by Jaime Samms
Vance held up a hand, mimicking a Scout’s honor salute.
“Get,” Stan said. “Before you end up stuck on the Gardiner for the duration.”
VANCE LEANED an elbow on the windowsill of his truck. Smelly, smoggy heat rolled through the open window, and in the near-stopped car beside him, a young lady peered up at him, squealed, and pointed. Vance saluted her with a tip of his hat.
“It really is you!” she called out her window.
“Last time I checked, yeah.” He offered her his media smile.
The man driving her car leaned across her lap and looked up at him too. “You really fucking Lenny Stevens?” he asked.
Vance dropped the smile, pulled his elbow inside his vehicle, and rolled up his tinted window.
“Asshole,” he muttered.
In the next car, the woman smacked her driver on the leg, and Vance could hear his yowl even through his closed window. Thankfully, their lane opened up, and the car sped off down the Gardiner Expressway, leaving him to stew in the smog and dust coming in through the air vents.
It took him another twenty-five minutes to crawl to his exit ramp in the bumper-to-bumper traffic, and thirty-five more to get off it again and onto the 427. He wished he hadn’t when traffic there came to a standstill and his GPS showed red lines from where he sat clear to Macdonald-Cartier Freeway. It was too late to turn around now, though. He was stuck unless he wanted to get off on Dundas and risk traffic on the surface roads being as bad as on the freeway.
Far as he could tell, it was six of one and half a dozen of the other. He spun the volume dial on his radio and was greeted with a blast of Firefly’s latest single booming through the cab.
He had to admit, Damian sounded as good, as bitingly sexy over his high-end car speakers, as he ever had. There was grit to his voice now that hadn’t been there when they’d cut the single he was listening to, and the song was like honey cut with whisky, the hard edge of the music clashing and twining with the sweet crooning of his tenor voice.
Onstage, Damian mixed that potent magic with sex appeal that just didn’t quit. While his bad-boy image wasn’t remotely Vance’s type, his lure couldn’t be denied. After all, he’d snared Stanley with his voice alone.
And he was still playing and singing, still making the music he loved, despite the crumbling of his lifelong friendship and screwed-up relationship with Len. Despite the rift it had made in his band. Despite everything, Damian was hungry for the music and the lights and the success. Vance wondered if his own drive had ever been that strong.
It had to have been, because look what he’d accomplished. Fans hailed him on the freeway, haters heckled him from moving vehicles. He was famous and rich, and it was the music he loved that had gotten him where he was. So why was it so dry in his soul now? He didn’t like to think love had sapped him of his professional intensity or dulled his creative edge, but the idea, lately, of venturing down to his studio left him cold.
“Len doesn’t go with you?” He heard Dr. Stanton’s voice again in his head, and he cursed his own idiocy. He knew Len wasn’t playing either, and it had never occurred to him maybe they needed to indulge that love of music together. Maybe as a couple they were rocky and unstable, but as musicians, they were both solid. Why couldn’t they merge their talents in the studio and hope that would help them merge the rest of their lives as well?
He knew, in the back of his mind, why.
Len was scared of his own music. He was terrified of what would come out if he let himself feel enough to hear the music again. And Vance didn’t blame him. So much shit was stirred up with every session. After over a month, it wasn’t getting any better. He had nightmares every time he closed his eyes, and they left him wrung out and flailing. They often left Vance bruised just from proximity, and exhaustion was never a good motivator in creative endeavors. But Vance was stretched thin, and he knew, the more he thought about it, that that thinness was down to his lack of creative outlet.
He had to get back in the studio, and back in front of a microphone. He craved the stage and the lights and the fans. The rush of performing was under his skin, and it had been too long. How he was going to get back into the swing of his career and look after Len at the same time, he had no idea, but he had to do something. He was losing himself, and that was not going to be good for Len any more than it was good for Vance.
As he’d feared, the two-hour trip stretched to three, then four, and the sounds of evening crickets and frogs in the rushes were loud when he finally parked outside the house and locked his SUV.
