by Rhys Ford
What they were doing was wrong—unsanitary at the very least and professionally dangerous at the far end of the spectrum of bad ideas. Guilt edged in only enough for Rob to hesitate and press the heel of his hand against Mace’s shoulder, but the last thing he wanted to do was push him away. Mace needed him. A hitch in Mace’s voice resonated in Rob’s mind, a desperate longing that surged up from Mace’s murmurs, something empty inside of a man Rob believed possessed everything in the world.
“Let me,” Rob whispered, his words probably carried away by the slashing of the rain that pounded the sidewalk outside. Mace’s cock throbbed in Rob’s hand, and he gripped tightly and slid his palm down its length. “I want you inside of me so I can watch you lose control. Let me give you that, Mace. Let me take care of you.”
SEX WAS something Mace was good at. God knows, he’d started at an early age. It was a way of earning emotional coin, using the one thing he couldn’t lose in the shuffle of houses and the sea of apathetic faces—his body. He’d propositioned Bear the first night they shared a room together. By then it’d become instinct, a way of ensuring some kind of bond with a larger, more forceful boy in the house or block. He always looked for an alliance, because there would always be somebody bigger and faster, someone willing to take what he could give on his own terms.
Forging those connections was a key to surviving the system and its labyrinth of turmoil and pain. It was one of the first lessons Mace learned and something he’d mastered by the time he ran into Bear. So it came as a shock to his system when the thickly muscled, frighteningly strong young man turned him down but protected him anyway.
It’d been a revelation to be wanted for nothing other than himself. Months had gone by before Bear’s faith in him worked its way into his subconscious, but even now, Mace questioned his own worth. He worked so hard to be perfect, dependable, and steady—an unwavering monolith of strength and guidance for his younger brothers.
But the entire time, every single damned waking moment of the day, there was a niggle of fear his family would turn around and discard him, just like his mother had when they’d finally wrested him from his father’s grasp.
Now here was Rob begging Mace to let him take the lead, to let him bring Mace pleasure. It was uncomfortable and unfamiliar but… sincere. And it went against everything Mace had laid out for himself to be. He got pleasure from giving, satisfaction from being able to get his lover to the brink of release, and he reveled when they shook apart in his arms.
“Roll over,” Rob commanded and pushed at Mace’s shoulder. “Give me the condom to put on you. I want to ride you until you can’t think.”
The line was cheesy, and Rob looked like he knew it. He wiggled his eyebrows and grinned. His smile was a playful curl of white against his golden skin. Sex wasn’t playful, or at least not the kind Mace had. Still, he let himself be pushed onto his back and grunted when he landed on the Vaseline jar and felt its plastic case give beneath his weight.
It seemed that Rob wasn’t going to let a silly thing like a handful of smeared lubricant and plastic bits stop them.
The condom went on tightly and snapped at his base when Rob rolled it down Mace’s length. His hands were sticky, still coated with Vaseline, and Mace left a sheen over Rob’s forearm when he brushed away a piece of foil from the condom wrapper. He’d forgotten to ask how long Rob had the packet in his wallet, and he wasn’t sure if he’d even care if it’d been there for years, not when Rob rested his ass on Mace’s belly, leaned over to seal their mouths together in a kiss, and then reached back to guide himself down onto Mace’s aching cock.
Mace was never on the bottom. It was a position where he had to give up control, to let someone else push the event, and more importantly, it trapped Mace against a hard surface. Being beneath someone closed in the space, folding shadows and heat around Mace’s face and shoulders and pinning down his hips. He had a momentary flutter of panic as his brain threw up other memories of walls and darkness, of silence and hunger.
And then Rob moved his hips… and Mace found himself swept away on a rising tide of pleasure, cradled by the fury of the storm outside.
Sex was never quiet. It was often loud and messy, a dance of heated skin and slick sweat. Mace spent most of his time focused on the man he was with, watching for little cues of what he needed to do. There was always something remote in it, a detachment Mace kept in front of him. He was unwilling to let someone else have control, or worse, and scared to fall fully into the connection he was having.
