What the Heart Wants

by Jerry Cole

  Just as Brent was starting to drift, eyes drooping closed with Marc’s weight a heavy comfort against him, Marc’s fingers ran over Brent’s chest, resting just above his heart. Brent’s breath hitched as Marc turned to him with a small smile. “I’m getting there.”

  “Good,” Brent said, his fingers smoothing up Marc’s back, tangling in his hair. “You should believe it, you know.”

  “Should I?” Marc asked, raising his eyebrows. His smile was lopsided, fingers playing with Brent’s shirt. “What would you do if I didn’t?”

  “Have to find a way to convince you, of course,” Brent said. It was no-brainer. He wasn’t under any illusions Marc was going to believe him off the bat, or that he would even make any headway at all. Marc had been through a lot, bore the emotional—and probably the physical—scars to show for it. Still, Brent was going to do what he could to make him believe it.

  Marc hummed, propping his chin up on one of his hands, raising his eyebrows in a challenge. “Oh? And how would you go about that?”

  Brent pretended to think about it, keeping his fingers in Marc’s hair. There were a couple of photos in Marc’s apartment of Marc in his uniform, hair cropped close, smile more of a grimace. Here, discharged and living the life of a civilian, Marc’s hair was longer, curling at the nape of his neck. Brent loved it, loved everything about him.

  Loved.

  Definitely loved. He knew it was too soon. There were so many people’s voices in his head telling him so—Polly, his mother, Amanda, even Brandon occasionally—but Brent was getting better at ignoring them. He knew it was love, knew the feeling lodged behind his breastbone was infatuation if nothing else. Except that was disingenuous because it wasn’t just infatuation. It was more.

  It was love.

  “Let me think,” Brent said slowly, fingers sliding down Marc’s neck, beneath the collar of his shirt. Marc’s breath hitched, his eyes darkening, and Brent’s tongue flicked out to lick his bottom lip. He and Marc had made out so many times, but things had never progressed further than that. There’d been dry humping, the kind of frottage reserved for drunken college nights and virginal fumbles. And yet, Brent thought with amusement, he and Marc hadn’t even reached that stage yet.

  It was fine with Brent; he had let Marc call the shots, backing off whenever Marc wanted him to, leading where Marc followed. It was about safety as much as self-protection; he didn’t want to do something that would cause Marc pain, nor did he want to risk upsetting their equilibrium. If vigilance and self-control were the only things going to protect his relationship with Marc, he was going to keep up with both.

  “I’d start,” Brent continued, tugging on Marc’s shirt until he shifted up Brent’s body, slipping between Brent’s legs, his arms framing Brent’s face, “with asking what makes you happy.”

  Marc’s eyes crinkled in the corners as he dropped his head, pressing a kiss to the corner of Brent’s mouth. “I’d probably say dogs.”

  Brent’s smile was so wide it hurt his face. He turned his head, both Stanley and Juliette having migrated to under the coffee table, smushed together in a brown and tan heap. “Good job we have two, then.”

  Marc’s breath hitched at that, and Brent didn’t back down, held Marc’s eyes and relished the heat between them.

  “Anything else?” Brent asked, nipping at Marc’s jaw, nose nestled below Marc’s ear as he sucked a small hickey into the stubbled skin.

  Making a noise that sounded as if it had been punched out of him, Marc shifted, hips shifting against Brent’s, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. “Books.”

  Brent rolled his eyes. “Reading is good,” he said, kissing a trail up the hinge of Marc’s jaw, pressing a kiss to the corner of his left eye. “Go on.”

  Marc pulled back, rubbing a thumb over Brent’s jaw, his cheek, and thumbing at Brent’s bottom lip. “You.”

  There it was.

  Brent let out a small laugh, fisting his hands in Marc’s hair and holding him in place, pressing small, butterfly kisses against Marc’s lips. “Well,” Brent started, his throat thick. He swallowed once, twice, and his smile relaxed into something warm. “If I make you happy, I might have to use that to my advantage.”

  Marc looked amused, forehead pressed to Brent’s. “You would, huh?”

  “I would.” Brent slid his hands down Marc’s back, sliding under Marc’s shirt and teasing the skin beneath. He kept his touch light, relishing the little shivers that wracked Marc’s body.

