Chapter 10
I was good when Lance came over, helping him get his books and laptop set up and not jumping him at the door. I went back to my movie, actually paying attention this time. Merely having Lance close by settled me down. I turned in before he did, but he woke me up when he came to bed, kissing me on the back of the neck. We made out sleepily for a while, eventually jerking each other off before drifting off.
In the morning, I left him dozing when I went down to open the shop at six. I got the baristas set up for the morning rush. Around nine, I made a large mocha, added extra whip, and grabbed a blueberry muffin. Darting up the stairs, I felt almost like I had a secret—the good kind, like a Christmas present I couldn’t wait to open, or news I couldn’t wait to share. I found Lance at the dining room table, charts and textbooks spread out. I counted at least five colors of highlighters and three types of sticky notes.
“You want some breakfast?” I asked.
“Oh my gosh, you’re the sweetest.” He stood up and took the things from me. He kissed me on the cheek before looking deeply into my eyes. Something passed between us, something more than a latte, more than just the use of space, something more than the memory of last night’s sex.
“Um. I should probably get back downstairs,” I said awkwardly.
“Okay. Is it okay if when I take a lunch break I come down or . . .” He trailed off, looking uncertain.
I had to think for a second. I didn’t really care if people knew we were sleeping together—Brady had probably guessed, and the rest should know better than to tease Lance over it. That was my real hesitation—I didn’t want people giving him a hard time, whether it was his friends or his family or even my employees. It felt like I was walking the thin trail around Multnomah Falls, trying to keep Lance from getting hurt. But his eyes were all eager and hopeful, and I knew that treating him like some shameful secret would cut him deeply and would extinguish that flicker of something magical that had passed between us.
“Sure. Come on down. We’ve got sandwiches and salads at lunch. I’ll be pretty busy in the kitchen, but I’ll happily take your order.” I smiled at him. Lord, I hoped I was doing the right thing by him.
At lunch, he came down and I made him his favorite cashew butter and strawberry jelly sandwich. For the customers, all of our food on weekdays was grab-and-go—sandwiches, salads, and fruit plates in recyclable take-out containers.
“You have no idea how nice the quiet is,” Lance said as he watched me work. “I love my sisters and brother, but our house is always so noisy. Even at school, like the library, it’s loud and full of distractions. Friends see me and want to chill—”
“Being popular is such a burden.”
“Better than being a hermit, old man. Anyway, I like it here. You never seem to expect stuff from me.”
I like having you here. “Of course not, brat. Expectations are a waste of energy. And you’re great just as you are—you don’t always have to be ‘on’ for me.” My voice was thick.
He smiled up at me. The strange feeling from upstairs was back tenfold, delicate strands of some new emotion I refused to name stretching between us. God, I wanted everything for him—I wanted the world to see him like I did, to see not only his fun streak but this serious side, too.
“Even your fish are cool. But I was wondering why you don’t have any downstairs. You could put a tank in the coffee shop.”
“No.” I shuddered. “All the kids tapping on the tank. Even adults can’t resist tapping the glass.”
“And that’s bad?” He looked a little guilty.
“Too much of it can scare them. But it’s okay if you did it—you didn’t know.”
“I won’t do it again. I was just talking to the big red one—it reminds me of you.”
“Old and cranky?”
“Yep. That must be it.”
I snapped a dish towel at him.
“That fish always looks like it’s thinking. And it’s like it’s big enough for the ocean. But it’s decided to make the tank its home. Even though it doesn’t really make friends with the other fish.”
“That so?” Trying to hide my smile, I scratched my beard. Lance had just shared more insight about my fish than Randy had in a decade of living with them.
“Something like that. I got bored studying.” He looked sheepish. “I’ll shut up now.”
“No. It’s all good. Maybe I should save up for a bigger tank for Scruffy, if he’s looking that unhappy.”
“How is it we’ve been hanging out all these weeks and I’m just now learning your fish has a dog’s name?”
“Because of how you’re looking at me right now. It’s not that weird to name a fish.”
“Sorry. Maybe I’ll bring Scruffy some new fake seaweed or something to apologize for tapping his tank.”
I laughed. “Get back to studying before someone decides your tank needs tapping.”
“You want me to start some dinner around seven? Or are you getting sick of me?”
“I could never be sick of you, brat. And sure, cook if you want, but I’m cool with us ordering something in, too.”
It was another slow night, so I was able to leave Brady in charge downstairs a little before seven. He didn’t say anything, just chewed the mint gum he was using to stop smoking and cleaned the counter in slow motion. But his eyebrow ring flirted with his hairline as he gave me a long look. As I climbed the stairs to my apartment, I was greeted by the smell of tomatoes and garlic and fresh bread.
“What did you order in?” I asked as I came in.
Lance came out of the kitchen wearing oven mitts. “Nothing. I made calzone. Used the last of your cheese.”
“You made me calzone?” I hugged him. “That’s amazing.”
“They might suck. I just needed a break from all the math formulas. My mom talked me through the filling. The dough is just pizza crust.”
“Was she worried when you didn’t come home?” I asked. He’d called his mom so he could cook for me. My ribs expanded, barely able to contain the emotions rising in my gut.
“She’s got four other kids, all of whom are still in school. I’m not sure she even noticed I wasn’t home today until I called. And I keep telling you—I’m not a kid. I don’t have a curfew or something.”
“I know you’re not a kid.” I tightened my arms around him and nuzzled his neck, but he stayed stiff. “Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah. Too many hours of just me and the books—thanks for that, by the way. The quiet was awesome—but now I’m all snappy.”
I wasn’t sure whether it was the studying or if there was something else bugging him, but there was no denying the knotted muscles of his back.
