Connor shook his head. John just waited. He rubbed his nose in Connor’s spicy-scented, newly washed hair while he waited, breathing deeply.
“Face-to-face,” Connor finally whispered. “I want you to fuck me, John. I want someone to fuck me. Not the football star or the boy toy or the junkie. Me.”
“Aw, Christ, Connor,” John sighed. He crawled on the bed beside Connor. “Slide up and roll over.”
Connor did as he was told, slow and easy, and John was struck by the notion that Connor always moved like that. Every move was deliberate and steady, no rushing, no fumbling. As if he thought about every step, every gesture before he made it.
When he finally lay on his back, Connor didn’t look at John. He covered his eyes with one hand, his other arm thrown over his head and hanging off the side of the bed. John lay down on top of him, deliberately letting all his weight settle. Connor slid his legs open, and John’s fell between, but still Connor wouldn’t look at him. That was all right. John could still give him what he asked for. John bent his legs and pressed his knees against the insides of Connor’s thighs, forcing them up. Connor didn’t fight him. When Connor’s knees were bent and he was wide enough, John fit his hips into the space they’d made and pressed back inside. Connor jerked and moaned.
“Hold on, Connor,” John said softly. “Hold on to me.” John took the hand Connor had flung over the bed and pulled it down and wrapped it around his waist. He braced his forearm above Connor’s shoulder, his hand brushing Connor’s beautiful hair. Then he reached for the hand covering Connor’s eyes. Before he could move it, Connor lowered it and wrapped his other arm around John’s waist. John braced his other arm in the same way as the first so that he could slide the fingers of both hands into Connor’s hair.
As John began to move, not as frantic as he’d been the first time they’d tried this, Connor’s arms tightened. His eyes were scrunched closed. In minutes their breathing grew ragged, and Connor’s arms slipped around John’s waist until he was clutching him. Then Connor began to move. His hips rose to meet John’s thrusts, tentatively at first, but soon he was meeting John halfway, fucking him as surely as he was being fucked. His knees bent at more of an angle, his feet right up against John’s ass, pushing him and holding him against Connor.
John had never felt so much a part of someone as he did right then. Connor surrounded him, needing him so badly John didn’t think he was even aware of the little whimpers that escaped each time John drove home inside him. John wanted to taste those sounds on his tongue. But as aggressive as their fuck was, the kiss he gave Connor was tender. He gently pulled on Connor’s lower lip, holding it softly between his until Connor opened his mouth with a gasp. Then John kissed him deeply, loving the breathy sighs that escaped Connor only to be swallowed by John. His hands in Connor’s hair were gentle. He didn’t want to pull it or be too rough. He wanted Connor to feel two things: John’s cock in his ass and John’s lips on his. He ran his thumb across the grooves etched in Connor’s forehead as he concentrated so hard on what they were doing. John loved it, loved how in the moment Connor was.
Suddenly Connor grew more agitated, his movements jerky. He clutched John between his thighs and held so tightly to his waist that John could barely breathe. Connor’s eyes flew open in a panic. “John,” he shouted, and then a cry that sounded suspiciously like a sob burst from him, and John felt him come, felt the hot gush of semen against his belly where Connor’s cock was pressed between them.
“Connor,” he whispered. He pressed deep and let the contractions of Connor’s orgasm ignite his own. Coming in Connor was quite possibly the most erotic and satisfying thing John had ever done. He had his open mouth poised over Connor’s, and their uneven breaths mingled as they both trembled in the aftermath.
When he could walk without falling, John climbed off the bed and threw away the condom in the dark. Then he climbed back into bed and dragged Connor into his arms. He didn’t say a word, and neither did Connor. Instead, they clung to each other, face-to-face, John’s thigh between Connor’s, and drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Twelve
“You been to church yet, Connor?” Miss Priss called out from the porch as she watched him planting flowers along the fence. She’d come over a few times since that first day. Conn had driven over to check on her and brought her back here. Eventually someone showed up to chat with her on the porch, either Evan or Toby or Cheryl or someone else. John was usually there half the day too, he and Miss Priss deep in conversation. John had commented that he’d never seen a soul on the street until Conn showed up. Conn smiled.
