by Beth Bolden
Then suddenly they were pressed together, damp skin to damp skin, nothing separating them, not even an excuse for why they should stop.
Damon half-expected Xander to produce one, but instead, his fingers trailed downwards, pausing at the top of his fly. He sucked in a hard breath, and Xander tucked in a fingertip, just stroking the skin of his lower abs.
“Please,” Damon whispered, as he touched his forehead briefly to Xander’s.
He flipped them, forcing Damon against the washing machine with a show of strength that somehow made him even harder. Xander opened the button with a flick of his fingers, and trailed them down his fly, fingers teasing and stroking along his hard length.
He’d always known Xander was good with his hands. Damon had always watched them in the habit of regular tasks—chopping and whisking and mixing—but now he watched Xander’s hands with a whole different fascination as he tugged down his jeans partway and then his boxer briefs. Then those hands, so capable and so beautiful, wrapped around his cock, thumb reaching up to give a teasing little swipe to the damp head.
“God,” Damon uttered in a gravelly voice, his eyelids slipping shut so he could enjoy the pleasure already spinning through him, “just like that.”
Except that Xander didn’t do it “just like that.” He stopped moving his hand and his fingers completely, trapping Damon’s length in his hot, wet palm.
“Look at me,” Xander demanded, voice strained. Damon had imagined lots of times—more times than he should ever admit to—what Xander’s sex voice might sound like. He’d imagined it in his ear, as Xander pleaded for Damon to give him more, to give him everything. And every single time Damon had done it. At least in his mind.
“What?” Damon asked stupidly, opening his eyes.
Xander rewarded him with an experimental twist of his fingers. “That’s better,” he crooned. “I want you to watch me. I want you to watch me jerk you off.”
“Better. Yes. Now.” Damon felt like he was beyond words as he glanced down, and took in the full image of Xander’s hand wrapped around him. Then he glimpsed Xander’s face. Lips tight with concentration, eyes teasing and burning with the exact same desire Damon felt.
“Feels good, huh?” Xander said, giving another stroke, a tiny bit faster this time.
Damon didn’t even need to answer, the expression of bliss on his face probably gave him away. Or maybe his own hands, white-knuckled on the edge of the dryer.
Still, he’d learned his lesson. He kept his eyes open and watched as Xander slowly and inexorably pushed him toward the edge, one tantalizing stroke at a time.
“You like it like this?” Xander asked, even though it was probably very clear how much Damon liked it. “Or harder, and faster, like this?” He sped up, his hand motion making his bicep flex, and Damon bit back an oath.
“You keep that up,” Damon gritted out, “and it’s going to be over really soon.”
“That would really be a shame,” Xander crooned, glancing down at his hands. “You’ve got a beautiful cock.”
Xander’s words were fizzing in his veins, each syllable a tiny bubble of pleasure exploding.
“What?” Xander continued, expression going sly, his hand slowing down infinitesimally. “You like it when I talk dirty? You want to hear how many ways I want this cock? I want you to hold me down and fuck me so hard I cry. I want my mouth on it. I want to suck you until you come, and then I want to keep you in my mouth until you can’t help but get hard again.”
It was too much. Damon tried to hold on, but it had been a long, lonely time for him the last few years, and the visuals of Xander’s words and the rough edge of his voice as he told Damon all his fantasies was too much for him to handle.
He tensed, and then exploded, Xander stroking him through it with a very satisfied grin on his face. Just like he was the cat who’d finally gotten all the cream he wanted.
“Fuck,” Damon groaned as Xander lifted his hand and gave his finger an experimental lick. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Oh, but the trip is going to be fantastic,” Xander said with a sharp, feral grin. “Return the favor?”
Damon opened his mouth to agree, but to also remind Xander that he’d never done this before.
“It’s okay,” he soothed, edges softening as he guessed at Damon’s insecurity. “You’ve jerked yourself off before, right?”
