Myron had been closeted for...ever, it seemed like. After figuring out what he liked from a relatively young age, he’d never known a day when he wasn’t on guard with his actions or words. Even during his time spent in the homeless shelters around Chicago, any quick, desperate encounters that seemed to last only moments in duration had all happened in darkened nooks and crannies. Desire or need hidden behind bravado in public, prowess with fighting best on display instead of what so many would see as a weakness.
Then had come the truly desperate days, where those furtive actions took on a coating of shame, the sparse clink of coins flicked at his feet on the worst days, or crumpled, filthy bills tucked into a back pocket on only slightly better ones. Body spent and mind weary, Myron had been lost within the unwashed ranks of the forgotten for so long, he had begun to feel invisible, seated at a long table with so many other homeless men, trying to be unobtrusive as he tucked spare slices of bread into his often-mended pockets.
He’d been seated like that one night, one of the lucky few queued up early enough to secure not only a meal but a bed, mind occupied with a jar of buttons a volunteer had handed him on his way into the shelter. A voice, deep and amused, gently joking as if they’d been friends forever had asked him what he was doing. Myron could remember the exact words if pressed, but what had cemented itself deeply in his mind was the face of the man standing across the table, basket of bread in hand like any other volunteer. Older, but not too, only a decade or so in age difference—which now, years later, seemed a laughably small distance—but immeasurably older in experience.
That had been his first introduction to Davis Mason, the national president and founder of the Rebel Wayfarers MC.
Mason, the man who had saved him.
Myron blinked fast, unexpected sentimentality creeping up on him without warning. Mason would say that Myron had saved himself, by having the courage to reach out and take the hand offered, but Myron knew better. Before Mason and the RWMC, he’d been trapped performing an ever-shorter arc of attempted escapes from that life, all doomed to failure, and all with the same eventual destination. It was a minor miracle that he hadn’t gotten tangled up in drugs or drink while running from the depressing destitution of his life, and his resolve had worn thin by that night. The man seated to his right on the shelter’s bench had already offered him an out, promise of a sharp-needled amnesia if Myron would get on his knees after lights-out. Never know if I’d have taken it.
“Myron, brother. You’re goin’, right?” He jumped and looked around, seeing three men had approached him. Gunny was closest and held a hand out, palm down like someone would do with an agitated dog. Goose and Brute stood just behind him, their broad shoulders blocking Myron from view of the rest of the room. “You need someone to drive you to the hospital?”
Just like that, with the raw concern in Gunny’s voice, he knew they’d read the situation…read him, and knew. Myron took a step back, a bump from his shoulders jarring the handset off the hook, cord tangling his arm as it fell. The ghost of a blow flickered across his skin, remembered sensation of hard-striking leather making his head swim. He shrugged away from that and slid to the side, muscles tensed and ready for what he expected would come next. It was no secret that the MC world was custom made for men. Men who liked to drink and party. Men who liked to fuck women and lots of them, being chased by fender bunnies in every town. Men who were all-in when it came to breaking any of society’s rules. Any that is, except this one.
Myron shook his head and lifted his chin, glaring at the three men that for years, he’d counted as friends as well as brothers under the patch. “No,” he bluffed, schooling his face to hide his sudden anger and grief. “I’m good, brother.” The word slipped out, and he waited for one of them to throw it back into his face, waited for them to follow whatever unspoken code they felt necessary.
“I texted Bulldog.” Brute’s voice was quiet, rough as always, vocal cords forever damaged by the injuries taken during his last overseas deployment. He’d become friends with the ER doc who knew more about bikers than anyone would expect. Bulldog had somehow become a friend of the club just by being there during hard situations over the years, now an invited guest at their parties. If he were working and Mouse took his daughter to the ER, he might know the situation. Brute’s features were unreadable as he delivered the next verbal blow. “He said to hurry.”
Fuck.
“Myron.” That was Brute, someone who knew Mouse well, and since Mouse wasn’t one to hide away, he would surely know everything. “Let me drive you.” When Myron would have argued, he shook his head. “You’re not fit, brother. Goose can follow and bring me back. I’ll leave the truck for you for later.”
