“You’re not exactly shy.”
“No, but you ...” Anthony pulled him down into a kiss, and made no attempt to finish the thought. Samir didn’t try to get the rest of it out of him either. With Anthony’s lips moving lazily against his, and their cocks hardening between them, nothing else mattered.
Anthony’s hands were all over him. Up and down his back. Over his shoulders. Along his arms. Through his hair. Cupping his ass. Samir would’ve done the same—Anthony certainly had a body worth feeling up at every opportunity—if his hands weren’t occupied with holding himself up.
He kissed his way to Anthony’s neck. “I’m assuming you have ...” God, he loved the way Anthony’s skin felt against his lips. “Condoms?”
“Plenty.”
Samir kissed him again, and Anthony held him tighter, and they were definitely going to need those condoms. Soon. But not yet. Because this felt too good—rubbing against each other, but not grinding. Just touching. Feeling. Kissing.
Anthony dragged the edges of his nails along the side of Samir’s spine, and grinned into the kiss when Samir moaned. Samir pressed back against his hand, searching for more of that delicious burn, the pain that didn’t register as anything except so good, don’t stop.
Anthony broke the kiss this time, breathing hard across Samir’s lips. “You said something about fucking me.”
“Mm-hmm.” Samir kissed him. “I think I did. You might have to—” he rubbed his cock against Anthony’s “—refresh my memory.”
Anthony just groaned, arching beneath him.
To hell with teasing. “Condoms? Where?”
Anthony tilted his head toward Samir’s left. “Drawer.”
They were both down to one-word responses. Yeah, definitely time for a condom before they both lost it.
He sat up. Anthony’s eyes cleared a bit, and he turned toward the nightstand. “There’s lube in there too.”
“Good.” Samir leaned over to riffle around in the drawer. And of course Anthony, the bastard, kept running his fingertips all over Samir’s leg, his ass, his cock. The drawer was open and Samir’s hand was in it, but hell if he could remember why. What was he looking for again?
Anthony raised his head. “They’re in there, aren’t they?”
“Uh. They—” Samir bit his lip as Anthony’s fingertips drifted up his side. “Fuck.”
“There should be a brand-new pack in there.”
Pack? Pack of ...?
Oh.
Right.
He grabbed the pack of condoms and the bottle of lube. Then he lifted himself off Anthony. “Your call—on your back, or your hands and knees?”
Anthony just opened his legs and pushed the covers to the side, then reached over his head to pull a pillow closer that had crept up the headboard. “Much as I like it doggy style, I want to see your face.”
Doggy style? Unnfff. Samir fumbled with the condom, and it felt like coordinating twenty thumbs to roll it down over his cock. Lube next—he squeezed some in his hand, brain ping-ponging around the idea that this was Anthony Rawson lying there waiting for him, extremely hard and willing and happy to get fucked. By him. His most shameless slash had nothing on this.
He crept up between Anthony’s legs and traced his lubed fingers along Anthony’s crack, but Anthony merely opened his legs wider and grinned at him. “Not to kill the romance this time, but if you want to get right to the fucking, that would be fine by me.”
Samir snorted laughter. “I was planning to pay you back.”
“How?”
“Guess.” Samir stroked the lube over his condom and inched even closer, guiding himself while Anthony tilted his hips to get a better angle. Anthony was tight, but his hand on Samir’s arm pulled him closer, so Samir pushed in further.
They both groaned when his head slipped inside against the resistance, and Samir adjusted his position again as he moved deeper. His heart was doing a hundred miles an hour, and Anthony felt fucking incredible—powerful and hot and slick all around him, rolling his hips with Samir’s thrusts.
Samir lowered himself enough to kiss Anthony, whose eyes were closed right then, face alive with pleasure. Every thrust Samir gave him, Anthony took and welcomed, groaning when Samir grabbed his dick and started jerking him off. The fucking grew so damned intense Samir could hardly keep track of anything anymore.
