Things that Go Bump in the Night

by BA Tortuga

  It was getting ridiculous.

  “I know, but it doesn’t matter now. It didn’t really matter then.” He’d destroyed his family’s life. He couldn’t outlive those facts.

  Nodding, Brock went back to work, his mouth a tight line. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.” He’d crushed the tortilla chip into dust, which he swept up into his hand.

  “How are your folks?” After setting aside the veg, Brock started browning tortillas on a comal.

  “They settled in Mexico. They live in an RV on the beach and pick shrimp shells out of their teeth.”

  “I bet they have sponge cake.” Brock’s lips relaxed in a grin. “Why didn’t you go to Mexico?”

  “I did. I went to Mexico City, Atlanta, Rome, Tokyo. I trained a lot, worked a lot.”

  “No shit? Then why Texas?” Brock didn’t seem to be judging. Just curious. The food began to smell amazing, making him pant.

  “Cost of living. I wanted to start my own place, and Cassie is close.”

  “Where is she?” The enchiladas went together fast—tortilla, filling, sauce, cheese. Bam.

  “New Orleans.” That was so fucking cool, the way Brock moved, every motion following the other, like choreography in dance.

  “Oh, now, that’s a fun place. I worked under a chef there for two years.”

  “I can see that. You have a very specific culinary point of view.” He worked with a ton of chefs. He knew the lingo.

  “I guess I do.” Brock winked. “Good thing for you one of my roomies in culinary school was vegan.” The smile went a little sideways. “Why vegan?”

  “No meat. No cream. No sex. No booze. I live clean.” That was the only thing that kept the kitty quiet.

  Brock stopped everything and stared. “I would explode.”

  He smiled, even though his cheeks were burning. “You totally would.”

  “I mean, I’m not out there humping everything that moves, but I have cream in my coffee every day.”

  “Butter, bacon, and beef, huh?” He remembered cream, fondly.

  “And then some.” Brock chuckled. “I work out a lot too.”

  All he could think to do was nod again. Brock had a life like it should be, except there weren’t ten thousand kittens and he wasn’t leading a pride. Surprising, but not, he guessed.

  The enchiladas went into the oven, and Brock chopped tomatoes and lettuce for garnish. “I made pintos and rice too. No lard, no salt pork, I promise.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it. It smells good.”

  “Thanks.” So impersonal. Thank God. Brock getting personal could kill him.

  “Would you like to see the samples?” he asked.

  “Sure.” Brock pursed his lips. “I’m actually thinking of commissioning you to do plates for the restaurant.”

  “Really? I’d love to.”

  “Yeah?” That hard-angled face brightened, and Brock bounced. “Cool. I thought you’d say no.”

  “I like designing. It’s what I do.” And he still was stupid over Brock. A conversation every now and again couldn’t be bad.

  No touching. Just talking.

  “You’re good at it too.”

  “I am.” It was the only thing he’d known for sure in years.

  “Then we’ll work it up.” Brock finally set the knife aside and opened the fridge. “Beer? Tea? Water? Almond milk?”

  “Water is fine, thank you.”

  “Okay.” Brock handed him a bottle of water, a brand he would bet Brock had brought in just for him, since it matched the bottles in his office. Man, almond milk, fancy water, cashew cheese—Brock was pulling out all the stops.

  He rolled the bottle in his hands, cooling the fire inside him.

  “So.” Brock came around to sit next to him, letting him feel the heat from that big body.

  “B… buttons.” No scenting. No leaning. None. Zero.

  Brock chuckled. “Your mom used to say that every time. And I would patiently explain I didn’t say sew.”

  “And she would grin and pat your head and tell you to grow a sense of sarcasm.”

  “Yes.” Brock got a faraway look for a moment. “I wish I got along half as well with my mom.”

  “I’m sorry.” That was a good part his fault too.

  “Why? Did you tell her to be a bigot?”

  The words surprised him enough that he jumped. “No. No, of course not.”

  “Then you don’t need to apologize.” Brock sighed, touching his arm.

  Electricity jolted through him and he stood. “Bathroom?”

  His cock was hard, aching, all of a sudden, fast enough that he was dizzy.

