Bad Judgment

by Sidney Bell

  Brogan slid his hands under Embry’s shirt and encountered warm skin, ropy muscle, and twin ladders of rib that Brogan’s fingers could climb before he found Embry’s flat nipples with his thumbs. And all the while he kissed Embry back, fascinated by the sensation of those soft lips yielding, warm and damp and willing. Embry whimpered, and Brogan struggled for control briefly before giving up.

  As if he’d ever had any defenses against Embry.

  He dropped his hands and finally cupped that outrageously perfect ass, finally felt firm, round flesh under his fingers. He tugged them together and Embry was hard, too, thank God. Brogan spun them around so Embry’s back was to the wall, forcing him back a little harder than he’d meant to, but Embry only gasped into his mouth and held on tighter. The support of the wall gave Brogan the leverage to ease his knee between Embry’s thighs and wedge their hips together. He shut his eyes and let his fingers creep beneath the waistband of Embry’s jeans, the denim rough, the skin there faintly sweaty.

  Embry’s breath sped against his throat, and he dropped his head to rest on Embry’s shoulder before rolling his hips. Embry shuddered against him, clinging like a limpet, echoing the motion back to him so that the friction built.

  Then they were both moving, rubbing and working against each other. The friction was too much, almost painful, zippers and boxers getting in the way, but Brogan didn’t want to stop, not with Embry arched in his arms, lean and limber and eager, so he used his grip on Embry’s ass to tilt him just as he liked instead.

  Embry moaned, and Brogan decided he would do whatever it took to make Embry sound like that again. He lifted his head, bringing their mouths back together before dragging his lips along that long neck, smelling soap and Embry, masculine and clean and flawless. The rhythm of his body got rougher as he realized that at this rate, he’d go mad before he got off, because as much as he loved the idea of rocking both of them to orgasm right here like this, it wasn’t enough. He craved Embry’s skin, needed to touch and taste and memorize.

  He gave Embry a last long, sloppy kiss, teeth bumping, before dropping to his knees. He yanked Embry’s jeans open and shoved everything down around strong, lean thighs, setting Embry’s cock free, long and hard and already dripping, surrounded by a neatly-trimmed thatch of black curls. Brogan’s fingers shook as he reached up to stroke the shaft, the blood-hot skin silky soft, loose and slippery in his grasp, and he couldn’t wait.

  He’d never wanted to suck someone so much in his life. He didn’t care about Henniton or his job or any of the other reasons he had to stop. He only wanted to make Embry gasp and beg, wanted to wreck him with pleasure until Embry stopped thinking of anything but Brogan against him, above him, inside him.

  He took the head in his mouth, working his tongue against the slit, and Embry thrust helplessly against him, making Brogan choke and pull back. Brogan trapped Embry against the wall with a forearm low against his belly before leaning sideways to bite at a round hipbone in punishment.

  Embry’s whole body jerked and he moaned, “Sorry. Sorry. Oh, God, don’t stop, I’m sorry.”

  The worry in Embry’s voice made him grin, and he returned to Embry’s cock, nuzzling the vein running along the bottom, learning Embry’s scent and taste, only slightly musky beneath the aroma of soap, and pleasantly salty, his pre-come almost flavorless. Brogan closed his eyes and got to work, bobbing his head so that Embry’s cock moved thick and heavy on Brogan’s tongue, nudging the back of his throat over and over, setting up a satisfying ache, pulling away just enough to breathe. He didn’t care about air—he had far more important things to concentrate on.

  Brogan sucked him fast and deep, fascinated by the fragile, hot skin, impatient for Embry to come. He glanced up once to see Embry staring down at him with covetous, narrowed eyes. Brogan could imagine what he looked like: eager and messy, his cheeks red, his pulse pounding in his throat—downright pornographic, perhaps, but Embry’s fingertips were tender as they stroked Brogan’s temple, his thumb dropping to caress his cheekbone before lowering to press at the corner of his mouth where it was stretched wide around Embry’s cock.

  “Fuck,” he whispered. “This is really happening.”

