by JL Merrow
There were no lights out here. Even if there were anyone nearby, all they’d see would be two silhouettes against the light spilling out from the living room. And yet, it felt momentous when Bran took a step forward, and then another. Sam held out his arms, and Bran first allowed the embrace, then sank into it.
Sam rested his cheek on Bran’s hair. He smelled of leather, brandy, and old books. Eau de gentleman’s club, Sam thought crazily, not that he’d ever been in one or wanted to.
He couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Are you sure about this?”
Bran drew in a deep breath. And then kissed him.
His head spinning from the combination of alcohol and desire, Bran felt as though he were dreaming. What was happening now would change things, he knew it would, and yet he couldn’t make himself stop. Something about Sam made him want to say to hell with his carefully ordered life, where he always did what was expected of him.
It felt like the first time he’d brought someone here. Like the first time he’d been with a man, even. That wonderful feeling of breaking free from self-imposed chains—all with the comforting knowledge deep in the back of his mind that they’d be there waiting for him when he chose to put them back on again.
Except they wouldn’t be this time, would they? Sam was part of his life in Porthkennack. Friends with his brother. Things would change. Had already changed. But it didn’t matter, because every part of him that touched Sam felt intensely alive, as if the rest of him only slumbered. And Sam’s kiss . . . Dear God, those lips, and that tongue. Sam tasted intoxicating, and the heat of him through the thin cotton shirts they both wore was like a cleansing fire.
Bran couldn’t have stopped himself from pulling up Sam’s shirt if Bea had marched into the flat accompanied by the entire Chamber of Commerce. The urge to feel Sam’s bare flesh wouldn’t be denied, and he moaned when he reached his goal.
Sam broke the kiss. “Oh God. Get your shirt off.”
Some faint remaining traces of a higher thought process reminded Bran they were in the living room, with the light on and the blinds open. There was almost certainly no one there to see, but . . . “Bedroom. This way.”
“Now that’s a plan I can get behind.” Sam emphasised his words with a squeeze to Bran’s arse.
Delirious with arousal, Bran half led, half tugged Sam through the door. The light was off, but the moon was high now and shining through the window. In this small room, with bright-white linen on the bed, it was plenty. Bran unbuttoned his shirt with shaking hands, drawing in a gasp as Sam’s bare arms slid around his waist. When had he taken his shirt off? Bran didn’t care. All that mattered was the glorious, hot touch of skin upon skin, after he finally gave up on buttons and pulled his shirt over his head, wincing as his still-healing ribs protested.
Bran was drawn back into an embrace, and Sam’s breath caressed the nape of his neck. “Hey, you okay?” His voice was caring enough that Bran would have been embarrassed to become defensive.
“My ribs. Just . . . be careful.”
“Still, huh? Bastard. Let me kiss them better.” He began where he stood, kissing first Bran’s neck and then moving downwards, kissing Bran’s back. “Turn around, and sit on the bed.”
Bran did as he was told, and Sam stepped between his legs. Instead of making a move below the belt, Sam kissed Bran’s neck and throat, gently like a lover, and then dropped gracefully to his knees and laid a meandering trail of kisses down Bran’s chest. It felt like a benediction, as if by kissing over the injured ribs Sam could take away all the hate and the darkness, excise the canker that had grown in Bran’s breast since the attack.
It was too much to bear. Bran grabbed Sam’s head with both hands and kissed him on the mouth. God, the feel of Sam’s hair between his fingers—how long had he wanted to touch that hair? It was softer than it had any right to be, running over his skin like silk. Sam’s hands trailed gently across Bran’s chest, down his sides, the touch electrifying. Sam’s tongue invaded Bran’s mouth, taking what he wanted and leaving Bran changed forever.
It was all too much, and not enough. Bran broke the kiss, and they gazed at each other in the dim light of the moon, their breath coming hard and fast. It wasn’t a moment for words. Bran let his hands fall to Sam’s belt, and he unbuckled it, fumbling not from haste but from strong emotion—what, he couldn’t have named even to himself.
Somehow, between them, they managed to lose the last of their clothes, and Sam laid Bran down on the bed so gently he felt as though he might shatter regardless.