Rob took that away from him.
Every lift of Rob’s hips drove Mace further from the corner he hid in. The tight grip of Rob’s body around his cock seized at the rational part of Mace’s mind and shattered its steely hold. The stroke down across his length slammed at the wall Mace struggled to keep between them, and then Rob delivered his most deadly blow.
He dipped into the cracked Vaseline jar and pushed the tip of his index finger into Mace’s entrance.
The sensation of being entered while encased in Rob’s heat overloaded Mace’s senses. He grabbed at Rob’s hips, thrust up into him, and bathed in the animalistic mewls that poured from Rob’s sinful mouth. Mace found a spot with his cock and triggered a shiver through Rob every time he pulled the man off of him and buried himself balls-deep into Rob’s hole.
They found a rhythm of sorts.
They’d definitely found a beat. The slap of their bodies was loud, a percussive roll punctuated by the cymbal crashes of thunder. Mace caught flashes of Rob’s face when the lights flickered on, but he lost Rob’s beauty when the sienna wash of shadows returned. There was a mounting pressure in his belly, his nerves tightening and twisting around his spine, and Mace felt Rob’s body tense around him. Neither one of them was going to survive the afternoon, or at least not with all their wits, and Mace wasn’t sure if he was even going to make it with all of his limbs attached.
As Rob rode him hard, Mace felt himself tearing apart. He loved the long kisses they shared between them, the lingering stretches of their tongues touching and then the brief bursts of air as they caught their breath. For a brief second, or maybe even a minute, Mace risked tangling his fingers into Rob’s when he slid his hand up Mace’s heaving chest. Their eyes met, and Mace, enraptured by Rob’s impossibly golden gaze, couldn’t breathe. The connection fell apart when Rob tilted his head back, and Mace drove his cock in deep, nearly lifting Rob’s knees off the ground.
“Jesus!” Rob gasped. He bit at his lower lip as he pressed his hands on Mace’s chest and steadied himself for the ride. “Fuck, your cock is…. Mace, I can’t hold on.”
Rob came hard. Mace could barely get a grip on his lover’s jerking shaft before Rob climaxed. The first shot of hot, musky fluid hit Mace’s chest, and the second smeared over his hand, its flow caught by Mace’s thumb. Rob squeezed down, and his fingers slid in and brushed at the edge of Mace’s nerves.
Rob was flexible. Mace couldn’t deny that, especially when Rob twisted and worked Mace’s body, tensed the skin along his rim, and then undulated his hips to push Mace over the edge.
He surrendered as lightning cracked open the sky, bleached the shop’s darkness, and muted the colors of its graffiti-decorated walls. The maelstrom outside paled in comparison to the erotic turmoil exploding inside of him. There were anchor points in his awareness—the firmness of Rob’s ass in his clenched fingers and the press of the floor across his shoulders when he lifted his hips to shove his cock into Rob and let himself be brought to release.
His cock was reluctant to slacken, still eager for the velvety sensation of Rob’s clench around his flesh. He was softening slowly, and Rob seated himself down and rocked back and forth with tiny rolls of his hips to prolong their connection. Mace eased his fingers out of their tight grip and followed the planes of Rob’s thighs with his hands until he reached his knees. He cupped the curves of the bones along the joint and then continued, feathering a light touch down Rob’s calves.
Rob�
��s fingers slid out of him, and Mace mourned the emptiness they left behind. He’d never liked being penetrated, didn’t like the feel of someone else inside of him, but Rob felt good. All of it felt… mind-ending and amazing.
Then the rattle of the front door jerked them both to the present.
“Shit.” Rob fought to unfold his legs. “My client’s going to be here in ten minutes. Fuck and shit.”
It hurt a little to pull loose, but the panic was rising between them, and the shop was out of power. Mace couldn’t see much through the murky grayness inside of Rob’s stall, but there was enough light coming from the front windows to illuminate the waiting area. The street was nearly invisible behind sheets of rain, but he knew a simple storm wasn’t going to be enough to stop someone from getting a piece of ink they’d wanted for years.
