by Elle Keaton
“Not good. Look, I have a flat tire. I’ll be a while.” He was pinching the bridge of his nose, keeping away an epic headache or maybe tears. Something was brewing at the back of his skull, threatening like a slow-moving thunderstorm. No way to stop it, just prepare for when it finally arrived.
“Call Triple A?” No, because Sterling didn’t have Triple A. Which right now seemed all kinds of fucked up. “Where are you?” Sterling read off the bank’s address from the front doors. “Gimme a sec, I’ll call someone for you.”
Not that Sterling wasn’t perfectly able to call someone himself, but it was a nice gesture on Weir’s part, and Sterling wasn’t sure he was up to any more phone conversation. Weir hung up. A few minutes later Sterling got a text saying someone would be there soon.
Fifteen minutes later, when the big tow truck with “Swanfeldt’s Auto and Body” emblazoned across the doors rumbled down the street, Sterling wanted to smack himself. Weir had called Joey James’s boyfriend. He groaned before plastering a smile on his face and getting out of the car to greet Buck. Buck was an awesome guy. Sterling liked him, but he and Joey had kind of a rocky history, and now Sterling was going to owe Buck a favor.
Buck maneuvered his big truck into place before getting out and greeting Sterling. Buck was a big, good-looking guy. Sterling had had no idea he was gay until Joey’d started hanging around. Buck had left the truck door open, and Sterling could hear the strains of some oldie-but-goody playing from the radio.
“Thanks for helping out, Buck. I owe you one.”
Buck smiled. “Nah, I’m always happy to help a friend.”
Standing up from where he’d been crouched by the flat tire, Buck tucked his hands into his pockets. “I could be wrong here, but I think your tire was slashed. You making enemies these days?”
If Buck only knew. Because the answer to that was probably a resounding, “Yes.”
Quickly and efficiently, Buck loaded up Sterling’s car and towed it back to his shop. Sterling sat next to him, wondering how this day had gone from unexpected but wonderfully quick and dirty sex that morning to a complete shitstorm. Somebody was fucking with him, and he was going to find out who it was.
“Leave your car here, take Sheila.” Buck pointed at a beat-up GTI sitting in the corner of the parking area and tossed Sterling a set of keys. “I’ll check what kind of deals are going, see what we can do about getting you rolling again without busting the budget. I’ll call ya in the morning, all right?”
“Thanks, Buck. You, uh, really are going above and beyond.”
Buck grinned at him again, a megawatt smile that about blinded him with its intensity. “Like I said, for friends it’s never a problem.” Sterling stood for a second watching Buck stride back into his kingdom before shaking himself out of his weird bubble to get into Sheila and head back to Micah’s house. Back to Weir.
By the time Sterling returned to the house it was late afternoon. The day felt like it had gone on forever. He was wound up, overstimulated, pissed off, grieving the bank’s decision, afraid for his sister (who, honestly, he had put to the back of his mind since Vijay Mandyjam had ruined his day)… basically a complete wreck.
Weir met him at the door. He’d changed from his suit into a pair of ratty cotton sweatpants and a vintage Butthole Surfers T-shirt. The sweats were so worn they were practically see-through, and he was going commando again. The sweats weren’t terribly tight, but the outline of Weir’s cock was as plain as day. Sterling groaned silently. Mostly silently.
Staring pointedly at the shirt with both eyebrows raised, he waited for an explanation. Weir looked down at his chest, chuckling.
“So many possible meanings. I found it in a thrift store in LA, used to wear it around to embarrass Ben. Not a big fan of the band, though. I’m more of a Maroon 5 kind of guy,” he said as he headed back into the kitchen.
“Hey, you’re not using your crutch.”
“Therapist says I don’t have to at home anymore. Whoop.”
Sterling got caught up watching the muscular flex of Weir’s ass under the barely there layer of cotton covering it, and wasn’t sure how long it was before he realized Weir had stopped talking and was looking at him over his shoulder, amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Uh…” he cleared his throat. “Uh, that’s great,” he finished lamely. For the love of all that was holy, what in the fucking hell was his problem? “I’m going to go change.” He needed to get out of Weir’s vicinity before he did something really stupid, like kiss the man because he was happy to see him, or tell him that out of this thoroughly shitty day, Weir was the only shiny part. On his way upstairs, to the room he hadn’t slept in for two nights, he reminded himself he didn’t do relationships, that he wasn’t looking for one.