Bulldog said to hurry.
Myron nodded and turned to follow Brute out of the clubhouse, leaving everything he’d found worth living for behind. Maybe for the last time.
I need him
Andy
Andy slumped backwards into the uncomfortable hospital seat with a sickening sense of relief as he watched the hospital chaplain lead a sobbing woman out of the waiting room. When the chaplain had walked into the room accompanied by a surgeon, Andy’s chest had seized, air clogging thick in his throat.
I just need to hold on. Myron will be here.
Since the single night Myron had spent in his bed, breakfast painfully truncated by an awkward wash of memories, there had been only a few quick encounters between the two men. Tiny slices of time where their lives glanced off each other. Like cue balls careening off the bumper of a pool table, they didn’t stay in the same place long. When they were there, though—occupying the same space—it was extraordinary.
It wasn’t without downfalls, however. Since officially coming out at eighteen, Andy had never tried to be with anyone deeply closeted, and he found being with Myron was equal parts frustrating and thrilling. His panicked alarm when Andy would initiate anything other than casual contact in public was only offset by an equally greedy hunger when they carved out a moment to be alone.
There’d been no more sleepovers, but after only having calls and video at first, over the past couple of weeks, they’d worked out a rhythm where at least once every few days Andy could be guaranteed a visitor at the end of his shift. He’d carry out the last load of trash to find Myron patiently waiting in the shadows.
The back room of the bar had ample vertical surfaces for Myron to push him against, and Andy eagerly went with the wordless demands, needing to get his hands on more of the broody man. The making out part of each meeting? Beyond good. He took his time, as if he were determined to explore every sensitive inch of flesh, and Myron was hands-down the best kisser Andy had ever been with. His kisses were an enlightening experience, every time, and Andy had come to anticipate those moments where they could be together, maybe more than he should. It was as if he came to life in Myron’s hands, needing Myron’s touch and caress to light up every nerve in his body. Shaking hands fumbling with shirts and belts, the strain and arch of their bodies as they sought out skin—just thinking about it always made Andy rock-hard in moments.
To fill the desire for each other in between visits, those phone and video calls were still regular. Frequent, and filled with filthy murmurs, they were too short to do anything except ratchet up a need that had become a constant companion for Andy. It was there, inside him, always bubbling just under the surface, ready to boil over the moment Myron was near.
Andy liked looking at him, too, especially when Myron didn’t know he was. Just watching Myron interact with the other bikers in the bar filled him with pride. His man was held in high esteem. Even if no one knew Myron was his. That pride was balanced by an even greater sense of danger, because if Andy had been asked to think of a single group in the city who were not gay-friendly, it would be the biker gangs. Which meant Myron was walking a dangerous line by even as much as they’d managed.
I shouldn’t have called. Andy ran his fingers through his hair, tugging hard enough to m
ake him grimace. He might have unintentionally outed Myron to his friends, and that could be disastrous not only for them together, but for Myron. The club was his whole life; it showed in the way he talked about them, about the man Mason. I shouldn’t have.
But I need him.
Perfect match
Myron
Riding shotgun in the truck, Myron scooted near the door, gripping the handle tightly.
Walking away from the clubhouse had been hard.
Myron shifted on the seat and felt Brute’s gaze land on him like a blow. The man didn’t go out much, not where people other than club could see him, but he hadn’t hesitated to offer this because Myron needed him, so Brute had his back. Loyalty in the club was a unique symbiosis of need and a soul-deep bond so much more than love. My brothers. Would they still feel the same if they knew every part of him?
For almost as long as Myron could remember, first in Chicago and then here in Fort Wayne, the clubhouse buildings were the only homes he’d known. He’d partied, broken bread with his brothers, slept…lived in the clubhouse. He’d watched crop after crop of fresh prospects roll in, get their feet under them in the life, and move out—integrating the club into their entire world. It is my world.
Gaze to the street ahead of them, he thought back through the houses he’d helped arrange for so many Rebel members, repeatedly matching amenities against need so successfully, it was one of the many things he was known for. Give him a list of requirements for size, location, schools, or security, and he’d find the perfect match.