“Here.” I moved so I was behind him and started rubbing his shoulders. “You stayed in one position too long.”
“Yeah. I should have gone to the gym for a break.” He leaned into my touch, sounding far less bitter. “Man, that feels good.”
“Does the calzone need to cool a bit?” I tugged him toward the living room, shoving my coffee table out of the way.
“It can cool.” He watched me with a wary smile. “What’d you have in mind?”
“Let me rub your back?” I grabbed the old quilt I kept on the back of the couch and spread it on the rug between the couch and the TV.
“Seriously? Sure. Why not?” He pulled off his shirt, then flopped on the blanket. “Not like I’m going to turn down your hands on me.”
I darted back to the kitchen, grabbing the bottle of olive oil off the counter.
“You gonna sprinkle me with balsamic next?” Lance propped his head up on his hands.
“It’s this or use lube. Slim pickings on massage lotion here.”
“Oil me up.” He let his head rest back on his hands.
I started with his neck, using my thumbs to dig into his knotted muscles. He’d probably be ten thousand times better at this than me—he knew the names of all the muscle groups I was stroking over on the broad expanse of his back—but I wanted to do this for him.
I must have been doing okay because he groaned when I worked the muscles around his shoulder blades. I straddled him to be able to use both of my hands more effectively. I rubbed up and down his spine, trying to do things that had felt good to me in the past.
“Man, that feels so good.” His words were muffled by the carpet. “You do this a lot?”
“Actually . . . no,” I admitted. “I threw my back out a few years ago lifting bags of trash. Got some massage work done for a couple of months, so I’m trying to remember what the massage therapist did.”
“Should have gone to a physical therapist.” He sounded both smug and sleepy in the same breath. “We would have gotten you feeling better even faster.”
“I’m sure you would have.” Leaning forward, I kissed the back of his neck. “You’re going to make a great therapist.”
“Awww. You really think that?” He sounded a bit unsure.
“I do.” I stroked up and down his spine, using a little oil so my hands glided over his muscles. “Look how hard you’re working. You’re pretty awesome.”
“My dad always says it’s not how much you want something, it’s how much you work for your wants.”
“Smart man.” I worked his shoulders some more because he seemed to like that the best, sighing and arching into my touch. “You know, you’re welcome to do this again. Use my place for studying. If that would help you?”
“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“You wouldn’t be.” I kissed him in one of my favorite spots, right where his hairline ended. “I can give you a key.”
“A key?” His voice went squeaky, and I realized what I was offering.
“No big deal. Just to make it easier for you to study. If you have a key, you can go work out or whatever and not worry about me being around, or you can come over after I’m already in bed. . . .” I drifted off, knowing I sounded a bit ridiculous. I was always around. But I wanted him to have the key, for reasons that had my throat feeling several sizes too small and my hands shaking against his back.
“And you’d like that? Having me around more?” He sounded like he was fighting to keep his voice neutral, but hell if I could tell if it was from horror or hope.
“You give the fish something pretty to look at.”
“That the only reason?”
No, but it was the only one I was going to admit to either of us. “You cooking for me is a nice little bonus. Can’t remember the last time someone did that for me.”
“You’re sweet. And for what it’s worth, no one’s ever given me a massage.”
“That’s a pity.” I sat up, kneading the small of his back with my palms.
He pushed his ass up into my groin. “Does this massage come with a happy ending or do I pay extra for that?”
“Oh, that can be arranged.” Sex. Sex was good, familiar ground, away from all this new territory I’d unwittingly pushed us into.
“Good. Because I really need to kiss you. Like right now.”
I lifted up so that he could roll, and then he was pulling me down to him, crushing our mouths together. The kiss was a rough, living thing between us, consuming all the strange simmering emotion. It was funny—for all the sex we’d had, kissing wasn’t usually a huge part of it. We kissed hello and good-bye and occasionally as foreplay, but it was always the appetizer, indulged in and quickly discarded.
But this kiss? It was the entrée. A one-pot meal. It was him more aggressive than he’d ever been and me more desperate and all this emotion pulsing—the key, the dinner, the family stuff we weren’t talking about, him leaving—all of it coming out in lips and teeth and tongues. And I didn’t need to fuck him. Didn’t need to suck him off or get him on his knees. I just needed him here, needed this kiss. Needed his face in my hands, his skin warm and slick under me.
My dick throbbed in my pants. I’d never come from just kissing and grinding before, but I was desperately, impossibly close.
“Close,” Lance whispered at the same moment I thought it. I pulled away long enough to strip off my T-shirt.
By some unspoken agreement, we both shimmied out of our pants.
“I want to come just like this,” Lance said as I settled back on top of him.
“Me too,” I whispered.
“Never felt like this.”
“Me neither.” Sweat rolled down my back. Me on top of him, all skin and sweat and traces of oil slicking everything up—each sensation felt new, felt pure, distilled down to the essence of what it meant to be humans sharing skin and kisses.
The kissing . . . it was everything. Everything. Our lower halves strained, almost violent in our undulations, but our mouths stayed fused. Grabbing my hips, he pulled me even more firmly against him. I’d been inside him before, but in this kiss, I finally felt like I was in him. Finally felt like I knew him, in every sense of the word.
And when we came, it was a celebration of that connection. Like all the joy and trust and adoration we shared spilled over until we were both sweaty, sticky messes.
“Yes,” he said much later.
My heart was still galloping along and my brain was way too fuzzy. “Eh?”
“Yes, you can give me a key.”
“Good.” I kissed his temple. His eyes were hooded with spent passion. You’re going to give me a broken heart, beautiful boy. I knew this to be true, and yet I still smiled at him, still stroked his face and arms. Still ferreted out my spare keys while he served up the dinner. Still slept with him wound around me.