“Bedroom.” Grabbing my hand, he hauled me through the living room.
“Too far.” I stopped by the couch, trying to move Mt. David onto the couch.
“Couch doesn’t . . . uh . . . have supplies.”
“Well, why didn’t you just say that?” I gave him a flirty wink before skipping down the short hall. “Race you.”
Usually, David didn’t ask me to bottom unless he’d had a couple of beers. Made my stomach go all tingly how he always asked so haltingly for something I was only too happy to give.
“So tell me about this fantasy of yours.” Forget waiting for him to unwrap me like a late Christmas present. I stripped off my clothes with surgical precision before hopping on the bed.
“Um.” Going all pink, he stumbled out of his pants. My dick jumped at the sight of him shedding his dress clothes. Pulling off his tie was a huge turn-on for me, and the thunk of his belt hitting the floor and the rustle of his crisp dress pants was more effective than a double shot of Jack at loosening up my muscles.
I already knew I’d be down with whatever he had in mind, anticipation thrumming through me like a heavy bass beat. There was a trust level with David that I’d never had before—a comforting reassurance that he wouldn’t push for more than I wanted to give.
“Hurry up and show me.” I patted the bed. Our bodies moved together with a fluid familiarity—a rasp of hair as our legs tangled, a glide of muscle as our chests met. Kisses that dragged on for long minutes, him working my cock with a practiced hand.
“Gonna . . . come if you keep that up,” I warned.
“Tell me what you want.” Oh, yes. Toppy David was out in full force and my whole body shivered with eagerness.
“Fuck me,” I whispered in his ear. His dick leapt against my hip at my words. He might not be able to force the words out himself, but he sure loved me talking dirty.
Grabbing a pillow, he maneuvered me until I lay on it, facedown.
“This okay?” He dropped kisses down my spine.
“Totally.” I suppressed a laugh. His big idea was predictably tame and I loved him for it. Loved him. Of course, I hadn’t managed to tell him that yet. He hadn’t said the words either, and I wasn’t about to be the only one with the words hanging between us, out of place and as awkward as jeans at a black tie dinner.
“Is it okay if I come this way, though? You gonna care if the pillow gets spooge on it?”
“Not at all.” He kissed the dimple right above my ass before reaching for the lube. He knew exactly what I liked, how hard to work me with his fingers, exactly what spots to hit to open me up. I shuddered as he found the perfect rhythm. There were definite perks to having a detail-orientated boyfriend. I loved his big, strong fingers almost as much as I loved his dick.
“Please.” I humped into the pillow. I’d come from just his fingers before and my body was hurtling toward that point. “Can’t wait.”
“Okay, baby.” Thank God he didn’t make me wait. Slowly, he pushed in, breath hissing out between his teeth. The position forced him deeper and I rocked back into him, needing more. The hard press of his body limited my motion, intensified even the smallest wiggle. Slipping one arm around my chest, he cradled me as he stretched out along my back.
“Kept . . . thinking about . . . angles all morning.”
My laugh strangled in my throat as his dick grazed my gland. God, I loved my left-brained, math-obsessed man. Only he could make geometry so fucking sexy. We settled into a rhythm of him stroking into me, me pushing into the pillow, cascading waves of pleasure spreading out with each thrust.
“Love that,” he groaned. My head collapsed onto the mattress as I let him surround me, let my senses tunnel down to just this, just his scent, his warmth, everything collapsing into this cozy, safe space where I could let go of everything except him. Never letting go of him.
He nipped at my neck, his teeth sending jolts of electricity down my already lit-up spine. Wedging a hand beneath my chest, he rested his palm over my heart. His other hand grasped mine, leaving no spot unconnected. Energy spiraled through us, and all I could think was that I wanted this to last forever. Didn’t even want to come. Just wanted to be here like this, breathing the same air, sharing the same skin, feeling the same pleasure.
“Jesus, I love you,” he breathed against my neck. I knew what he meant—he loved the sex, the connection, the sheer awesomeness of surging together like this, but the words gave me a thrill that pulsed through me, inched me closer to the edge.