  “Just back across the dining room.”

  “Thank you.” He headed into the bathroom and turned the cold water on. Focus. Focus. Focus.

  He had to stop letting this make him crazy. It wasn’t Brock’s fault that he was a psychopath. He needed to be a fucking professional. His fingers itched to dig into Brock’s dark brown hair, to trace the well-shaped lips, the little scar on Brock’s chin.

  He stared at himself in the mirror, at the fake, near-black eyes. You’re not like him. You’re not.

  “Clay? Supper in two.”

  “Be right out.” All he had to do was stop being an idiot long enough to snarf up a plate of enchiladas. That was it.

  He took two more deep breaths and made himself stop hiding. He pasted on a fake smile and headed out. “Smells good.”

  “What’s wrong, Clay? You look so stressed.” Brock was close, too close, touching him, pulling him into an embrace, right there on the barstool.

  “Brock….” His body stiffened. “Be good. Oh, please.”

  He wanted to spin, twitch his tail.

  “Can’t what? You’re in agony, baby. I can feel how much it hurts. Let me hold on.”

  “I can’t. I’ll change.”

  “How long has it been, baby?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  He felt Brock’s shock like he’d physically hit the man. “Why? Clay, that can’t be good.”

  “I’m defective, you know that.”

  “No, I don’t. You say that because that’s what all those assholes always said.” Brock held on, mouth on Clay’s throat.

  “Don’t….” Oh, sweet fuck yes. Please.

  “Shh. Just hush now. You’ve been alone too long.”

  He groaned, eyes rolling back in his head. Brock felt like home, like all the things he’d given up to fit into the human world. Really good sex. Teeth scraped against his skin, and he lifted his chin to offer more, the action pure instinct, pure male need. He had to yowl, an insane sound escaping him.

  “Yes.” Brock tugged at his shirt, getting it untucked, yanked up his chest.

  “I can’t handle this….” His nipples were hard as rocks, his cock twice as firm.

  “You can, baby. You’re not broken. You’re perfect like you are.” Brock reached down and palmed his cock through his pants.

  His hips rolled, his body betraying him. His head fell forward against Brock’s upper arm, his teeth clenching tight. Odd, crazy sounds escaped him, bubbling from his chest. He panted, his body rocking, his skin tingling.

  “That’s it, baby. Just let go. You’re so tight.”

  “No. Please. It’s dangerous.” It didn’t matter, because Brock lifted him a little, hand shoving his jeans down his hips, the fabric tugging at his skin, before Brock managed to wrap around his cock and jack him. His toes curled up in his boots, his cock pushing right into Brock’s palm. This was fucking insane. He couldn’t keep doing this. He couldn’t. But he did. He threw his head back even farther, his legs dangling off the bar stool. Fuck, Brock felt good, strong, perfect, and Clay was losing it, losing control.

  Need surged up inside him, raw and desperate. His balls drew up, and his cock leaked between Brock’s fingers.

  “Come on. Come on, give it up.” Brock’s voice held a note he’d never heard before—all grown male.

  “Oh fuck.”
He came, jerking back and forth in a crazy dance, his come spurting into Brock’s hand.

  “There. There, better.” Brock was purring, stroking him, praising him like he’d done something miraculous. Maybe he had. Come-On-Demand Boy, that was him. He barked out a laugh, hysteria bubbling right under his skin.

  “Shh.” Brock carried him to the more casual family room behind the dining room, sitting with him on a long, low sofa. “That’s okay, then.”

  “Brock. I….” His head shook, over and over, near dizzy.

  “You’re fine, baby. So fine. I want you naked.”

  “I’ll never survive that.”

  Brock didn’t seem to be worried about it. In fact, the man started working on Clay’s clothes. The jacket, shirt, nothing seemed to stop those hands. He’d thought he was wearing armor. What he needed was a chastity belt. With electricity. And a barking mastiff that bit whenever it was touched.

  “You’re thinking too much.”

  “I am. I’m fucked-up. I can’t control myself.”

  “This isn’t about control. It’s about feeling.”

  He grabbed Brock’s hands. “I can’t. I’ll shift. I can’t feel things.”

