Irons and Works: The Complete Series

by E M Lindsey

  “Sweetheart?” Mat called from the other room.

  Wyatt wondered if Mat stayed naked—something he could do at the moment since James and Rowan had decided to take off for the Springs that week, which Wyatt suspected they’d done on purpose to give Mat and Wyatt some private time before Wyatt had to leave.

  Leaving the room, Wyatt made his way to the kitchen. It was a slow, careful trek as unfamiliar as he was with the full layout of James’ house, but he found his way. He scanned the room, finding where Mat was standing, a dark shape against the light blue wall and tan counter, and he approached with his hands out.

  Meeting bare skin sent a shiver up his spine, and he wrapped himself around Mat’s back, his flat palm ghosting up his chest, then back down where he was still rock hard. “You’re naked,” he murmured.

  “You like it,” Mat countered.

  Wyatt chuckled into Mat’s skin, loving that in spite of being shorter and smaller, Mat let Wyatt boss him around. “I do like it.”

  Mat turned in his arms, hands moving to Wyatt’s face. “Come on, cowboy, let’s get some dinner. Then we can get to those other plans you have.”

  Wyatt had been teased nearly all of his life with Old West references because of his name, but never had that word sounded so sweet on someone’s lips. It made him shiver, made him regret all the years he didn’t know Mat, even if it wouldn’t have been possible.

  He was feeling emotional and a little moody, and he knew it was from the long weeks ahead of him that were necessary, but probably some of the hardest distance he was ever going to face. “I’ll get the beer if you want to serve the food.”

  Mat kissed him once, then stepped away. “You know, I was thinking about something,” he said as Wyatt heard him start to fill their plates. “It’s a good idea to take the dog different places, right? Once you’re comfortable?”

  “It is,” Wyatt said slowly, a frown creasing his forehead. He found the table with the edge of his foot, then set the glasses down at the two chairs near the head of the table. “You want to go somewhere?”

  Mat said nothing as he arranged the food, then pulled his chair out. Wyatt followed suit, and found his fork as Mat continued his silence.

  “Mateo?” Wyatt pressed.

  Mat hummed as he chewed a bite, then said, “I want to go on a trip. I um. It’ll take a bit of time for me to arrange it, but I um. I kind of want it to be a surprise. If you trust me.”

  Wyatt was startled by the request. Under normal circumstances, the idea of being surprised by a trip—or even as something as simple as a date—would have caused his anxiety to ratchet up, but the thought of Mat being behind it made him crave it. It made him feel a sort of loved and cherished he hadn’t expected to feel.

  “Okay,” he said after a minute.

  Mat cleared his throat. “Really?”

  Wyatt couldn’t help a small laugh. “Did you think I would tell you no?”

  “Honestly? I wasn’t sure. It’s a lot to ask, and we’d be driving, which is trusting me more than I might deserve.”

  Not willing to listen to Mat think that way about himself again, Wyatt reached for him, pulling Mat’s hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to the tip of each finger. “I trust you.”

  Mat shivered, and Wyatt was again reminded that he was sitting at the table with him, totally naked, a plug in his ass, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Mat agreeing to it, Mat willing to let Wyatt have this, was heady and addicting. “Then I’ll make plans. Just let me know when, okay? When a good time to travel would be?”

  “It won’t be as long as you think,” Wyatt assured him. He was only about halfway through his dinner, but his appetite for the man next to him had eclipsed the hunger in his belly. Pushing his plate away, he turned in his chair and closed his eyes. “I’m ready.”

  He heard Mat’s fork clatter to the plate, heard the squeak of his chair, felt warm hands fall on his to ease him to his feet. Mat’s body was so warm even through all of Wyatt’s layers, and he ached to be skin-to-skin.

  “Is it safe for us to do this here?” Wyatt murmured as his lips found the join between Mat’s neck and shoulder.

  “Mm?” Mat sounded confused, his head twisting like he was looking around. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, are there windows? Can anyone see us? I’d hate to give poor Miguel such a view before he truly knows us.”