It was also hard to let Rob go.
“You and I…,” Rob said, catching Mace’s chin in his hand. “We’re not done. Now grab those baby wipes over there and let’s clean ourselves off. And once I’m off shift, you and I are going to talk.”
Eight
THE HOT and dirty sex on 415 Ink’s hard floor did not ease Mace’s aching want.
It should have. He’d poured all of himself into Rob—not simply by reaching his satisfaction but also by giving Rob as much as he could to reach his. His elbows hurt where he’d rested them against the cement floor, and there was a bit of rug burn on his knees from the mat in Rob’s station. His cock was sleepy for about ten minutes, but as they scrambled to clean up and put the stall back in order, Mace brushed up against Rob’s back and he was at square one again, hard and aching to put his hands on Rob and slake the unquenchable thirst in him.
The hours until Ivo showed up were the longest, most agonizing stretch of time Mace had ever experienced.
It should’ve been easy. One of the other tattoo artists, Missy, carved out some time to work the shop, and Mace thought he was cut a reprieve, only to be flooded by walk-ins and clients who came in for one thing or another. The reception desk was three deep at times, and he nearly called Bear to ask if there was a word-of-mouth special going on, because the foot traffic was insane. Either the rain drove people inside the shop or the full moon was affecting their moods, but either way, he didn’t have a chance to do more than breathe from the moment he unlocked the front door.
Yet every time he turned around, he found himself seeking Rob out, watching as the man he’d just had screaming and writhing on top of him worked on an outline for an elaborate peacock tattoo. His client was talkative, boisterous, and laughing despite the variety of needles, and for the most part, Rob was attentive and engaging.
Except for the times when he looked up and met Mace’s gaze.
The heat between them was still palpable and thick enough to kiss if only Mace leaned forward and puckered up. His desire built up momentum and energized the air until it crackled every time he glanced behind him, anticipating Rob’s soulful gaze. He shouldn’t have had enough time for contemplation or regret, not with the bell over the door ringing and the phone going off every fifteen minutes or having to break down a station for cleanup and running ink over to Missy, who always seemed to forget to get enough black or blue.
Mace couldn’t go near Rob. He didn’t trust himself, and the one time Rob called out for something, it was to replace the jar of Vaseline they’d broken. Mace’s hip rubbed against Rob’s arm when he edged past the artist to put the open container within Rob’s reach, and he heard Rob catch his breath before he muttered a strangled thank-you.
When Ivo walked in the door, Mace handed him the shop’s wireless phone, grabbed his jacket, and was out the door before Ivo had the chance to put his things down.
Having sex in the shop was a mistake, but making love to Rob was a disaster. He’d downed at least four cups of coffee and two bottles of water to get the taste of the other man off of his tongue, but Rob lingered, an aromatic musk Mace couldn’t shake.
“A run in the rain never killed anyone,” he told himself. “Go home, change, and just run it off, dude. You’re just too tightly wound.”
The storm raged on. There were brief stretches of drizzle and mist, but when Mace pushed out of the shop, the downpour began anew. He flipped up the hoodie he’d put on under his leather jacket, shoved his hands into his pockets, and ducked his head to sprint across the street.
Despite the heavy traffic at the shop, the sidewalk was fairly empty. In the middle of the afternoon, the pier was usually a jostle-and-dodge game to get to the parking structure a few blocks away from 415 Ink. There were clusters of tourists wandering in and out of the stores and protected by the wide veranda spanning most of the old buildings. But there was a stretch of unprotected sidewalk, and Mace was glad for his jacket because he made it about halfway down the cement ribbon and his hoodie was drenched through.
The bracing cold felt good… right and cleansing, even as it stripped the warmth from his flesh and made his feet and hands feel as though they were encased in ice. It chilled him down to the bones and numbed his face and his chest until he could no longer feel the ache for Rob under his skin. A few more steps and Mace reached the cement overhang of the multistory parking structure with its collection of restaurants and shops that faced the street.
