by RJ Scott
"No, Liam, we need to get you to bed." Micah guided him up the steps to the main entrance. "What's your room number?" he asked.
"Four," Liam slurred in response.
"Are you in a suite, Liam?"
Liam tried to remember if that was the right word for it, but the buzzing in his head was getting louder. "Uhhmmm…four," he repeated as carefully as he could. Micah obviously understood him this time because he began to guide Liam somewhere that looked familiar.
"Bed. To sleep," Micah emphasized.
"Why am I going to bed? I want to fuck." Liam wasn't hearing right. Micah wanted him to go to bed? Why didn't Micah want him? "Was' wrong?"
"Liam, I like my men upright," Micah said simply, by which time they had made it to the entrance to the suites and finally to Liam's door. Last chance.
"I like my men fucking me from behind when I'm up against a wall," Liam slurred, with one last push against Micah. Right now Micah taking him up against a wall sounded like a wonderful idea. Micah had his hands in Liam's pants, and for a second, it appeared that Liam was going to get off tonight. Micah was just getting the keycard from his wallet, and the door was freaking open.
"Are you going to be sick?" Micah asked, guiding Liam towards the bed then pulling off his shirt.
"Nah," Liam replied confidently, and then gasped as a surge of nausea hit him. In seconds he was in the bathroom, losing the beer, the hundred dollar dinner, everything. Micah was there putting something cool on his head. Exhaustion slipped over him.
"I'm leaving water here," Micah informed him, and Liam tried to listen, feeling like death. When had wanting to be fucked changed to wanting to puke his guts up? "Also a trashcan, in case you're gonna be sick. You gonna be okay? Liam? Liam?"
"'S'fine… leave me alone," Liam managed, and then, stumbling from bathroom to bed, he collapsed in a heap on the covers. Sleep was the only thing he could do.
* * * *
On the fifth floor, sleep was a long time coming for Micah. He couldn't settle, despite counting and humming and all the other things he tried to help him sleep. He had already jacked himself off to one orgasm, but fuck if he wasn't still half hard. The taste of Liam was something new—spicy, scared, cautious, uninhibited, so many contradictions in one man. Seeing him dance and feeling that sinuous twisting movement up against him was enough to send him skyward. He had never felt anything so primal before, not to mention the need to just grab at the man and mark him somehow.
Shit.
Completely hard again, he damned his overactive imagination. Liam had no idea how beautiful he was. With his air of innocence and vulnerability, and that damned secretive smile of his, he could have had anyone he wanted in that club. Anyone.
Yet Liam had wanted him, and Micah took him back to the hotel, leaving him at his suite with heated kisses and somehow finding the strength not to jump him there and then. He rolled to sit upright, adjusting his dick in his jersey boxers and wincing as his hand brushed the tip. He was not some fifteen year old kid with a porn mag under his bed. He could handle this lust.
Suddenly determined, he reached for his cell and sent off a text, r u up? If anyone could understand the confusion in his head, it would be one of his sisters, and the only sister likely to be up—he checked his watch 3 a.m. here, later at home—was going to be Rosie. The reply arrived quickly, yes.
Oh, woman of few words, on text anyway. He replied quickly, OK 2 talk?
Her answer, which read switching boobs made him wince and then snort out loud. Trust Rosie to bring it back to boobs. He waited. His newborn niece was not one to be moved quickly from what she was set on doing. She was a bit like his sister really. After about ten minutes, his cell flashed his sister's name, and he answered before he even stopped to think why he'd even wanted to chat.
"Hey." His sister sounded sleepy, and smiling, he leaned back on his bed, one hand pillowing his head.
"You been up all night?" The standard question between them made Rosie chuckle.
"Isn't it like 3 a.m. there? Have you actually been to bed?"
"Not exactly."
"Tell me you've been getting some and youre calling to gloat."
"Rosie, for fuck's sake."
"I'm teasing you. What's up?"
"Nothing. I just wanted to call."
