“I’d say you dodged a bullet. Anyone that determined to change you isn’t healthy. A good partner supports you in your dreams, not shoots them down.”
Quill made a noncommittal sound as he reached for the pie Owen had placed in the center of the table. “Pie?”
“Sure.” Owen didn’t want to torture him with more unhappy memories of a guy who was probably better left forgotten. “I had to roll out the crust with a glass jar, but it smells good at least.”
“It’s good,” Quill reported after taking a generous bite. “You got the spices right. Store-bought pies never seem to add enough seasoning. Mom always had a heavy hand with the cinnamon.”
“I’m making a note that we’ve found the one food that you want more spices in, Ranger Salt-and-Pepper.”
“Hey now, nothing wrong with simple.” Quill joined in the teasing, but his smile was tinged with wistfulness, which was probably Owen’s fault for bringing up the evil ex. So Owen made more of an effort to be amusing as they finished the pie, telling Quill about the long list of ingredients in some of his grandmother’s recipes and his sister’s disastrous attempts to replicate them. And it seemed to work, Quill’s mood lightening by the time they put the plates in the sink.
They’d fallen into something of a routine with Quill usually washing and Owen drying, hips rubbing, hands brushing, a comforting familiarity that Owen hadn’t had with past boyfriends and was going to miss like hell. He’d never thought of himself as domestic—way too much a social butterfly to stay in—but Quill had him reconsidering a lot of things.
“Want the leftover pie for breakfast?” Owen asked Quill as he wrapped the pie plate up in foil.
“I can do that?” Quill sounded like a kid allowed to stay up until midnight for the first time.
“Absolutely. All yours.” Owen grinned at him, insides heating when Quill’s return smile turned feral as he backed Owen against the counter. He moved slowly, like Owen might seriously have an objection to this turn of events, and Owen could see the kiss coming long before Quill’s lips brushed his, sweetest kiss ever because it was entirely Quill’s idea, not Owen goading him into getting physical.
Way curious about what Quill had in mind, Owen let him drive the kiss, welcoming his gentle explorations. Quill’s stubble tickled as he kissed Owen’s jaw and neck, but hell if Owen was going to ruin this with an ill-timed laugh. Quill aggressive and on some sort of mission was a not-to-be-missed experience, and when Quill released him long enough to sink to his knees, Owen hissed in a breath.
“If I’d known pie would have this effect on you, I would have baked weeks ago.” The joke kept him from floating away as Quill shoved his pants down his thighs, breath warm even as cool air greeted his already-overheated skin.
“Not the pie,” Quill growled. “You.”
As far as romantic declarations went, that was right up there with the sexiest things Owen had heard, more so because it was Quill’s deep rumble, Quill on his knees for him. Quill’s lips skated over Owen’s hipbones while his hands palmed Owen’s ass. And okay, this was also going to be one of the quickest blow jobs ever because he was already halfway there even before Quill’s mouth touched his cock. In their steady diet of making out and jerking off, they hadn’t ventured into oral yet, in part because Owen was well aware that Quill had something of a thing about reciprocating, and he hadn’t wanted to blow Quill if it meant him feeling pressured into doing something he wasn’t ready for.
And if Owen was honest, the other part had to do with the uncertainty lurking behind his arousal. Making out and jerking Quill off were good because it kept any weird insecurity about being touched himself at bay. He tried not to let his differences post-surgery bug him, but sometimes, like now when Quill was so close to his scars and such, it was hard not to let a few doubts sneak in. Focusing on Quill’s hand as he stroked up Owen’s shaft was a good distraction from those doubts though, as was the anticipation of his mouth.
Fuck. Every moment of waiting was worth it when Quill’s tongue snaked out to lick his cockhead. Not exactly a tease, more like a warning shot before the real onslaught began as he took Owen’s cock deep, no hesitating there. He’d either done this before or had the best imagination on the planet because he moved fluidly, setting a fast, devastatingly deep rhythm. But even more than the wet heat of his mouth, it was his sounds, eager gasps and muffled moans as he went after what he wanted from Owen that had Owen riding the edge in record time. There was absolutely nothing better than getting blown by someone who loved every second of what they were doing, and Quill’s pent-up need had Owen panting, eyes squishing shut, trying to hold on long enough to enjoy it.