As tempting as the scents of broiled burgers and fresh-cut fries were, Mace just wanted to go home. He didn’t know which home he needed at the moment. Heading over to the Ashbury house would probably lead to questions about the shop, and Mace didn’t think he could look into Bear’s face and lie about his involvement with Rob.
Lying to Bear was inconceivable, but breaking a promise was worse.
“Jesus, what am I going to do? I know better. It’s just… fuck, it was crazy. I’ve got to tell Rob we can’t do that again. We just fucking can’t.”
Either the ground had been too dry to absorb the downpour or just couldn’t take any more, because the wide streams along the road were packed with floating soil, and a dirty film capped the rivulet Mace avoided as he headed toward the stairs. The sidewalk and the lower landing of the parking structure were nearly empty, an unusual sight for a midafternoon on the pier. The morning had been busier, and the first floor was packed with cars, so he’d parked on the next level. When he hit the stairs, Mace was caught in an updraft of cold wind, and the puddles on the cement steps were massive unavoidable lakes he was forced to step through.
His shoes squelched with each step, and he couldn’t stop shaking from the cold. The icy rain made his fingertips numb, and Mace fumbled with the hoodie’s zipper and struggled to keep his jacket tucked under his arm while he unhooked the bottom stop. He didn’t see the man lurking at the top of the second-floor stairwell until he hit the top step. Then a chill hit him and the prickle of uneasiness filled him.
His father was waiting for him in the shadows.
It was one thing to dream of the man who’d done everything in his power to make Mace as small and insignificant as possible.
It was quite another thing to find that man waiting to step back into his life.
The numbness from the cold had nothing on the dead quiet of Mace’s brain as it shut down.
The mind often does funny things with memory. Most of the time, it softens the blow of past events or dulls the edges of sharp pain, making it possible for a person to move past traumatic events or push forward through adversity. But when confronted with the reality of a memory, the brain often glitches, caught between accepting the hard truth standing right before it or clinging to the illusion of survival and healing.
One look into his father’s rigidly stern face and Mace’s new life tumbled down like a house of cards.
Mace expected his father to look old. From the description Ivo gave him and the warped twisting of his mind, the man should have been a decrepit wrinkle of flesh and bone barely held together by spit, anger, and a couple of pieces of gum.
Instead he looked exactly like he did the last time Mace saw him, when he shut and bolt
ed the closet door and sealed Mace away in the silence and the dark.
He was still muscular, his brawny frame nearly hidden by layers of clothes, and his face was obscured by an overlong dark beard shot through with silver. There was an eerie familiarity about him, more than something pulled up from memory. Seeing his father was like looking at his own face cast into the future and ridden hard by years in prison. As he stared at his father, Mace saw himself, a little older and meaner, but they shared the same eyes and mouth. Then his father smiled, and Mace was forced to swallow back a wave of sick that rushed up from his stomach.
There was no way he could turn away, even if he wanted to, because showing his father any bit of weakness would be like opening a floodgate, and he would drown in its aftermath.
Mace would have to talk with Ivo about his perception of old.
“I was just about to head down to that tattoo shop to see if any of those assholes over there would tell me where you lived.” His father’s sickening smile grew. “How are you, Johnny?”
There it was, the name he’d been hidden behind for years. Johnny. It was an echo from the past, the creak of a closet door opening and the darkness inside pouring out to consume him. Mace took the last few steps up the stairs but jerked back when his father crossed the landing toward him.
If he hadn’t been fighting his instinctive fear, Mace would’ve laughed at how conditioned he was. It was like playing fetch with Earl and pretending to throw a ball, simply to watch the dog bolt forward and then glance back in confusion when he couldn’t find his toy.
Mace wanted to cower, to duck his head down and sweep his gaze to the side so he wouldn’t make eye contact. He fought the urge to fold his shoulders in, bend his spine, and make himself small so as not to challenge the dominant man in the house. Hearing his father’s voice, its harsh tones thickened with a suppressed rage and deluded superiority, kicked off long-buried fears, and Mace felt the muscles in his face twist into a flinch before he could stop himself.