If he were looking for a relationship it wouldn’t be with a man six years younger than him. Because six years made such a big fucking difference. Or because he was a fed. Or currently lived in California. He snorted at his own ridiculousness. How many excuses was he going to hide behind?
The point was, it didn’t matter. He didn’t do relationships. Ever. The proof was in the pudding, as one of his long-dead grandparents used to say, and the pudding was telling Sterling the house of cards he and Weir had built over the past few days was going to come crashing down.
Twenty
Weir waited for Sterling to come back downstairs, debating the best course of action. Share what Sammy had learned while he was out first? Or fuck him first, and then share? He’d probably take the news better if he was fucked first. On the other hand, telling him the news after would ruin the excellent side effects of being fucked.
If Sterling preferred, he could fuck Weir. Either way, it was happening tonight. Part one of his plan, wear the sleep pants that displayed more than they hid: already in play.
Buck had called before Sterling got there and told Weir about the tire being slashed, so not a random flat. He didn’t know what had happened at Sterling’s appointment, but from Sterling’s body language he didn’t think the news had been good. Going out on a limb (federal investigator, after all), he was assuming it was bank business, seeing as that was the address he’d given Weir for the tow truck.
Part two of his plan called for a little cheating. He was going to ply Sterling with homemade dinner and alcohol. How the man could run a bar/restaurant and not know how to cook, Weir had no idea. Weir had learned to cook from Ben. Ben had been a firm believer in being able to get around in a kitchen.
When Ben had been home they’d watched cooking shows and then tried to recreate the dishes. There had been some hilarious fails, usually involving Ben winging it when they’d been out of an essential ingredient. Weir chuckled at the memory of pancakes made with mayonnaise because they were out of eggs, and mayo was basically eggs, right? God, they had been disgusting.
This evening, Weir was making homemade Bolognese, breaking his rule of no red meat again, with a green goddess–style salad and several bottles of red wine on the side. He’d paid a ridiculous amount to have the stuff delivered from the organic grocery on the other side of town. The sauce was starting to come together, the scent of it wafting out from the kitchen to the rest of the house, when he finally heard Sterling coming back downstairs.
“That smells incredible,” Sterling said as he came into the kitchen, having changed into a plain T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms with—Weir peered closer—lightning bolts and wands on them. He couldn’t help but smile. “Spaghetti?”
“Cretin, spaghetti is the type of pasta. This is Bolognese sauce, which we will be having with fresh linguini, because I like it better than spaghetti.”
They sat next to each other at the kitchen table to eat. Weir made certain that Sterling’s wine glass was always topped off. The man was wound tight. As they quietly ate their way through the pasta and salad, he began to relax somewhat. Weir really wanted to ask what had happened at the bank but restrained himself. Sterling would tell him when, or if, he was ready.
> “That was amazing, thanks,” Sterling said after scooping the last of the pasta into his mouth, his lips decadently lush, glistening from the sauce.
Weir leaned closer. “You got a little on your cheek.” Using his thumb, he wiped the offending sauce away. Before he could bring his hand back, Sterling grabbed his wrist and licked the microscopic amount off the tip, then sucked Weir’s thumb between his lips. Most of the air in Weir’s lungs escaped in an involuntary groan.
Tugging harder, Sterling guided Weir onto his lap, the chair clattering to the floor behind him. They both huffed a laugh, but neither stopped what they were doing to right it. Warm lips brushed against his neck, a tongue traced his Adam’s apple, teeth gently nibbled his earlobe. The angle he was sitting at on Sterling’s lap had their erections pressed together; it was incredible. Weir knew he could almost come from that, but he wanted this to last longer than a rut in the kitchen.
