by Elle Keaton
When they opened the moving box, the kitten looked daggers at them before hooking its claws into the side of the box and trying to scramble out. It got about halfway, then slid back to the bottom, mewing pathetically. Chance picked it up and showed it where the box was. The little guy had no qualms using it. When he was done he hopped out, only a little wobbly, and headed toward the kitchen, where John was sweeping.
“I broke the cat dish this morning. We’ll have to use a cereal bowl; they’re in the cabinet to the left of the sink.”
Chance grabbed a white bowl from the stack and opened a can of food, then spooned about half into it along with some crunchies. “Here you go, little one.”
The kitten wasted no time, diving in and eating what looked to be close to its body weight. Chance wondered how old it was; it didn’t seem to be more than six or seven weeks. Not that he had a ton of experience with tiny kittens.
John watched it eat. “I’d let it sleep in my room but . . . fine, it can sleep in my room. But if I do come down with the plague, it’s your fault. Go get your bags, and I’ll show you the guest room.”
Chance did as commanded, carefully wiping his boots on the mat before returning inside where John was waiting. He followed him up the stairs. Ogling John’s rear was becoming a habit, one he didn’t care to break.
At the top of the stairs, John led him across the landing, then opened another door and flipped on the light. The room was beautifully appointed. A double bed was situated against the far wall; to its left was a set of windows that must look out over the street. The walls were eggshell blue and the comforter covering the bed snowy white. It could have been cold, but instead it was warm and inviting. There were several framed photographs on the walls, all stunning.
“Did you take these? They’re amazing, beautiful.”
“Um, yeah. It’s something I’ve always done. That one there,” he gestured to a larger image, “I took in Iceland a few years ago.”
“You are a man of many talents, John.”
“Yeah, yeah. There’s a bathroom through that other door. I think there are towels; if not, let me know. My room is the door across the hallway. I’m taking the kitten. Sleep well.” He started to leave, then stopped. “Oh, if you wake up before me, there’s coffee in the pantry off the kitchen. Help yourself to stuff in the fridge. Good night.”
“Good night, John, and thank you. Not everyone would offer a nearly complete stranger a place to stay.”
John gave him a long look before turning and leaving, pulling the door closed behind him. Chance heard the door across the hall open and shut, then all was quiet again.
* * *
He set his suitcase on the bed and opened it, digging around to find his sleep pants, which he tossed on the bed. With a quiet groan he stripped naked. He needed a shower, and he needed sleep. Hands on his hips, Chance looked down at his semi-erect dick. He needed something else too, or he wouldn’t be able to sleep.
The bathroom was as tasteful as the bedroom, although admittedly all Chance really saw was the tub and shower. He climbed in and stood for a moment under the hot spray before reaching down to stroke himself. His cock needed very little encouragement. He felt himself harden under his hand; a self-pleasure loop kept building as he stroked and pumped. He slicked himself up with the shower gel, running his fingers along his own length, then underneath to the soft sac and back. The sensation was glorious, electric. A vision of what John might look like naked popped into his head, and he felt himself get harder. John would be a giving lover, Chance was certain. A whimper escaped him. He wanted to make this last, but he needed release. He might not be the young man he once was, but he had no trouble with sex.
Slowly he continued pumping himself. It was almost too much, but he also wanted more, and suddenly he didn’t know if he could come like this. He wanted more than just a hand on his knob. Lifting one foot, he balanced it on the edge of the tub, then leaned a shoulder against the wall to keep somewhat steady. He chuckled. It wouldn’t do for John to have to call an ambulance because Chance hurt himself wanking in the shower.
He continued to let his fingers run up and down his hard, nearly pulsing cock. Did he want to pinch his nipple, or—he shut his eyes, images flooding his senses. John was behind him whispering nothings into his ear, massaging his entrance, using long, lean fingers to get him ready. Then the hard tip of John’s erection would push against him and finally slide inside. Chance’s hand pumped faster, and he tightened his grip as his orgasm peaked. Come gushed onto his hand before disappearing down the drain.
The shower spray continued to pound against his shoulders while he recovered enough to think clearly. It had been a while since he’d been that turned on, come that hard. When he and John really got together, not just in Chance’s fevered imagination, it was going to be extraordinary.
Back in the bedroom after toweling himself off and dragging on the joggers he normally slept in, Chance called Edmund.
“What bloody time is it there?”
“Two a.m. I wanted to let you know I made it.”
“Hopefully you made it before now; the flights were what, fourteen hours? And you left days ago.”
“Smart arse.”
“Did you find him?”
Chance took a breath before he spoke, and Edmund beat him to it.
“You did. And you’re not coming home.”
“I did. And yes, you’re going to have to pack my flat.”
“Wanker.” But the word was uttered without any heat. After all, Edmund had said it first.
“I know. You were right. Listen, I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to convince John.”
“Ah, so the man who stole my best mate has a name—and it’s John? Really, Chance, I was expecting Tristan or Aristotle. John is . . .”
“Incredible, and quit bashing his name.”
Edmund sucked in a breath. Chance heard a glass or cup clink against a hard surface. “I’ll admit I’m jealous.”