Anthony slipped his hand down between them and took Samir’s hand around his own cock, stroking himself as they fucked. It was beautiful and fierce and Samir was on cloud nine, if that was where werewolf authors went after death.
Samir kissed him again, but before long, he’d even forgotten how to do that, so he just buried his face against Anthony’s neck and concentrated—if he could call it that—on thrusting. Anthony rocked his hips faster, urging Samir on, and the only thing keeping Samir from losing it right then and there was the fact that he’d already come once tonight. He wouldn’t last too much longer, but for once, that flaw in male physiology that required some recovery time actually worked in his favor, and he lost himself completely in Anthony. Moving inside him, skin rubbing skin—fuck, this was perfect.
“S-Samir.”
He pushed himself up on shaking arms, and holy fuck, Anthony was gorgeous like this. Sweat beaded along his hairline, and his eyes were huge, his lips apart and his eyebrows drawn together. He closed his eyes, and his whole body trembled underneath Samir’s as he mouthed a silent, “Fuck ...” and then shuddered hard.
Samir glanced down as dots of semen landed on Anthony’s abs and chest, and that was all she wrote. He forced himself as deep as he could, his brain telling his body what to do but his body responding with “Whatever, dude, we’re as lost as you are,” and then the whole world turned white.
Slowly his vision cleared, and a second later, his arms gave out. For a moment, they both just panted. Samir managed to lift himself enough to pull out, but that was all he could do for now.
Anthony stroked his hair with a shaky hand. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to sleep in here tonight instead of the guest room.”
Samir rose on unsteady arms. “You make it sound like I could walk into the other room if I wanted to.”
Anthony chuckled. “At this rate, I’m the one who won’t be able to walk.”
“Give me fifteen, twenty minutes, and I’ll make sure you can’t walk.”
Anthony clicked his tongue and sighed dramatically. “Promises, promises.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“It might be.” Anthony winked. So did Samir.
He did manage to get up long enough to get rid of the condom, and after they’d both cleaned themselves, they collapsed into bed again. “And yes, to answer your question, I’ll stay here instead of the guest room.”
“Good.” Anthony wrapped his arm around Samir’s shoulders and kissed the top of his head. “This bed’s more comfortable anyway.”
“You’d make me sleep in an uncomfortable bed?”
“Well, this one has me in it.” Anthony kissed him on the nose. “The other one’s perfectly adequate, but this one contains a hot writer.”
Samir laughed. “Two hot writers.”
“Sounds ideal.” Anthony yawned. “This way I can make sure you catch enough sleep before you meet Leanne.”
“Oh fuck, don’t remind me.”
“She’s going to love you. The meeting is to make sure you’re not a crazy writer who gets messages from the TV and wears tin foil hats to block out the government-sponsored writer’s block rays—that type. She’s checking whether you’re sane.”
“Yeah, I am a writer.”
“Well, sane on the writer spectrum, not the normal-people spectrum. Hearing voices and fighting with people who don’t actually exist is par for the course. She gets that. She’s been doing this for more than fifteen years now. She’s even had a big-name client who got blocked so badly he ran away to Europe and tried to join the French Foreign Legion to escape his deadlines.”
�
�Oh my God, what happened?”
“They recognized him and put him back on his meds, from what I heard. He was okay after that, though obviously the book ended up being late.” Anthony chuckled. “When she was giving me shit about book eight, I’d remind her of that guy, and she’d give me more time.”
“Clever.”
“Psychological warfare. Very useful skill when you’re dealing with the publishing industry.” Anthony yawned again and pulled up the blanket over them, enclosing them both in warmth and closeness. It seemed less surreal now to be in bed with Anthony Rawson. Maybe he was getting used to it, but the little stories, that irreverent humor tinged with cynicism really seemed like the Ulfhedinn he’d met online, and that guy—he’d have fucked that guy with no hesitation and zero awkwardness. So he’d cling to that—keep reminding himself that Anthony really was a normal person, somebody who looked and sounded like that when he came.
