by Jay Hogan
He seemed equally into it, thank God, reaching up to pull my hands from his face and lower them to his arse. Then he pushed his hips into mine and circled in a deliciously slow grind. He was as hard as I was, and that bolstered my courage. I moved my lips to his neck and nipped the skin at the collar of that sexy-as-shit satin shirt, but he growled and pulled away, placing a hand on my chest.
“Don’t. Fucking. Move,” he said, trailing a finger down my chest to my stomach, then lower, keeping his eyes steady on me all the while. And I didn’t move. I did exactly as he said. Anything to keep his hands on me. Hell, I’d have lain naked on the wet ground in the middle of the damn car park if he’d asked.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” he crooned, pupils blown almost black in the half-lit shadow. “Look at you. Coiled tight, built like a fucking tank, and so damn eager. You blow my mind, Reuben Taylor. But I think one taste of you would never be enough, and that is a problem.”
“We don’t have to….”
“No, and we won’t. I don’t do closet cases, but fuck me if I don’t want in you like there’s no tomorrow.”
Huh? The few times I’d done anal, only once had I not been the one doing the fucking. It hadn’t been the best experience, so I was kind of shocked by my body’s immediate and resounding yes. Well, shit.
“Still.” He licked his lips. “Maybe just a taste….” He kicked my legs apart, dropping me to his level, stepped in and owned my mouth in a kiss that threatened to pull my balls through my tonsils. Jesus, who was this guy? For a dude who wore makeup, the man took no prisoners, and I wanted nothing more than to let him do whatever the hell he wanted. And yes, I was hoping that list was long.
His hand snaked between us, cupping me, eliciting a groan the likes of which had never before fallen from my lips. I pushed myself into his hand, desperate for friction.
He grinned against my lips. “Hold on, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” He pressed his lips to my neck and nipped lightly before soothing it with a lick.
I groaned. “Shit, I’m… too close.”
He found my zipper and drew it down nice and slow. “No. You’re gonna wait till I say, right?”
My body fair thrummed in response. “Okay” was all I could manage. The firm heat of his grip had me biting the inside of my cheek, but he’d told me to wait, and I was gonna fucking wait if it killed me, which was looking increasingly likely. But he only got in a couple of slow strokes before light spilled across the car park and we both froze. Fuck.
“Reuben, you out here?” Kevin Falcon, a teammate.
Double fuck. I shoved Cam roughly, pushing him hard into the wall. He grunted. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I hauled up my zipper and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand before scrambling to put as much distance between the two of us as possible.
Cam cursed, and I caught the word “bastard” before he stepped back into the light. I couldn’t meet his eyes, too afraid of the contempt I’d find there. Bastard? Yep, no doubt about it.
My teammate rounded the corner. “Jesus, Reuben, what the hell are you doing out here? It’s fucking freezing. Jess said you’d ditched her. Are you nuts?”
Then it came, that jolt of confused surprise when he saw I wasn’t alone, and again when he registered exactly who I was with. His gaze narrowed, flitting between the two of us. “What the fuck’s going on here?”
My chest tightened in panic and my hands shook in my pockets, but I kept my gaze solid, my expression neutral. “I bummed a cigarette.”
I looked to Cam, who held my gaze. From where Kevin stood, I hoped to hell he couldn’t see the graze on Cam’s cheek from the wall I’d just thrown him into. Jesus, I’m an arsehole. With his eyes locked on mine, we both knew he had the power to throw me under the bus right then and there with a single word, and hell if I didn’t deserve it. He looked pissed enough to be at least considering the option.
Then he sighed, and I felt a glimmer of hope. He grabbed the pack of cigarettes from the wall, still holding my gaze and keeping his back to Kevin. “Yeah,” he said. “You should really give that shit up. Filthy habit.”
The double entendre wasn’t lost on me.
“Have a good one,” he added, keeping his back to the two of us as he walked out into the drizzle of the car park.
I breathed a sigh of relief mingled with gutted disappointment.