  Brogan stared up at him, caressing with his tongue, thrilled when Embry’s head fell against the wall with a thud. So he did it again, over and over, delighted by the way Embry’s thighs started to tremble.

  “Please,” he begged. “Faster.”

  Brogan almost did the opposite—if he went faster, Embry would come, and then it would be over, and it was too soon, far too soon to face the possibility of never having this again. But Embry was falling apart above him, making small, desperate noises, and as much as Brogan wanted to draw it out, he couldn’t help but give Embry what he needed. He went faster as ordered, the pressure in his own balls growing as Embry groaned, his fingers delving into Brogan’s hair, painful and demanding and perfect. His hips strained against Brogan’s hold, his whole body undulating as he strove toward climax.

  “Fuck,” Embry gasped, and Brogan had to press the heel of his hand against his own cock, but that was little more than another tease, and he gave in, fumbling one-handed with his belt. His breath tore through his lungs, his chest fit to burst with the pounding of his heart.

  It took more coordination that Brogan possessed to touch himself while sucking Embry, so the quality of the blow job probably suffered, but Embry didn’t seem to care. He was giving small, aborted thrusts, holding Brogan impossibly tight, and Brogan really hoped they could do this again, because he suspected that Embry had a few fantasies of the face-fucking variety that Brogan was more than willing to try.

  And the thought of that had his own orgasm on the horizon.

  “Close,” Embry whimpered, giving Brogan a chance to pull back if he wanted to. “I’m close. Oh, God, if you don’t stop, I’m gonna...”

  Come, Brogan ordered silently, stroking himself furiously even as he opened wider, and Embry gave a compulsive thrust, greedy and forceful, his low, wracking cry of pleasure reaching Brogan’s ears just before the salty taste of come crossed his tongue. He swallowed and came only seconds later, drunk on the sensation of Embry on his lips, on Embry’s fingers in his hair, in the sound of their combined panting breaths.

  Eventually, Brogan said, “Holy shit,” in a voice gone guttural. His knees ached. He had come all over his hand and maybe even on Embry’s carpet (he was afraid to look, for fear that Embry would notice and murder him), and he glanced up, foggy and stupid and so happy with the world that he couldn’t stop staring at Embry’s flushed cheeks and pink, damp, half-open mouth.

  Embry’s good eye opened, and he looked hazy and spent. He wobbled against Brogan, who tried to steady him with the hand still on his hip.

  “You okay?” Brogan asked.

  “Face probably hurts,” Embry said, then offered Brogan an adorably sweet, almost shy smile, dimples shining. “But I can’t feel it at the moment.”

  “Christ,” Brogan said, unable to tear his gaze away because looking at Embry like this—languid, rosy, and satisfied—was like looking at lightning. Blinding and thrilling at once. “You’re so fucking gorgeous. This is probably the wrong moment to tell you I got come on your carpet.”

  Embry’s grin only widened. “I don’t care. It’s Joel’s carpet, technically.”

  Brogan jerked back, stung, and Embry froze, realizing what he’d said. “Sorry,” he whispered. He pulled away, his fingers nervous on his zipper. After the day he’d had, Brogan supposed it was only natural for Embry to be leery of pissing off men who were bigger than him, but it turned Brogan’s stomach. He forced himself to smile.

  “Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll provide another sample,” Brogan offered. It almost sounded light. “We’ll ruin it entirely.”

  “I’ll get you something to take care of that mess,” Embry said, some of his tension dissipat
ing, although his pleasant lassitude was gone. He disappeared before returning with a washcloth damp with warm water. He watched as Brogan cleaned himself up and then dabbed up the drips that did, in fact, get on the carpet.

  “You’re good at that,” Embry said.

  “Cleaning up come?” Brogan asked, then aimed a coy smile at the other man. “Aw, shucks. You say the sweetest things.”

  “Giving head,” Embry said dryly. “I don’t have a lot to...uh, but it was good.”

  “Don’t have a lot to compare it to?” Brogan asked. “Oh, God, please tell me Henniton wasn’t your first.”

  “No. I’m not that pathetic.”