  “You’re not making sense.” Brock kissed him. Hard. Tongue and all.

  He arched, his bare belly rubbing against Brock’s T-shirt. His thighs pushed against Brock’s jeans and his body burned, aching for more. He grunted, his feet drumming against the couch. He couldn’t do this. God, he couldn’t bare being a freak again, being driven away. He spun, trying to get away from himself, and that just offered Brock his back, his ass, the nape of his neck.

  Brock took advantage too, stroking him in one long line, the other hand on his belly. “So pretty. Need to feed you, though, so you aren’t so scatbacked.”

  He growled. He was lean, that was all. Lean.

  “Vegan isn’t healthy for us, babe. Fish. Meat. I can totally understand wanting to eat clean, but damn.” Brock’s cock settled against his crease, those hot lips on his neck. When had Brock opened his own jeans? Brock smiled at him, toothy. “I could pour cream on your fine fucking body, spend hours licking it off. Hours.”

  His entire body responded to the thought, ass rocking back in a clear offer.

  “Mmm. You like that, huh? Me too.” Brock’s fingers tapped against his hole, teasing the rim.

  “Going to make me crazy, love. Brock.” Not love. No. Stop.

  “I am, baby. Gonna make you come over and over.” One finger slid inside him, testing his resistance.

  Resistance? What resistance? He was a giant slut for this man, always had been. That was the problem. All his vaunted control only worked all these years because there was no Brock. When Brock pushed two fingers into him, he thought he might die happy.

  One time.

  One more time to hold him.

  Right? Right.

  Then he could go, run and hide.

  First, though, he wanted this. “More.”

  “Yes. More. All night, if you let me.” Brock bit him, right where his shoulder met his neck, teeth worrying the skin.

  His entire body shuddered, head falling forward. His ass worked Brock’s fingers, his muscles moving on pure instinct.

  “How could you have not let anyone in, baby? You’re made for fucking.” Brock sounded happy, not upset, so maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that he didn’t go crazy all the time.

  “Liar.” He’d been made for Brock.

  “I could fuck you forever.” He felt Brock slide a third finger inside him, stretching him almost past pleasure, but not quite.

  Wicked promises. He moaned, tried to get up on his hands and knees.

  “Stop that.” Brock smacked his ass. “You stay here, baby. Take it like you know you want to.”

  The little slap made him rumble, bare his teeth, and that earned him another. “Stop it!”

  “No. No, I think you need it. You’re starving for touch, for sensation.”

  “I have to! I’ll shift!” Brock had to understand.

  “You can do that after you come, baby.” The fingers in his ass moved.

  He shook his head, rocking back, finding Brock’s rhythm. His cock knocked against his belly with every movement, his breath coming fast and hard. Wild.

  The leather of the sofa dragged on his body, the scent of skin heady and everywhere.

  “Gonna fuck you now, baby. You want to get my dick wet?”

  Oh fuck. Yes. Yes, he wanted to taste. Lick. Suck. He turned, losing the stretching sensation of Brock’s hand but finding that amazing cock right in front of his face.

  Yum.

  His eyes crossed and he grabbed, tongue dragging up over the shaft. Brock stroked his hair, murmuring praise. The sounds poured over him, sweet and rich, familiar as breathing. Brock still tasted like salt and spice, like heat and male. He pushed up, sucking at the tip before sliding down and lapping at the shaft.

  He could do this forever. No thinking, no worrying. Brock filled every sense. It was the easiest thing ever, to give in, open up, and be. Brock fucked his mouth with even strokes, nothing urgent in his movements, sure and steady. His hips moved in time, his noises caught in his throat. He closed his eyes, letting Brock pet him, take him, his lips and tongue working. He actually cried out a negative when Brock pulled away.

  “Oh, baby boy….” Brock tugged him up, kissed him hard, tongue fucking his lips and stealing his breath.

  He clung to those wide shoulders, crawling up Brock’s body. Time to ride.

  Brock gave him no quarter, dragging him down onto the fat, heavy prick, burying deep. The burn was perfect, the slick from his spit giving him the right amount of friction. It made him want to yowl. Their skin slapped together, then rubbed, giving him heat and need. He let his head fall back, let himself fly as his ass landed on Brock again and again.