He almost didn’t hear the whispered words, “What are we doing?” He didn’t have the answer to that, so he said nothing, instead wrapping his arms around Sterling’s neck and kissing his beautiful mouth, demanding that he open his lips and let Weir inside. His mouth was hot and tasted of red wine and pasta sauce. Fuck, if Weir didn’t stop this now, they were going to end up on the kitchen floor. He didn’t think his leg was ready for that.
Reluctantly, he pulled away. “Couch?”
Sterling was as dazed as he was, pupils blown wide, lips slick. Weir didn’t doubt he looked much the same.
“Yeah, okay.” He blinked slowly, like he was trying to process. Weir snickered and grabbed his hand, which was snaking its way under the hem of Weir’s T-shirt. “Come on.”
By the time they reached the couch, Weir had gotten his shirt off and was trying to decide if losing the sweats would be too much. Glancing at Sterling, he about swallowed his tongue. He had his shirt off, too. Weir couldn’t stop staring at his chest. His pecs were nicely dusted with dark hair, enough to rub his face in, which continued down his stomach before compressing into a trail disappearing beneath the waistband of those ridiculous pj’s.
Sterling must have thought he was judging the pants. “Raven gave them to me.”
“They’re adorable, but that’s not what I was looking at.” He leered to make his point perfectly clear. It was adorable how Sterling’s cheeks turned pink.
Taking the initiative, Weir scooted back on the couch, his head against the armrest, bringing Sterling down on top of him. Careful to keep his right side against the back of the couch, he lowered his left leg to the floor so they wouldn’t tumble off.
“Okay?” Sterling asked, concern radiating from his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Okay. No more talking.” For now, anyway. He felt a niggle of guilt, but a few hours wasn’t going to change anything.
Sterling allowed his full weight to press Weir into the couch before licking the line of Weir’s lips, requesting entrance. Weir opened, letting him in. There was no way of telling how long they kissed. It was mind-blowing, flickers of electricity passing back and forth between their lips, not enough to shock but enough to send a series of jolts down his spine to his balls. The sensation of skin on skin, Sterling’s hairy chest rubbing against his own smoother one, helped distract him from the grind of Sterling’s hips against his own.
He wanted to wrap his legs around Sterling, but was afraid they’d roll off the couch. Sterling changed the game by sliding down a little, latching onto Weir’s very sensitive nipple, nipping and licking at it while twisting the other perfectly. Weir’s erection hardened further, and he returned the favor by pressing up into Sterling. Jesus. Sterling’s waistband slid down a little, exposing the tip of his incredible, bare, very hard cock, which smeared precome on their abs.
Dragging Sterling back up so he could kiss him more, Weir stuck his hand down the back of those wizard pj’s to massage Sterling’s ass while sucking on a plump lower lip. He was close, but goddammit, he wanted… “Wait.” Breathing hard, he pushed Sterling away. “I want you to fuck me.”
The look in Sterling’s eyes was feral and ravenous. Weir felt like a meal when Sterling hadn’t eaten in years. “Fuck, yes,” he groaned.
Weir dug around under the throw pillow and grabbed the supplies he’d stashed there earlier. Sterling didn’t even ask; he snatched the bottle of lube and condom before practically ripping off his pants. Weir lifted his own hips so Sterling could slide his sweats down. Skin, skin, skin, it felt so fucking good. He really could come from the sensation of their skin sliding together, the smell of their precome and sweat.
Sterling tucked the pillow under his hips and gently pulled Weir’s ass up onto his thighs, careful of his bad leg. “You are fucking gorgeous—shit, look at you.”
Finally, he quit talking and began to massage Weir’s entrance with his thumb. He pushed it a little way in, and they both groaned. “Fuck, you are tight.”
“Gimme more.” Sweat was dripping down his forehead as he willed himself to relax and accept Sterling’s finger. It had been a while since he had bottomed. Sterling fucking refused to hurry. Weir kept trying to force his fingers further up inside, but Sterling smiled wickedly and kept torturing him. Fucking finally, he twisted his fingers around, finding the magic spot. Weir moaned so loudly passersby could probably hear him from the street. He did not care.
