by Daryl Banner
And then I forget I’m standing on a go-go dancer block.
There’s nothing there beneath my foot.
As I twist, struggle, teeter, and finally tip over with a shriek, I feel a pair of arms rush forth to catch me. I throw my hands around my savior, clutching tightly, then bring my eyes up to meet those of Benjamin Gage, who looks down on me in his arms.
Of course there’d be a glint of dark amusement in his eyes.
“What I was going to say,” I murmur with dignity, “is that I’d be an idiot to not take you up on that offer of a first real date.”
He grins, his eyes smoldering me as his million-dollar smile shines down on my face. There’s no doubt in my mind that Ben is, whether out here on the dance floor amidst a crowd of curious onlookers or in the privacy of a peaceful cabana in Cancún, the most beautiful soul I’ve ever let into my life.
“Also,” I add, “thank you for being there to catch me.”
He still grips the microphone, even after having caught me. “Always,” he whispers to me, bringing his lips to mine, consuming me in the deepest, most breath-stealing kiss I’ve ever known. The nightclub erupts into applause and triumphant hooting.
Always, always, always …
48
Benjamin owns it.
Our first date goes exactly how it ought to.
Well, minus the people who spot us in the restaurant and pull out their phones to subtly (and not so subtly) snap pics and take videos. But really, what else is new?
“I’m pretending not to notice,” whispers Trevor over the table with the candlelight flickering in his adorable face.
“I don’t care about the pic-snappers,” I mumble back, “as long as they’re not catching my bad angle.”
“You don’t have a bad angle.”
I smile, elbows propped on the table with my hands near my face, wringing them gently as I stare down Trevor across the table and try not to distract myself with the hundred different things I want to do to him when we’re alone again.
Strangely, the first thing I want to do is cuddle him. Does that make me a softy? Does that make me lame? I don’t give half a fuck if it does; I find the idea sexy as hell to strip off our clothes, get into something comfortable, and caress each other’s bodies on the couch while something on the TV makes our skin glow with its lazily flickering light.
After dinner, we stroll down a quiet street to my high-rise, chatting the whole way. Though others might objectively see our night as completely unremarkable, I feel like we just had the best first date ever. Trevor complained about the room spinning at first, but quickly calmed down the more we talked. My insides are bursting with happiness at the fact that I haven’t lost Trevor for good. It might be a strange reaction to have, but even with my entire career hanging on the brink of absolute destruction, my biggest fear was that Trevor would walk away without giving us a shot. Clients who want to sever ties with me or look elsewhere for representation, or business executives who get shifty feet … I can replace all of them.
But there’s nothing—nothing—that can replace what exists between Trevor and I.
When we arrive at the penthouse, Trevor finds the toy sword he had given Lance sitting on the kitchen counter. I wince apologetically when he picks it up and gives it a wiggle, turning to me. “Sorry,” I murmur, coming up to Trevor’s side. “He doesn’t … really play with toys.”
“Where is Lance?” he asks.
I poke my head around the corner of the hall. Lancelot sits at the door to the terrace staring out of the glass. He glances over his shoulder at us, a sour look in his eyes.
“Ugh. Fuckin’ birds,” I gripe. “Lance won’t go out there to do his business when they’re there.”
Trevor eyes me. “Birds? Your dog is scared of birds?”
“You should see them. Big scary fuckers.”
“But your dog Lancelot is a Knight of the Round Table,” he protests, tilting his head cutely. “He should take on anything!”
Before I can stop him, he marches toward the terrace door. Lance backs away, spooked, until he realizes Trevor is just passing him by, shoving his way out of the door and onto the terrace.
I stand by the opened door with Lance. “Uh … Trevor?”
“Where are you at??” Trevor calls out, brandishing the dog toy like an actual sword. “Come out, birds!”
Lance is by my side. We watch, alarmed, as Trevor wields the dog toy and looks into the sky.
He doesn’t have to look for long; the birds find him.
“Hey, you!” he yells at them. “Get out of here! This rooftop belongs to Sir Lancelot!”