  “Love how tight you are, baby. Meant for me.” Brock knew it as well as he did.

  He nodded. They had been made for each other, which was not fucking fair. Not when no one wanted him and Brock to be together, and not when Brock could pass as human.

  Just one more time.

  He deserved this. He’d been so good so long. He grunted, bearing down, squeezing Brock hard. That yowl was the best reward he could have, the sound that meant Brock loved what he did. Teeth bared, he let out a roar, a near-shriek.

  “Mine. Oh fuck, Clay. Mine.” Brock stroked Clay’s cock.

  He bucked, drove into the touch, near desperate for it. All he could do was to saw back and forth, his chest working like a bellows. His world tightened to his cock, to the pressure inside him.

  “Come on, baby. This is what happens when you deny yourself. All this need.” Brock bit him. Hard.

  He bucked, spunk pouring from him, His teeth chattered, bones rattling with the waves of pleasure.

  “My Clay.” Brock shot deep inside him, hot as fire, wet and perfect, marking him to the bone.

  It was impossible not to be shaken, not to moan.

  “I have you, baby.” Brock stroked his belly, easing him out of the clouds. “You needed that so bad. So beautiful when you let go. Promise me you’ll stay the night.”

  “You promise you’ll let me have enchiladas?”

  “As soon as we get cleaned up, we will have them. I’m starving. Stay the night?”

  “Okay. The night.” One night. He could do that.

  “Good deal.” Brock eased out of his ass and rose, picking him up and carrying him to the bathroom, where they cleaned up.

  Brock kept one hand on him, solid, firm. The touch made him shiver, but his body knew what it wanted, knew Brock was supposed to be right there.

  “I can smell you, you know. You’re like home.”

  “Good.” Brock kissed his ear. “Take out your contacts?”

  “Feed me.” He couldn’t. They hid his shame.

  “Okay, but we’re not done with this conversation.” Brock got him a soft pair of sweats to wear instead of all of his clothes. So much for a
rmor.

  “Uh-huh.” There were better things to do with this night than talk. Like eat and touch and nap and fuck. If he only got one night, Clay meant to make the best of it.

  He wanted nothing but pleasure to fill his memories. The new ones could replace being run out of town, losing Brock in a terrible way. He’d missed his mate like a man missed a lost tooth. Your tongue never stopped worrying the hole.

  “Stop worrying. Come eat.”

  “It smells amazing.” Now that he could scent something besides Brock, the food was making his mouth water.

  Brock beamed at him, face wreathed in a wild, happy grin. “I hope you like it.”

  “I will.” He loved spinach and mushroom enchiladas. Hell, he would eat anything Brock made for him.

  He just wanted tonight.

  CLAY HIT New Orleans at noon and pulled into the public parking near the river. It was deadly humid and the smell of the water made his upper lip curl. Still, this was where his Cassie was and this was where he needed to be.

  Coffee. Hummus. A nap. A long talk.

  He grabbed his phone and texted his sister. I made it. Cafe du Monde.

  He’d called her from the road at dawn, knowing she would still be getting ready for bed, and told her he was coming.

  Get me something not vegan, she sent back. There in ten.

  She was like Brock, only worse. She indulged herself, lived a hedonistic, artistic life. Everyone thought she was the one who wore contacts.

  He ordered a cafe au lait and a black coffee, sitting at one of the tables in the sunshine. Clay tapped his fingers, then stared at them. God, even his fingers were rebelling.

  Still. Quiet. Peaceful. Gentle. Those were his prized qualities.

  God, he wanted to bite something.

  “You look stressed, bro.” Cassie swung into a little chair across from him.

  “You have no idea.” He grinned over, loving the familiar smile even though the pink and green dreadlocks were weird.

  “So, what’s the what?” She smiled back, and her nose wrinkled in that way he loved.

  “Brock. He’s the what.”

  She stopped, stared. “You mean like Brock-Brock? Brock Daniels?”

  He nodded. “He came to my studio. For a real order. Took me by surprise because the appointment was just under an initial.”