Spencer sank to his knees, probably not as gracefully as Del usually did, but he continued his quest, kissing a particularly mottled bruise on his hip then the scrapes on his calves. Finally, he made his way to Del’s thick cock, which hung heavy and half-hard. He mouthed along the length, encouraging him to fully erect. But when he would have taken him deep, Del hauled him to his feet and manhandled him onto the bed.
“It’s been weeks. I’m going to come in twenty seconds if you keep that up.”
“I’m good with that. And it’s been weeks for me too.” Spencer meant it to come out teasing, but his voice was still soft and sad from their earlier conversation. “What do you want? I want to make you feel good.”
If this was it, the last time, he wanted to make it memorable, wanted to tell Del everything with his touch that he couldn’t with his words.
“Just want to kiss you.” Del stretched out next to him before pulling him in for a deep, searching kiss. Spencer met him way more eagerly than he had earlier, resolved to memorize Del’s taste and feel. He wanted to remember more than simply how full his lips were, how soft his sighs, how hard his body was stretched out next to Spencer. He wanted to remember how Del made him feel when they kissed. Treasured. Cherished. Desired. Maybe even loved.
Usually Del’s eyes fluttered shut when they made out, but tonight, he kept opening them, eyes searching Spencer’s between kisses, as if Spencer was the key to his happiness. If only.
Eventually, Del rolled so they were both on their sides, legs tangling, cocks brushing against each other. This was usually the point when one of them would start scrambling for the lube or kissing their way south, but neither of them seemed in any hurry this time.
“Spence...” Del stroked his neck and arm before hitching Spencer’s top leg over his hip. “Missed you so much.”
“Missed you too.” Spencer met his mouth for another greedy kiss, this one making his toes curl, the way Del licked at his tongue and nipped at his lower lip. Gradually, his thrusts against Spencer picked up steam.
“Fuck. Need to come, but I don’t want this to end.” Del’s voice was pained.
“Me too. Never want it to end.” He meant more than the sex, and it came out in his low, urgent tone.
“I...” Del’s eyes closed, and his head tipped back, almost like he was seeking benediction.
I love you. The thought barreled into Spencer, stole his next breath, and almost came rushing out his throat. He swallowed hard, burying his face in Del’s neck so he couldn’t see it in his eyes, but he knew it was there. I love you. He couldn’t say it aloud, shouldn’t even be thinking it, but he felt it in every touch, every kiss, every breath. It wouldn’t be fair to share it, not now, but lord, how he felt it.
Del worked a hand between them, started stroking them off together. Spencer shuddered, from emotion as much as pleasure. He put his hand on Del’s, needing that last point of connection.
“Gonna...”
“Me too...” Spencer used his leg to hold him closer. Their mouths met in a desperate kiss, one that seemed to hold everything uncertain between them, all the feelings and possibilities and hopes and fears.
Del came first, hips bucking, and the slippery fluid coating their fists pushed Spencer over the edge too as he thrust into Del’s tight grip. The orgasm wrung him out, made his eyes sting and heart ache. It was release, but it wasn’t their usual jubilant laughter after either.
“I... Spencer...” It was there in Del’s eyes too, everything Spencer had been trying to hide in his own gaze, and Spencer couldn’t let him speak the words. Might never recover if he did. So he kissed him, drowned in the sleepy slides of their lips, lost himself to this man.
Eventually, Del slumped back against the pillows and Spencer made a halfhearted attempt at cleanup before stretching out to watch Del sleep. He resisted the impulse to trace the contours of his cheek or trail his fingers down Del’s slightly crooked nose. He’d finally gotten Del to share the story of how he’d broken it in a fight protecting Jamie, and now whenever Spencer noticed it, his stomach clenched with sympathy for how brave and bold Del had been back then. Still was, really. And now Spencer was about to disappoint his brave, bold warrior.
Tomorrow was going to suck. Del was going to try to argue that there was a way for them to have a future. And as much as Spencer wanted to believe him, he was a realist. And as much as he hated it, had to grit his teeth to keep from groaning, he knew exactly what he was going to have to do.
He was going to have to show Del what he was working on. And then he was going to have to watch him break Spencer’s heart, because there was no possible way this ended well. What did Del call it? No-win. No one was winning here.
So, yeah, he didn’t sleep, instead using the precious moments to soak in Del’s smell and warmth and to hold close the moment when their eyes had met and everything, everything had been between them. He was going to wrap himself in that moment, keep it safe even when everything fell apart.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bacon woke to smell of pancakes, which told him right away that something was off. For all that Spencer liked cooking fancy dinners, he wasn’t much of a breakfast person. He always made sure there was food for Bacon, but he’d never made him something from scratch before. And the fact that he’d probably skipped his workout class was another clue that this wasn’t like other visits.
Just like that, their discussion last night came rushing back. The emotional sex had been but a brief escape. Was it so crazy to think that they could have a future? All he knew was that he wanted one in the worst way. Since he could already sense the heavy conversation coming, he went ahead and got dressed. No lazy hanging out in his underwear today.