  Marc’s mouth dipped into the hollow of Brent’s neck, working at the skin of Brent’s throat, and Brent groaned, hips rolling up to meet Marc’s. It was a delicious friction, his dick filling as they worked against each other, Marc’s own cock a hard line against Brent’s thigh. Brent had wanted him since the moment he’d seen him, and just touching this much skin was intoxicating; Brent had no idea how overwhelming getting to touch Marc’s dick was going to be.

  “You’re so fucking hot,” he bit out, Marc’s lips kissing down the column of his throat, licking at his collarbone. His hands were cupping Marc’s ass, kneading the meat of them in his fingers and feeling Marc’s answering pants, the quick puffs of breath against Brent’s skin.

  “Brent,” Marc said.

  Brent braced himself for it; Marc would stop them, would beg for distance, and though disappointment pooled in his belly, Brent would grant him that distance. He didn’t want to do anything Marc wasn’t up for.

  “All right,” Brent said, lifting a hand to Marc’s hair.

  “Don’t stop,” Marc said, lifting his head so he could look Brent in the eye.

  “I won’t if you’re sure,” Brent started.

  “Brent,” Marc stressed, darting down for a hot, wet kiss that drew a groan unbidden from Brent’s throat. “I don’t wanna stop.”

  Brent hardly dared breathe, his eyes wide, hands back to Marc’s ass. He wanted to keep working them together, wanted to get his hands in Marc’s pants and touch him. “Can I—?”

  “Yes,” Marc whispered furiously, dragging his hips deliciously slowly against Brent’s in answer. “I want it.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Brent didn’t really want to move, the delicious friction against his dick almost on the edge of too much, but he also didn’t want to have sex—of whatever kind Marc was willing to give—in front of the dogs, but also without lube of some kind.

  “Do you have—” Brent asked, blinking hazily as Marc made a slow, careful thrust against his pelvis.

  Marc was just as distracted, eyes hazy and distant, but he swallowed, blinked heavily, his cheeks blushing pink. “No.”

  “Okay,” Brent said, sliding a hand up Marc’s back, cupping the back of his neck. “Don’t go anywhere, all right?”

  Snorting, Marc rolled off Brent, raising his eyebrows. “You think I’m gonna change my mind in five minutes?”

  Brent didn’t want to say yes, but that thought was running through the back of his mind as he trotted out of the apartment, not caring he had an obvious boner as he opened his own apartment, heading to the bedroom for the lube. He swiped it from the bedside cabinet and hoped Marc would be waiting for him and not skipping out of what they were gonna do.

  Thankfully Marc still sat on the couch, and as Brent closed the door behind him and walked into the living room, he could see Marc’s palm pressed to the outline of his dick, working at it slowly. Brent’s mouth immediately went dry as he stumbled closer, dropping to his knees in front of Marc. His eyes darted down to Marc’s hand and let out a slow breath. “Can I—”

  Marc was staring at him, eyes blown black, pupils swallowing up most of the color. “Yeah,” he said, voice strangled. “Yes.”

  Brent didn’t hesitate; he dropped forward, removing Marc’s hand from his own dick. The outline of it through Marc’s jeans was obvious and hard, making Brent’s mouth water. Dropping the lube onto the floor, Brent popped the button of Marc’s jeans, tugging the zipper down slow enough that Marc’s body curled, his eyes on
Brent’s face, breath coming in gasps.

  “Easy,” Brent said, rubbing a thumb against the column of Marc’s throat, sliding it down Marc’s chest and down to his hips. Marc’s stomach rippled beneath his hands and Brent’s mouth watered, his fingers managing to open the button and zipper. The front of his boxers wet and stained where his dick was leaking, and Brent pressed forward, cupped his fingers around Marc’s dick and rubbed at the head through the fabric.

  Marc let out a strangled gasp, and Brent decided to take pity on him. He didn’t ask him how long it had been, could do the mental math himself. There may have been one-night stands between Marc being discharged and his complete seclusion in his apartment, but Brent doubted it. Before that, being in the military would have made admitting to bisexuality—let along homosexuality—an almost impossibility.

  “Lift,” Brent said, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Marc’s jeans and boxers all at once. Marc sucked in a breath, but did as Brent asked, lifting his hips from the couch, and watching Brent shuck his jeans down his hips with parted lips. He looked intoxicating and beautiful and Brent wanted so much more of him. The jeans pooling around Marc’s hips, his boxers stuck around his thighs, and Brent kept him there, trapped against the couch. Brent’s lips quirked at Marc’s trembling body, the flex of his fingers against the cushions of the couch.