  “That wouldn’t be pathetic. That would be criminal.”

  Embry was quiet a moment. “Second.”

  Brogan sighed. “Not much better, but at least it’s something.”

  “You, uh...you’re...”

  Brogan couldn’t help his smile now. “You want to have the numbers talk already? This is all so sudden.”

  Embry’s features compressed into the expression Brogan decided to dub the Doomscowl, as it was the look Embry had worn right before he nearly broke Brogan’s finger off. Brogan caved, entirely without pride if it meant keeping Embry’s face unscrunched.

  “It’s not as many as you might think. I was busy taking care of my brother and sister for most of my adolescence and I served during Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell for six years, so my free time was limited in more ways than one.” He wrinkled his nose. “I’ve got my fair share of one-nighters under my belt, though.”

  Embry didn’t respond for a second, although the Doomscowl faded. “I’ve been tested, and so was...” He broke off without saying the name, then recovered with, “We use condoms. I’m clean. You don’t have to worry.”

  “Me, too. Current episode aside, I’m usually really careful, and I’ve been tested, too. Uh, last time was about six days ago.”

  Embry blinked. “Six...you got tested for me, didn’t you?”

  Embarrassment, hot and potent, spilled over Brogan. “I didn’t...not to be presumptuous, but you never know—”

  Embry avoided eye contact by staring at the floor. “No, that’s...fair. I mean, I can’t exactly claim it’s presumptuous when we... Christ.” He licked his lips.

  The silence was awkward and desperate at once, because the words were rising inside him, the question burning at his lips: “Are you going to stay with him now that we’re...whatever we are?” He wondered if Embry expected him to ask, if that was why he wouldn’t look at Brogan—because he didn’t want to see Brogan take the hit.

  So Brogan didn’t ask. And Embry just stood there, staring at the floor, as if he’d find the answers tucked away in the nap of Henniton’s expensive carpet.

  Chapter Ten

  Embry freaked out a little then.

  Of course, being Embry, he didn’t offer an explanation. Still, it was impossible to miss—he was virtually vibrating. He sat, stood, walked in a circle, then sat down again. His hands shook when he shoved his hair back from his forehead, and his thumb tapped against his thigh whenever his hands weren’t clenched together.

  Brogan didn’t ask questions. He was pushing his luck sticking around at all when Embry clearly wasn’t happy having him there. But he worried that Embry was about to work himself into an asthma attack so he aimed for a distraction by saying, “My mother was a meth addict.”

  Embry stopped pacing, whatever train of thought he’d been on apparently derailed. For a second, there was only the warm afternoon sunshine through the slats in the blinds and the canned laughter coming from the TV.

  “She got clean when I was...oh, nine or ten, I guess,” Brogan continued. Embry was frowning but listening, so he kept going. “She never went back to it. I’ve always been proud of her for that, especially now that I know more about it—kicking meth is one of the hardest things a human being can do. She did it for us—me and my brother and sister—but doing that one thing right seemed to take up all the will she had. There was nothing left to fight pot and bad relationships and her inability to show up for work. My grandmother helped when she could, but it’s hard to create structure when your daughter’s prone to packing up her kids to go to Burning Man with a guy she’s known for two weeks. So I ended up taking care of my siblings a lot of the time. Actually, other than that year when my grandmother had custody of us, I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t in charge of them.”

  Embry sank down onto the sofa. His fingers were knotted, the knuckles white, and Brogan sat next to him, trying to keep his movements unthreatening as he pried Embry’s hands loose, rubbing at the tense tendons until they relaxed, and then setting them back on Embry’s knees.

  “Do you resent them? Your siblings, I mean?” Embry’s question lacked judgment, and Brogan answered honestly, even though it had been a very, very long time since he’d offered anything but the token of course not, it wasn’t their fault.