What a joke. The one thing he’d never been able to find for himself. He’d never felt the loss before, never had a driving need for a space of his own. Once in a blue moon, he’d rent something, but then he’d realize he spent four out of five nights at the clubhouse, so it seemed a waste.
All those houses, and none for him. Bones’ place probably felt the most like a home, probably because Ester was there.
Andy’s house had felt comfortable from the moment Myron had stumbled in. They’d passed the babysitter on the driveway, her amused, “Have a good night, Mr. Kasmouski,” chasing them up the walk and through the doorway. Then, Myron had literally tripped over the threshold because Andy, who had been leading, had turned and gripped the edges of Myron’s cut, pulling hard.
The door slipped closed, shutting out the world and closing him in with Mouse. Pressed together from hips to shoulders, Myron didn’t resist when Mouse shoved him against the wall. Lips to Myron’s ear, Mouse told him he’d read everything Myron needed. “I’ve got you, remember that. You like it a little dirty, I’ve got that for you, too.”
“God, please.” The words were slurred, letters stumbling over his teeth in their hurry to get out. He wanted Mouse to keep doing exactly what he was doing, but he also wanted more. “I need.” A breath followed by a groan. “Please.”
“I know what you need. You need this.” Hot mouth working down his neck, Mouse shoved at Myron’s cut. He caught it at the last moment, kept it from hitting the floor and draped it across a table by the entry. Myron slipped his hands under Mouse’s shirt, dragging it from his waistband so he could get at skin. “You need me.” He needed to get his hands on Mouse right now, the steadying feel of hard muscles under his palms. Mouse bit his shoulder, worrying at the place where his neck connected, and Myron gasped. “Feel good, babe? I got you.” Mouse’s hands kept up their magic, forcing Myron’s arms up to rip his shirt off over his head. Then Mouse’s mouth moved across his chest, tongue and teeth working his nipple until it was puffy, so sensitive each gust of breath drifting across his skin was a riot of sensation.
“Bedroom?” He barely got that out, but the flickering memory of the babysitter meant there was a kid or maybe kids somewhere in the house, and Myron didn’t want to be the reason Mouse had some awkward explaining to do.
“Oh, yeah. Let’s take this private.” With Myron’s shirt flipped over one shoulder, Mouse backed down the hallway, tugging Myron’s waistband, jeans somehow unfastened and sagging around his hips. “So hot, I can’t wait to lick every inch of you.” Myron followed him, turned into a dark room when Mouse did, chasing him like a moth to a flame, mouths fused together. The door closed, and Mouse pushed him against the firm surface, chill of the wood behind Myron’s shoulders while his front was molten from the feel of Mouse’s chest against his.
Mouse kissed as if he’d been told he would never have another chance, licking and sipping from Myron’s mouth one moment, then devouring him the next. Their tongues tangled, and Myron moaned when Mouse thrust into his mouth, sounds of each caress intimate and obscene in the same breath. Gasps mixed with groans as one of them discovered a sensitive spot, the rustle of clothing being discarded. Mouse turned him, still kissing, hands still roaming, and Myron shuffled, hobbled by his jeans. Then he was falling backwards, Mouse following him down to the mattress, landing on him like a heavy blanket he could lie under for a decade.
He lost Mouse’s heat, then took the opportunity to make quick work of kicking his boots off, wanting more of this thing he’d denied himself for so long. So many fears cast aside in this moment, their movements as synchronized as if they’d been lovers for years. Naked, he arched against Mouse, dick so hard it ached, every graze of Mouse’s legs against his a prickly pleasure.
“Slow, babe.” Mouse ripped his mouth away and shoved his face against Myron’s neck. “I’m gonna blow you keep that up.”
“Mouse, please.”
A hand slipped down his chest, fingertips tweaking a nipple hard enough to make him gasp before continuing its path. “I know what you need.” Fingers circled his bellybutton, teased and tickled for a moment before curving around his waist and gripping his cheek. “You need this.” Pulling Myron up as he thrust down, the first glide of Mouse’s cock against his hip was overshadowed by the request. Voice softer, less severe, Mouse invited Myron to call him by Andy. Demanded it, really, and the knowledge that Andy was exposing that part of himself was thrilling.
