by E M Lindsey
Wilder laughed, and then he did. They kept the conversation small, easy—Lorenzo told him about his day at Collin’s ranch and how things had smoothed out between him and the goat, which would have been hilarious and absurd if it didn’t happen so often.
“I don’t think I did any good out there,” Lorenzo said as he scraped the last of the food off his plate and set it down on the table. “I mean, he won’t be in a rush to hire me for, you know, farmhand stuff.”
Wilder laughed again. “Is that what you want to do?”
“God, no.” Lorenzo swiped his hand over his mouth, then took Wilder’s empty plate and set it beside his own before pulling him up to the sofa. He shuffled Wilder toward him, draping his legs over his thighs so they were pressed together. It was a closeness Wilder had never experienced before—and one he didn’t want to let go of. Ever again. “The kittens were cute, but the litter boxes were disgusting. And the goats would not leave me alone.”
Wilder shook his head with a grin, letting his fingers play a pattern up Lorenzo’s ribs. He liked to feel him jump when it tickled, and then push against him a little harder when it didn’t. “I like the small town, but I grew up on a farm, and I am okay not spending a lot of time there again.”
Lorenzo grinned and shuffled them down a little before he reached out and brushed fingers through Wilder’s hair. It was so damn soft, so damn easy, it almost didn’t feel real. “What kind of farm?”
“Chickens, mostly. My mom loved chickens. She had Frizzles and Silkies—and she had one rooster that was such a dickhead,” he groaned at the memory of how the little bastard would always escape his coop and always end up at his window to crow in the sun three hours before sunrise was due. “We had a huge field, and we grew pretty much everything we ate. There are days I can’t even look at a squash without wanting to cry.”
Lorenzo grinned at him, then cupped his cheek and dragged his thumb under his right eye. “I’ve only ever seen squash at Trader Joe’s. I grew up on boxed pasta and canned tomatoes for sauce. Then Rocco got rich, and…”
Wilder watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, and he curled his fingers around Lorenzo’s hand and pressed it tight to his face. “You deserve to be softer to yourself. You only knew one thing, and your brother dropped something on you that you weren’t prepared for.”
Lorenzo scoffed. “What kind of asshole does it make me to say that my life got worse after I had money? I could have done something with it, you know? Something good.”
“You did,” Wilder said quietly.
Lorenzo shook his head. “Something bigger. Something…not so myopic. I helped people who paid attention to me. It was entirely selfish.”
Wilder bowed his head. “Not everyone has to save the world, Lorenzo.” He leaned in, and Lorenzo met him halfway, and they were kissing again. It lacked the desperation from the kisses before, and it lacked some of the newness, but left all the want and desire and heat behind as Wilder felt himself get hard.
Lorenzo tugged and pulled until Wilder was on him, almost too big to be straddling a man Lorenzo’s size on his little loveseat, but he felt cocooned by Lorenzo’s arms and the cushions that pressed against either side of him.
Wilder opened to the other man, pressing into his chest, digging fingers into his hair. He spread his thighs farther, let his dick rub up against the inside of his boxers as he gave tiny thrusts until it almost hurt. “God,” he said, tearing his mouth away.
Lorenzo dragged blunt nails under his shirt, over each rib until he had both hands curled around his shoulders. “I want you.”
Wilder closed his eyes. He wanted Lorenzo too, with a power he hadn’t expected, but there was something a little ugly and anxious simmering—faint in the background and unkind. “It’s been so long.”
“I know,” Lorenzo murmured, nipping at his ear. “I know. I’m not asking for more. I just want you to know, okay? You’re gorgeous, and you’re one of the best people I’ve ever known. And I want you.”
Wilder wasn’t ready to let it end here. He pulled back, releasing his hold on Lorenzo’s hair, and let his hand trail to his chest. He could feel the wild thrumming of his heart against his palm, and he closed his eyes because Lorenzo’s all-encompassing stare was dangerous. “Bedroom.”
“Are you sure?”
Wilder licked his lips, nodded, but didn’t look up. “I’m sure. Not for…everything. But for something. I need to feel you, need you to touch me.”