There was no chance Len was still in the barn at this hour. Vance just hoped he’d found a relaxing way to spend his evening and not gone too ballistic on his own. Vance noted that every window glowed with light. The back door was closed and locked, and he had to fish his keys out of his pocket to get in.
Walking into the kitchen, the first thing he noticed was the scent of cooking. The next was the candlelight on the kitchen table, nearly washed out under the glare of the overhead lights, and finally, he realized the kitchen was spotlessly clean.
“Hey.” Len’s soft voice greeted him from the corner near the wine rack. He had on a long apron Vance usually used when he barbecued. He must have been wearing some really short shorts under it, because only skin showed where the apron didn’t cover. The image that created in Vance’s head was distractingly hot.
“Hey, darlin’. What have you been up to?”
Len shifted in the shadows and made a soft noise in his throat. “Picking daisies,” he said in that same soft, easy voice.
“I can see that.” Vance knew it was a joke, but only partly because there was a vase of wild daisies, buttercups, and devil’s paintbrush on the table between the candles. Vance caressed a tiny, white petal and smiled. “I’m sorry I’m so late.”
“Rush hour traffic.” Len’s russet curls bobbed. “I lived in Toronto. I know. I made a pasta meat sauce. Longer it sits, the better it gets, so no worries about anything burning or drying out. Soon as you’re ready, I can put the water on to boil, and the spaghetti will be ready in fifteen minutes.” There was a distinct pop of a wine cork and the sound of liquid gurgling into glasses.
“This is very domestic,” Vance said.
Len held a glass of wine in each hand, and he lifted one toward Vance, not coming very far out of his corner. “Do you mind?”
For answer, Vance went to him, cupped a hand behind Len’s head. He tipped his face back, and took a kiss Len could do nothing to resist, with both his hands full and his hair gripped in Vance’s fingers.
Vance was startled out of the kiss by the sound of shattering glass and the feel of it battering against his pants leg.
“Shit!” Len jerked and would have backed up, but Vance glanced down at his bare feet and held him in place.
“Stay,” he commanded, stepping carefully away from the shattered wineglasses. The shards crunched under his boots.
“I didn’t mean it!” Len blurted. “You just… I lost my grip….”
“On everything, it seems,” Vance teased. “No worries, darlin’. Just stay put so you don’t get cut. I’ll fetch a mop.” He turned to the kitchen and glanced around. “Where do I keep my mop?”
“Seriously?” Len squeaked.
“I have a boy for this sort of thing. He’s on holiday right now, but he’s thorough. And a woman who cooks… they move stuff around. Do you know where it is?”
Len let out a derisive snort. “Cupboard beside the fridge.”
“Perfect.”
Vance pulled the mop out and carried it back to the wine and glass on the floor.
“Um, you should wet that first,” Len said, pointing to the head of the mop. “It will work better. Are you sure you grew up on a farm?”
“Shut it,” Vance growled. Truth was, he was as buzzed from the kiss as Len. And shocked at the broken stemware, and his common sense seemed to have deserted him. “Why the hell didn’t you hang on to the glasses?” he asked.
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“I did.” Len blushed, though, and gripped one elbow with his other hand. “You make me giddy sometimes when you do that.”
“Did I frighten you?”
Len shook his head. “Not fright. A rush of… I don’t even know. Everything crowds in and tears through me, and I go numb, and then I get a whiff of you, or you say something and it’s you, and I relax. It’s just that moment. It’s a rush and yeah, I guess it’s scary, but not the bad kind, exactly—” He let out a frustrated huff. “That made no sense.”
Except it made perfect sense, and Vance leaned in to kiss him again, cupping the back of his head, deepening the contact when Len parted his lips and moaned.
His lips opened sweetly when Vance licked along the lower one, and that soft, needy sound welled out into his mouth, making Vance’s skin shiver and lifting his cock. He delved deeper, pushing inside to taste the pasta sauce on Len’s tongue and feel the vibration of his lips as he made another, harsher sound, deeper in his chest and clearly hungrier.