“You should be on top,” Sam breathed. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“It doesn’t matter.” It didn’t.
“Yeah, it does. Come on.” Sam lay down on the bed next to Bran, and Christ, how was Bran supposed to resist that invitation? He swung a leg over Sam’s slim hips, and let him roll them over until Sam was on his back with Bran on top. The first press of their erections together was a lightning strike. Bran gasped, almost a sob. They kissed again, openmouthed and deep. Sam slid a hand between them to work both their cocks.
It wasn’t what Bran wanted. He sat back onto his knees and suppressed a wince at the ache in his ribs as he reached into the bedside drawer. Condoms. Lube.
Bran placed a wrapped condom in the middle of Sam’s chest, and reached back to finger himself open. His ribs protested, but it was a dull pain. He could bear it.
“Oh God,” Sam breathed, and flung an arm over his eyes, but only for an instant. “Yeah, that’s it. Christ, look at you.”
Sam tore open the condom and rolled it on himself with a couple of swift, impatient movements of his hand—and then his hands were everywhere, on Bran’s chest, his sides, his hips. They glided round to cup Bran’s arse, pulling his cheeks apart even as Bran fingered himself. “God, you’ve got to let me,” Sam gasped, so Bran handed him the lube.
A moment later, slippery, deft fingers circled his hole and then pierced inside him, pushing in with confidence. “Jesus, you feel good.”
He wasn’t wrong. Bran felt wonderful.
“Tell me when you’re ready, yeah?” Sam went on, working his fingers in and out and making it hard for Bran to think, let alone speak.
Bran clenched against those invading fingers. “I’m ready.” He raised himself on his knees, Sam’s fingers slipping out of him, and seized Sam’s cock with one hand to line himself up.
Despite the preparations, it hurt to let Sam breach him, to sink slowly down on that hard cock. Bran didn’t care. It’d been so long, so very long, and he’d told himself he didn’t need this. He might as well have told himself he didn’t need food to eat, or air to breathe. He felt full, complete, seared open by this man he’d thought he hated.
Sam grabbed his hips, holding him steady. “God, that’s good. So fucking good.”
Bran clenched around him, drawing out a moan, then started to move, slowly and deliberately. The angle wasn’t quite right so he shifted position—and there, God, yes. That was it. His breathing became harsh, his gasps merging with Sam’s stifled grunts.
“C’mon. Faster.” Sam’s strong hands on Bran’s hips added force to his words. Bran resisted for a while, just to show he could, then gave in to Sam’s demands. And God, it was worth it for the way Sam’s face, clearer now to his dark-adapted eyes but still half-veiled in shadow, contorted with pleasure. Sam’s words of encouragement degenerated into incoherency, and he thrust up to meet Bran, his hips bucking uncontrollably.
It felt like flying. Like letting go.
“Jerk yourself off. Wanna see you come on me. Come on.” Bran wrapped a hand around his iron-hard cock and worked it feverishly, unable to glance away from Sam’s face, more beautiful than ever as he urged Bran to completion. “Aw, jeez, yeah. Come on. Come on.”
Pleasure shot through Bran and out of him as he painted Sam’s chest with his release, its tracks barely visible in the moonlight. Sam’s grasp tightened, forcing a last, unlooked-for jet of ecstasy out of Bran, and then Sam gave a
guttural cry and convulsed, seemingly forever. Bran floated in a haze of endorphins, alcohol, and exhaustion.
Sam held him up long enough to retrieve the condom, after which Bran collapsed on Sam’s chest with a groan of relief. It probably should have hurt his ribs, he thought muzzily, then dismissed the idea as unimportant. Sam’s chest, with its sparse, dark hair, was what was important. Bran laid his head on it, not caring about the mess. He probably would in the morning. But not now.
“Uh. Tissues?” Sam sounded as wrecked as Bran felt.
Bran groped for the box he kept on the bedside drawers, and handed it over. Sam lifted Bran’s head, gently wiped his cheek, then scrubbed down his own chest with a brisk motion before laying Bran’s head down again. Bran floated on a sea of warmth and contentment. “Sleep now,” he murmured. And did.