Wilder half expected for Lorenzo to drag him back, to bring their simmering passion to a boil, but instead, he rose, then took Wilder’s hand and placed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the center of his palm. He didn’t say anything, but Wilder heard his own, muted breath as it stuttered a gasp from deep in his lungs.
He was grateful his room was only steps away and that it was already lit from his bright lamp on the desk. He’d tidied, though the bed was still a mess, but Lorenzo didn’t seem to mind it as he eyed the comforter, then dragged Wilder over and eased him onto his back.
“What can I do for you?” he asked softly.
Wilder reached up and brushed fingers over his lips, feeling the soft puff of air as he exhaled, and then the gentle lick of a tongue as he nipped at Wilder’s warm skin. “I don’t actually know. It’s been so long—and sometimes things don’t make sense.”
“Until they do?” Lorenzo offered. He nosed along Wilder’s jaw, then gently kissed under his ear. “I get it. I just want you to feel good. Wherever that takes us is enough for me.”
It seemed too good to be true, but Wilder lost himself to sensation quick enough that he didn’t think about it. He just let himself experience it—just let himself unburden under the weight of Lorenzo’s body and the press of his lips, half open as his tongue tasted exposed skin.
Wilder wasn’t sure when they’d started to lose clothes, but when he felt Lorenzo’s bare chest touch his, he felt a moment of crushing panic. Lorenzo’s fingers were exploring him with gentle, nonsense patterns, then he brushed a scar, which made Wilder freeze.
Lorenzo was in tuned enough to notice, to feel it, and he wrenched his hand back. “Here?” he asked, touching the side of Wilder’s nipple.
A few inches off was his biggest scar—the stab wound that would have killed him if it had been on his left side. As it was, it had grazed his lung, and it had taken the most stitches. In the weeks after his injury, Wilder had felt that one the most. “Just don’t ask me about it right now?”
Lorenzo’s brow furrowed until he realized what Wilder was talking about. “That’s…I’m not going to. We don’t ever need to talk about it.”
There was sincerity in his tone—at least, that’s what he thought it was. But it was so hard to tell, because Wilder had never let anyone this close. Frustration welled up in him, and his throat went tight, because for just fucking once he wanted to feel normal. He wanted to lay here and feel good and let this gorgeous man make him come without the weight of his ex and his trauma holding him by the throat.
“Will you touch me?”
Lorenzo hesitated, and Wilder knew that some of what he was feeling was showing in his eyes. “Why don’t you touch me.”
It wasn’t really a request, even though it was worded like one, and Wilder wanted to yell and hit something because he didn’t always want to be in control, even when it was probably necessary.
It won’t always be like this, a voice whispered, sounding suspiciously like his third and best therapist. He hadn’t seen her since he’d been back with his parents, and he hadn’t stayed with her long, but she’d been the one to get through to him most.
And she would tell him to have this—to compromise first and work on the rest later.
Trust didn’t come naturally or quickly to him anymore, no matter how good a person seemed or how safe a situation appeared. And Lorenzo was giving him the power to earn that trust, and he needed to stop being angry about it.
Leaning up, Wilder gripped him by the back of the head and kissed him. “Roll ov
er.”
And he did, easily, like he was made to follow commands. He spread out in his socks and boxers, and he looked ridiculous with the contrast of his dark hair and the white cloth—and Wilder wanted to lick every inch of him. He wasn’t ready for that, either, but he was ready for something. He straddled Lorenzo, then dragged hands down his chest before he cupped one around the bulging hardness straining at the silky fabric.
“I’m almost curious how much these boxers cost you.”
“I wish I could remember,” Lorenzo answered, breathy, more a movement of lips than sound. “It was a lot.”
“I bet.” Wilder shifted up, letting his own clothed dick rub against Lorenzo’s. The pressure was enough, but the friction was lacking—however, he needed that barrier for now. He thrust, and Lorenzo’s hips arched, and Wilder could feel it under his hands that his lover was seconds away from falling apart. “So responsive.”
“Not usually,” Lorenzo admitted. He pushed up onto his elbows then looked down at where they were joined yet separated, and he licked his lips. “That’s…weirdly erotic.”