Kevin regarded me with suspicion. “What the fuck, Reuben? You know who that is?”
I sighed. “Yeah, Kevin, I know.”
“He’s a fucking fag, man.” He made no attempt to lower his voice, his lip curled in revulsion. “You want people thinking you like dick as well?”
Cam’s head whipped around, and I winced inwardly, but there was nothing I could do.
“I get it, okay?” I answered, louder than I’d meant to, and doing nothing to correct the jerk’s language. Cam flipped us both off with a disgusted look before continuing to a small red BMW. Fuck. My. Life.
“Well?” Kevin pushed.
“Well, what?” I raised my voice. “I bummed a cigarette from the guy. He didn’t suck me off, for Christ’s sake.” If only.
Kevin stared at me for a moment, then relaxed. “Sorry, man. It’s just… you know. Guys like that piss me off. But say anything and the damn rugby bosses fuck with your contract or send you to sensitivity training.”
Footsteps approached. “Reuben?”
Son of a bitch. My father. Could this shitty evening get any worse?
Kevin rolled his eyes. “He’s here, Mr Taylor. Just having a cigarette.”
That Dad was a piece of work wasn’t lost on my teammates. Most felt sorry for me.
My father’s expression was thunderous. “Thought you gave that shit up. You’ll never make an All Black, smoking that crap.”
I rolled my eyes. “It was just one cigarette.”
He slapped me up the back of the head. “Don’t be a smartarse.”
I stepped in closer, forcing him to look up at me. “Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Me.”
He hesitated and took a step back. “Whatever. That girl said you followed Wano’s fag brother outside.” He scanned the car park.
“He gave me a cigarette, end of story. You done? ’Cause I need to get back inside.”
He stared at me hard, but I’d lied to my father for so long, about so much, I never even blinked.
“Yeah, I’m done,” he said. “And damn right you need to get back inside. Those selectors want to see you. I had to put them off while I fucking tracked you down.” He stabbed his finger into my chest. “So get in there and sell your damn arse.”
I grabbed his hand and shoved it away.
“Hey,” Kevin said, glancing nervously between us, “when you’re done licking the selectors’ shoes, a few of us are heading to Max’s to continue the fun. I’ll snag that Jess bird for you on the way out. Could be a good evening.”
“He’ll be there,” my father answered for me.
Kevin glanced my way, and I shrugged. Fucking wonderful. But it was better than another minute with my father. I followed them both inside, doing my best not to let my gaze wander to the corner of the car park where a small BMW sat with the driver’s window open and a thin trail of smoke wove its way skyward.
Chapter One
Cam
THE SUN kept its warm autumn mantle powered up over the garden just long enough to secure Josh and Michael’s wedding vows before Auckland’s fickle weather ripped the illusion to shreds. The late summer roses, which only minutes before had been standing proud and glorious, now lay bedraggled and tattered as the skies darkened to ink and the heavens opened to disgorge a biblical deluge of rain upon the head of any guest daring to linger outside.
Squeals of laughter and the clattering of stilettos over wet tiles were met with fluffy towels and mimosas, handed out by Josh’s thirteen-year-old daughter and Michael’s best man. Michael was a trauma specialist in the same ER where I worked as charge nurse, and seeing the two men so happy and in love after a decidedly rocky
start to their relationship warmed my heart.
Josh’s sister, Katie, wiped the remains of her saturated updo off her face, laughed, and broke into a not-too-awful rendition of Credence Clearwater Revival’s “Have You Ever Seen The Rain,” and within seconds the majority of guests, including myself, had joined in. Michael grabbed his brand-spanking-new husband by the hand and dragged him onto the dance floor, spinning and dipping the man to hoots and cheers.
The impromptu singalong done, Josh pulled his man tight to his chest and sealed their lips in an epic kiss that had me quietly adjusting my dress pants. Michael’s ex, Simon, threw a splash of champagne over the already damp men to break them up, while his own husband watched on with unguarded amusement. The grooms took a bow to acknowledge the crowd, barely seconds before Josh’s police dog bounded in sopping wet from the garden, his silver-buttoned black vest hanging in tatters from his neck. After racing to his handler, he stood on his hind legs and planted his muddy paws all over Josh’s gleaming white shirt. Laurel and Hardy couldn’t have scripted it better.