“No, ma’am,” he answered, knowing exactly where this conversation was heading.
“Well, you get yourself there this Sunday, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He didn’t add that he’d already decided to go.
“I’ll let Reverend Whitley know you’re coming,” she said with a sniff.
“Actually, Miss Priss, I think I might be going over to Evan’s church this Sunday,” he said. He stood up and faced her across the fence. Her eyes were wide. To most folks in Mercury, leaving the Methodist church was tantamount to instant damnation. But Conn had thought a lot about it, and he figured he’d done a hell of a lot more than that and was still breathing, so going to the Unitarian church didn’t seem so dangerous.
Miss Priss surprised him by saying, “Well, as long as you go to one of God’s houses.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Conn agreed with a smile. He bent down to place a plant in the hole he’d dug for it.
“You bake a cherry pie like your mama?” Miss Priss asked.
Conn smiled again, behind the fence where she couldn’t see him. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Hmm. Well, I’ll be checking in on you after church.”
It looked like Conn was going to be baking a pie. He hummed as he pressed the dirt in the hole around the plant. He’d have to tell John to expect visitors on Sunday.
“We’re going where?” John asked that night as he lowered his fork to his plate. He looked at Conn as if he’d lost his mind.
“To church.”
John blinked at him a few times in confusion. “Why? Do you feel the need to confess?”
Conn smiled and took a bite of the roast chicken. It was pretty damn good if he did say so himself. He’d noticed John was on his second helping. After they’d had sex a week ago, Conn had taken over the cooking. He figured being that intimate with someone meant you could use his kitchen. And John was a terrible cook. Between Conn’s mama and the Fulton County jail “work program,” Conn could cook. Of course, they hadn’t had sex since, so either Conn was a bad cook or a bad lover. He was afraid to ask which one. “Catholics confess, not Unitarians.”
“Ah,” John answered, nodding his head. “So we’re going to see Evan.”
“Yep.”
“And Miss Priss will be here after?”
Conn nodded. “Probably a few others.” Suddenly he realized how rude he was being. He hadn’t asked. This was John’s house now. He couldn’t just invite people without asking. “You don’t mind, do you? I can always tell them no. You know, if you don’t want them here.”
John’s expression was unreadable. “I don’t mind.” He looked away and adjusted the napkin in his lap. “You can invite people over anytime.” He sighed and picked up his fork. “I still don’t get the pie, though,” he added as almost an afterthought.
“You don’t like cherry pie?”
“I don’t remember the last time I had cherry pie.” John took a bite of mashed potatoes.
“I do.” Conn got up and walked over to fill his glass at the sink. It was an excuse. He’d had a vivid memory of his mother taking that pie out of the oven and later cutting it and serving it on the porch, right before he’d left for school. His hand shook a little as he turned the tap on.
“I’m sorry.” John’s words were soft. The words were perfunctory, but the sentiment behind them wasn’t. Conn could hear the sympathy in h
is voice.
“Just another memory sneaking up on me.” Conn brushed it away and turned with a smile. “So I’ll make a pie.”
“All right,” John answered. “I’d like a pie.”
Conn sat back down and watched John eat the dinner he’d made.
* * *
“You are not wearing that to church,” Conn said Sunday morning as John walked into the kitchen. He almost had to avert his eyes, John’s shirt was so pink. He had on a gray pinstriped suit that looked like it had been custom-made and a wildly striped tie that somehow managed to match his pink shirt.
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” John asked, looking down at himself. He had on a Rolex too. And a pinkie ring. Did he always wear a pinkie ring?
“I’m not sure you could look more gay.”
John slowly raised his head, and then his eyebrow went up as he stared at Conn. “Oh, do not doubt me, my man. I could look a lot more gay. I could go put on the pink-and-white striped seersucker jacket in my closet upstairs. It looks great with this shirt and tie.”