But then Quill moved, adjusting his grip so that his fingers could tease Owen’s ball. Probably more because Quill himself loved attention to his rather than curiosity, but Owen still batted his hand away.
“Not there.”
Quill nodded sharply before returning to sucking Owen’s cock, and damn, but his shiny, wet mouth had Owen forgetting all momentary awkwardness. Quill had a way of attacking his cock like he needed this more than oxygen, and that was sexy as hell. Owen’s thighs and back muscles tensed, right back there in gotta-come-now territory.
“Close,” he moaned. “Fuck. Don’t stop.”
Not that there appeared much chance of that, Quill sucking and licking like his next paycheck depended on him getting Owen off in the next thirty seconds. Using his big hand on Owen’s ass, Quill wordlessly urged him to thrust, and that was all the encouragement Owen needed to start meeting Quill’s rhythm, sliding in and out of that talented mouth. Quill’s needy growl vibrated against Owen’s shaft as he urged him faster, and that need, that hunger was what propelled Owen over into orgasm, ass digging into the counter to avoid sinking into Quill as he came down Quill’s throat. The sexy sounds of Quill swallowing were enough to coax out a few more spurts, his mind blissfully empty other than the onslaught of pleasure.
But not so far gone that he forgot about Quill, hauling him up as soon as he’d caught his breath, pulling him close and going straight for his fly. Quill’s hips jerked as Owen withdrew his cock, rubbing up against Owen’s side and belly.
“That what you want? Want to rub on me until you come?” Tugging Quill tight against him as he pushed up his shirts so Quill would have more skin to feel, he encouraged him to move while his mouth sought Quill’s for a kiss.
“Uh...” Quill hesitated, lips a fraction from Owen’s. “You want... I just...”
“Oh, yeah. I know. I want.” If nothing else, he was determined to show Quill that messy sex was the best sex, let him indulge in the urges he could sense simmering beneath Quill’s buttoned-up facade. Kissing Quill, tasting himself, was almost enough to get Owen up for a round two, as was the eager way Quill returned the kiss after his initial hesitation.
“Come on me,” he whispered against Quill’s mouth, meeting Quill’s frantic thrusts and stroking his broad back. “Wanna feel you go.”
Quill’s only response was a low, almost pained moan as his body tensed and shuddered. A second later, warmth splashed between them.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Collapsing against Owen, Quill rested his forehead against Owen’s.
“Good?” Owen rubbed circles on Quill’s back. “You do know that this means from now on I’m likely baking a pie a week if it gets me blown like that. Damn. You’re amazing.”
“Eh. More like rusty.”
“If that was you out of practice, I’m really looking forward to you honing your game. Because damn.” Not liking the thought of Quill doing that with anyone else, Owen was strangely gratified that Quill had chosen him to end whatever dry spell he’d been in prior to their meeting.
“I got you and your shirt both.” Quill’s eyes were sheepish as he moved away from Owen.
“We’re both washable, and that was hot as hell. And admit it, you liked getting me messy.”
<
br /> “Maybe.” The tops of Quill’s ears darkened right along with his cheeks.
“Uh-huh. How about we both squish into the shower and you can get me messy again before we both get clean?”
“I think you vastly overestimate my powers of recovery.” With a nervous chuckle, Quill darted his eyes between Owen and the bathroom door.
“How about you let me prove you wrong?” Righting his clothes enough to move, Owen tugged him toward the hall.
He wasn’t ready to end this evening, wasn’t ready to let go of this almost magical closeness, wasn’t ready to let the real world intrude again. Soon enough reality would close in, and he’d have to face all the worries that hovered—his future, leaving, emotions he’d rather not be having—but right then, all he wanted was more Quill.