  Marc’s dick was exposed to the air, precum pooling at the head, sliding down the shaft, a bead nestled at the tuft of hair surrounding the base of Marc’s dick. He was cut, Brent’s mouth going dry at the sight of it, and he pressed his thumb just beneath the head, following the trail.

  Marc took a harsh, ragged breath and whined.

  “It’s all right,” Brent said gently. He wrapped his fingers around the base, stroking once, slow and careful, thumb flicking at the head of it. It was thick and red, throbbing beneath Brent’s hand. Marc nodded jerkily, his body still bowed above Brent, as if afraid to get too close or pull back completely. “You can touch me.”

  Now that he had been given permission, Marc’s hands landed on Brent’s shoulders, clutching at his shirt in a tight grip. He tipped forward, his forehead resting on Brent’s head. He was whispering something, words repeatedly, but Brent couldn’t make out what they were. He swallowed thickly, sliding his hand into Marc’s hair with his free hand.

  “Breathe for me,” Brent said. He kept stroking, Marc letting out a soft sob but doing as Brent asked, slowing his breaths, though they were no less ragged. “That’s it.”

  Marc huffed, almost a laugh, and he was fisting his hand in Brent’s hair, tight enough for Brent to notice, but not enough to hurt. Brent relished the burn of it, kept his hand stroking Marc’s dick, thumbing at the head and the vein along the underside. “Please.”

  Brent let out a slow breath. “All right, Marc. Yeah.”

  Part of Brent wanted to keep it going, stroking Marc until he came, but there was something else he wanted to do first. He rubbed against Marc’s wrist until Marc relaxed his grip, releasing his hold on Brent’s hair. Brent used the freedom to drop forward, lips sliding over the head of Marc’s dick, sucking lightly.

  “Oh, fuck,” Marc bit out, his grip back on Brent’s hair. He was whining, a low keen in his throat, and Brent groaned, sliding further down Marc’s dick. “Brent, please, Brent.”

  Brent hummed, the trembling of Marc’s body urging him on. Brent flattened his tongue, pressed against the shaft, while he kept stroking with his hand. There was no way he was deep-throating Marc right now. He was bigger than most of the people Brent had been with, and Brent would need practice if Marc decided he wanted to keep going. Judging by the noises and the flexing Marc’s hand was doing in his hair, Brent hoped it would be a yes.

  “Brent,” Marc moaned, again and again, his voice raspy and raw.

  Brent’s throat worked around Marc’s dick, his head bobbing up and down. He was well practiced at this part, but what worked for one person didn’t always work for another. Brent had to find out what Marc liked the best. He used his free hand to cup Marc’s sac, loose and then tighter. Marc’s hips thrust forward a little then stopped, Marc’s thighs trembling with the force of keeping himself still. Brent rewarded him by sucking again at the head of Marc’s dick, rolling Marc’s sac between his fingers, and humming in the back of his throat.

  He was taken off guard by the stream of sticky, thick semen hitting the back of his throat and he pulled off, come coating his chin and fingers. He blinked up at Marc, who was gasping through his orgasm, still managing to look attractive even with the open-mouthed whine currently leaving his lips.

  Brent’s lips curved into a smile as he leaned forward, working Marc through the rest of his orgasm, until he pulled away, batting a hand ineffectively at Brent’s head.

  “All right?” Brent asked, not a little smug.

  “Sorry,” Marc managed to get out, hands sliding against Brent’s head and shoulders, tugging gently at his shirt. “Up.”

  Brent complied. He wiped at his face with the sleeve of his shirt—and he was going to have to take it off soon, gross—but Marc was already rearranging Brent to his liking, shuffling until they were stretched out on the couch, Brent nestled between Marc’s legs.

  Marc’s eyes were still a little unfocused, something else that left Brent feeling smug, but he was carding a hand through Brent’s hair with jittery motions, like he wasn’t quite in control of his motor skills. Brent was enjoying the comfort of it. He was still hard, rolling his hips gently against Marc’s thigh, but there was no urgency to it. He would like Marc to take him in hand at some point, but for now, he was content.