“Jesus,” Conn sighed. “Have you always been this gay?”
“Yep.” John whistled as he grabbed the car keys. “And don’t even pretend you aren’t pretty damn happy about that, Skippy.”
“Skippy?” Conn asked with a grin as he held the back door open.
“It sounds like the kind of guy who would hang out with an ultra-gay like myself,” John answered with an expression of mock seriousness.
“Yep, that’s me all over,” Conn agreed, patting John’s ass as he walked by. John just kept on whistling right on out to the car.
“I thought three pies would be too much,” John said a few hours later as he walked back into the kitchen with two more empty plates. “I was wrong.”
Conn looked over his shoulder from the sink where he was washing dishes. John had his jacket and tie off, and his sleeves were rolled up his forearms. He was more muscular than he’d been just a couple of weeks ago. You could see it in the muscles of his lower arms. With his gleaming silver Rolex on his wrist and his pink sleeve pushed up, his arm looked very tan and strong. Conn found it sexy as hell. Even that damn pinkie ring. He turned back to the sink before John figured out what he was thinking. “Yep.”
“Church went pretty well, don’t you think?” John asked as he put the plates down next to the sink. “I wasn’t expecting all your old friends to be there.” He sighed. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you.”
He was serious. Conn shook his head in disbelief. “Not you. Them. I’m the one who’s sorry.”
John looked completely confused. “What the hell are you sorry about?”
Conn slammed the handle of the faucet down with more force than necessary, turning the water off. He grabbed a towel and dried his hands, trying to control his anger. “It was the Conn and John show. Everybody trying to find out where I’ve been for eight years, wondering why I’m living here with you, dying to know if we’re fucking.”
John was clearly taken aback. “It’s to be expected that they’d be curious, Connor. But I didn’t think any of their questions were malicious.”
“They put you on the spot.” Conn was still so angry about that. He wished he was only angry with his old buddies. But the truth was, he was angry with John. Because he wanted everyone to know he and John were involved, except they weren’t. And it was clear John didn’t want them to know and didn’t want to be involved. Conn threw the dish towel across the room at the table and missed by a mile. “Why aren’t we fucking, John?”
John took a step back. “What?”
Conn shook his head. Now he was angry with himself, and he knew from years of experience that that never solved anything. “Nothing. Never mind.” He brushed past John, who let him go.
The crowd thinned out after an hour or so, leaving just Toby and Cheryl and their kids and Evan. Conn had cooled off by then. It was what it was. He may want more, but he couldn’t make John’s choices for him. He’d only just learned to make the right ones for himself.
“Go away, kid. You bother me.” He glanced over to see Harley standing next to John, staring at him without blinking. “That’s W.C. Fields,” John explained to Harley, “an old actor.”
“Who’s W.C. Fields?” Harley asked, looking around.
“Who said that.”
Conn could hear the impatience in John’s voice. He could tell John hadn’t been around a lot of kids.
“Who said what?” Harley looked completely confused.
Conn smothered a laugh. This was beginning to sound like an old comedy skit.
“‘Go away, kid. You bother me,’” John tried again.
“You already said that,” Harley said in the same exasperated voice as John.
The porch erupted in laughter, and John glared at all of them. He narrowed his eyes at Harley. “This time I mean it.”
“Yikes,” Harley said and gulped. Then he turned and ran down the steps and around the house screaming, followed by his laughing older brother.
Cheryl was laughing so hard she was crying. John looked concerned. “I didn’t mean to scare him like that.” Cheryl just laughed harder.
“He’s not,” Toby told him with a chuckle. “He’ll be back to bug you again soon.” John didn’t look too happy about that.
“That’s what kids do, John,” Conn told him. “They always pick the weakest in the herd, you know.” John made a face at him.
“So are you two sleeping together?” Cheryl asked out of the blue. Toby choked on his drink and started coughing.
John looked like he’d swallowed a bug, so Conn couldn’t resist saying, “Not lately.”