  Mat laughed, cupping Wyatt’s cheek and kissing him before he stepped away. “I heard a bike take off about forty-five minutes ago. I don’t think he’s home. But, if it makes you feel better, I’ll close the curtains.”

  Wyatt nodded, letting Mat step away. He heard the faint sound of metal rings scraping the curtain rod, and the room got darker. There was a lamp on somewhere in the living room, but it wasn’t bright enough to give Wyatt anything but light and shadow. It didn’t matter, though. He didn’t need any of his vision for this.

  The moment Mat was back under his hands, Wyatt took charge. He pushed Mat toward the sofa, taking careful, shuffling steps until he felt the other man halt, then eased him down to the cushions. Straddling his waist, Wyatt reached for the hem of his shirt, ripping it over his head and he flung it across the room, not caring where it landed. His jeans were next, moving off Mat only to let them pool at his feet before he straddled his lover a second time.

  “I don’t want you to forget what this is like,” Wyatt told him, dragging his nails lightly around Mat’s nipples.

  Mat let out a laugh, half from the ticklish sensation, half sounding incredulous as he took Wyatt’s hips between his large hands. “There’s no fucking way I would ever forget you, cowboy. And it’s only three weeks. You’ll be back before you know it, and we can pick up right where we left off.”

  Wyatt ground his hips down, shifting so their cocks aligned, though neither of them reached down to take them in hand just yet. “And where is that?”

  “Here. With me. Moving forward,” Mat said, and sounded a little breathless as his hips began to move in time with Wyatt’s. “Our new house together.”

  Wyatt’s eyes squeezed shut, and he felt a sudden and desperate need to be inside his lover. “Lube,” he said.

  “I thought ahead,” Mat told him. His body shifted as he reached out, then the cold press of a plastic bottle against Wyatt’s palm. “I want to ride you, cowboy.”

  “Please don’t make me laugh right now,” Wyatt said with a huge grin, the demand so fucking ridiculous and so fucking perfect at the same time. His cheeks burned, but he used his free hand to shove at Mat until he’d turned over. “Hold the cushion,” Wyatt ordered, then carefully eased the plug out, letting it drop to the floor with a dull thud as it landed on his jeans. He replaced the silicon toy with his fingers, feeling Mat’s hole clench down to adjust around him. Biting back a groan, he used the edge of his teeth to flick the cap open, then poured a generous amount into his palm.

  Still fucking Mat with his hand, Wyatt slicked up his own dick, then used his knee to knock Mat’s legs a little wider, bringing his height down just a bit. He felt powerful like this, strong and wanted, and he never wanted to lose it.

  “Ready for me, mon cœur?”

  “Yeah,” Mat breathed out. “I’m yours, cowboy. Come on,” he urged.

  Wyatt didn’t need to hear anything else. He guided himself in with both hands, then gripped Mat’s hips and pushed, seating himself completely with a long, firm stroke. Mat groaned, his body arching up toward Wyatt’s as the other man’s dick hit right in the spot he wanted it to. His thighs began to shake as Wyatt picked up his pace, skin slapping skin, both of them rising and cresting to their orgasms. The play, the earlier denial, it had all built to this.

  “I’m not going to last,” Wyatt groaned, gripping Mat by the hair and pulling his head back to get at his mouth. The kiss was sloppy and ugly, but so perfect as Mat clenched around him as though he was trying to draw Wyatt all the way inside. Wyatt shuddered, feeling his balls go tight, and there was no way he co
uld hold on. “Come with me, mon âme. Come with me.”

  He felt the rapid movement of Mat’s arm, and just knowing his lover was bringing himself off was enough. He gave one thrust, then a second. By the third, he was spilling deep inside Mat, filling him, claiming him from the inside out. His body shook with the force of it, his ears ringing a little, breathing coming in heaving gasps like he’d just run a marathon.

  Wyatt was unaware that Mat had gotten them both into a prone position, stretched along the cushions with Wyatt still buried deep inside him, but he was grateful for his lover’s ability to think as he started to come to.

  “You won’t forget me, will you?” Mat asked quietly.