Damon had practically worn off his skin jerking off thinking of Xander in the last few weeks. He nodded slowly.
“Then you’re fine,” Xander said. “Just do what you think you’d like.”
“What about what you like?” Damon asked.
“We’ll figure it out,” Xander promised. “Now please do something before I get tired of waiting and do it myself.”
That was something Damon really wanted to see—but someday. Not today. Today he wanted to give Xander at least a little taste of the pleasure he’d just received.
He cautiously reached down, loosening the tie on Xander’s shorts. He knew he wasn’t as graceful about it as Xander, and it was definitely more awkward than it looked to push down Xander’s wet, clingy shorts. He should be thankful he hadn’t been wearing jeans, like Damon was.
Xander was wearing tight black briefs with little chili peppers dotted all over them. Damon knew he must be staring, both at the cute underwear that totally personified him, but also at the pretty impressive hard-on.
Blushing, Xander gave a little aborted shrug as Damon reached out and stroked him once through the damp cotton. “I like fun underwear,” he admitted, and Damon thought this was a facet of Xander that he could get used to. Really, really fast.
“I like them,” Damon admitted. “They’re sexy as hell.”
“I hoped you might think so,” Xander said, and blushed again. Harder this time.
With minimum difficulty, Damon managed to push them down, letting them fall to the floor with Xander’s running shorts, his cock springing up fully hard and definitely ready to go.
Damon wrapped his hand around it gently, and it was him that swore, not Xander. It felt so different from touching himself—so much better than he’d imagined. He’d always been a giver, and he knew from the first feel of Xander’s cock that he was going to want to give all the time.
“Ahhh,” Xander exhaled as Damon began to pump him slowly. “Don’t have to be so gentle.”
Damon knew his smile grew wicked. “Like it rough, do you?”
Xander panted. “Maybe.”
Damon had already decided that he was down for giving Xander whatever he wanted. Both inside and outside the bedroom—or as this case might be, inside the laundry room. So he jerked him harder, sliding his thumb around the wet head, gathering pre-come to help ease his way a little better.
Xander was right; he did know what to do. His other hand gripped Xander’s hip, and held him tight and fast as he gave him what he’d asked for. A little rough, with no quarter. Xander came with Damon’s name on his breath and a wide-eyed incredulous look, like he’d just been smacked by a freight train.
“Wow,” he exhaled shakily. “Wow.”
“Good for a first time?” Damon asked self-consciously. He didn’t feel quite as confident as Xander about tasting the stripes of come on his fingers, but he wanted to. Maybe next time. Maybe next time he might even feel confident enough to offer a blowjob.
Licking his lips, Xander smiled bright. “Uh, yeah. Definitely no complaints.” He paused. “Did you know I wanted you for the first time in this room, a year ago?”
Damon laughed. “What if I told you that I wanted you before that?”
“Even looking like a drowned rat?”
Reaching up with his clean hand, Damon stroked Xander’s cheek. “Even in the pouring rain, standing in a mud pit, you had so much passion and fire in your eyes. I wanted some of that fight for myself. I wanted you to share it with me.” He hesitated. “And you did. You do, every day. Thank you.”
Xander’s laugh was shaky, unsure. Even mor
e unsure than he’d been about to get Damon’s first hand job. “You’re welcome.”
Damon reached down, picked up his t-shirt, wiped his hand. Pulled Xander’s hand into his own, and wiped it too. He didn’t know the etiquette for these kinds of things—not yet anyway—but he knew he always wanted to do the right thing.
From Xander’s damp eyes that he guessed had nothing to do with the sprinkler fight they’d had, Damon hoped he’d managed it, despite the lack of experience.
Chapter Ten
The next morning, Xander was in the kitchen, taking advantage of the cool morning by baking a few practice batches of focaccia, when Kian wandered in.
“How’s your hand?” Xander asked. He hadn’t seen Kian much the last few days, and while he could still see a bandage, it was of the Band-Aid variety and covered in tiny My Little Ponies.