Vance moved in, pressing against Len, the feel of Len’s arms hard against his chest and stomach. Len finally let go of his grip on himself to wrap his fingers around Vance’s belt and hold him in place. When his lips parted that tiny bit more, it was to release his tongue to tangle with Vance’s.
It was the first time, Vance realized, that he was getting back what he gave, and the slick slide of tongue on tongue made him growl. He released the mop and hauled Len closer still.
To his surprise, he contacted skin when he touched Len’s back, and more skin as his touch drifted down. He grasped soft, smooth flesh, and he dug into Len’s naked ass. Len’s lips stilled, fell open as he groaned for real and pushed his groin against Vance’s.
“You’ve got nothing on under that apron,” Vance accused.
Len fluttered his lashes, gaze soft and dark. “Nope.”
“Cheeky.” Vance squeezed, and Len yelped but crowded the last tiny increment closer, leaving no room for breath between them.
“Are you on the menu tonight, then?” Vance asked. He trailed a finger up along Len’s crack, not dipping too deep, but the suggestion was there and obvious.
Len hmmed and laid his head on Vance’s chest. He was shaking, and he had moved his hands from Vance’s belt to his sides. Now, as Vance dipped that finger a little bit deeper, letting it slide completely between Len’s butt cheeks, Len’s fingers tightened, gripped, digging into Vance’s sides. Any harder, and he would leave bruises.
Vance coasted a single finger over Len’s hole.
Tiny points of pressure bit Vance’s flesh just below his ribs.
“I have an idea,” Vance whispered. “First, I’m going to clean up our mess, then I’ll prepare you for dinner.”
Len made a small sound in the back of his throat, but he nodded instantly and relaxed. He petted the spots he’d been squeezing and muttered a barely audible apology.
“No worries, darlin’,” Vance assured him as he bent for the mop and began to clean up. “Just stay put and I’ll have you free of the glass in a jiffy.”
“So country,” Len murmured as he once more gripped an elbow with the opposite hand. He had a slight smile on his face, though, and shifted his weight. Standing there, toes of one foot curled under, hips canted, and that bottom lip tight between his teeth, Vance had the indecent image of him completely naked and hard and flushed.
He almost let go of the mop again. This man was so far outside his usual type, thin and pale and small where he had always preferred buff, strong subs whom he couldn’t accidentally break. Len didn’t look like a man who could withstand a lot of manhandling. Especially not the way he stood now, practically on one foot, deeply self-conscious, and blushing all over what Vance could see of him not covered by the apron.
Hurriedly, Vance mopped up the wine and swept away the shards of glass. When he’d finished, he went back to Len, who hadn’t moved, despite not being trapped by the glass anymore, and laid a hand on his back. “Okay?” he asked.
Len stared up at him, eyes dark and longing. “Yes, Sir.”
Vance smiled. “Good boy.” He brushed a curl from Len’s forehead. “The wine was a good idea, but I think we’ll stick with sparkling water tonight, darlin’. Just in case. You go serve us some, and I’ll get more comfortable.”
No need to remind Len right this minute that Vance didn’t drink anymore. It was the thought that mattered most anyway, and Vance could talk to him about it later.
TAKING THE stairs two at a time, Vance loosened his tie and stripped out of it and his jacket as he entered the bedroom, tossing them on the chair by the door. His shirt followed, as did the T-shirt beneath, and he flung open the closet door as he unbuckled his belt. He was eager to get back down to Len before his sub had too much time to think about what might happen tonight.
He wasn’t about to force anything on him, but the invitation Len had made was pretty obvious, and Vance was determined to see how open it truly was. He flicked on the light inside his closet and froze, hand on his zipper.
Hanging on the center of the rack, with shirts pushed away to one side and jeans, neatly folded over their hangers, to the other, was his one and only concession to the Dom in him: a pair of black leather pants. They were styled like jeans and made from the softest cowhide he’d ever felt, and when he wore them, he did feel as though he’d donned an entire persona. Those were the pants he wore to clubs when he was feeling the urge, or when he started a scene with one of his more regular play partners. It hadn’t occurred to him to wear that uniform for Len.