“Is that food I smell?” He forced his voice to be light as he came into the sunny kitchen space.
“Yeah. Thought you might still be starving.” Spencer too was dressed all the way in pants and a white button-down shirt. He busied himself with making a plate and handing it over, not meeting Bacon’s eyes. “There’s chicken sausage and pancakes.”
“Thanks.” Bacon started eating even if the food might as well be ash. He got about halfway through his plate when he noticed that Spencer was only drinking coffee and watching him, not eating. “Is this where you tell me we need to talk?”
“You can eat.”
“That’s not a no.” Bacon pushed his plate away. “So, go ahead. Tell me why you doing this book deal means we can’t be together?”
“People will think you’re a source for me.” Spencer rubbed at his smoothly shaved jaw.
“So?” Bacon shrugged. “I get that you’re all worried about your ethics or whatnot, but do you really think you’re the first person to write about something related to what their partner does for a living? If I was a doctor and you wanted to write about curing cancer, I don’t think you’d let that stop you.”
“It’s not the same.”
“You’re Spencer Freaking Bryant. People are going to want to read this because it’s you. You’re not some newbie reporter truly worried about people thinking he slept his way to the top. And you could just be upfront about how we met—if you act like it’s something worth hiding, that’s worse.”
“I get what you’re saying. But it’s not just about my ethics.”
“Then educate me here, because I’m just not seeing the problem.”
“Not everyone’s going to want to read this. The military won’t be happy I wrote it. And honestly, you’re not going to like it either. It’s not a puff piece.” Spencer grabbed his open laptop from the end of the breakfast bar and handed it to Bacon. “This is the synopsis. That’s—”
“I know what a synopsis is,” he growled, hating how difficult Spencer was making this. He skimmed the screen in front of him, zeroing in on the title. Left Behind: How America’s Military is Failing Our Best and Brightest. He read faster, blood
pressure rising with each word. “What the fuck? This is an exposé on how Special Forces is screwing us up? You really hate the military that much?”
“It’s not about hating the military.” Spencer’s voice was infuriatingly calm. “This is a story that needs to be told. I told you about my former contact. The army ranger who committed suicide?”
“I know. And trust me, I more than anyone know how much suicide sucks. But, Spencer, it wasn’t your fault he died.”
“Maybe it was.” Spencer’s eyes got cloudy and far away. “He texted me before he died. Said that even with the great press for my book on amputees, he still felt like vets were invisible. I never got a chance to reply.”
“That sucks.” Bacon knew that pain all too well—the what-ifs about Jamie had stolen his sleep for years. “But I’ve been there—replaying every last millisecond of the final days, and at a certain point, you can’t let all that guilt crush you too.”
“I get that. But his story still needs to be told. His widow is working tirelessly to advocate for suicide prevention for vets. She’s found me dozens of other stories that need telling. I want to talk about the toll war takes and how the military isn’t effectively addressing the PTSD epidemic, especially in special ops. They’re asking too much of people. Sending them out with concussions and injuries—”
“Thought PR didn’t want you using what you learned while you were embedded.” His voice was hard and cold. Distant. Had to be, had to scramble for every handhold of control over the situation like he was back out on that ridge, hanging from a single finger, everything in the balance. Spencer’s synopsis loomed over them, as threatening as a missile, one he wasn’t going to be able to divert.
“Del. I can’t ignore what I saw. What I’ve heard about.” Spencer’s tone was infuriatingly calm to the point that Bacon went from cold control to white-hot rage, words tumbling out like rocks he was lobbing at Spencer.
“You gonna use last night too?” Bacon’s throat ached and his hands clenched against how damn badly this hurt. He felt used. Betrayed in a way he hadn’t thought possible. “How I came in all messed up? What chapter is that?”
“No.” Spencer held up his hands. “That was different. Private. But I knew you’d be worried about it. That people might assume you told me more than you have...”
“Yeah? And still you went ahead with this project?” His chest squeezed, adrenaline racing like he’d just lost that handhold and was in freefall, just waiting for the crash at the end of the fall.
“I have to. I owe it to Harry. To all the other guys whose stories need telling. And like I told you last night, I had this idea that maybe you wouldn’t be with the teams forever. And then it wouldn’t be such a big deal. I’ve spent the last few weeks hoping there might be some sort of compromise...”
“A compromise where I leave the teams?” He scoffed. Spencer thinking that was an option hurt almost worse than the book, said he’d never really understood Bacon. “Because then I would be exhibit-A for you. Washed out, damaged former sniper. It’s not about wanting me in private security because it would easier for me. It’s about what would be convenient for you. What fits your narrative.”
“I’m not going to lie. It would be easier if you were former military. But you said last night that you’re staying in the SEALs, and I respect that. I only want you to be happy, Del.”