“Better,” Kian grumbled, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “But still annoying. I hate having to wear gloves at work.”
“It’s the worst,” Xander agreed, whipping off the damp cloth covering his dough and testing its rise with a fingertip. “I’m thinking about doing a rosemary and sun-dried tomato topping for this focaccia. Thoughts?”
Kian dumped sugar in his coffee and pursed his lips as he thought about it. “You’re serving focaccia? I thought you weren’t doing an Italian bent.”
Xander had spent the last two weeks telling himself he wasn’t trying to turn the Barrel House into an Italian restaurant, or even a restaurant with Italian influences. He’d tested a lot of recipes in the last weeks, but the ones that always ended up being the best were inspired by some of Xander’s favorite rustic Italian food.
This morning, lying in bed, desperately trying to tamp down his rising feelings for Damon, Xander had wondered why he was fighting his own natural inclinations so hard? Did he want to make his life harder? More complicated?
He liked cooking Italian food. He liked Damon. Why did he spend so much effort trying to deny himself things he liked?
Xander had a feeling he could go to years of therapy and never quite understand that particular idiosyncrasy.
“Things change,” Xander told Kian. The Kian of last year, even, would have probably left it at that. But this new Kian, the one who seemed to be actively pursuing Bastian instead of waiting in the shadows, hoarding the little scraps of attention the chef would throw him, was a Kian that Xander didn’t really understand.
Somehow his good friend had grown up and Xander knew it wasn’t fair to say he liked the other version better—but he’d understood that version better. Xander liked what he could reason and quantify, and Kian wasn’t one of those things anymore.
“I knew you’d do it,” Kian muttered. “It was inevitable. Just like you hooking up with Damon.”
“How do you know we’re hooking up?”
Kian laughed. “You look about a hundred times more relaxed this morning than you looked a week ago. You’ve got the Xander got some dreamy expression down pat.”
Xander really wanted to tell him that in all the years they’d known each other—three at his last count—Kian couldn’t know this was his post-sex expression because he’d been celibate the whole time. But telling Kian that would open him up for all sorts of questions that Xander did not want to answer. Most importantly, why he had decided that Damon was different, even though Damon still represented a lot of things that scared the shit out of him.
He couldn’t answer the question himself, so he could hardly explain it to Kian.
“Okay, that’s fair,” was all Xander said.
“But to answer your question, I like the idea of the sun-dried tomatoes. But what about sort of a sun-dried tomato pesto on top? The topping is really the best part of focaccia, so why skimp? Coat that bitch.”
It was a really good idea, which didn’t surprise Xander at all because Kian had been a special chef even back in culinary school. It wasn’t exactly a mystery why Aquino had taken one look at his naïve, sunny disposition and boundless talent and had coveted all those things for himself.
“You can dedicate your first Michelin star to me,” was all Kian said breezily. Like receiving one was inevitable, but Xander didn’t really have the heart to tell him that the Barrel House, at least in the iteration that he and Damon were creating now, wasn’t the type of place that Michelin sought out.
It was the kind of place you took a first date if you wanted good food and not a lot of pretension, or a good spot to soak up a long day of wine tasting.
Xander was good with that, but he hadn’t found a way to tell Kian that it was not Terroir-lite. It wasn’t because he was ashamed of what he and Damon were creating, more that he couldn’t find an explanation why he was okay with it. He’d known as early as culinary school that he was meant for bigger, brighter things. It had taken an association with the bigger and brighter to realize those things weren’t always in line with what kind of food he wanted to serve people.
Sometimes it was really about the image and not the food, and Xander was done with that sort of subterfuge. But Kian wasn’t. He was still guzzling the Kool-Aid as fast as Bastian Aquino could mix it up.
“Knock, knock,” a voice said, as the front door opened. “I heard you were baking this morning and decided I needed a coffee refill and something more substantial than a banana.”