"Hmmm, this is the day three thing, isn't it?" Micah didn't even want to think what the day three thing was and sighed dramatically. She continued. "You are entering day three, and that is when you are caught between relaxing and having fun and worrying about us."
Micah was quick to the defensive. "That is blatantly not true." He knew it was a lie; two days away from the farm was usually his limit before he got antsy, and he'd passed that mark. "So, as I am on the phone, how is everything?" he finally asked with no small amount of big brother regret he was reinforcing her earlier statement.
"It's all good, though I am the only one up."
"Okay." Micah paused again. He wanted to get some advice, which was why he had really called, but what exactly should he be asking?
"Talk to me." Rosie's voice leveled off at calm and careful.
"Met this guy, Liam, nice guy, kinda shy."
"Okay."
"He's hot."
"And?"
"He's in the closet. Or not. Hell, I don't know what he is."
"Okay, taking the closet statement first, how far back? Are we talking near the door, summer clothes, or coats stored for winter?"
"Coats."
"Oh."
"Well, when I say coats, I don't know. He seems so shy about who he is, or what he is, yet we went to Liberation, and he became different." Micah stopped, his head filled with images of the sexy creature Liam had become as soon as the music worked its magic. Writhing against Micah, his body had been so slim and hard and exactly the right height for Micah.
"You took him to Liberation? The gay club? You probably scared the kid to death."
"He's not a kid. He's only four years younger than me."
"So, you take your new friend, who is… what? Twenty-five, gay, but not handling people knowing, to a gay club, where he can relax and then he has fun, and I guess you had fun." She paused. "Consensual?"
"Nothing happened."
"Ahhhh." Micah hated that tone. Why had he even called home? "So, you wanted more and he wasn't putting out."
"No, jeez, other way round. He wanted more. I wasn't putting out." Silence. What could she possibly be thinking? He wasn't some kind of slut. Was it really a shock to hear he hadn't taken advantage of the guy?
"Micah…"
"I'm not some kind of—"
"Of course you aren't. Look, Lydia is sleeping. Talk to me."
Chapter 8
Liam's own snoring woke him just before five in the morning with the start of a hangover. He dug into his case for headache pills and swallowed a couple of them gratefully. He remained blissfully unaware of memories from last night for a few seconds, until suddenly his actions the previous night flooded him with shame. He had thrown himself at Micah, offered him sex on a plate, and what had Micah done in return? Brought him home and tucked him in like some kind of recalcitrant child. And those kisses before the beer buzz screwed his head. God, he didn't think he had ever felt this confused before. Sex with other men, the only kind of sex that really satisfied him, was supposed to be hard and rough, meant to mark and hurt. Damn it. Micah was supposed to push him against walls and kiss till his lips split. That is what Liam wanted. What Liam needed.
But, what had happened… the kisses, the kissing. What the fuck had he done wrong to deserve that awful thing bordering on affection? Did he somehow seem like the kind of guy who needed gentle? Was he not doing gay right? His experiences at college had been quick, hard, dirty, bad, and wrong, filled with pain and lust; exactly what he wanted. Kissing with Micah had been possibly the most intense sexual experience of his life, without the getting off. Damn Micah and his wicked tongue.
He had tried so damn hard to turn it a
round, to tell Micah he could take what he wanted, but none of it had worked. He had all but handed himself on a plate to the older man, all set for a quick fuck to recharge his batteries, make him see that with a soft gentle wife he could be happy. And all Micah had wanted to do was kiss gently, deeply, and the way he'd twisted his fingers into Liam's hair and held his face, touching him, guiding his hands… All of it was wrong. Liam wasn't a fucking woman. He needed it hard and uncompromising.