“Me fucking you through your clothes?” Wilder thrust again, his dick even harder now. He was so sensitive, his own cotton boxers were threatening to chafe, but he couldn’t stop moving. He’d found a rhythm, felt something warm and hot rising in his belly, tugging at his balls. “Does it hurt? Your injury…”
“It hurts,” Lorenzo said, but when Wilder tried to pull back, he grabbed him by the hips and thrust again. “I like it.”
“Into pain?”
“Into you,” Lorenzo countered. “Please, kiss me. I need…”
But Wilder wasn’t about to make him beg. He gripped the back of his neck and hauled Lorenzo in as he thrust them together in a stuttered rhythm that shouldn’t have been able to get either one of them off.
Except it did.
Lorenzo shot first, a heavy groan pushing into Wilder’s mouth, against his tongue, his body shivering and twitching. The warm wetness spread along the front, and just knowing what it was—what Wilder had done—was enough.
The orgasm, the pleasure of it, was muted. It was softer, a gentle rippling through his limbs, but he felt himself spurting all the same, his cock throbbing—wanting more, wanting to be touched, and yet he didn’t. He thrust helplessly against Lorenzo’s softening dick—just shy of enough, and he dropped his forehead.
He wondered if he’d ever been so satisfied before. Pushing up, he shifted off to the side, then rolled to face Lorenzo. ‘Stay tonight?’ he signed after a beat.
The curve of Lorenzo’s smile brightened his entire face. ‘Yes,’ he signed. ‘Definitely.’ His hands dropped, and he gathered Wilder close, burying his face in the crook of Wilder’s neck. It was the warm, even breath that settled them both, and Wilder finally settled into himself.
Chapter Thirteen
Lorenzo woke in Wilder’s empty bed, his side cold, not a sound in the house. For a moment, he felt a cold wash of panic, until he saw a small folded note on the nightstand. Downstairs doing prep. He rolled onto his back, feeling deliciously sore and sated for having done so little that night beyond a bit of frotting and coming in his pants the way he’d done as a stoned teenager.
He felt like he’d climbed an emotional mountain, and he wanted to embrace that freedom of letting go all the things that had been weighing him down. His problems hadn’t been solved with a mutual orgasm—and it would take a while to really believe that Wilder wanted him just for him—but it was a step.
Pushing himself up to his feet, Lorenzo padded to the bathroom and washed up, scrubbing a little toothpaste in his mouth with his finger, then he rummaged through Wilder’s things and found sweats that fit him—even if they were a little high on the ankles—and a t-shirt that smelled faintly like cupcake batter.
The light from the kitchen window was warm and gentle, the early rays of the sun poking over the tops of the mountains. He pushed a pod into Wilder’s coffee machine, then started it, waiting with his eyes shut for a second to watch the way everything lit up bright orange behind his eyelids. The smell of coffee filled the room, mingling with the faint scent of baking cake from below.
He finally got a good look around the place, and he saw pieces of wall that were covered in plywood, and he remembered the fire. It made his stomach twist—the thought of Wilder up here and the place burning around him. He was beyond grateful nothing worse had happened, but he hated that he’d come even remotely close to losing Wilder before he had the chance to know him.
He was feeling too good to dwell on what-ifs that didn’t really exist, though, so he pushed it aside as he grabbed his coffee and headed downstairs. The room was brighter from the fluorescent lights, and Wilder was standing at the table bobbing his head to music from wide headphones pressed over his ears. He had a spinning cake stand, and Lorenzo stood, mesmerized as he watched him spin and frost—a perfect swirl of something soft yellow and pastel purple.
He hesitated when he realized he had no choice but to startle the other man, but then he spied the switch on the wall and quickly flicked it up and down. Wilder’s hand stuttered, but he turned his head and smiled when he saw Lorenzo. “Hang on,” he said, his voice soft. He pulled his headphones off, then reached for a small case on the table where his hearing aids sat.
Lorenzo was patient until Wilder had them on, then he crossed the room and set his coffee down before grabbing Wilder by the apron pockets and tugging him into a kiss. “Mm. Frosting?”