“Me too. More.” I pushed back hard against him.
“God . . . do that again,” he moaned, and I obliged, rocking faster against him, tightening my muscles to intensify the drag of pleasure with each thrust. His chest hair tickled my back and sweat pooled between us. The room reeked of sex and man and the scent got me hotter. His heavy weight on my back, his low grunt every time I pushed up against him, his thighs tense against mine—all the sensations intensified with each thrust.
“Oh, fuck. David.” Much too soon, I felt orgasm sneak up on me—not an explosion as much as a flood of emotion and sensation, rushing past every neuron in my brain, leaving my body limp and exhausted. Three quick thrusts and David joined me with a low groan, collapsing on me.
Pulling out, David rolled onto his back, dragging me against him so that my head was on his chest. My eyes drifted shut, sleepiness winning out over all other impulses.
“You know what’s funny?” David asked, almost chipper.
“Yeah?” I cracked one eye open. Unlike most normal dudes, sex didn’t make David sleepy. If anything it revved him up, made him all talkative and full of plans. One Sunday morning he’d bounded up out of bed to start vacuuming moments after an epic fuck session that had me taking a two-hour nap. Crazy, lovable guy.
“Sorry. You can sleep.” His cheeks turned pink.
“Oh, now I’m curious.” I raised my head to smile at him. Even brain dead and blissed out, I wasn’t going to miss out on his candor.
“It’s just . . . before you I never really thought of myself as someone who liked to top.”
“No kidding?” I tried and failed at keeping the sarcasm out of my voice. I’d already figured out that Sheriff Perfect had been all things toppy and butch. “Wait. Had you never . . .”
“Uh. Yeah. I’d topped.” He turned even pinker. “I . . . experimented some in college. And there were a couple of times with Craig, but it wasn’t really his thing.”
I had a feeling that the “couple of times” in twelve freaking years involved Craig drunk off his ass, but I wisely kept my snark to myself. Dear old Craig had been seriously missing out because David was the best lover I’d ever had—the whole attention-to-detail thing helped, but it was also the way he created such a safe space for me to let go. He was instinctively toppy without any of the asshole side effects that often came with it.
“But you like it, right?” Worry crept past all my post orgasm fuzzy happiness. Being good at something didn’t always translate to fulfillment; my aborted grad school attempt was proof enough of that.
“Oh, yeah.” He laughed. “That’s the thing. First time I saw you, my first thought was ‘Man, I want to fuck him.’ Sorry. That’s crude.”
“No, it’s sweet.” I propped myself up on an elbow, stretching to kiss his cheek. “But . . . do you miss it?” I wasn’t sure if these were just idle postsex observations or if he was trying to ask to switch in a very David sort of roundabout way.
“Not really.” He rolled his shoulders. Thank goodness. I hadn’t offered to switch mainly because I had no desire to compete with Sheriff Perfect. It wasn’t that I never topped, but I definitely felt most comfortable fucking a guy who knew how he wanted to get done and kept charge of the scene, as opposed to a guy who wanted me to go all toppy and commanding. I wasn’t anywhere close to the throw-him-down-and-ride-him-hard cowboy I imagined Craig to have been.
“If you ever want to . . .” It took a lot to offer, but if that was what he needed,
I’d try. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t try for him.
“I’ll let you know.” He kissed the top of my head. “But it’s kind of like mashed potatoes.”
“Like potatoes?”
“Like liking mashed potatoes and being convinced it’s the perfect food but never having tasted steak.” He scratched his jaw. “Sorry. Wrong metaphor for a vegetarian—”
“No, I’ll take being your steak.” I kissed his flushed cheek. Suddenly the whole moving thing seemed rather petty. Why begrudge him his slow pace when it got me this? When things were pretty much perfect, every single time we got together?
“Hey. You know what?” I asked. “You want to come check out some places with me this weekend? Help me weed out the crazies?” I could do this. I could embrace another roommate situation, put my desire for us to live together on hold.
“I would, but I’m going home this weekend. My dad’s birthday.”