“Really, Edmund?”
“Not of him being with you. You’re grotty; thinking of you that way makes my skin creep. I merely meant finding someone.”
Chance nodded, even though Edmund couldn’t see him. Someone, when you’d aged out of the club scene, seemed impossible. Men like themselves, i.e., older, were seen as lechers, losers. It was downright depressing. Singles ads . . . he rolled his eyes at the mere thought. He was lucky to have his mother’s spirit at his back. “Right, then, you’re next.”
Chance and Edmund had known each other since primary school. They’d both realized they were gay around the same time. They’d tried kissing, once, and had wound up on the floor laughing their arses off. That had been that; best friends since, with no desire to bump uglies.
“I knew you were leaving, but I’m going to miss you.” Edmund sounded sad, something Chance should’ve expected.
Impulsively, Chance said, “Come for a visit. This whole thing will be sorted by the time you get here.” Edmund was notoriously late for everything. Even if he jumped on the internet tonight, he wouldn’t decide anything for weeks, perhaps months.
“Right then, we’ll chat later. Ta.”
“Ta.” Something they’d said to each other a thousand times sounded horribly empty right then.
Chance tossed his phone onto his open suitcase before lying down. The bed was incredibly comfortable. The only thing wrong was he was the only one in it. Regretfully, he pulled the thick comforter up to his chin and shut his eyes. That was the last thing he remembered.
Chapter Nine
John imagined he would fall asleep quickly after the emotional day, much like the gray floof that’d curled up on the pillow next to him as if it belonged there and promptly shut its eyes. Instead, once he was in his pj’s and under the covers, his mind began to race. He couldn’t stop thinking about the day—technically now the day before, but he was still wide awake.
He’d gone to the theater with every intention of packing as much as he could
and returning tomorrow to do the same again. Instead Chance Allsop had appeared in his life, and now he had no idea what was happening. He’d bared his soul to the man, rescued a kitten, and ended up showing a movie after all—to guests Reed had drummed up from gods knew where on a snowy winter night.
And you and Chance shared an incredible kiss, his brain reminded him, helpfully adding how incredible it had been when their lips came together, when the tip of Chance’s tongue had brushed against his mouth—he’d very nearly opened his heart then and there.
Right. He shifted under the covers, remembering the effortless heat between them, how it would have been so easy for John to lean into Chance and let him take control.
The thing was, John didn’t trust himself. Especially after Rico. Lord, the scene tonight had been embarrassing. And wasn’t that just great, to have his bad choice appear at the theater after so many months.
Rico wanted something, John was certain of it. What, he had no idea. He certainly wasn’t going to let Rico weasel himself onto the deed for the house at this point. When the dust cleared from losing the theater, at least the house would still be his.
The pipes squeaked, interrupting John’s thoughts, followed by the sound of the shower turning on across the hall. Great, now John could fantasize about a naked near-stranger taking a shower. He turned onto his stomach and pulled the pillow over his head, trying to block out the sound. It didn’t work, because John didn’t have to hear the sound of running water to keep his fantasy alive.
“Great,” he muttered to no one, or maybe to the kitten. “Just great.”
Innumerable minutes later, the water turned off and John felt himself beginning to relax. He jolted into awareness again when the low murmur of a voice reached his ears. The house was old. It was late at night and very quiet, but John couldn’t make out the words and wondered who Chance would be talking to at this hour. Then he realized, of course, he was talking with someone back home in England.
The thought made his stomach lurch and his blood run cold. There was something about Chance . . . handsome looks aside, in the few hours since Chance had appeared in John’s life, he’d proven himself reliable; there was a quirky sense of humor—though it would serve Chance right if they did get some remnant of the plague from the kitten sleeping next to him on its very own pillow. And kind. Chance was kind; John knew he wasn’t imagining that. The idea that Chance was only in Skagit temporarily was more disquieting than it had any reason to be.
“Christ, John, get a grip,” he whispered into the dark. “You are not getting a man for Christmas.” But it was too late, his heart had allowed some kind of hope inside. “I am so stupid.”
* * *
John gave up on real sleep at about five a.m. Plus the kitten was up and ready to play. Chance found him downstairs in the kitchen an hour or so later; he didn’t look much more rested than John felt.
“Coffee?” John offered.
“Tea?” Chance responded hopefully.
John shook his head. “Sorry. Maybe some herbal stuff for when I’m too sick to enjoy caffeine?”
John noted dispassionately that Chance looked absolutely adorable. Either he hadn’t noticed his hair sticking up at all angles, or he didn’t care. The complete opposite of Rico, who’d spend forty-five minutes getting ready to be “seen.” At first John had found it endearing, but by the end he’d wanted to break every reflective surface in the house.
“Fine.” But his unexpected guest stuck his lower lip out.
“Are you pouting?”
Chance shuffled over to the breakfast counter and sat down on a barstool.
“What is it you Americans say? I refuse to incriminate myself? I’m knackered but couldn’t sleep. Jet lag is kicking my arse. My body thinks it’s teatime.”
The kitten had been playing with a piece of tinfoil in the pantry but ventured out to see who John was talking to. The traitorous thing clumsily raced to Chance, mewing, demanding to be picked up.