At some point, Samir must have drifted off because he woke up again, and to wake up he must have slept. It was the gray hours of the morning, and Anthony was fast asleep, sprawled in bed on his back, one arm stretched out toward the nightstand, one leg pulled up as if about to climb a cliff face. Samir covered him again (he’d apparently hogged the blanket all at night), and Anthony looked so good it hurt.
Once he was sure Anthony was duly covered up—though it seemed a shame to hide even an inch of that body—Samir settled onto his side. Fingers laced behind his neck on one of Anthony’s million–thread count pillowcases, he stared up at the ceiling.
He’d fantasized about the day when he’d have something to pitch, but now he’d suddenly done a fast-forward past every anticipated step—including the minor bit about “writing his own fucking book”—and was about to sit across a table from a literary agent. Next to the author he idolized. Who also happened to be the man responsible for that lingering ache in his hips.
This was all moving ridiculously fast. He rubbed a hand over his face and blew out a breath. It was awesome to be in this position, sharing Anthony’s bed and possibly his agent, not to mention his amazing series, but it was overwhelming too. The more things happened, the more he was certain the rug was about to be yanked out from under him. Anthony would wake up tomorrow morning with a headache from the wine and the wee-bit-too-late realization that twenty-somethings made fun toys but didn’t need to stick around past lunch. Hadn’t he said he was weird about people in his space? How long before his welcome wore off?
And then there was Leanne. Samir was sure she would tell him he had a lot of talent, but perhaps needed to work harder at his craft, or write something original, or take up a hobby more suited to his talents. Like tuning trombones. Anything that wasn’t writing.
Whispering a few curses, he rubbed his eyes. They couldn’t both be blowing smoke up his ass, could they? And it wasn’t like Anthony had had that much to drink. Okay, so Samir’s half of the wine bottle had given him enough courage to make a pass at Anthony. Anthony had been pretty steady on his feet, though.
You’re overthinking this. Chill.
Right. Chill. Easier said than done.
He groaned and stared up at the ceiling again.
Beside him, Anthony shifted. Then he rolled over onto his side, and draped his arm across Samir’s stomach. “You should be asleep.” God, he sounded cute in that sleep-slurred voice.
“So should you.”
“I know.” He slid a little closer to Samir, and Samir couldn’t help but sigh as Anthony’s warm skin touched his. Anthony kissed his cheek. A moment later, he was back to that slow, steady breathing. Sound asleep again.
Samir smiled in the darkness and ran his hand up and down Anthony’s arm. Okay, so it was entirely possible that Leanne would give him a painful reality check tomorrow, while Anthony came to his senses and found a piece of ass his own age, but for what remained of tonight? Everything was real, and nothing mattered except for that.
And with Anthony snoring softly beside him, Samir drifted back to sleep.
***
Samir woke up the next morning and found himself still lying between Anthony’s insanely soft sheets with the man himself still dozing beside him. Well, so far so good. The prank crew could still show up, and Leanne could still tell him he sucked, but at least he really had fucked Anthony Rawson last night.
That was one down on the bucket list. He had a few items on there, things like building an app for Triple Moon (the official one was just promo, though very pretty), traveling to Europe, and hopefully doing something with his writing at some point (ohmygod, she’s coming tomorrow, isn’t she?), but spending time alone with Anthony Rawson to pick his brain on the series and all the subtext and maybe have dinner and then end up in bed together had been number one on there, unrealistic as it had been.
Anthony had plenty of queer fans, and any number of guys who’d do him in a heartbeat. Apart from Dima Sobakin’s fate, the OMG Anthony is so hot topic was the one that popped up most in his forum, even though the regulars had already discussed it to death and everybody had shared their favorite con photos of him. Now he understood why Ulfhedinn never contributed to those discussions.
New Anthony Rawson photos or YouTube clips were the main currency of fan status, unless you were a writer and/or illustrator. The current reigning queen of fandom was AlphaRette, who’d made her name about a year ago when she had converted the whole series up to book seven into comic strips featuring ponies that looked recognizably like the actors in the show—and featured a hot gray-haired pony trolling them all. But even up against that, all it would take was one photo of a naked, sleep-wrinkled Anthony Rawson in bed, and Samir would be the King, no, God-Emperor of Fandom.