  It startled him when Marc slipped his hand into Brent’s jeans and cupped his dick. Brent jerked, groaned low in his throat. “You don’t have to—”

  “Brent,” Marc said, his voice low and raw, lips against Brent’s temple.

  Brent gave in to it, the touch of Marc’s hands on his dick, the brush of his fingers against Brent’s shaft, the flick of a thumb under the head. “Oh, fuck.”

  Marc kept his mouth against Brent’s forehead and temple, sloppy kisses turning gentle and soft as he worked Brent’s dick between his fingers. It wasn’t the best angle, Brent’s hips thrusting into the circle of Marc’s hand as much as Marc was stroking him, but Brent didn’t care. There was heat pooling in his belly, his heels were digging into the arm of the couch, and his fingers were flexing against Marc’s arms. The building pleasure at the base of his spine had him shivering, burying his face in Marc’s shoulder and whispering Marc’s name over and over.

  “Yeah,” Marc said, kissing Brent’s head, his neck, shifting them slightly so he could kiss Brent, slip his tongue between Brent’s lips and lick behind his teeth. Brent moaned, jerking into Marc’s hand on his dick, panting against Marc’s mouth when they pulled apart a little. “You look so good.”

  Brent felt the rush of heat on his face and down his neck, shuddering into Marc’s hands as the pleasure hit a crescendo, rolling over him, had him spilling over Marc’s hand and inside his own pants. He trembled through the aftershocks, keeping his face tucked into Marc’s neck, and Marc’s hand—the one that had stayed on the back of his neck—threaded up into his hair, smoothing through the strands. It comforted Brent, gave him the time he needed to come down, and he smiled.

  “That was great,” Brent said happily.

  Marc’s laugh was soft and kind.

  “It better have been for you,” Brent said, poking weakly at Marc’s chest. Marc caught his hand, tangled their fingers together and planted a kiss on Brent’s lips.

  “It was,” Marc told him gently, eyes soft at the corners, and Brent’s breath caught in his throat. Marc had never been as attractive as he was right then, and fuck, Brent was so lucky to be able to have him.

  “So,” Brent started, dropping his eyes to Marc’s neck. There was a hickey blossoming on his skin—and Brent didn’t even remember doing that—and he rubbed his thumb against it, relished the hiss of Marc’s breath. “If I
wanted to do it again?”

  Marc snorted, catching Brent’s lips in a kiss, turning it hot and dirty within seconds. Brent could probably get hard enough to come again if they started something now, but Marc tapered it off, nestling his nose against Brent’s, lips pressing quick, butterfly kisses to the corner of Brent’s mouth. “I’d let you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Where are we going?” Brent asked.

  Marc had one hand on Stanley’s leash, the other hovering by his side. His fingers kept twitching, like he wanted to do something with his hand but wasn’t quite sure what. Brent wanted to help him out, take Marc’s hand and just fuck everything else, but he didn’t want to make assumptions. There was every chance Marc didn’t want to hold his hand and was twitching.

  Brent had Juliette on her own leash, and she seemed happy enough to trot alongside Stanley without pausing to sniff or attack the bushes once. It was a miracle, and Brent was going to have to demand Stanley come out with them all the time, otherwise Juliette would revert to being a pain in Brent’s ass and that wouldn’t help anyone.

  When he opened his mouth to say so, Marc let out a small huff of breath and finally looped his fingers into Brent’s, giving him a small grin as he did so. Brent couldn’t help but return it, squeezing Marc’s fingers gently to let him know it was okay.

  “We’re going to the VA center,” Marc said, nodding his head in the direction of the train. It turned out while Brent didn’t have a car, Marc did, but when Brent had confessed to traveling most places by train, he jumped on the chance to do so. Brent didn’t know why; if he had access to a car, he’d probably cut down the amount of time he spent on the train, mostly for work related trips.

  Brent leaned a little more into Marc’s arm as they walked, relishing the fact he was holding hands with his boyfriend. In public. He might not have been so brazen with it if it wasn’t for Marc’s unending bravery in doing it first. He had been so quiet about most things regarding their relationship, and though Brent didn’t want to spend most of it hiding, he was willing to champion what little things Marc did. Holding hands might have been a minimal thing with other people, but for Marc, Brent knew it was huge, so he was willing to be public and obvious about it.