That was a mistake. Two of the birds, entirely unconvinced by Trevor’s declaration, descend on him with colossal beating wings and outstretched talons.
Trevor screams and runs away. The birds chase him in a circle around the garden and the trees. He dares a peek over his back, trying to bat away the birds with his little squeaky sword, but each time he isn’t looking where he’s running, he stumbles, and the birds gain on him.
More birds have joined, too, and before long, there’s an avian army of six or more squawking and flapping above him to claim their territory.
Then, Lance barks.
I turn to him, surprised. Lance? Barking? Lance is invested, watching the scene with a mix of distress and bloodlust. His eyes chase each bird as he pants, watching, hyper focused.
Trevor, terrified, cowers by a tree, putting his arms over his head and blindly waving the sword above it. The effort is feeble at best, but it is a clear and obvious sign of his surrender.
But not for Lancelot.
The dog bounds after Trevor and the tree to defend his honor, barking wildly and snapping his jowls at the birds. The birds are clearly taken aback, fluttering away, confused, circling only once or twice before realizing they’re no match for the crazed dog, who snarls and snaps and barks and yaps at the birds, dancing in front of Trevor and the tree. The birds start fluttering away.
Lancelot, however, isn’t through with them in the least; my brave dog chases the confused birds to the brink of the terrace, barking and barking until the avian attackers flutter away into the night, gone for good.
Trevor doesn’t move until he feels the wet swipe of a tongue across his neck—to which he flinches in fear. When he puts down his arms and looks, he finds Lance standing in front of him, bright-eyed and panting happily. Trevor lifts his eyebrows in wonder. Then, in a move that surprises us both, Lancelot licks Trevor’s face from his chin to the top of his cheek, over and over. Trevor starts to laugh, falling against the tree as Lance pours all his love all over Trevor’s face.
Once Trevor’s been appropriately covered in dog saliva, Lance takes the sword by his teeth, slipping it from Trevor’s hand, and goes off to chew and play with the squeaky thing. Trevor watches, astonished.
I come to join Trevor under the tree, putting my arm over his back and squeezing him against me.
He shakes his head. “What … the hell … just happened?”
I kiss Trevor on his cheek. “I think you just knighted my dog.”
Trevor looks at me, warmth returning to his eyes. “I guess sometimes you just have to fight for what’s yours, no matter the scandalous birds of gossip that try to tear you down.”
“You and your metaphors and poetry,” I tease him.
Trevor bites his lip. “I do have three fourths of a degree in Journalism, you know.” He eyes me. “And I’m kind of horny.”
“I fail to connect the two thoughts.”
“I’m very horny.”
“Really, though, you have a gift,” I insist to him. “For words. It’s one of the things Rebekah noted on your application, your finesse with the English language.”
“I’m literally hard right now.”
“Plus, I think you could really make a career out of it,” I go on. “I have connections.”
“I have a boner, and I’d like to connect it to your mouth.”
I grip h
im by the face, sobering him at once. “You’re beautiful, Trevor. Inside and out. And I’m so lucky to have you.”
Those words, of all the ones I’ve uttered, finally affect him. He bites his lip as he blushes, unable to say anything as he stares into my eyes.
“To have you,” I repeat, emphasizing it. “I implied that you’re all mine. Does that make you hornier?”
“Maybe,” he mumbles cheekily, still biting his lip.
“Got anything in mind?”
He answers by tackling me to the dirt, his lips dropping onto mine impatiently. Here we both are, fighting for what’s ours. I think we’re finally ready to figure this out for the first time not as boss and intern, but rather as boyfriend and boyfriend—the way it was always meant to be.
Epilogue
Trevor fast-forwards 4 years.
Four years can really change a person.
Unless that person happens to be named Benjamin Gage, who is as immature as ever, eyeing me suggestively over the table at this ritzy restaurant as he ever so slowly dips his breadstick in and out of the garlic butter sauce over and over and over again.