“What are you laughing at?” Anthony opened the one eye Samir could see.
“Uh. Just wondering if you’ll make me sign a nondisclosure agreement?”
“About what?” Anthony muttered into the pillow. “The series?”
“And the, uh, other stuff.”
Anthony chuckled. “That I’ve written porn about my own characters?”
“I meant more like the real-life version of that porn.” Samir leaned over and kissed Anthony’s neck, and Anthony’s sprawling body seemed to extend farther in all directions. “The real-people slash.”
Anthony groaned. “You’ve read that shit?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Who do I get paired up with then?”
“In the one I wrote, with me.” He rolled on top of him, and Anthony widened his legs, then seemed to find another few inches that allowed him to reach the condom strip on the nightstand.
“Was I any good?” Anthony half turned to hand the condom to Samir, who tore the packet and lifted off Anthony just enough to put it on. Anthony then handed him the lube, and Samir stroked some down the condom.
“What do you want, a five-star Goodreads review?” Samir chuckled, but the banter was starting to get more difficult as he opened Anthony’s legs further and breached him. Oh God. For as much as he loved porn and writing porn, the real thing? So much better.
Chapter 7
While the eggs crackled on the skillet and Samir showered upstairs, Anthony paused to stretch one of the many aches out of his back.
Remembering all the things he and Samir had done last night and this morning, he nudged the eggs with the spatula. As much as he’d fantasized about Samir since the day they’d met, imagining his online chemistry with SirMarrok translating into something real, last night had definitely been unexpected. And quite welcome. And maybe just the beginning? After all, Samir was here for the whole weekend, assuming the meeting with Leanne didn’t send him screaming for the hills.
His humor faded at that thought. Leanne was more optimistic about Samir’s book than she’d been about anything non–Star Trek related in recent memory. Anthony was admittedly envious of that, but also guarded, and he wasn’t sure how to explain why to Samir without taking the wind out of his sails. He’d played this game before. He knew that “oh my fucking Go
d, your book is absolutely amazeballs coated in seventeen layers of awesomesauce” could be followed with “... and we’ll buy it for eleventy billion dollars in exchange for the souls of your dog and firstborn, not to mention the rights to every single story idea that ever so much as crosses your mind, and we have the basement full of car batteries and nipple clamps to enforce it.”
Anthony glanced at the staircase, which Samir could come down at any moment now that the water had shut off. He wanted this to work out. Not just because it would save his sorry ass, but also because Samir deserved the success. Preferably success that didn’t have all kinds of strings attached that would come back to bite him. But there was no way Anthony could protect him from that.
And Leanne couldn’t either. Sometimes it came down to an editor saying “my way or the highway,” and the highway wasn’t much better, so the contract was signed in blood and the “oh shit, what did I just do?” began. Anthony had been incredibly fortunate in that respect. Between Leanne and his own stubbornness, he’d managed to bend the publisher to his will a few times, not to mention the production company. Dangling the threat of “I’ll just self-publish Triple Moon and let the TV show go fuck itself” in front of them was quite effective. But now the series was established both on paper and on the screen, and the readers would shit kitten-shaped bricks if he suddenly pulled the whole thing.
And speaking of the TV show ...
He picked up his cell phone off the counter and scrolled to one of the many voice messages from Dwayne Freeman, one of the producers of the show. Anthony didn’t bother listening to the Hollywood blowhards. They were all the same. Dwayne was pretty much a Mafia goon dressed as a used-car salesman—what sounded like a sales pitch was a thinly veiled “gimme what’s mine before I make you regret it.”
It was a safe bet that every one of the messages was “I wanted to talk to you about the next book” and “What’s going on with the next book” and “No, really, where the hell is the next book?”
So Anthony didn’t bother listening and just called him back.
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