Chapter Seventeen
“I’m telling you that scratch wasn’t there when we pulled in.” The jacked-up yahoo in a red parka with a shiny black truck that cost more than Quill’s annual salary continued to stare at the other idiot, the one currently lurking behind Quill, seeming happy to let him be in the middle of this little pissing contest in the lower parking lot.
“And I’m telling you that you’re not going to fight on my watch.” Quill stared down Mr. Muscles. He might be bigger than Quill, but Quill had no doubt that he could take him if it came to that. “Moving along would be the smart choice. Leave me some contact info for the incident report, and I’ll send it on, and you can use it for your insurance if it comes to that.”
Quill hated incident reports almost as much as he hated drama and confrontations, and having had both in the same day had him beyond cranky even once the arguing men finally headed out. Funny how it wasn’t the men’s size or volatility that got to Quill as much as those loud voices. Hell, let them throw a punch. Quill would have them in cuffs on the snowy ground before a second happened. But raised voices arguing? Made his stomach hurt and neck ache and made him in no way fit for company after his patrol.
The short days meant darkness was coming, light already rapidly fading, and underscored his exhaustion from the long holiday weekend. Monday was supposed to have been a respite from the chaos, but instead tourist traffic had remained higher than normal, people seeking one more day of fun and trying to outrun the big snowstorm scheduled for midweek, and he’d had all his usual end-of-the-month paperwork to worry about as well. The last thing he’d needed was this confrontation. He stowed the snowmachine, angry voices still ringing in his ears, revving his adrenaline.
As he entered the visitor center, he was tempted to stay downstairs, hide out in his office. He had the excuse of the need to file the incident report, but that wasn’t what had him hesitating. It was late enough that Owen was almost certainly upstairs, and he was more than astute enough to pick up on Quill’s bad mood. He’d want to talk, and Quill just wasn’t up for conversation right then. But as he peeled off his snow boots and gear and stowed his piece in the safe, a pleasing aroma wafted down the steps—cinnamon and yeasty with an undercurrent of something savory as well. The hastily put-together sandwich he’d had midmorning seemed a lifetime ago, and his stomach won out over his better sense as he climbed upstairs with heavy feet.
The good smells got stronger after he opened the door, but instead of Owen at the stove, he discovered Owen on a stool, attaching lights to the doorframe that led to the little hall.
“What the heck are you doing?” His voice came out harsher than he’d intended, hours of frustration seeping in. But if Owen was offended, he didn’t show it, flashing all his dimples and inherent good cheer as he gave him a wave.
“I was cleaning the storeroom as per my to-do list, and I discovered an old box of holiday decorations. Amazingly, even though they’re probably ancient, the lights work. I thought it might be festive to put some up.” Owen gestured at the room, which, sure enough, had lights over the window, lights along the top edge of the bookcase, and some colorful baubles on the coffee table.
“You celebrate Christmas?” he asked without thinking, totally earning Owen’s answering eye roll. He knew that Owen’s fairly affluent Californian family wasn’t particularly religious.
“Most kids in American public schools talk about presents in December. My parents indulged us in the secular parts of the season, including lights on our house to compete with our Christmas-crazy neighbors. And then those same neighbors would get invited for my mom’s big Lunar New Year celebration, where all the kids get little red envelopes of money. As kids, we loved all the holidays. More chances for gifts and sweet food. Besides, even if I’m not the biggest Christmas person, you need some holiday spirit.”
“You’re decorating for me?” Quill frowned, not liking the wobbly thing his gut was doing.
“Well, yeah.” Owen offered him a crooked smile as he came down from the stool. “That, and I’ve always liked the idea of lights in December chasing out the darkness. And this whole dark at four and only five and a half hours of daylight is crazy making. I’m not sure how you’re still getting up at six. If anyone needs lights, it’s you.”
“Habit.” After shrugging, Quill gave in to the urge to sink into a kitchen chair, partly because he was that weary and partly because he wasn’t sure he deserved Owen’s kindness. “The work doesn’t go away with the sun. Still got paperwork like incident reports. Speaking of, there was a fight in the lower parking lot today. You let me know if there’s any trouble when you do trash tomorrow.”