Climbing back into bed, he twisted uncomfortably in sweat-damp sheets. He couldn't sleep any more. He wrapped his hand around his treacherously hard morning wood. As hard as he tried to recapture the intensity of need and want he had felt when Micah held him, he wasn't going to get off on soft kisses and murmured endearments. He scrubbed Micah's face from his brain, and by rote, he fell back to his usual fantasy to get himself off. Someone taller, bigger, stronger, holding him down and forcing him to submit. But—shit. Instead of the faceless, nameless man who took whatever he wanted, it was Micah's face featured in this fantasy. He fought it for a while. He didn't want that man anywhere near his fantasy, but in the end, it remained easier to imagine the tall muscled man in the position of aggressor.
Micah would use his strength and superior height to force him to his knees, filth dripping from his lips, calling Liam a slut, a whore, telling Liam he was wrong to want this, but he took it anyway. Imagination pushed him higher. He was so close, arching up into his firm grip, his other hand pulling and pinching hard at his left nipple then down to cup his balls and pull at them. The sharp pain there was enough to send him higher, and he finally lost it hard over his clenched fist. That is what he needed, forced to do what another wanted, told what to do. Groaning, and mindless to the cooling fluid that marked his hand and stomach, he turned over and buried his head into cool cotton pillows.
Why, at the very peak of orgasm, did Micah intrude with gentle kisses and his words of need?
All Liam knew was at the very end of it, sated and finally sleepy again, he wanted more, even though with Micah's clear need for gentleness and affection, the other man's gay was clearly as broken and inappropriate as his.
Chapter 9
Twenty-nine emails. Liam made sure each one was filed appropriately. He waited while the virus scan showed as completed, then pulled the files for the biotech case. He managed to skim through about fifty percent of the legalese before realizing he remembered nothing. The dull headache could have been responsible, or the faint ringing in his ears, both of which he blamed on the club. Or it could have been the acute embarrassment at what he had tried to do last night or, more accurately, early this morning that itched at his skin and made him blush.
He wandered the suite, his cell in his hand, jumping only slightly when it vibrated and indicated a new call.
"Dad?" Unspoken was is everything okay?
His dad started in on it straight away, no real pleasantries. "This case, boy…" Liam hated it when his dad called him boy, and it sent resentment shooting down his spine.
"I've looked at the papers—" Liam began, but his dad interrupted quickly.
"I'm thinking of getting Samuels to look them over as well."
"I can handle this." Liam tried very hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice. Samuels was an up-and-coming hot shot, and asking him to look over the case underlined his dad's opinion of him getting onto the case.
"You should be here." Not at the beach wasting your time. Such an old argument and his dad would never understand why he needed space, or why it had to be this week. He didn't even try to explain, still going with the excuse of a college friend instead of the real reason—coming to terms with the rest of his life and making choices that would shock his entirely conservative parents.
"Dad—"
"Just get your comments to me."
"You said I had until Monday." His dad muttered a goodbye without responding to the point Liam had made and ended the call. Liam looked at his cell as the screen reverted to his screen saver and then faded to black. His dad had this way of making him feel like a kid again, resentful and hurt that his dad didn't trust his skills. Shutting his eyes, he pushed the bitterness to one side. Liam's career was important to him. He was damn good at what he did, and it was about time his dad trusted him.
Picking up the papers, he shuffled them into order then laid them out on the wide desk in the study part of his suite. They sat there, accusingly, shouting at him to sit down and work. However, just out of sight was his camera, and he needed to get out of this room and into real life, if only for a while. He'd come back; he didn't need to spend all day taking photos. Just an hour, to get his head straight. His watch showed a few minutes past nine, and without conscious thought, he found himself climbing the ornate marble stairs to the fifth floor. Every so often he stopped to take a shot of the intricate details, each filigree curl casting shadows and designs onto papered walls. He wandered past the room that Micah had said he was in, pausing momentarily, wondering if Micah sat behind the carved door. He debated whether he could push through his embarrassment to ever talk to the guy again. He couldn't believe what he had been like. Alcohol or no alcohol, he had been as base as some kind of dog in heat, throwing himself at Micah and demanding to be fucked.
He was lucky Micah hadn't wanted him.