John’s jaw dropped in shock, and Toby’s coughing got worse. Evan just laughed, and so did Cheryl. “You know, Conn, I never liked you much before. I like you a lot more now.” She pounded Toby on the back. “The looks on their faces”—she gestured at Toby and John—“were priceless. They like to have died when you said that.” She was still laughing, and Conn grinned back at her.
“More pie,” Toby gasped. “I need some pie.” The demand made his wife howl with laughter.
“I got more,” Conn said, getting up from the step where he’d been sitting. “I saved one.”
When they were all eating their second piece of cherry pie, Toby asked, “You ever hear that song about heaven being cherry pie?” He licked the back of his fork.
John shook his head. “No.”
Toby scoffed and waved a hand dismissively at him. “It’s a country song. I wouldn’t expect a city boy like you to know it.” He looked at Conn. “You were gone already. But that song always reminded me of your mama’s cherry pie.”
Conn set his plate down on the step, not looking at Toby. “Yeah, I heard that song.” He’d cried over that damned song a time or two over the years and not just because of the line about cherry pie. The rest of the song was about his life. If Conn wrote songs, he’d have written that one. He’d learned it on the guitar, when he still had his.
“What do you think, Evan? Is heaven cherry pie?” John asked with a smile in his voice.
“I think heaven is eating cherry pie if you want it to be.” There was a pause. “What about you, Conn?”
He blew out a breath. “I don’t believe in heaven.”
“What?” Cheryl sounded scandalized.
“Why?” That was John, and he just sounded curious.
Conn turned on the step and leaned his back against the post so he was facing them all. “Because heaven is right now. I want to eat my cherry pie right now. I want to live the way I want right now. If I wait, well, what for?” He shook his head. “No, I’m not waiting on a heaven I can’t see or feel or touch.” He gestured to the house and the street. “I’m just gonna make this heaven.”
“Your mama’s house?” Toby asked.
Conn shook his head. “It’s not Mama’s anymore.”
Evan leaned forward and put his plate down on the floor. “How do you feel about that?”
John was silent, just watching. He was good at that. He could be so quiet that people overlooked him. Conn had seen that at church today. He answered, watching John, who was staring at him. “I’m fine with it. I’m glad Johnny bought it. I wouldn’t want anyone else to have it.” He looked away, out at the street. “If it had been mine, I couldn’t have done much with it.”
“So Mercury is heaven?” Toby asked skeptically. “Not hardly.”
Conn’s smile was bittersweet. “You just don’t know what a little slice of heaven it is, Tobe.”
“I’ve lived here my whole life,” Toby answered. “And it ain’t no cherry pie.”
Chapter Thirteen
John was freaking. He was standing at the kitchen sink having a panic attack. And it was stupid, so he was pissed off about it. But that didn’t change the fact that he might possibly be hyperventilating.
What the fuck had happened today? He’d gone to church. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone to church. Maybe when he was a kid? But neither of his parents were religious. They were more concerned with using him to hurt each other as he flew from coast to coast between them than they were about his spiritual growth.
And then there were all the people who’d come by “after church.” Not just the church they’d been at, but every church in town. Once word was out that Connor Meecham was seeing visitors, they’d come in packs. And he and Connor had fed them, entertained them, danced around their awkward questions, and seen them off.
It was all so…so…domestic.
He spun around and leaned back against the kitchen counter. He was hiding from Connor in here. But he didn’t need to, not really. Because when all his friends left, Connor had disappeared upstairs. Maybe he was freaking too.
Or not.
Connor had contributed to John’s uneasiness today. He’d relied on John to get through the ordeal of seeing old friends at church. John had tried to distance himself, but Connor wouldn’t let him. John didn’t think Connor was even aware of the little signals he was giving off, the little signs that they were more than friends. Connor stood just a little closer to John than most men were comfortable with; when he was asked a question, he’d turned to John while answering, as if seeking his approval or input. He’d put his hand on the small of John’s back when they went through doors. But others picked up on all those signs. Cheryl certainly had.
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