me.
“I get why you stayed away,” Tracey whispered, as if reading my mind.
“I shouldn’t have let it stop me from seeing you. From being there for you.”
“True,” Tracey said, and I could hear the spark in his voice, “but maybe it’d be okay if I came up to see you every now and then?”
The suggestion was like a weight off my chest. “I’d love that,” I told him.
“Great. Won’t be anytime soon, though. Because labs and shit.”
I chuckled. “Whenever you make it up, I’m ready for you.”
“So, about my first question? Are you and Marcus dating?”
I thought about those nights in the hotel and grinned. “Yes, yes we are.”
“He’s a pretty motherfucker.”
I laughed out loud at that. “He sure as hell is.”
We talked about that, about the transition from one-night stand to pseudo-employee to lover, and then Tracey caught me up with the stem cell research he was doing as a graduate student. I relaxed into the conversation, enjoying this time with my brother, until someone knocked on his door for a study group.
We hung up, and a wave of sadness crashed into me. Going home had never really been my thing, and sadly, this confirmed it. I was glad to have that tether to my family, but it seemed like it would need to be from afar. For my sanity, and I had to remind myself that my sanity was important.
With those increasingly morose thoughts in my head, I swiveled in my chair and went back to work.
Marcus
“Dammit!” I yelled at the empty room. I couldn’t focus on the reading for the course I was taking—at all. I’d been back at school for two weeks, and this was the first weekend Clarymore had flown me down to work. We’d had our meeting, Mrs. Pennington happier than she probably should be to see me, given how little I had actually worked on
the project since the presentation, and André had rented out the spare office again.
Yes, I had the office at Clarymore. But not the camaraderie, and I’d hated the few times I had to interrupt Harold, or, heaven forbid, Phil, to ask a question. While Harold was always patient with me, now that I knew about Phil’s relationship with André, I didn’t want to deal with him.
It didn’t help that he always asked about André. Banal questions, ones that wouldn’t raise my hackles any other time, felt intrusive now. The four days I’d spent there before going back to Wharton were enough for me to ask André if I could have the office back. Harold hadn’t cared; neither had the Penningtons. Only Phil seemed annoyed by the change.
Thinking about it made my head hurt, and I closed my eyes. For how long, I didn’t know, but enough to be startled when André rapped at the door. Or, I assumed it was him, since the suite had been nearly barren when we’d shown up just after seven.
“You okay in here?” he asked, a small grin on his face.
No lie, I loved how happy he was, the way he grinned like he was now and when he’d picked me up from Reagan, the way he’d splayed a hand over my knee as we drove back to Crestline. Hell, I hadn’t even known André had a car, given how little he drove, and he laughed when I admitted that.
“I’m good,” I told him. “Tired. Ready to get home.” And yes, that I was calling his apartment home wasn’t lost on me.
André’s eyes went dark the way they always did when I mentioned home. Like he knew what we were in for. He’d still have issues with bottoming, I’d still want it more than my next breath, and I’d still put myself in any position he wanted me just to feel him close. “I’m down with that,” he said. “But are you sure you don’t need to get more work done here?”
He was only asking because once we got to the apartment, the likelihood I’d get anything of significance accomplished was pretty slim. We had two weeks of not seeing each other to make up for. Still, fire ants marched up my arms at the words, the way they had since the semester started any time someone mentioned how much work I had or should be doing.
It was worse than during the summer, when Jake had tried to convince me that a small firm was my calling. I’d known then that wasn’t the case, but I was increasingly starting to think that a large firm wasn’t it either. And where the hell did that leave me? Even the kitchen didn’t bring me the same respite it once did. It somehow had become synonymous with my indecision, my not following my heart’s desire, or whatever Jake would say.
The only thing I knew, that I was confident in, was that I enjoyed spending time with André. I especially liked cooking for him, seeing the look on his face when he took in what I’d made. Knowing how he’d react when he’d see the secret stash of meals I’d prepare and freeze for him during my absence. He complimented me on everything, and I thrilled in the attention.
André stepped closer into the room and cupped my cheek. “Baby, you sure you’re okay?”
I clamped my hand over his. “I’m fine. Promise.”
He didn’t look like he believed that for a minute, but he stepped back and offered me his hand. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
I nodded and used him as leverage to stand, then got my things together. We left the office and went down to the lobby, making our way toward the Metro.
“I don’t know that we have anything to fix,” André said. “I figured we could just have leftovers or something.”
Normally I’d say hell yes to that, but the antsiness hadn’t abated, and while cooking wasn’t bringing the same relief, it would help. “How about we stop off at the store and grab a few things?”
André glanced up at me. “Sure, if you want. I don’t want you to think you’re obligated. I muddled along before you.”
Now I knew I had a problem, because my first thought was that he was telling me he didn’t need me. Thankfully I discarded it before it took root, because I know he was trying not to take advantage. I leaned over and kissed the side of his forehead. “You’re not. I enjoy doing this, I promise.”
André nodded, and we were quiet during the Metro ride. We got off and he led me to the basement.