I’m apparently in love with a thirteen-year-old who makes lewd sex jokes in public, shamelessly plays footsy with me under the table the whole time I’m trying to enjoy my shrimp scampi, and is insatiably horny at all hours of the day.
I finally crack a smile and proceed to muffle my laugh with a cloth napkin. And I can’t get enough of him.
I don’t mean to be “one of those gross lovey-dovey guys”, but pretty much every weekend is like this now. Benjamin spoils me with some fancy dinner at a restaurant, we hit the town for a bit to kick back and have fun, and then we’re home cuddled up on the couch with a movie. Lancelot has taken a liking to me ever since we conquered Mount Benjamin and reclaimed the terrace from the evil bird beak posse, so he’ll often cuddle with us too or sit on the rug below our feet.
Comically, he’ll leave right when Ben and I start to kiss and decide we can’t make it to the end of the movie without losing ourselves in each other’s massaging hands and explorative lips.
Spoiler alert: all our massages have happy endings.
This particular weekend, however, is special—and not just because it’s my three-year anniversary of the incredible job I landed as a freelance writer for one of the country’s largest media publications. This weekend is special for a reason which will be unveiled after we get home and my final plans come together.
“You’ve been really jumpy today,” notes Ben, eyeing me as we walk back to our apartment under the evening sun—which tries and succeeds at turning the sky into a breathtaking painting of warring orange and brilliant blue colors.
“After watching your breadsticks fornicating with the garlic butter sauce for an hour,” I quip back, “I think I have a library of reasons to be jumpy.”
He leans into me, clasping my hand. Yes, we’re holding hands. I know. Who am I, right? “I’m jumpy, too. I want to jump on you.”
I smirk, feeling the inevitable tickle of excitement chase its way up my neck—the tickle that always leads to a night of hot sex. “Can’t you contain yourself until we get home?”
“I know why you’re jumpy,” Ben decides. “It’s because we both have next week off, we’re heading to our spot in Cancún so you can get your pretty butt pampered the way you like, and you know it’s our anniversary next Friday, so—”
“You make me sound like such a damned princess.”
“Prince,” he corrects me. “And you are.” He reaches around to give my ass a firm, aggressive squeeze. I melt whenever he does that. The way he grabs my butt is so “this is mine”, like he wants to remind me of exactly what he plans to do to it later.
I am so his. And I’ve been totally his for four years.
Of course, his own beefy butt, swollen biceps, chiseled jaw, brilliant eyes, and plump lips are all mine. So it goes both ways.
Before we even enter our home, Lancelot is already scratching excitedly from the other side of the door. When we open it, both of us are tackled by the eager dog and all his pent-up, face-licking excitement. This happens every day now, by the way.
“Dinnertime!” I announce as I finish plating Lance’s meal on a dish, which I serve at his spot at the table. Ben was adamant about Lance being served at the table like a member of the family—our son, in many ways—and not in a bowl on the floor. I was quick to embrace it, since Lance and I have all but become best dog-and-human buddies. And really, I’ve come to love him just as much.
Speaking of dogs, my phone dances on the counter with a call. As it rings, I watch Ben go up the stairs while slowly stripping off his clothes, leaving a deliberate trail that ends with him naked at the top, slowly sauntering to the bathroom—and knowing full well he has my complete and undivided attention. What a cock tease.
I bite my lip, hard in an instant, then pick up the phone and decide to deal with the call quickly. “What is it, Elijah??” I blurt.
“Whoa, bro. Really? Did I interrupt you giving Ben an enema or something?”
“Just about,” I answer, impatient to rush upstairs and join Ben in the shower, which is where I assume he’s gone. “What do you need? Be quick. Ben’s naked. This only happens four times a day.”
“I’ll be so in-and-out quick, you won’t know who the daddy is.” He clears his throat. “Basically, we’re pregnant again.”
I gape. “Oh my God. Are you serious??”
“I know, I know. Ashlee and I already got our hands full with number one—our noisemaker Emma—and now we’re popping out another. We’re gonna be a family of twelve by Christmas.”