Some godawful racket woke Sam after what felt like about five minutes of sleep. Slapping around blindly for an alarm clock he hadn’t owned since his teens, Sam finally realised where the noise was coming from and fumbled for his phone. It took several more rings before he managed to locate it in the unfamiliar surroundings, and then he promptly dropped it on the carpet—onto the used condom, ew—before finally managing to turn off the din.
Bran lay beside him, blinking awake and looking at least as reluctant about it as Sam was. Sam’s first thought was a slightly hysterical, Well, at least the boss can’t bitch at me for getting in late today.
“Time?” There was no clue in that one word as to how Bran felt about finding Sam in his bed in the cold light of day.
“Half past seven. Guess we’d better get shifting.” Sam didn’t move, though. Bran looked softer, younger with his hair rumpled and morning stubble on his cheeks. He blinked a few times, then frowned sleepily. It was pretty adorable.
“Day’s it?”
Sam couldn’t hold back a smile. Not a morning person, then. “Tuesday.”
There was a pause while Bran processed it. “Ah. Good.”
“No breakfast meetings to go to?”
“No.”
“That’s good.” They gazed at each other across the pillows for a moment, Sam wishing he knew if Bran was regretting the previous night. Giving in to an impulse, Sam reached over to brush aside the hair that had fallen over Bran’s forehead. “How’s the ribs?”
Tension Sam hadn’t even noticed was there melted out of Bran at the caress. “Fine. Of course, I haven’t tried to move yet.”
“Fancy giving it a go?” Sam let the warmth he was feeling show in his voice. “Or shall I come over there?”
Bran drew in a breath. “Come.”
Morning sex was always different. Slower, less urgent than the frantic coupling of the night before. More relaxed. Sam could never decide which he liked best. Whichever one he was indulging in at the time, probably. Bran was so fucking gorgeous in bed, like he was a different person to the stuffed shirt he liked to play in public. He could still be demanding—but God, Sam wanted to give in to those demands.
They moved together lazily, just frotting against one another, but somehow it seemed even more intimate than what they’d done the night before. Christ, he’d been inside Bran last night. Sam’s arousal ratcheted up at the memory, and he increased the pace. Bran responded, and it wasn’t long before they were gasping as their jizz mingled on sweaty skin.
The tissue box got another workout, and then they lay there, catching their breath. Still holding one another. Maybe they were both afraid of what might happen if they left this warm cocoon, tucked away from the rest of their world.
It was Sam, in the end, who called attention to the time and suggested that they really ought to be getting back to Porthkennack.
Bran gave a barely audible sigh, nodded, and rose. “I’ll have a quick shower. I’m afraid there’s unlikely to be anything for breakfast.” He padded out of the bedroom.
Sam watched the trim lines of him go with a weird sort of pang, then debated whether to get up and check out the kitchen. Deciding unlikely was probably Bran-speak for the cupboards are barer than my arse right now, he let inertia carry the day.
He’d almost dozed off again by the time Bran returned—now clad in a towelling dressing gown of the sort spas ordered in bulk—although a glance at his phone told him that Bran really had been only a few minutes.
“There’s a towel in there for you,” Bran said.
“Cheers.” Sam took his clothes with him to the bathroom, although when he got there he found a second, matching robe hanging on the door. It smelled freshly laundered.
Christ. After Sam left here, was Bran planning to wash away all traces of him too?
Sam tried to tell himself he was reading too much into a courteous gesture. His judgement was probably still impaired from all that wine and brandy last night—how many had they had? He didn’t feel hungover, precisely, but he wasn’t raring to go for a five-mile run in the sunshine either. Good thing neither of them had driven.
Bran didn’t put on his jacket when they left the apartment, just carried it over his arm. Sam knew it was a stupid thing to base his hopes on, but it seemed significant, somehow.
He still chickened out of talking to Bran about, well, anything besides the weather, for Christ’s sake, which he was kicking himself for when they got in the cab. With the taxi driver there, wholesome and motherly in her bright-pink hijab—God, it would have to be the woman who’d dropped them off at the restaurant last night—it was impossible to bring up the subject of whether Bran wanted more than a one-off. Well, two-off, if they counted this morning. She reminded Sam of his mum. He pictured himself casually coming out with, “So, great shag, we doing it again?” in front of her, and cringed.