“Entertain Simba, and I’ll make you a cup of coffee you won’t be able to resist.”
“We are not naming this adorable beast ‘Simba.’” He picked up the kitten and began to coo at it.
John left Chance and the kitten for the safety of the pantry, where he pretended to look for tea. He knew he didn’t have any but suspected by the end of the day he would have a selection for his . . . guest. Instead he grabbed a gold bag that contained special roast coffee from his favorite café in town, the Booking Room, and he reminded himself again that Chance Allsop was only visiting, not staying.
Back out in the kitchen, he busied himself prepping the fancy Italian espresso machine he had a special place for on the countertop. An indulgence, to be sure, but one he used often. Chance watched him with sleepy eyes. The kitten was the only one getting any rest.
“So, you said your mom was from Skagit. Do you still have family here?”
“I said my mom was waiting in front of the movie theater,” Chance corrected. “She was actually from a smaller town closer to the Canadian border.”
He skritched the kitten between the ears. John waited for the rest of the story.
“When my mum fell in love with a man who wasn’t the snowy-white Christian her parents had imagined for her, they disowned her. Didn’t matter that he had money, that my family was practically more British than afternoon tea or the queen. All that mattered was my dad’s ancestry and religion.” He shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong, I could write volumes about how terrible English history is, and there’s plenty of racism there today, but my dad’s family loved my mum as much as he did, from the very moment they laid eyes on her.”
“I’ll scratch family reunion off my list for you today.”
Chance laughed. “About right.”
“But you were serious about what you told me last night?”
The atmosphere in the kitchen was charged. John wasn’t certain what was causing it. He was either treading on dangerous ground or . . . something else.
“Your dad came here, met your mother, and they lived happily ever after?”
“Well, he cheated at cribbage, which pissed her off, but other than that, yes,” Chance replied, watching John carefully.
John poured beans into the coffee grinder, reveling in their scent. He pressed the power button, and the sound of the blade pulverizing the beans filled the space where they’d been talking, giving John time to consider his next question. He scanned his cup collection, picking out a demitasse. It was one of his favorites, a deep indigo with gold filigree along the rim.
“Why?” he asked, placing the cup on the counter, hoping Chance would know what he was asking.
“Why did I come here? Or maybe what you’re really asking is, why am I going to stay now that I’m here?”
John shrugged, feeling foolish and exposed. Like a third-grade boy asking if someone liked him.
“I came because I promised my mother. Frankly, I thought it the most ridiculous promise I’d ever made. But I had to honor it. She made me promise on her deathbed. Tricky woman she was, probably knew I’d never do it any other way. And at this point in my life—I’m forty-five,” he added, “I thought, what could it hurt? I’ve spent my adult life in relationships that, while not entirely unsatisfying, were never meant to last. The worst possibility was I would return to London and keep living the way I already was.”
Chance paused, shifting his weight on the barstool, leaning forward so he could prop an elbow on the countertop, watching John. The water was finally hot enough. John took milk from the fridge, pouring it into the silver jug he'd purchased solely for this purpose. Deftly he steamed the milk, then set it aside before pulling a single shot of espresso, not letting it run long, making sure there was plenty of crema floating on the surface.
He poured the shot into the waiting cup, followed by a bloop of warm milk. Putting the cup back down on the counter, he pushed it toward Chance.
“Here, try this.”
Chance reached out with
his free hand and pulled the hot drink closer to him. Picking up the cup with his large, gentle fingers, he brought it toward his mouth. John kept watching, fascinated, as Chance’s sexy lips opened slightly in anticipation of the hot drink, his pink tongue emerging to moisten them. The gold filigree on the cup’s rim disappeared for a moment as he sipped the coffee, then reappeared as he licked his lips again, and John couldn’t look away even though he knew he should.
“Well?” he asked. His voice cracked like a thirteen-year-old boy’s, and he cleared his throat, trying to hide his sudden nerves.
“I think you should taste it.”
“Oh.” Disappointment shot though him. It was that bad? Normally he was pretty good at making espresso. He reached for the cup.
“No, here.”
John was confused. He glanced over at Chance, who was abruptly right next to him. When had he moved from the barstool? The only thing there now was the sleeping kitten. Next thing John knew, he was tasting the bittersweet coffee on Chance’s lips, from Chance’s mouth. And holy fuck, Batman, it was hot. Without a doubt it was the most carnal espresso John had ever tasted.
Neither of them had shaved or showered yet that morning. Aside from the earthy flavor of the coffee, John tasted Chance himself, his very essence. Indescribable yet immediately addicting: a human opiate. He smelled good too, fresh from bed, sleepy and inviting. John wanted to stop kissing so he could press his nose into Chance’s neck and inhale his very self. But he also wanted to keep kissing, their tongues stroking each other in a delicious dance.
There was something about kissing that John almost found more intimate than the act of sex. Kissing was an act that led to sex; if the kissing wasn’t good, it was pretty much guaranteed the sex would be mediocre at best. John put everything into a kiss; he opened himself and demanded the other man open too.