The elegant reception room fell silent for all of two seconds before hoots of laughter broke free from every corner. To top things off, Paris dropped to all fours and shook himself dry, drenching anyone within two metres who wasn’t already sodden. I laughed so much I nearly choked on my mimosa, and I wasn’t the only one. Even Josh’s less-than-inclusive parents were cracking a grin, almost. Still, the fact they were here at all had to be considered a win.
It was the best damn wedding I’d been to in years. The newly married couple looked so disgustingly sweet and happy, I could feel the cavities pop open in my teeth just being in the same room. Who’d have guessed this ending a year before, when the two were hating on each other in a vain attempt to ignore the sizzling chemistry they shared?
Seated at my table along with a half-dozen people I knew from the hospital, I finally had a moment to take stock of the other guests. There were a good sixty people or so in attendance, including Michael’s family from the US, his ex, and his ex’s husband. I wasn’t sure how that all worked, to be honest, but there was no denying the four men were close.
I leaned back to let a pretty damn cute, button-nose server slide in beside me to top up my champagne. My gaze wandered his arse appreciatively, and when he stepped back to move on to the next person, he caught my eye with a wink. It was always a surprise to me, the sheer variety of men who handed me their attention. From tiny, could-snap-in-a-stiff-breeze twinks like this darling, to supermasculine gays who wouldn’t normally be caught dead with an out-and-proud fem like me. Even Michael had flirted outrageously with me when he first arrived, and I’d needed to summon all my snark to deal with that particular temptation. We’d ended up good friends instead. Best result all round.
I wasn’t complaining about the attention, just that most interested parties never amounted to more than an overnighter, or a brief relationship at best. In my world I was a bit of a conundrum—a fem who liked control in the bedroom. Yeah, imagine how well that shit goes down. Jumping into my pillow-laden bed for lust and curiosity’s sake, behind the safety of closed doors, is entirely different to being seen by your friends and family alongside my flaming arse in the brutal light of day.
There was one I’d had hope for, only to uncover an unparalleled level of dickheadedness too late to stop him stomping all over my stupid, wishful heart. A mistake I had no intention of repeating. Closet cases were officially off the menu. I wasn’t hiding for anyone ever again.
I’d been out by default since… well, pretty much forever on account of being born with a congenital swish in my walk and a sassy mouth to match, not to mention an apparently hugely inappropriate obsession with makeup and clothes well before the age of eight. It was either own it and be damned or lock myself in the bathroom with a razor blade and a bottle of pills. Not that the latter didn’t cross my angst-ridden teenage brain on occasion after staring down my own personal following of bullies for the umpteenth time. The fact I never managed more than one serious brush with self-harm was due solely to having two of the most amazing parents ever to walk the planet.
I’m pretty sure Margaret and John Wano knew light years before I did that I was never going to walk the more travelled road. Refusing to wear anything but a dress to kindergarten for an entire year was probably a decent heads-up. But trying to carry the same concept into my first year of school was less successful, and eventually common sense and a rapidly evolving sense of self-preservation kicked in.
My parents, God love ’em, never forced the issue, but I’m sure Scott Base in Antarctica heard their sigh of relief when I started wearing trousers and shorts again. Though my colour preferences of fuchsia, lime green, and magenta did me no favours, and billowy shirts and crop tops remained a contentious issue with the under-ten bullies.
Not that it was easy for my parents either. My father in particular had to deal with very traditionalist parents for whom anything less than beer-drinking, rugby-playing, muscled-up beef was unmanly, and who struggled to connect with me on any level until later in life.