He’d immediately echoed it, “Andy, please.”
“Please, what?”
Teeth grazed his earlobe as fingers gripped his ass hard, pulling him up and into Andy’s body. His hips thrust up, cock seeking more of that slick contact, a warm puddle of liquid pooling on his belly. “More, Andy.”
“More? What more? Want me to fuck you?”
He tensed, muscles going rigid at unwelcome memories that crowded in hard and fast. Pain and shame washed over him like a cold wave, and with an inarticulate noise, he pushed hard at Andy’s chest, trying to gain distance between them.
“No, babe. Stop.” Andy didn’t let him go, arms wrapping around Myron’s shoulders and holding him in place. The last place Myron wanted to be right now.
“Let go,” Myron growled, getting his elbow between them and shoving harder, slipping a few inches across the bed. Andy threw a leg over Myron’s hips, the sensation of coarse hair rough and almost too much against the head of his weeping cock. A cock that hadn’t gotten the news yet that its owner was done with this scene.
“Stop it. I didn’t mean...not anal. We don’t have to...that’s not what I meant, Myron.” He rocked his hips, and Myron felt Andy’s dick slip past his hip, gliding across his belly to nudge his still rigid cock. “I mean like this, this is fucking too, babe.” Andy didn’t release him, instead pulling Myron up again and rolling them so their cocks made better contact. “Stay with me, babe. Lemme do this for you. Make you feel good. Don’t go.” Andy leaned over and kissed him, teasing with flicks of his tongue. “Stay.”
It took minutes of soft words and softer touches, Andy’s hand slipping up and down Myron’s spine, soothing the tension away, but eventually, Myron relaxed into Andy’s hold again. The quiet patter of encouragement that filled the air around them was slowly replaced with the more sensuous sounds of bodies moving together. More carefully, but no less intently, Andy set a rhythm of pushing and arching, their cocks sword fighting between them, glancing off the other w
ith each brief contact causing electric sparks to rush up and down Myron’s spine.
Andy’s quiet approval freed Myron of his fears, finally, and he reached between them to wrap his hand around their cocks, lining them up as he rocked his hips in time to Andy’s movements. Each sensation was amplified by Andy’s mouth at his neck, the praise Andy fed him like candy, whetting his appetite for more sweet words. Dirty talk seemed to come easily to Andy and thank God, he wasn’t daunted by silence from his partner, but deep satisfaction was clear in his tone when he managed to drive a moaned plea out of Myron again.
It felt good. Hell, it just was good, but Myron wanted...that ineffable “more” he’d had at the beginning, before his memories freaked him out. He rolled, wordlessly tugging at Andy until the man got on board with the idea and shifted, stretching out on top of Myron. Within moments, Myron was buried in sensation again. Heat and weight all over him, limbs restricted by Andy’s hold made his breath come fast and shallow, huffing against Andy’s chest and neck.
Andy’s mouth had more freedom in this position, and he took advantage of it in a way Myron loved, tipping his chin up to give better access. Andy sprawled on top of him, hips still working in time but now Myron had the weight and friction of rutting up against the body above him. Solid and masculine, fur-covered and absolutely, unmistakably male. So perfect for me. Everything I want. Andy propped himself on a forearm and slipped his hand between them, his fingers joining Myron’s around their cocks. He urged a rougher hold, groaning into Myron’s mouth when he complied, the heads of their cocks bumping across the ridges of his fingers.
Andy’s dick was shorter than Myron’s, but what it lacked in length it made up for in width. Broad, his cockhead had mushroomed out and Myron slicked his thumb across the slit, dragging a gasp out of Andy that made him feel a hundred feet tall. He did it again, then jacked them both harder, pulling his hand up and down with a harsh grip Andy seemed to like if the sounds pouring from his mouth were any indication. Gasping and whining, he cried, “I’m close.”
Not Even A Mouse Page 5