Shit. That hurt. He wasn't ugly. Enough people had told him he was cute, even handsome, and he kept himself fit. He smelled nice, he dressed well, and he took care of his appearance. All in all, he wasn't a bad package. Though it was clear he obviously wasn't the type of guy that men like Micah went for. Perhaps he came across as too needy? His contemplation and self-flagellation carried him onto the wide deck area surrounding the pool, and for a long time, he stood at the wall overlooking the beach and the ocean, his camera in his hands.
He shook off his melancholy, and with his artist's eye, he saw deep cerulean waves, tipped with white, contrasting with the cornflower blue of a new Californian sky. He smiled at the birds dipping and twisting above the water, at the families already on the wide beach, some of their shouting and laughter filtering up to him on the warm breeze. He wanted to capture the day, the laughter, the blues, but still his camera stayed closed. He collected the images for himself, hoarding them selfishly and knowing he could pull them out of his mind when he was back behind his wide oak desk in Seattle. Back home, where memories of this week would be the only thing to remind him of what he could be doing with his life if he had the choice.
Choice. Everyone had it. The ability to guide their own life, be their own person. Every child came into the world born with infinite possibilities in them. He smiled at the thought. Emma had infinite possibilities in her future, and Liam would give everything to make sure she had a good life. He wasn't going to be like his dad. He wanted to make his daughter's life easy, uncomplicated, fulfilling, happy. Jan, beautiful bohemian artistic Jan, would have wanted that for her daughter; for their daughter. Three years gone now. Three whole years with the anniversary of her death tomorrow and he needed to mark her passing as he had done before—with a photograph.
Year one had found him sitting back against the trunk of the perfect oak tree, his head filled with grief and the sun spilling through the leaves and dappling the verdant earth beneath him. His best friend had been gone a whole year, her daughter, his daughter nearly one, and he had found the image that captured that year of heartache and sorrow and joy and exhaustion. A single leaf, and the tiniest of bugs clinging to the lacy frame.
The second year had been as easy, a cloudless summer day and a single kingfisher, fresh from the mansion lake, landing on a fence post on the boundary of his house, it's inquisitive beady eyes gazing back at him as he captured the image on his camera. The bird hadn't moved, and he took about thirty stills he could choose from, until his then two-year-old daughter charged out of the house demanding cookies, and he caught the startled bird in flight. Beautiful. This year he wanted a single image, but it wasn't coming to him, and he couldn't plan it.
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He watched the beach and the sea until the sun began to prickle at his skin. Then with a sigh, he turned away from the wall, coming face to face with the man who had been haunting him, the man standing two feet behind him.
Micah looked at him with an expression of pleasure, a half smile, and then he held out a hand. Liam looked at the outstretched fingers, then, by instinct, around him to see if anyone could see. Casually, he took the extended hand, lust shooting through him at Micah's strong grip and the feel of his fingers lacing through Liam's.
"Lunch."
"It's only ten," Liam offered helplessly as Micah guided him in through the main doors and left to Micah's room.
"Go for a drive then we can eat lunch. You got other things organized for today?"
Liam swallowed. Today had mostly been about hiding and avoiding Micah after last night's debacle. Weakly, he waved his camera.
"Photos," he offered as a response, and then dipped his head when Micah smiled and opened the door to his room one-handed.
"Where I'm going to take you is the most beautiful place outside of Seneca Blue. I'm going to grab my wallet." He stopped and looked at Liam. "I rented a car. You'll come out with me today?" Liam nodded immediately. There was no question about it. He wanted to spend more time with the enigmatic wine guy. He showed friendship, and jeez, Liam needed that right now.
"I'd love it."
* * * *
The car Micah had hired was a small two door compact, nothing special, but it got them out of Santa Monica and onto Highway 1, the Pacific Coast Highway. Liam was struck by the view over the ocean and probably wasn't paying attention to much else apart from the beauty to his left and the sharp smell of some kind of citrus cologne that Micah had used. To look at the ocean, he had to focus past Micah's features, and it remained difficult not to instead stare at his defined profile. Hell, he had it bad, in spite of what had happened last night.