My mother’s mixed Polynesian parents weren’t much better, but her take-no-prisoners attitude to mothering meant she was having none of their bigotry. She gave them an ultimatum to either step up or out, it was up to them. The two different approaches to my “individuality” meant some inevitable clashes between my parents as well. They were careful to keep things away from my hearing, and when the outside world’s shit hit my fan, as it did on a regular basis, differences were put aside and they were always in my corner, solid anchors in my admittedly tumultuous young life.
When I officially came out at age twelve, it was somewhat anticlimactic. The whole family simply breathed an epic sigh of relief that they could all stop pretending they didn’t already know, and just get on with it.
High school and adolescence in general weren’t quite so understanding, of course, but I’d been blessed with my mother’s razor-sharp mind, so I focused on school and survival. I succeeded… mostly. Cue some depression and a short dip into self-harm, but enough said about that.
Having a sarcastic wit—also thanks to my mother, who could say fuck off in six languages and was able to slay any dickhead in ten words or less—defused many a close call with a fist, and a couple of good friends usually had my back for the rest. But caught on my own, or when my sarcasm got me into more trouble than out, I fell back on the many years of taekwondo training my dad had forced me to endure since age five.
He’d known that I would likely need something in my corner at some point, but in my naivety—and, let’s face it, downright horror at wearing those white pyjama outfits—I fought it every step of the way until age sixteen, when those very skills saved my arse from an epic beating, and instead left three school seniors on the ground in varying states of disrepair. I never argued about the training ever again, and my reputation as someone not to be messed with was sealed. Things began to look up.
But the most important thing taekwondo ever taught me had nothing to do with the ability to fight, and everything to do with owning who I was. There was no hiding I was gay and a card-carrying fem to boot, but I was nobody’s pushover, and you underestimated me at your peril.
WITH THE obligatory wedding speeches done, I sipped my champagne and let my gaze travel the room as the servers delivered our food. Josh’s sister, Katie, caught my attention, crossing the floor to wrap her arms around a woman I’d been introduced to earlier as her best friend, Georgie. I grinned at the two for all of the three seconds it took to recognise the man standing to Georgie’s left.
Holy fuck. What’s he doing here?
I slid down in my seat, my gaze travelling the eminently delectable body of Reuben goddamn Taylor. The man had lost none of his good looks or hunk factor in the last year. I’d found him droolworthy enough on the television where I’d first laid eyes on him. But after a glimpse of the real deal that disastrous night in the car park, I’d been a goner. If I hadn’t been worri
ed he’d catch me creeping on him, I might have stayed hidden away in the shadows and merely feasted my eyes that night. Could have saved myself a whole lotta trouble. But he’d been so damn tempting, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to be the focus of the man’s attention for even just a few minutes.
Tall—six three at least—with shoulder-length, dirty-blond hair that seemed to fight any attempt at styling, a full soft mouth, dazzling silver eyes flecked with a darker grey that caught the light, and a set of muscles that cramped my jeans, he was mouth-wateringly delicious. Not classically handsome—none of the chiselled jaw or model lines—he was of a rougher ilk, scrappy, wayward, and a tad unsophisticated, but he still caught all the attention in a room like a magnet, or at least he caught this queen’s.
As if that wasn’t enough, he’d pinged my gaydar seriously from the start. I remember thinking if the boy wasn’t gay as the day, I’d eat my best pair of Bruno Maglis{MISSING SYMBOL}well, my only pair of Bruno Maglis. And that boyish lust he’d failed epically to hide when he looked at me simply nailed the lid shut on his sexuality—and my crush. Me, who didn’t do crushes. Me, who didn’t do virginal, whimsical curiosity, once I knew he wasn’t straight, went and fucking kissed the guy. In my defence, he was just so damn adorable—and he had started it, after all. All awkward and earnest and gorgeous and… yeah, fucking terrified… of me.
Since then I’d watched him in a game or two, playing for the Chiefs. Not that I was looking, of course. And he may or may not have featured in an occasional jerk-off session, but that was between me and the shower. This, however, was the first time I’d seen him in the flesh since he’d shoved me into that damn car park wall a year ago. Fucking goddamn closet cases.