“Let you know?” Owen bristled, shoulders coming up and face hardening. “Why didn’t you call for me today? I’m supposed to be your backup, right?”
“It wasn’t that big a deal. More law enforcement than rescue or tourist relations. Sort of beyond your job description.” Quill could tell from Owen’s increasing frown that he was digging himself a deep hole, but he also wasn’t sharing the truth, which was that he hadn’t wanted Owen near a dangerous situation, hadn’t wanted to have to worry about him getting caught in the middle of fisticuffs. He, at least, had been armed and had the statutory authority to detain the men until the closest police could arrive. All Owen had was his charm, which wasn’t going to get him as far as he thought in a potentially violent incident.
“Seems like a big enough deal. You came in all exhausted and wrung out. I think you could have used an extra pair of hands. You can’t only call on me when you need a cheerful face for the kids.” Shaking his head, Owen retrieved a covered dish from the small oven and slid it in front of Quill. “Careful, it’s hot.”
“You’re pissed at me, but you’re giving me food?” Quill struggled to keep up with Owen’s conversational leaps. In his experience, conflict usually meant shouting or pouting, one person storming off, slammed doors. Not a warm meal and the other person taking the seat opposite him with a mug of tea, still looking irritated with narrowed eyes but also seeming rather intent on sticking around while Quill ate.
“Well, duh. You have to eat. I made myself a baked potato for lunch while I was experimenting with this cinnamon quick bread thing. It wasn’t any trouble to make extra potatoes for you. I had mine plain, but I opened a can of chili to top yours.” He gestured at Quill’s plate. “And yeah, I’m not happy about you dealing with a dangerous situation and not calling for help, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give you the silent treatment all night. I’m more adult than that. Give me credit.”
“Sorry. My experience with arguments...isn’t quite so rational.”
“I figured.” Owen took a sip of tea. “But in a real friendship—and we are friends now, no matter what other benefits we’ve got going on—you get upset with someone, you talk it out, and you move on. I do think you should have called for me because you should trust me more, but it’s not a friendship deal breaker.”
“Ah.” Quill let himself eat some of the potato while he thought about how to proceed. “It’s not about trust. But it was a volatile situation, and there was no need for
you to get involved.”
“Ha. It is about trust. You would have called for Hattie. Or maybe even a more seasoned volunteer.”
Quill sighed because Owen had a point. He would have radioed for Hattie without much thought. But Hattie wasn’t Owen, and he had no idea how to put his jumble of emotions into words.
“Look.” Reaching across the table, Owen patted Quill’s hand. “I get that things are complicated. I’m new. We’re sleeping together. You prefer to work alone as it is—I get it. But maybe next time you call me. That’s all I’m saying.”
Quill had a strong feeling that “we’ll see” wouldn’t fly as a reply, so instead he nodded even as he knew he’d do everything he could to keep Owen out of danger, even if that meant risking his anger again.
“Okay.” Seemingly satisfied with Quill’s nod, Owen brightened. “So, tell me what went down and how you handled it. That way I know protocol and all that.”
“One guy accused the other of scratching his truck. It escalated from there.” Not used to having someone other than Hattie to talk shop with, Quill started off slow as he continued to eat, but as Owen asked follow-up questions, he was surprised to find talking easier and some of his stress melting away.
“Do you want to try the quick bread now or maybe later on?” Owen asked as he cleared Quill’s plate and his tea mug.
“Later. I’m so full now that I’m sleepy and it’s not even six thirty yet. Any more and I’ll end up asleep on the couch and not much good to you.”
“You won’t be much good to anyone this tired.” Owen abandoned the dishes in the sink to come tug Quill over to the couch. “You can nap. I’ll babysit your phone and wake you if a call comes in.”
“I don’t nap,” Quill protested even as he let himself be pushed onto the couch. It was soft and welcoming, and he couldn’t help the groan that escaped as he settled in. “Not sure why you’re being so nice to me.”
Arctic Heat (Frozen Hearts) Page 16