“A bit toppy there, ain’t ya, darlin’?” he muttered to himself. He had planned to wear his favorite washed-out, threadbare jeans and nothing else. Len, apparently, had other ideas. But there would be no topping from the bottom in his bedroom. Almost reluctantly, he pushed the pants aside and found the jeans he’d originally intended.
They fit him like his own skin, soft and worn in all the right places, showing off the hard muscles of his thighs and draping comfortably over his bare feet. Comfort was paramount, tonight of all nights. On the other hand, so was playing the role Len seemed so desperate for him to take on, so he made the small concession of pulling on a black leather vest with enough buckles and zippers to make even Damian proud.
He dragged the pants’ hanger back to where Len had hung them and called his sub into the room.
Len’s footsteps on the stairs were immediate and quick, and he appeared in the doorway in record time. His gaze flashed from Vance’s attire to the closet and back again, and his face fell the tiniest amount.
“Presumptuous, don’t you think?” Vance asked.
Len dropped his gaze, then his head. “Yes. I’m sorry, Sir. It wasn’t my place to assume.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Vance approached him and laid a heavy hand on Len’s shoulder.
Immediately, Len dropped to his knees and clasped his hands in front of himself.
“Lift your arms where I can reach, boy.”
Obedient, but not looking up, Len did as instructed, fists lightly closed, so Vance could reach his wrists.
“Good. Don’t move.”
Vance left him like that, taking his time to search out a heavier pair of cuffs than normal. He wanted ones Len couldn’t forget about. Ones sturdy enough for real duty, if it came to it. He chose a pair with soft red lining and thick D-rings. They had a row of copper studs along one edge, and Vance liked the idea of the metal complementing Len’s coloring. It was a startlingly gay thought and Vance paused, cuffs in hand.
He looked at Len, arms raised—there was a slight tremor in them now—and head bowed. His curls fell in front of his face so all Vance could see of him was his sharp chin and thin shoulders. His arms were more muscled than Vance remembered, round mounds filling out his biceps and curving into his shoulders, chest, and back. Hard work looked damn fine on the younger man. And dammit, the cuffs would look fine circling his wrists too. Offset against pale skin and freckles, the black leather and copper
would be more than adequate. And that wasn’t a gay thought, so much as a besotted one, Vance realized.
In love with his sub was fine. And Vance wasn’t about to deny how he felt. But loopy over him was dangerous, going into a scene with a sub this damaged. Vance tightened his grip on the cuffs and willed his hands not to shake. This was important. He’d taken Len in on that first night because Len needed this. And because, in all honesty, he’d already been more than a bit intrigued by the guitar player by that point. But he’d kept him because they fit together. The taste they’d had in Boston proved that. They just had to find the way back to that. It could be done, and Vance would do it, because Len needed him to be the strong one.
“All right, boy,” he said softly. “We’re goin’ to get a few things straight tonight. I see you made a decision. I’m not sure where it’s comin’ from, but I’m willin’ to take it at face value. You haven’t been brave enough before this to make a move. I’m acceptin’ this is an overture of some sort. So. The ball is now, and will remain, in my court. Understood?”
Len remained very still. Very silent.
Vance held his breath.
Finally, Len moved his fingers, tightening their grasp on thin air and whatever else he was holding to with that grip, but he also nodded. “Yes, Sir. I understand.”
“I want you to look at me when you speak to me, boy. That’s important. There ain’t no sayin’ one thing and meanin’ another. Not from this moment forward. You look me in the eye and answer me truthfully. Are you ready for this?”
Len lifted his head slowly and peered at Vance between his arms. His face was pink with heat, his curls dangling in his eyes, and he tossed his head and blinked the hair away. “I understand, Sir,” he said, more firmly this time. He loosened his fists, straightened his back, holding Vance’s gaze and waiting.
“Good boy,” Vance allowed, making his decision. He reached Len in two strides, fastened the cuffs in place, and stepped back to admire the effect.