Damon walked into the kitchen, and Xander went hot and cold all over remembering the things they’d done—not exactly groundbreaking—and what he’d said—groundbreaking for him, and if Damon’s reaction had been anything to go by, him as well.
But they’d both enjoyed it, Damon especially hadn’t been able to stop marveling at how much he’d loved it. He hadn’t specifically said the part where Xander let all his inner raunchy fantasies out, but his meaning had been clear enough.
“Good morning,” Xander said, because that was the only G-rated thing in his brain right now.
“Good morning,” Damon replied, leaning down and giving him a kiss that wasn’t brief by any means.
If Kian hadn’t known they were hooking up before, he definitely knew now, and Xander was torn between wanting to tell him how amazing it was, to finally find someone he wanted to trust, and warning him that Bastian wouldn’t be this kind or understanding or giving.
But Xander had forced himself to quit his Kian-must-be-saved quest, and that meant sticking to it.
Kian made a low whistling noise as Damon’s lips left Xander’s. Xander let his eyes open when Damon was still close, and the heat in his greenish-blue gaze nearly singed his eyebrows. Yes, they were going to need a repeat of last night, but this time, Xander was going to be aware he was doing it, and he wasn’t going to half-ass it like an afterthought.
“Did you sleep well?” Damon asked lowly. By the time Xander had finally driven home last night it was late and he’d been floating along on a river of endorphins. He’d known he’d sleep like a baby, and had mentioned that much to Damon as they were saying goodbye.
He hadn’t said just how much he wanted to stay, and just fall asleep on Damon’s couch, pressed up close against him. He definitely hadn’t said how much he really, secretly, wanted Damon to invite him to his bed.
Those things could all still happen, Xander had reminded himself. They were still new at this, and still figuring things out. Someday, Xander wouldn’t have to pry himself off the couch and head back to his own separate, very lonely bed.
“Like a baby,” Xander said, pasting a bright smile on. Once he was wearing it, he discovered it didn’t feel forced.
“I didn’t want you to go last night,” Damon confessed softly, echoing exactly what Xander had been thinking.
“Funny,” Xander said, ignoring Kian’s fake vomiting sounds, “I didn’t want to either.”
“Next time,” Damon promised, and it felt like a vow.
A vow that Xander was absolutely going to hold him to.
“I actually came by to show you something,” Damon said, leaning his hip against the kitchen counter, cozy
ing right back into Xander’s personal space.
“This sounds like the beginning of a really bad porn,” Kian announced loudly, “and that means it’s my cue to leave.”
“I don’t know, I thought it sounded like a pretty good porn,” Xander defended with a raised eyebrow. “I think we’d enjoy it anyway.”
Damon’s hand curled possessively around Xander’s hip. “I think you’re probably right.”
They stood there for a single moment, staring at each other. Xander was absolutely thinking about last night, and the way Damon was looking back, there was no way he wasn’t thinking about the same damn thing.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Xander asked, his lowered voice barely a gasp. He felt breathless and lightheaded, his cock thickening beneath his sweatpants.
Damon flushed. “It was so good, it’s hard to think of anything else.”
“So you don’t regret it?” Xander teased. He had to do something to break this moment, or they were going to end up on the kitchen floor, making out and probably coming in their pants. Which . . . might not be a terrible thing, he realized, except that Kian was definitely home, and Nate probably was too.
He didn’t want to do anything with Damon if they had an audience. Especially if he was going to try out more of the talk he’d used the night before.
“I told you last night. I don’t regret a thing.” Damon sounded amused, but reluctantly did let go of Xander’s hip.
“Good.” Xander stuck out his tongue and swiveled away, grabbing a bowl, and headed toward the deck, where he kept his herb planters. There he gathered rosemary, basil, parsley, and oregano. Damon watched from the sliding glass door.
“I can grow those for you,” Damon offered.
“I sure hope so,” Xander said as he tossed the bundles on his massive wooden cutting board and began to mince them.