They dropped Sam off at Jory’s house first. Sam tried to give Bran some money towards the fare, but he waved it away with a curt gesture. It wasn’t until Sam was fumbling in his pockets for his key that he realised Bran had paid for everything last night too. Shit.
He really wasn’t happy about sponging off Bran now.
When he stumbled into the house, Jory was at work, of course, but Mal was in the living room, buried in a pile of books and notes and tapping away at his laptop.
Right. Exam week. “All right, mate?” Sam braced himself for a round of ribbing about not making it home last night.
Mal glanced up, blinked at Sam, said a vague, “Yeah, good,” and returned to his studies.
Sam had never been so thankful for anything in his life than that he hadn’t mentioned to Jory and Mal who he was going out for dinner with last night. He felt the urge to laugh. Don’t look a gift reprieve in the mouth, he reminded himself, and headed for a change of clothes.
Sam didn’t get into work until nearly eleven, having made a pit stop en route for a large coffee and a couple of Danish. He’d hoped to sneak into his Portakabin and pretend he’d been there since nine, but Jennifer waylaid him with a raised eyebrow as he unlocked the door.
“I was wondering if we’d be having the pleasure of your company this morning. Just as well your lord and master isn’t here to see you roll in at this hour.” She gave a roguish smile. “Fun party, was it? And on a school night too.”
“Uh, yeah. I’d better . . .” He gestured vaguely at the door.
“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. I won’t breathe a word to anyone named Roscarrock.”
Again Sam felt the urge to laugh. Bloody hell, even if he came clean about just what—or rather who—had made him late today, would anyone believe it? “That’s, uh . . . Cheers. Listen, I’m in desperate need of caffeine. Talk to you later?”
She rolled her eyes but left, thank God.
Sitting at his desk a while later, blinking at his computer screen as the cursor blinked accusingly back at him, Sam could easily imagine Bran marching in and acting as if nothing had happened between them. It was hard to shake the feeling that he’d let something with the potential to be amazing slip through his grasp. Why the hell hadn’t he said something when he’d had the chance?
And okay, Bran hadn’t said anything either—but Sam knew the guy wasn’t as confident or as arrogant as he liked to appear. Bran cared about what people thought of him, not that he’d ever admit it, and it made him vulnerable.
He’d probably been waiting to see which way the wind was blowing from Sam. And with all the awkwardness, Sam had definitely not been blowing hot in Bran’s direction.
The question was, what was he going to do about it now? He took a large swallow of coffee, then grimaced as he realised how cold he’d let it get. A relationship with Bran wouldn’t be easy, would it? Bran had a lot of hang-ups about his sexuality—and Sam had promised himself he wasn’t going to get involved with any more guys he couldn’t be open about.
Did Bran even want to get involved with him? Last night it’d felt like he did, with all that carpe diem stuff, and talking about romance—or had it been Sam who’d said that? It’d definitely been Bran who’d brought up the subject. But now . . . Sam struggled to recall the exact words that had been used. Had Bran thought Sam was just being pushy about sex?
And did anything said after that much alcohol count in any case?
Sam slumped back in his chair. The thought of Bran coming in and pretending they’d never opened up to each other, pretending they hadn’t spent the night in each other’s arms, was a crushing weight on his chest. He’d liked Bran last night. Not to mention this morning, waking up in bed next to him. It’d felt like he was seeing the real man, not the starched front Bran liked to show to the world. When Sam thought he might never see that man again . . .
Oh God. This could all turn out to be the most colossal cock-up in the world. Well, since Doug, at any rate. Sam gave a choked-out laugh. Okay, so at least Bran almost certainly wasn’t married, hopefully wasn’t lying to him, and definitely hadn’t publically betrayed him. Yet. Great standards you’ve got there, mate. Would they even be able to work together after this? God, what would happen if Bran decided to let him go? Sam would never be able to pay off his debts—and the chances of him getting another job in his field would be even worse than before. Christ, how could he tell his mum he’d blown this second chance as well?