“That’s … not even physically possible.”
“Shush with you and your smarty-smartness,” he fires back. “Speaking of Ben and giving him enemas for the rest of your life. When are you two gonna finally … y’know? It’s been four years, bro. You’ve waited long enough.”
I glance back at Lance, who’s still innocently chomping down his meal at the table. “Don’t jinx it.”
“Jinx what? Hey, dude, tell me I’m gonna be your best man. I’ll throw you the biggest, gayest-ass bachelor party …”
“Nah, Lancelot is my best man. You’ll be my ring bearer.”
Elijah chuckles. “You’re such a dick.”
I find myself overcome suddenly with all that’s happened over the years. Elijah and Ashlee’s wedding and the unexpected early birth of their daughter Emma. Getting my dream job and the man of my dreams. Benjamin and his overwhelming list of A-list clients brought on by his totally-doesn’t-give-two-fucks approach—inspired by the unapologetic now-twenty-something Hawk. Rebekah and her opening of a new firm in California.
Ben also finally got a unique surprise in the form of meeting a very peculiar woman friend of his for the very first time. I wasn’t really sure who she was, but she wore a face-swallowing scarf, huge sunglasses, and a sunhat that could provide shade for a small country. When she got a look at me, the only thing she said to Ben was, “No wonder you had the ants in your pants about this pretty boy,” in her thick German accent. Then she poked him in the ribs and added, “I bet you go through ten bottles of chocolate syrup in a week with this one.”
I still have no idea what she meant by that, but it made Ben laugh so hard that even the stoic, strange woman seemed to smile with her eyes, twinkling happily that they finally got to meet.
I even had the pleasure of meeting Ben’s parents, who took to me rather well, considering Ben doesn’t think too highly of them. But I like to believe that after my meeting his family and pushing Ben to reconcile with them, their relationship is now stronger. Maybe he was inspired after meeting my own family—especially my mother, who basically treats him like a second son now.
And maybe it’s all these thoughts that inspire my next words. “Elijah, your friendship means so much to me. I’m so happy you found the one. And in all sincerity, congratulations to you both.”
“Aw, shucks, dude. You’re gon
na make me cry.”
“If you keep me away from Ben any longer, you’re gonna make him cry. I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you his answer.”
“His answer to what?” asks Elijah, but I’ve hung up already.
Not wanting to interrupt Lance’s dinner, I get him ready, then rub behind his ears encouragingly. I level my eyes with his. “You wait for the cue,” I murmur to him. He answers by licking my cheek, which I take for him understanding me. “Good boy.”
I’m up the stairs in seconds. I take off all my clothes outside the bathroom door, then push my way in.
The steam swirls around my naked body. Peering through the fog, I spot Ben’s sexy wide shoulders in the enormous renovated shower—which was my idea to renovate, inspired by the giant one we enjoy every time we visit Cancún. He pretends not to see me, lifting his arm as he demonstratively scrubs his pit with a bar of soap. I saunter up behind him, closing the distance between us. The steam had already cloaked my body in a sheen of warm moisture, but now the hot water falls over my skin as our bodies unite. My cock presses up against his pert butt cheeks. I slide my hands around his torso, cupping his pecs from behind.
He continues to play coy, washing himself slowly, sensuously, his arms in the air as he focuses on his pits. I continue to scrub something of my own: my cock between his cheeks … until it slips right between them and teases at the hole.
Ben’s head turns slightly, half-looking at me over his muscled, tatted shoulder. “You playing ‘knock, knock’ back there?”
“I’m playing ‘breaking and entering’, actually.” I have sorely underestimated how good his cheeks would feel engulfing my cock when it’s this hard. “And I’m gonna get in.”
The slickness is driving me crazy. If his soapy dick sticking straight up is any indication, he’s turned on just as much as I am.
“You asked what I wanted for our anniversary,” I tease him. “I think you know damned well what I want.”
“My big, beautiful pair of beef bubbles wasn’t on the menu,” he teases right back, a crooked grin on his face.