  Wyatt huffed a tiny laugh, easing out of Mat, feeling oddly bereft at their separation. Mat didn’t allow it to last, gathering Wyatt close as they got more comfortable on James’ sofa. “How could I?” Wyatt asked after a little while. “You’ve infected me.”

  “God, does it sound less creepy when you say it in French?” Mat asked.

  Wyatt laughed. “No, not really. I’d try it in Welsh, but I don’t think that would be any better.”

  He felt the curve of Mat’s smile against his collarbone as Mat tucked his face into Wyatt’s chest. “I needed that. I’m not actually worried that you’ll find some super fucking hot guide dog trainer and run off into the sunset but…”

  At the long pause, Wyatt squeezed Mat’s hip. “But?” he prompted.

  “Sometimes it just feels too good to be true, and I worry,” Mat confessed.

  Wyatt traced a line over Mat’s cheekbone, down his jawline, over his lips, and reveled in just how beautiful his lover was. “I understand your worry. I know that I can tell you over and over I’m coming home to you because there’s no place I’d rather be, but I know it’ll take more than that for you to accept it. We’ve both been through a lot, and I think it’s natural to be afraid.”

  Mat huffed a small laugh and tightened his grip on Wyatt. “Maybe you should be the one going into the medical field. You could be a psychiatrist.”

  Wyatt laughed, then kissed him again. “I’ll leave fixing people to you, and just be grateful I get to come home to you every night.” When Mat simply let out a tiny sigh, Wyatt understood what it meant. He was afraid, but he was also content. Wyatt felt that down to his bones. And for the first time in what felt like far too long, he trusted that it would end up alright.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  For as gruff and unfriendly as both journeymen seemed, Mat found it a lot easier to get along with Miguel than the other man—Finn. They were both jaded, which wasn’t necessarily a surprise in their industry. Mat hadn’t been able to make his own journeyman trip around the country like some of the others had done, but he’d been to enough tattoo conventions to know that their shop was the anomaly, not the norm.

  Finn had taken a shine to Tony—which was not a surprise in the least, as Mat knew from personal experience that it was impossible not to love Tony. But he’d also taken a shine to Luke, and Mat had a feeling that if Finn decided to take off before long, Luke would be quick on his heels.

  Miguel, on the other hand, seemed uncertain about everything. He spent most of the day he wasn’t working staring out the window like he expected someone to come bursting in, and it was starting to make Mat a little antsy. They both had appointments later that afternoon, and Miguel had offered to take the late-night walk-ins, but there were a few hours before that happened.

  Mat knew if he had to sit with the uptight biker any longer, he was going to crack. “Do you like café food, Mexican food, Greek food, or pub food better?”

  Miguel jolted, like someone had snuck up on him from behind, and he swallowed thickly before answering in his rough, heavy voice, “Not picky.”

  “Okay. Well I am. At least, right now I am.” He glanced over his shoulder and saw James fucking around with the autoclave, then back at the door where there wasn’t a single soul of foot traffic wandering by. “I could seriously eat a giant-ass burrito right about now.”

  “Oh dude, bring me some chili rellenos,” James said, glancing over at Mat. “And that queso blanco stuff if Blanca is in the kitchen today.”

  Mat nodded, then slapped his palms over his thighs and pushed up. He leveled a look at Miguel when the larger man blinked at him. “Come on, it’s actually good food. Blanca’s parents opened up the restaurant some years ago—all homemade, family recipes and shit.”

  “And you’d know all about that?” Miguel asked with a sneer.

  Mat couldn’t help but laugh. “My mom is probably the whitest Colombian you’ll ever met—at least her soul is. She’s a dermatologist at some private ass, celebrity-only hospital in Northern California, and I don’t think she’s touched a plate of bandeja paisa since she was a kid, but I was still raised right. At least until she decided to hire our Russian nanny.”

  Miguel’s lip twitched into a half smile, and eventually he rolled his eyes, pushing to his feet. “If you’re about to feed me some Taco Bell shit…”

  “It’s not two am and neither of us are stoned,” Mat said with a grin.