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t like carrying groceries any longer or farther than I have to,” André said with a wry grin on his face. “Groceries equal cars.”
I wouldn’t complain about that. We hopped in and made the short trip, then André pulled me close again. “Marcus, what’s going on? You’re not yourself.”
“Why do you call me that?”
André looked taken aback, to say the least. “What? Marcus? Because it’s what you said you preferred.”
“Yeah, when we were trying to keep that employer-employee relationship. We’re not doing that anymore, are we?”
“Well, no, but I guess it’s become habit. Besides, when we’re at Clarymore, it’s best that I maintain that distance.”
I was making up issues, shit I didn’t even care about, anything to try to stave off the unwelcome nausea that continued to blanket me. But it was no use, and as we stood in line to check out, I finally figured out why.
It wasn’t just that I was unsure if I was a good candidate for a large firm or a small one. It was that I was unsure if I wanted to work at any firm at all. And what the fuck was I supposed to do with that realization?
Chapter Twenty-One
André
Marcus on edge put me on edge and, when all I wanted was to bury myself in him, that was the last feeling I was interested in. But this was relationships, right? Stuffing my horniness under a pillow so I could do the important work of making sure my boyfriend was okay? Hell, I wasn’t even certain he still wanted to come back with me instead of going to... I don’t know, anywhere else.
But he followed me out the door and to the car in silence. We drove back to Crestline in silence, and he studiously avoided my gaze until I found street parking and walked in the lobby.
I’d never been so grateful to see that neither Mr. Johnson nor Fiona was at the front, because I doubted they’d let either of us up without question. Marcus followed me into the apartment, his footsteps so quiet I double-checked more than once to make sure he was still there, and was on me the minute the door shut, our bags falling with a thud to the floor.
His kiss tasted almost desperate, and I couldn’t tell if it was because of the weeks apart, and his need to reconnect, or whatever was swirling in his head. Didn’t matter. I wanted...needed to feel him again.
“I need in you,” he whispered, his words low and harsh sounding.
My body convulsed at the confession, even as my brain started its increasingly uncomfortable spiral. I wanted this, had wanted it from before I’d met Marcus, and that desire had only ratcheted up in the weeks since. When he said the words, though, my anxiety kicked in again. It never happened while he was away, except on the nights I used a dildo on myself, pretending it was him. Which was just about every night...but it wasn’t the same as hearing him say it.
I managed to nod, and felt Marcus’s heartfelt groans down to the soles of my feet. He cupped my face in his hands and pressed our foreheads together. “Want it so bad, Dre. I fucking dream about it.”
His dreams couldn’t hold a candle to mine, but all I did was take his hand and drag him to my bedroom. He crowded into me, wrapping his arms around me and nuzzling into the side of my neck. I fumbled with my belt buckle, getting it unfastened just as Marcus trailed his hand down my chest to the top of my slacks. He unpopped the button and lowered the zipper, snaking his hand inside and fondling my dick over my boxer briefs.
I grunted, gripping his forearm with one hand and looping the other around the back of his neck. He had me hard, leaking, ready to make a mess, and my world narrowed to the vision of him holding me just like this while buried deep inside me. My body his to do with it what he pleased. Everything I’d alwa
ys wanted.
I nearly cried out when Marcus released me, but it was only to spin me around and walk me the few steps to the bed. He stripped me, carefully because this suit was not cheap, but with the eagerness of someone whose mind was on something else. He followed with his own clothes, tossing them haphazardly while he’d folded mine, then climbed on top of me, positioning our dicks together and bracing himself on his elbows.
“You feel so damn good,” I whispered, squeezing his ass cheek and thrilling when it clenched at my touch.
His chuckle was rough, and the way he closed his eyes and bit his lip while rocking his dick against mine would fuel the next two weeks of fantasies. Marcus was, without a doubt, stunning. Lost in his own bliss, and unafraid to let me see it.
The sight needled something deep in me. My fear of letting anyone see my pleasure the way Marcus allowed me to see his right now. And no matter what I did to try to push the thought aside, the idea of letting Marcus in me—in me—would expose a part of myself I’d kept locked tight for so long, made my dick soften.
Marcus, damn him, noticed immediately, and looked down. “Dre, what is it? What’s wrong?”
I shook my head and tried to draw him down for a kiss, but he wasn’t having it. He scrambled off me and to the middle of the bed, and I shuffled around ’til I was on my side. Marcus laid a heavy hand on my hip and rubbed slow circles on me. He was still hard, and it’d be easy to scoot down and take him in my mouth, ignore the thoughts depriving my brain of oxygen.
Marcus’s hand stilled on mine and tightened just the smallest amount. Just enough to stop me from moving. Fuck. I did not want to have this conversation. We were still too new, too raw, and this was some dumb shit. If I wanted to bottom, I should fucking do it. But even as I thought the words, I knew Marcus wouldn’t believe them.
“I’m sorry. I’m fucked up,” I said. Yeah, that wasn’t helpful.
“What’s going on?”
He had to know, but he was going to make me spell it out anyway. “That I want this, but I can’t.”