“Fuck that.” Bacon got right up in his face, not shying away from calling him out on his BS. “You want good things for you. You’re the best goddamn thing in my life, Spencer. The thing that has made me happiest the last few months. I need that. Need you. You want me to be happy? Let me have you. Let me have this. Let me have us. Please.”
“You’re telling me to drop the book?” Spencer looked resigned, not surprised.
“I’m asking, yes. Please. If what we have is real, then fight for that.”
“It’s not about us being real.” Spencer’s eyes were deep pools of hurt. “We are. What I feel for you is real. But this story needs me to tell it.”
“Give me something to work with here. How am I supposed to tell people about you now? Like oh, yeah, my boyfriend wrote a book trashing everything about what we do, ran afoul of Naval PR—you know they’re going to lose their shit when they hear about this book—and hey, he thinks you may be broken and damaged, but sure, come for dinner and drinks?”
“I don’t know,” Spencer said softly. “I can’t ask you to stay with me if I do the book. I know that. I can’t make things harder for you on duty. I’d never be able to forgive myself if being with me brought you grief from your teammates.”
“And so that’s it? You’re choosing the book over us? Unless I don’t re-up? Way to hold my feelings—my life—hostage.”
“I owe it to Harry Winstead to tell his story. To his widow. To all the widows and widowers and families struggling. It’s an important story, Del. He deserves this from me. And I’m a journalist. I can’t live with myself if I walk away from this one.”
Thud. Just like that he landed, the crash that followed the fall he should have seen coming twenty klicks away. Should have expected Spencer’s choice, should have braced for impact, should have saved himself the oxygen of begging Spencer to choose them.
“Then don’t.” Bacon stalked away, found his backpack and his phone. “But don’t cry when I walk away from you. This is the mess you made. We could have had something special here, but you’ve made your choice. And now I’ve got to make mine.”
And with that, he left. His eyes didn’t even start burning until he was in his truck in the parking garage. He told himself that he’d taken his heart, walked away before it could really hurt, but it was a lie. He’d left his heart back on the tenth floor, left it for Spencer to shatter.
* * *
Del had ordered him not to cry, but the door had barely shut before Spencer’s tears started to fall. Which was ridiculous, really. He was well over forty, had had breakups before. But none like this. Not even the end of his marriage to Greg had hurt like this, had felt like his soul, the very essence of who he was, had just walked out that door.
Things had appeared easier when the book was still hypothetical, but from the moment he’d seen his agent’s email he’d known it was the beginning of the end with Del. He’d known Del would be furious about the direction he was taking, known it would make it almost impossible for them to be together if Del stayed in the service, and still he’d agreed to the book.
Because he was a journalist. Because he could still remember standing at Harry Winstead’s funeral, watching Caroline sob her heart out. Because he could still hear Harry’s anguish relating things that had happened while he was in the service. Because of that text, the one he’d never been able to reply to. Because he could still remember Del’s LT dismissing his injury questions. Because these were stories that needed told. All the lost men. All the “Harrys” who came back, battered and bruised and weren’t put back together. The decades of war taking its toll on a generation of young men. Yes, these were all stories that needed telling.
And he was, as Del had said, Spencer Fucking Bryant. This was what he did. He told the hard stories. He dug deep. He didn’t let personal feelings get in the way of good journalism.
But none of that comforted him right then. He really did love Del, loved him in his life, loved taking care of him and sharing with him and laughing with him. All of that. Letting go of him, of all that potential, hurt.
The condo felt stark and airless, a giant void where Del had been. Spencer paced the living area, trying to ignore the memories assaulting him. There, by the front door, was where Del had kissed him so desperately. There by the fridge was where he’d teased Spencer about his bagel selection. There on the couch was where they’d cuddled so many times while Spencer had worked. He left his laptop on the breakfast bar, knowing that if he touched it, he’d be likely to smash it into a hundred pieces.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“So remind me, do you have any hobbies?” The psych had a nice sunny office over at the sprawling medical center complex. She was around his mom’s age with dyed burgundy hair and teal glasses and a way of leaning forward when she talked. They’d covered all the hard stuff about the mission, and Bacon had seen her a few other times over the course of his enlistment, so talking hadn’t been particularly hard.
And she was entirely unflappable, so Bacon didn’t try to come up with a cutesy answer and instead went for the truth. “Does sex, hiking, and driving my truck count?”
“All good things.” The barest hint of a smile teased at her lips. “And the sex? That’s going okay since you’ve been back?”
“I just broke up with my boyfriend, so haven’t exactly had a lot of opportunities...”
“Okay.” To her credit, she didn’t even blink at the boyfriend comment. “Would you like to talk about the breakup? Do you feel the mission played a role?”
“No and no.” Bacon stretched, trying to send a clear signal he was done here. He couldn’t tell her about Spencer’s book—their sessions might be confidential in a medical sense, but he didn’t kid himself into thinking that nothing would filter back to the brass, who wanted to know he was fit to send back out. And the whole navy would be interested as fuck in Spencer’s book.
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