“Please, please, please…” and other utter nonsense spewed from his lips; he’d be embarrassed if he thought Sterling would remember any of it. When Sterling removed his fingers, Weir felt a loss. He wanted more. He wanted fingers, lips, a big fucking cock. Sterling rolled on the condom and tugged Weir closer again, pressing himself against Weir’s hole. Weir bore down like a pro, taking him as far as he could in one movement. It fucking hurt.
“Whoa there, cowboy, this isn’t a race.”
“Says you,” Weir panted. “Get fucking in me, I need to come.”
Demonstrating his wiry strength, Sterling grabbed his hips again and held them tight while he pushed the rest of the way in. Weir was so wonderfully full. He moaned and panted, trying to pull Sterling closer because he needed to kiss those obscene lips. Sterling moaned, too, and began moving faster, dragging his thick cock across Weir’s prostate. Every. Single. Time. Sterling leaned closer, shoving Weir’s left leg up as high as he could, kissing him, tonguing his mouth.
Sweat pooled between them, despite the cool spring evening. They were both roaring furnaces. Weir’s hands slipped from their grip on Sterling’s shoulders; he really did almost tumble them off the couch. Laughing into his mouth, Sterling held him tighter, pounded into him harder, kept sucking Weir’s tongue practically down his throat.
His orgasm managed to take him by surprise. Which, of course, was ridiculous, but one moment he had been reveling in the overfull sensation of having a cock up his ass, jamming against his prostate, and then, boom, Sterling let go of his hips to grab his cock, and that was all he needed. Clenching around Sterling, he came hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. Literally. He tried to brush them off as sweat—hopefully that was what Sterling would think—but real tears leaked out, leaving him vulnerable and exposed. Sterling’s face was still buried in his neck, thank god, so he threw his arm over his face to hide himself. Fucking hell.
Night had fallen while they were busy. The room was shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from the kitchen. Sterling groaned and gently pulled out, tying up the condom before heading to the bathroom. Weir continued to lie there in a stupor.
Sterling brought a warm washcloth with him when he returned, cleaning off Weir’s stomach before making him move enough so Sterling could fit behind him and be the big spoon. During all of this, neither one of them spoke. There was a quilt across the back of the couch, and Sterling pulled it over them, draping an arm across Weir’s chest. Weir felt it when Sterling drifted off, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest soothing against his back. He couldn’t fall asleep, though. The tears Sterling hadn’t asked about, his confused heart at
war with his brain, fought the rest he sorely needed.
Weir drifted off at some point, because when the front door opened with a rattle he startled awake. Whoever came in had keys. Weir only knew of one person, okay, two persons, who had keys to Micah’s house other than himself, Raven, and Sterling. Sterling sat up with a start, and the quilt fell to the floor as Micah and Adam walked into the living room. They got quite an eyeful before Weir snatched the coverlet back up from the floor and they had the sense to turn their backs.
Micah was giggling. Giggling. Adam had a hand over his eyes even though he was facing the other direction. Sterling was breathing so hard Weir thought he might hyperventilate. Weir put a hand to Sterling’s chest, trying to soothe him.
“It’s okay, this is a kind of karmic bitch payback for these yahoos having sex all over the place when they first got together.”
“Not helping,” Sterling muttered.
“No, really, this is good for Adam. Now he can feel my suffering.”
Sterling tried to pull the quilt tighter around them, but ended up exposing his ass. Again.
“Quit squirming.”
“For fuck’s sake, would you two please go get dressed?” Adam grumped before he stomped into the kitchen. “Jesus Christ, I texted and called, Weir, what the hell?”
Micah followed Adam into the kitchen, laughing so hard tears were running down his face. “I told you we should wait until tomorrow.”
“And there’s a big fucking mess in here.” Weir heard Adam righting the chair they had knocked over earlier.
Ten minutes later they were both back in their clothing, with underwear this time. Sterling added a black hoodie, and Weir managed to get one of his USC hoodies on, even though his arm ached. He kept snickering to himself over Adam’s reaction. Served him right, after all the times he had walked in on the two of them making out, or worse.
He met Sterling at the bottom of the stairs. It was obvious he did not find this as funny as Weir did. His expression was closed off, much like it had been when they first met. Weir sighed and tucked his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt.