by Amy Lane
They got to the big double-wide doors that opened into the cavernous vendor floor in the convention center, and Bartholomew scared Lachlan to death.
He stepped out into the space between the doors and shouted, “Hey! Everybody! Am I what you’re looking for!”
The effect was electric.
The mass of people crowding the booth turned as one body toward Bartholomew, eyes staring at him like he was their last best hope for happiness. For that moment, Bartholomew and Lachlan stared at them like deer pinned in the headlights, and then Lachlan realized what was about to come next.
“Tolly, run!”
And Bartholomew spun on his heel and took off running past the registration desk toward the exit, Lachlan hot on his heels.
“My truck!” he hollered as Bartholomew dodged more cosplayers in the carpeted hallway. God, they were lucky. Things usually got really packed after lunch on Saturday; this was still the early-morning crowd.
“Where? ’Scuse me, ma’am. Pardon me. So sorry. Excuse me!”
Lachlan almost went over his back, that thin runner’s body not as adept at weaving in and out as Lachlan might have expected. Behind them, Lachlan heard the ocean roar of over a hundred voices who suddenly needed a piece of that scrawny, sweet handful-o-ass, and decided he needed to take over.
He grabbed Bartholomew’s hand and hauled him, dodging past attendees and through lines, swearing copiously when he saw the big sign at the end of the hallway.
Freight Elevator For Employees Only!
A giant with no neck to speak of, wearing a bright orange SECURITY T-shirt stretched across his chest like a sinner at the rack, scowled over Secret-Service glasses, like Lachlan and Bartholomew were the wimps he’d been dying to take a swing at his entire life.
Behind them the ocean of treat-seeking heat-missiles roared louder, and Lachlan hauled Bartholomew around the corner to the best refuge he could think of.
“The women’s room?” Bartholomew said, confused as Lachlan barged his way in.
“Dude, they’ve got stalls!”
And they did—two rows of gleaming stainless-steel cubicles faced inward. They ignored the line of women in front of the mirrors fidgeting with hair spray and colored wigs and some truly fabulous costumes, and hauled ass for the back of the room, where Lachlan pulled Bartholomew into the second-to-last stall.
“But our feet!” Bartholomew protested in a whisper—right in Lachlan’s ear.
“I’ve got an idea.” Normally, Lachlan would have stood up on the edge of the seat and crouched down—it was how he’d cut school for most of his senior year. But they couldn’t both do that, and if they tried it, the odds of one of them ending up ankle-deep in toilet water increased exponentially. “Here. I’m gonna sit down.”
Lachlan grabbed a handful of the paper liners from behind the bowl and threw them on top of the seat and then shoved himself backward so his bottom was on the back ridge. He thrust out his legs, jamming them against the door, and whispered, “Sit in my lap!”
“What?” Bartholomew’s voice cracked high enough to register back on the vendor’s floor.
“Straddle my legs and shove your feet against the wall!” Lachlan whispered. “Hurry!”
Bartholomew’s heat across his thighs almost did him in.
Heaven knew, a ladies’ restroom wasn’t romantic—not in the least—but augh! Bartholomew’s thighs were pressing against his, and he leaned forward close enough for their groins to touch, their chests to touch, and then just stared at him with those ginormous gray eyes.
“Do we think they’re going to follow us?” Bartholomew whispered, his lips brushing up against Lachlan’s ear.
Lachlan wanted to moan, but he managed to speak actual words, face buried against Bartholomew’s neck. God, he smelled like yeast and vanilla, and a little like sweat, and even a little like lavender and patchouli from the candles he’d been handling.
Intoxicating—that’s what he smelled like. Earthy and exotic and intoxicating.
“I don’t care,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around Bartholomew’s waist and raising his face up in supplication.
They both heard the door to the bathroom crash open, and several excited female voices cried out, “Did you see him? Did you see him? You guys, we’re looking for the baker—the guy who makes those fabulous cookies. Did you see him come in here?”
The questioner was sounding more and more hysterical, and Lachlan sucked in his breath. Bartholomew buried his face against Lachlan’s neck and murmured, “Let them not see, let them not see, she’s not really looking for the boy who’s me.”
“Nn… no,” muttered one of the girls at the counter, and then another one, more strongly.
“No—no—I’m sorry. We haven’t seen any guys in here. We’d notice, right?”
There was a rustle and a patter of feet, and Lachlan kept his arms wrapped around Bartholomew’s shoulders as shoes appeared in his line of vision under the bathroom stalls. His stomach muscles were shaking and so were his thighs, both of them meeting the end of their endurance for the pike-crunchie he was doing in an effort to not let his bottom hit the toilet water or his feet hit the ground.
“He’s not here, guys!” one of the young women called. A chorus of groans met this pronouncement, and the feet and legs—all clad in a phenomenal array of footwear, costume, and hosiery—shuffled out toward the entrance.
“Not yet,” Lachlan mouthed, seeing one or two sets still lingering. He flexed his stomach and prayed for fortitude, and felt Bartholomew’s thighs trembling over his.
God, he wanted to be this close to Bartholomew while not hovering over a toilet. That would be fantastic. He smelled amazing, and the way he clung to Lachlan’s shoulders made Lachlan feel strong and protective and the king of the world.
Bartholomew shifted silently, obviously trying to keep his thighs from cramping, and the friction rubbed Lachlan right across the package. He sent Bartholomew a heated look, and Bartholomew mouthed, “I’m so sorry!” without uttering a sound.
Lachlan’s eyes went half-mast. The feet disappeared, but he didn’t move yet.
“Don’t be,” he mouthed, and then he licked his lips.
Almost unconsciously, Bartholomew licked his in return, and then bit his lower lip shyly. It was those white teeth, not quite straight, sinking into the pink softness that did Lachlan in.
“They’re gone,” Bartholomew whispered before biting his lip again.
“Don’t care.” Lachlan lowered his feet to the floor and kept his bottom braced so he didn’t sink into the water. He lowered his hands to Bartholomew’s thighs, keeping them wrapped around his waist before he leaned forward.
“Don’t care?” Bartholomew asked, staring into his eyes with definite hunger.
“Don’t care.”
Bartholomew’s lips tilted up at the corners. “Oh,” he breathed.
“Kiss me, Tolly.”
Bartholomew smiled so brightly his nose wrinkled, and then he sobered and lowered his head, brushing their lips together just close enough to categorize it as a kiss.
He pulled back and regarded Lachlan soberly. “Like that?”
Lachlan shook his head and tilted his face upward, smiling faintly. “More,” he begged.
Bartholomew lowered his mouth again, this time a little harder and sweeping his tongue against the seam of Lachlan’s lips.
Knock, knock, Lachlan thought. His tongue surged into Bartholomew’s mouth. Let me in!
Bartholomew gasped and opened his mouth.
Letting In
OH wow. Bartholomew had been kissed a few times, but nothing like this.
It might have been their positions—so close they could feel each other’s arousals pressed together. Or it might have been the element of danger and secrecy. The rabid crowd had not dispersed; of that, Bartholomew was certain.
But maybe it was just Lachlan.
He’d been sort of a hero today, helping Bartholomew track down the ingredients for the
spell, blocking while they took off running, generally being a good guy and a member of the tight-knit coven, whether they were ready for it or not.
And now he was looking up at Bartholomew like he was special—wonderful, in fact, and he asked to be let in, and he tasted so, so good.
Bartholomew groaned into his mouth and allowed himself to be plundered, the kiss getting hot fast and Bartholomew not caring that they were hiding in a girls’ bathroom, only caring that Lachlan’s strong hands were around his thighs.
Lachlan grunted and stood up, carrying Bartholomew with him, and Bartholomew kept his ankles locked around Lachlan’s hips. With a heave, he shoved Bartholomew up against the door and the lock busted, crashing them into the center aisle between the two rows of toilets.
In front of three very surprised women.
“Oh,” said one of them, who was dressed very fetchingly as Wonder Woman. “There was a guy in here. There were two.”
“Which one of you’s the baker?” asked a curvy blond Captain Marvel.
“I have no idea,” Lachlan lied gamely. “Sorry, ladies. Looking for some privacy. The men’s restroom was packed.”
The women nodded sympathetically. “See?” said the third, dressed as Gamora, complete with a stunningly professional green paint job and an artfully tinted red wig. “Men. I told you—they’re so damned vain.”
Wonder Woman looked at them with apology in her eyes. “Sorry, guys, you seem very sweet, but if you want privacy, you’re going to have to go somewhere else. In about ten minutes the first panel’s getting out and half the convention is going to have to pee, right?”
“Yeah, sure,” Lachlan said, giving a cheery smile. “Didn’t mean to impose.” With that, he tugged Bartholomew’s hand, and together they made their way to the entrance to the ladies’ room. Lachlan went first, looking out carefully, and then he grimaced when he saw the security guard still there, arms crossed over his chest, looking suspicious.
“Shit,” he muttered. “That elevator’s seriously our best way out of here.”
“Is there any way we could distract him?” Bartholomew whispered, and Lachlan looked over his shoulder to where the three cosplayers were coming out of their stalls.
“Ladies?” Lachlan said, all arrogant smile. “We’ve got an absolutely huge favor to ask.”
A few minutes later, they held their breath, peering around the corner as their three friends sauntered by the security guard.
“What do you think they’ll do?” Bartholomew whispered.
“I don’t know,” Lachlan admitted. “I just told them to distract the guy. That could mean anyth—eep!”
Bartholomew was glad Lachlan made the sound first, because watching as first Wonder Woman’s corset magically unsnapped, followed by Captain Marvel’s, had not been in the job description.
Both girls shrieked convincingly, but they also jumped around a lot, and Bartholomew was mortified to realize this was the most breast he’d ever seen.
“Boobs,” he rasped through a dry throat. “Boobs everywhere.”
“They’re really very lovely,” Lachlan said with obvious enthusiasm, and Bartholomew growled. Oh yeah, he was fully aware Lachlan played for both teams. He’d watched as Lachlan had kissed both girls and boys goodbye on the vending floor after they’d helped him set up.
Lachlan gave Bartholomew an exasperated look.
“However,” Lachlan said deliberately, “I am obviously interested in somebody else right now.”
Bartholomew bit his lip. “Yeah?”
“Oh my God,” Lachlan muttered. Then, “Oh hey—look! He’s moving over there. Now’s our chance!”
Together they tiptoed out across the hallway, and Lachlan’s hand hit the door handle as the guard solicitously started to help Wonder Woman hook the multiple hook-and-eye getups that kept her corset on from the back. Captain Marvel made a deal out of zipping up the front of her spandex body suit, but would you look at that, boobs just kept spilling out.
“They’re pretty girls,” Bartholomew said softly as Lachlan jiggled the handle. “It’s a shame that sight’s wasted.”
“Oh, I think the guard’s enjoying himself. Shit! Is this thing locked?”
“Here,” Bartholomew said. “Let me.”
This particular spell was one they’d worked up for Josh, who had a bad habit of misplacing his keys and had desperately not wanted to get fired from his new job.
“Lock of steel adamant, yield to us, dammit! We’ll gift you with oil if our work you don’t foil, we swear our intentions are perfect!”
Underneath his hand the handle turned, and Bartholomew and Lachlan slipped through.
“Wait,” Bartholomew muttered, pausing after the door clicked behind them. “Do you have some lip balm or something?”
“Oddly enough, yes.” Lachlan handed him a small tube of lip treatment.
“Smells like strawberry,” Bartholomew noted, and he smacked his mouth, tasting Lachlan’s kisses again. “Oh!”
“What are you doing?” Lachlan wanted to know.
“If I don’t put a little oil on the lock,” Bartholomew told him, rubbing his finger on the lip balm and then rubbing the lock itself, “the spell rebels and the door freezes. It’s a karma thing. Anyway, they might need it in case of emergencies, so I don’t want to seal it shut.”
“That’s a good idea,” Lachlan told him, “but come on. We need to hurry.”
“I need to text Jordan,” Bartholomew said, trying hard to keep up with Lachlan’s purposeful stride to the freight elevator across the hallway. “He needs to know to give those girls free stock.”
Lachlan yanked him into the elevator and hit Door Close. “When we get to my truck,” he said, sounding a little grumpy. “It’s been five minutes since I kissed you, and I need one more.”
His mouth closed down on Bartholomew’s, and Bartholomew melted into him. Oh wow. An encore! This next kiss was none the worse for being the second, and this time Bartholomew had more room to slide his palms up Lachlan’s hard-planed stomach, making happy little noises as he found ab muscles.
“Oh dear lord, you have abs,” Bartholomew mumbled against his mouth. “Do you work out?”
“Some,” Lachlan confessed. “Mostly I’m just active all day, and I tend to eat well.”
“I run,” Bartholomew told him, and Lachlan’s palms explored his tummy lazily.
“All soft,” Lachlan said in delight. “Stringy muscle underneath.” He took Bartholomew’s mouth again, and then the door opened into the lower level garage.
Lachlan broke away from the kiss on a sigh and tugged on Bartholomew’s hand. “Eventually, you know, we’re going to have to talk about this.”
“I don’t even know what this is,” Bartholomew said honestly.
“You don’t? Over there—see the battered blue thing?” He pointed to a battered Ford F-150, with specially outfitted shelves and boxes. “I’m going to have to bring it tomorrow morning so I can clear out my stock tomorrow evening.”
“We’ll help,” Bartholomew said. He grimaced. “It’s the least we can do. God, I hope the others are okay. Do you think that crowd dispersed after Jordan cast the counterspell?”
“I’m sure,” Lachlan said. “What was he countering? I mean, out of curiosity. I don’t see how the spell you all cast last night about your wishes could have made people mob your booth like that.”
Oh God. Bartholomew knew he was going to have to tell Lachlan this eventually, but now?
“It was… it was something I was thinking while we were all baking. It’s like we all had this sort of heightened magic source swirling around me, and I just sort of… accidentally blessed the food.”
“Blessed?” Lachlan asked, opening the passenger door for him.
Bartholomew paused and looked at Lachlan’s hand on the handle. Like a date. “How very chivalrous,” he muttered, the memory of their kisses flooding his senses again.
Lachlan paused too, his body trapping Bartholomew’s into the cab
of the truck. “You should go on a real date with me, Tolly. I’m good like that.”
Bartholomew narrowed his eyes. “You must be,” he said. “You’ve had a lot of people kiss you goodbye on the vendor floor.”
Lachlan sobered, and his eyes grew really intense. “Not for a while now,” he said. “Not for a year and a half, almost.”
Bartholomew swallowed. “Why so long?”
“You don’t remember?”
Oh. It had been a moment, really. A look. A touch. Lachlan was holding court at his booth, telling a story about a rabbit in his backyard.
“So this little goober pops up to my workshop window, right? And I turn off the belt sander and turn around, and he’s looking at me through the window. Man, he might have left rabbit droppings, but I almost left rabbit-sized droppings, if you know what I mean.”
There was a general laugh from the group gathered, and Bartholomew had smiled and moved toward the tape on the floor that separated the two of them that day. He loved it when Lachlan got to talking—he was funny and unfailingly kind.
“So there we are, just looking at each other, and suddenly there’s a big plop! And it’s my cat, Albert. Albert’s, like, this giant ginger-haired cat, and I got him from a shelter, so he’s got torn-up ears and shit, and I’m thinking, ‘Uh-oh. Albert’s a predator. This could be like worst moments from Wild Kingdom, right? You see that pretty little gazelle, you’re in love with that pretty little gazelle, and boom! There’s the frickin’ cheetah and no more pretty little gazelle. Anyway, Albert and this little black-and-white bunny just look at each other, wiggling nose to wiggling nose, and then Albert drops an arm around the bunny’s shoulders, like this.”
And without warning, Lachlan stepped up to the divider between their booths—not a counter at this venue, for which Bartholomew would always be grateful—and threw his arm around Bartholomew’s shoulder.
Bartholomew froze, hardly daring to breathe. Lachlan had been warm and solid and had smelled like cedar and lemon oil, and God, who wouldn’t have wanted him right then?