  “If you spend an hour twice a week hustling a five-year-old through bath time, the math works out to roughly 100 hours a year. That’s almost an entire week of moldy towels and bathtub crayons and Sheila blathering on about her best friend from down the street. Add a little more than a week of your life for Jackson, because he’s older and you have to catch his wiry ass and pound on him for ten minutes before he’ll take his turn. Then there’s mac and cheese to make for dinner and spilled juice to clean up and the last of the peanut butter used up and pajamas to look for, because the ones in the drawer are never the right ones.”

  He paused under the familiar churning in his gut at the memories. “By the time I was ten, I was exhausted. By the time I hit eighteen, the army seemed like a gift.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “I told myself that they were old enough to handle it. Mom was too worn out to keep running around, so she was working. Rent wasn’t dependent on my ability to—” He clamped his jaw closed. Steal, he’d almost said, a truth he’d never given to anyone. He knew Jackson had figured it out at some point, because he’d doze on Brogan’s bed on the nights that he’d gone out, doze until Brogan got home safe, a reminder of why he’d been doing something he’d known was wrong, but they’d never talked about it.

  Clearly he hadn’t kept the truth from reaching Embry, even if he hadn’t said it. Embry nodded once but didn’t speak.

  “You don’t think that’s shitty?” Brogan asked.

  “Did you ever hurt anyone?”

  “No. A couple times someone came home while I was there, but I ran for it. The trick is to pick places nice enough that they’ll have something worth a little money, but not so nice that they have fancy alarm systems or neighbors who’ll call the cops. And no dogs. Dogs are the fucking worst. But I never hurt anyone. Not physically, anyway.” He took a breath, then stumbled over the next bit, unable to stopper the explanation, even if he knew it was a rationalization. “I applied for SNAP, but they only cover a fraction of what you need, and she wasn’t all that discerning about what was getting eaten by people who crashed on our sofa. Food bank was unreliable—sometimes they’d have enough, sometimes they wouldn’t. I didn’t steal unless the kids had been more than a day without, but. Well. It’s shitty anyway.”

  Embry’s dark eyes studied him. The scrutiny made him uncomfortable until Embry said, simply and rather gently, “They’re your family.”

  Brogan flushed, warm and relieved. Embry knew it was wrong and he wasn’t trying to pretend it wasn’t, but there was also understanding. “Yeah.”

  “You sound like you feel guilty.”

  Brogan blew out a breath. “I abandoned them.”

  “That doesn’t seem like the right word to me.”

  “It is. I fucked up.” Brogan had given it a lot of thought over the years, and even though Mario disagreed with him—vehemently—Brogan knew better. “I had a res
ponsibility. I was supposed to take care of them, and I bailed. I was lucky they forgave me when I came home.”

  Embry put his arm up on the back of the couch and rested his cheekbone against his hand, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration. “What was there to forgive? It sounds like you did everything short of opening a vein.”

  “Bleeding out is what you do in relationships,” Brogan said. “If you sign up, you don’t bail.”

  “No, you don’t bail,” Embry replied slowly. “Bleeding out, though...that’s not what it should feel like, Brogan. Family should be your haven, not...not something vampiric. If you gave everything you had and it wasn’t enough, that’s...there’s no fault there. Not on your side, at least.”

  That hit Brogan with the force of a 2x4. His ears even began to ring. “No, that’s not—that’s not it.”

  “No?”

  “No. I was the one who screwed up. I do that. I’m not good at relationships.”

  Embry was watching him so intently that it should’ve been claustrophobic—Brogan couldn’t be sure it wasn’t—and he held his breath, waiting for...he wasn’t even sure what. But all Embry said was, “All right.”

  “I made excuses when I took off,” Brogan insisted. “You don’t have to do that when you’re doing the right thing.”

  “All right.”

  “Okay.”

  Brogan felt a flush of relief when Embry moved on, asking, “You went into the army then?”

  “Day I hit eighteen I enlisted. Or ran. Depending on how you look at it.”

  “During the war? That was brave. Or was that part of your guilt about leaving?”

  “I self-flagellate,” Brogan said. “In a secular sort of way.”

  “I suppose you do. Were you an MP?”

  “Reasonable guess, but no. Infantry. In 2004, I was on my way to Baghdad.” He gave Embry a small smile. “Hooah.”