Just like that, my zenlike peace burst. His hometown was at least nine hours away; spending the weekend there would likely be a big deal. Something you’d mention to your boyfriend.
“But . . . it’s Valentine’s on Sunday.” I sounded like a freaking girl, but I couldn’t help it. My first time having an out boyfriend at the right time of year—yeah, I’d been looking forward to it. I’d gotten him a pair of Winterhawks tickets. Nothing cheesy or sentimental, but I’d been planning on our usual brunch, maybe a little extra cuddling in line.
“That’s right. Totally slipped my mind.” He ran a hand through my hair. “Not surprising, I guess, since I’ve never really celebrated that day. Is that like a thing for you? You one of those guys who digs the hearts and flowers?”
“Not really. Overblown commercial crap,” I lied. “We can do something when you get back. How old’s your dad turning?”
“Seventy. Whole family’s descending. Probably a hundred people, all crowded into the Grange. Trust me, I’d rather be spending the day with you.”
“Me too,” I said softly. You could. Huge family gathering like that, I’d bet there would be other girlfriends and boyfriends dragged along. And okay, probably not same-sex ones, but still, the fact that going together wasn’t even on the table stung. I felt a bit like I had with Brian: a dirty secret, not fit for his family. It rankled that the holidays had come and gone and he’d met my parents, but no mention had been made of meeting his. Frankly, he’d seemed almost relieved that his schedule had precluded a visit home. Maybe he had no plans to make this more permanent. Sometimes waiting for him felt like an actual weight—a heavy iron thing hanging around my neck, pulling me down.
“Hey, maybe it’ll be the perfect time to try out your phone idea.” He was all kinds of flustered suggesting it, but I couldn’t enjoy his cute discomfort. Phone sex was a pretty empty substitute for a boyfriend who thought I was steak yet still seemed to want to save me for special occasions.
Chapter 8
I wasn’t sure we wanted the same things. I was depressed and unsure what to do about it. Still, my pulse leaped when I saw his name on my incoming call. His number showed with a selfie I’d snapped of us at brunch one Sunday. I took a moment to stare at him, deep longing coursing through me.
“Hey, stranger.” Giving up on the laundry I’d been sorting, I plopped down on my bed.
“Hi, sweetie. Sorry if it’s late.” I could tell from the sweetie and the languid tone of his voice that he’d probably had a few beers. I could also tell he was alone, most likely stretched out in a childhood room I’d never seen, but wanted to know everything about.
“Never too late for you.” I kept my voice light, trying to match his relaxed tone. “How was the party?”
“Long. Boring. Too many kids.”
“You have anyone to talk to?” I wanted to volunteer for next time, but I couldn’t find the words. Instead, I stared at my Portal poster, wishing I could tunnel right to David’s side.
“Not unless you count my redneck cousins who wanted to talk elk hunting.” He chuckled, the sound vibrating through me. “What about you?”
“I watched the Blazers game earlier. Look what you’ve done to me.” Sorting three weeks of laundry while watching a ball game and missing my lover like crazy—yep, I really knew how to have a wild Saturday night. “But that center guy is pretty cute.”
“I haven’t looked at the box score yet. What was his stats line like?”
“I have no idea. He’s got a new tattoo on his left calf, though.” My guy watched sports for the numbers. I watched sports for my guy. And the occasional eye candy. “But he did a wicked block in the fourth quarter.”
“Knew I’d convert you sooner or later.” His voice was like salted caramel sauce—smooth and sweet with a hint of grit. “That’s not all I’d like to do to you.”
“Yeah?” I stretched my legs out on the bed, glancing over to make sure I’d shut my door.
“Miss you. It’s nine degrees here and even with a space heater, this bed is darn cold.” It was the closest he’d come to saying he liked sharing a bed for more than just the obvious, and warmth bloomed in my chest. My own room was none too hot. Portland didn’t get many of these bitter cold snaps and our drafty old rental wasn’t prepared to fend off the chill. I had a small space heater supplementing the ancient radiator that worked better for drying socks than heating humans.