“I always taste my work,” Wilder said. He picked up the bag and dabbed a bit on his finger, then held it up. When Lorenzo pulled the whole digit into his mouth, Wilder let out a small groan and swallowed heavily. “Good?”
“Amazing. What is that?”
“Lemon and lavender. It was a spring flavor that got popular, so I think I’m going to keep it on the menu.” His voice was still a little breathless, and he leaned in to steal another kiss before moving to the sink to wash his hands. “Did you sleep okay?”
Lorenzo nodded when Wilder turned back to him, slinging a dish towel over his shoulder. “Better than at the Manor.”
“Is that a hint?”
At that, Lorenzo’s mouth twitched into a half smile. “Not yet. My dick wants to say yes, but my heart says it’s okay to be patient.”
“Your heart is a smart little thing,” Wilder said. “You should trust it more often.”
Even the kindest honesty could feel like a sucker-punch, and Lorenzo swallowed back his knee-jerk reaction to tell Wilder that it had never led him in the right direction. But maybe this time was different. “I’m getting there. And last night was good.”
“Very good,” Wilder breathed out. His fingers trembled a little as he reached for his frosting again. “I think I need to kick you out, though. I have about two hundred more cupcakes to frost, and I’m not going to get anything done if you’re here looking all…” he waved his hand up and down Lorenzo’s body, “in my clothes.”
Lorenzo couldn’t find a single way to take that poorly, smiling around his coffee as he took another drink. “Then I’ll get out of your hair. Can I see you later, though?”
“Yes.”
Yes, he said, as simple as that. As easy as anything had ever been, but Lorenzo was still startled by his honesty.
“Text me?”
Wilder nodded, then used his free hand to beckon him close before going up halfway on his toes and closing the distance between their lips. “Have a good day. Promise me.”
“I’ll do everything I can,” he said, and he meant it.
Lorenzo slipped out the back and made his way to the Manor without being seen by anyone that early. His bed was inviting, if not a bit lonely, but it felt good to get another two hours of sleep before the bright morning insisted he rise.
He had more coffee and contemplated his day when his phone buzzed, and he saw it was a text from Collin—something he wasn’t expecting.
Collin: Had a thought—something you might like that’
s not as dirty. No cat boxes.
Lorenzo: What time?
Collin: Sooner the better. Wear clothes you can stain.
By design, Lorenzo didn’t own clothes he could stain. The very idea was horrifying, but he found sweats and a t-shirt that had been around just short of forever, and he slipped them on, grabbing his oldest running shoes and heading for his car. He felt a pang of disappointment when he saw the salon desk empty, and he told himself to text Raphael later when he was done with whatever idea Collin had.
It wasn’t a chore to go out to the farm really, even if he hadn’t been any good at the tasks Collin had offered. Milking the black goat had been a damn disaster, and the cats were more interested in using him as climbing post than anything else. Lorenzo couldn’t help but wonder what about that place kept a man like Collin satisfied.
It was all busy work—mindless sort of routine, and Collin wasn’t that much older than Lorenzo, but it was obvious in the lines of his face he’d lived more life than him. He seemed richer in his spirit and in his laughter. Lorenzo envied it so deeply he could taste it, but he didn’t begrudge the man his happiness.
All it had really done was motivate him to want more—from himself, from this town, even from Wilder.
Lorenzo made it to the farm just before ten, throwing the car in park beside Collin’s truck. As he stepped out, the man in question came from around the side of the house, waving until Lorenzo got within earshot of him.
“I’m out back today. Have you ever made soaps or lotions before?”
It was probably the most random question he’d ever been asked. “There was this boutique at Seaport Village in San Diego where I could go have my own blends mixed in—but I just picked out a few things and they whipped it up for me.”
“Ah, mate, what is your life?” Collin asked with a small chuckle. “Normally, Spencer’s at home to help me with this, but someone from down the hill just brought two litters of abandoned kittens, so he’s getting them sorted, and I need to prep for the Market. I have a stall on the weekends where I sell soap. A lot of them are based from the goat’s milk, but I try to keep a variety.”