  He pushed open the swinging half-door and led the way to the front, adjusting his pace for Miguel’s slower one. He wondered if the guy ever used a cane—wondered if it was a pride thing or if it just didn’t make a difference—but he didn’t want to ask. Not yet, anyway. He had just filled out the necessary paperwork to have his transcripts transferred, and one of the advisors at the University would be looking into what he’d need if he really wanted to start his residency over. He wouldn’t mind helping someone like Miguel, but the way he behaved, Mat was pretty sure the guy’s injuries were far more than a few years old.

  “We come here a lot,” Mat said as they crossed the street. “We actually have an exchange program going on with most of the shops.”

  “Ink for food that doesn’t come in a brown paper bag?” Miguel asked.

  Mat laughed. “Something like that. The owners of the florist shop get free ink whenever they want, pretty much.”

  Miguel’s eyebrows shot up, pulling at the scars on the right side of his temple. “Flowers for ink?”

  “More like Derek is engaged to the owner and his sister is a bad-ass, so none of us mind. And there are a bunch of us either engaged or getting there, so it’s always a good idea to be on decent terms with the town’s only florist.” Mat felt a warmth in his belly at the thought that it could be him soon. Would be, if he had his way. He hadn’t spoken to Wyatt much since he’d left for the guide dog training center, and he was taking the sparse texts and once-a-day phone call as a reminder that Wyatt hadn’t grown tired of him.

  “Well, probably won’t matter to me,” Miguel said after a beat. “Trust me when I say a wedding ain’t in my future.”

  “Yeah, famous last words,” Mat warned him. “I swear to god, this town has some sort of curse. You say shit like that, next thing you know, some asshole lands in your lap and turns your world upside down.”

  Miguel smirked at him. “That happened to you?”

  “Something like it,” Mat said. They reached the door and Mat held it open for the other man, walking in to face the chalk-board of daily specials. “Anything good on there?” he asked.

  Miguel rolled his eyes a little. “You tell me, man. This ain’t my town.”

  Mat’s cheeks pinked. “Oh uh…I guess no one…” He rubbed the back of his neck and wondered why it was so much fucking harder to come out as disabled than it was bisexual. “I can’t read.”

  Miguel took a step back in obvious surprise. “Seriously? Because I don’t like to be fucked with, so if this is like some hazing shit…”

  “I was in an accident,” Mat said in a rush. He pushed his hair back to reveal the place where the scars started. “Someone texting and driving. Bashed my head up, almost killed me. Nearly everything came back, except the reading part. And when I get really freaked out, my aphasia kicks in and things come out like gibberish. It’s been a lot better la
tely, though.”

  Miguel looked chastised, which wasn’t Mat’s intent, but he didn’t linger in his embarrassment. “It’s advertising their lunch special. Table-side guac, Patron-infused ceviche, pomegranate margaritas. I thought you said this was real shit.”

  Mat couldn’t help his laugh. “They have to appeal to the white yuppies somehow. But they have authentic stuff on the menu, like the shit you find in someone’s abuela’s kitchen. Are you Mexican?”

  Miguel shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “Nope. But if you know your shit, I think you’ll find something you like.” Mat’s confidence seemed to be enough that Miguel relaxed and didn’t drag his feet when the server arrived to show them to their table.

  It was probably saying something about how often Mat ate out that she didn’t even bother putting a menu in front of him, winking instead as she got Miguel’s drink order. “Just water, mija,” he said quietly, staring down at the table.

  Mat noticed his face was angled away from her, and his stomach clenched that Miguel was hiding himself. He’d never fully understand that—he wouldn’t know what it was like to navigate the streets with something so visible.

  “You got it. I’ll be back in a minute, okay?” Her voice was relaxed, almost like Miguel had soothed her with his deep rumbling voice, and Mat couldn’t help but grin.

  “Pied piper of cute waitresses?” he asked.

  Miguel looked up, his eyebrows rising. “Is that a joke?”

  “Man,” Mat said, shaking his head back and forth, “you’re gonna have to work to learn our humor here. That girl looked like she wanted to curl up in your arms like a little yorkie and sleep the afternoon away.”

  Miguel’s cheeks darkened a bit, and he glanced back down at the menu. “Machaca con verdura,” he muttered.