“Wish I were there too. I could heat you up quick.” Undoing the top button of my jeans, I starting spinning out a fantasy involving me, David, a pile of quilts, and warm flesh.
“Trust me, you don’t want to be here.” His emphatic tone threw ice water all over my rising lust.
“Sure I do.” I tried to keep the light, seductive tone going, but it sounded forced even to my own ears. My hand fell away from my fly and I went back to mentally categorizing my posters.
“Nah. Too much . . . never mind.” There was a scratching sound, and I could picture David tugging at his hair, the way he always did when stressed.
“Tell me about it.” The moment for sexy play had evaporated, leaving only concern behind. Didn’t matter how frustrated I was; I still wished I was there to rub his shoulders, make him tell me what was bothering him.
“Oh, nothing new. Just same small town, big family stuff.”
“They give you a hard time for being gay?” My neck tightened at the memory of the last family reunion my dad had dragged me to. Lots of military types and southerners who’d been all nice-nice while my dad was around and gossipy harpies as soon as he was out of the room.
“Some of them. Most of them pretend it’s a nonissue. But it’s always hard at things like this, where my parents’ friends show up too.”
“Ah.” Somewhere buried under all his subtext and careful inflection, the real issue revealed itself like a crack in a freshly painted ceiling. “Craig’s family was there?”
“Yeah. Not a big deal.” His words said one thing, but his weary tone revealed the truth. “Our fathers grew up together. Hell, even our grandfathers were friends. They’ve always come to family parties and stuff.”
“Even after . . .” My fingers fiddled with the buttons on my duvet cover.
“Yeah. I mean, there were a couple of months when Earl didn’t talk to my dad.”
“And that was easier?” I guessed.
“A little.” He sounded like he felt guilty for it. “But somehow they put it behind them. Our folks are at least social to each other.”
“But not to you?”
“I don’t exist to Earl and Dottie.” His voice was quiet. “It’s not a question of civil. I simply don’t exist to them. At some point they decided that whatever went down was an aberration and that denial was a great place to take up residence. So they did. And they ignore me altogether.”
“Geez. That sucks.” A chill raced down my spine.
“And every time I see them . . .”
“What?”
“I can’t help thinking that he should be there too. That he should be right behind Earl, slapping my dad on t
he back, getting his mom’s coat . . .”
“That has to suck for you.” I didn’t know what else to say. I inhaled slowly, caught the scent of baking cookies. Sarah was busy testing new recipes. Usually the aroma lured me to the kitchen, but right now my stomach was churning and all I wanted to do was stay behind my closed door.
“It does. But not as much as it used to. Knowing I’d get to call you later helped.” He sounded like he was forcing the good cheer past a huge boulder of guilt and sadness.
“How about I come next time?” He sounded so down that my desire to wrap my arms around him trumped my reluctance to raise the topic.
“I . . . don’t know.”
Damn. I called myself thirty-seven kinds of idiot for thinking he might go for it. Kicking at the lump of blankets at the foot of my bed, I sat up.
“You don’t want that. Trust me.”
That stung. I’d heard similar words from Brian a dozen times. You wouldn’t like them anyway. You’d be bored. I don’t want you feeling uncomfortable. And then, finally, the truth. We’d need to be just friends for them. I don’t think I can play it that way. You don’t want to lie.
“It’s not you.” He tried to reassure me, his voice like an invisible pat on the knee. “It’s them. Some of them are . . . a little racist. The things they say, you know.”
“Oh.” I’d heard those excuses from Brian too. In Portland, the whole half-Asian thing was a complete nonissue, something I only really dwelled on when my dad dragged me to one of his family things back in Virginia. Mom got all stiff and nervous around my dad’s very white, very southern family. But I’d always caught more heck from my cousins for the whole short, nerdy, and queer thing than for who my mom was. “I wouldn’t care.” I’d told that same lie to Brian, and just like then, it didn’t make any difference.
“I would.” His voice was tight, and I sensed he was sitting up now, any trace of his buzz gone. His leg would be swaying restlessly, a hand on his knee. “But hey, it’s not all a downer. My coworkers love you.”
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