“Oh really?”
“Yeah, because the thought of you with anyone else makes me kinda crazy.”
Matt's other eyebrow joined the other in their dubiously surprised expression. “Sexy jealous as opposed to dickhead jealous?”
“Yes.
Matt considered it. “I admit, I like that better.”
“Kids aren't home.”
“We raked leaves, had a tiff, and now we're gonna sneak upstairs before the kids come home.” Matt sighed dramatically as he reached out to grab Evan closer. “We're so suburban.”
“What would be less suburban?” Evan pressed Matt back against the fridge, trying to do sexy grinding through layers of fall outerwear—all while not knocking magnetic sports schedules to the floor. It wasn't as easy as one might imagine.
“You, on your knees…right now,” Matt drawled seductively. He was more effective slipping his hands under Evan's jacket and pulling his shirt out of his pants.
And yeah, that sounded good. They'd been dancing around each other in the few weeks since they got home from the beach. The bedroom wasn't a dead zone, but both seemed to be holding part of themselves back, as if not wanting to approach that “losing control” line again.
Evan missed the naked passion, the times when Matt just didn't care or stop himself from saying or doing what he wanted. He wanted that back again, even as he spent daily hours worrying over “the next time” and whether or not he could go through with it.
“Being gay” meant a lot of things in Evan's head. It meant wanting to sink down on your knees in front of your boyfriend and unzip his shorts in the middle of the kitchen just so you could feel his dick on your tongue and his hands in your hair. It meant wanting to hear dirty whispers of how good and hot and tight your mouth felt as he pushed his cock to the back of your throat.
It meant getting hard in your pants just from the taste and the smell and feeling of his ass under your hands as you rock him harder and faster until he's gasping for air and you're swallowing and it's so, so good you don't need anything else.
It meant that you did need him to sink down onto the floor over you and pull at your clothes until you were naked and writhing and begging for something—anything…
And for Evan, it meant this terrifying moment when he was so undone by Matt's come on his lips and his own throbbing erection that when Matt rolled him over and pulled down his pants and pushed his tongue into the place he couldn't imagine being the center of his need—he didn't fight it. He didn't protest or push Matt away as he was filled and fucked.
That was the word. It was Matt's mouth and tongue, but he was being fucked and every stab felt indescribably good. And it shouldn't. It shouldn't but it did, and Evan moaned and pounded his hands against the Pergo wood floors in absolute perfect pain.
Matt didn't let him deny it anymore.
Matt held him open and down and took the orgasm right out of him, taking his cock into his hand at the last possible second and sliding from root to tip once—just once—and Evan came with a choked cry against the floor.
Maybe Matt knew the second it was too cold and too strange to be down on the floor. Before Evan could dissolve into self-recrimination, Matt was pulling him back and up, into his arms, letting him lay back in his strong hold.
“Hey, that was fun,” Matt whispered against his ear, and Evan huffed out a laugh.
“Floor needs a cleaning,” he whispered back.
“Is that a critique of my housekeeping or a compliment on my lovemaking?”
It didn't sound entirely like a joke; Evan's heart thumped and settled—he turned his head a little, enough to look at Matt's face. “It's a compliment,” he said softly. Whatever his hang-ups and fears, he loved Matt deeply. There was no denying that.
“I should hope so,” Matt huffed. He shifted back and moaned—not in pleasure. “Old knees, protesting…”
“Right, let's go upstairs.” Evan reluctantly moved out of Matt's embrace and stood up, gathering his clothes. They were both naked from the waist down, sweaty and disheveled.
Evan's shame meter blipped slightly, but it got drowned out by the damp aftershocks still stirring through his body. He could deny and deny for the rest of his days, and not a word of it would be true. The way Matt touched him triggered something so deep and needy in his very soul—he felt like a key had been turned inside him, one even stronger than the first time they'd kissed.
Matt wasn't privy to his thoughts, his wonderment. He was heaving himself off the floor, bitching about old age and cold wood floors. He picked his clothes up and looked at Evan, pausing at the expression on his face.
“What?”
Evan shook his head. He couldn't verbalize it, not yet. Not until he came to terms with it.
“Nothing.” He smiled, reached for Matt's hand. “Come on. Bare-assed in the kitchen is weird.”
The kids came home, and they had a normal night. No one seemed to notice Evan's distraction or catch a clue of his internal monologue.
Why did he like that so much? Why did he want it so much? What did that make him?
The idea that his life with Sherri was a sham, a cover-up to a confused sexuality, made him sad. It made him angry. It made him wonder what would have happened if Sherri hadn't died. Would he still be turned on by her for ten years? Twenty years? Would he one day have woken up and felt like a different person?
Matt, oblivious and sleepy, lay on the sofa, his head pillowed on Evan's thigh. The local news was on, the forecast over, the sports highlights winding down. Domestic bliss. Evan trailed his fingers through Matt's hair, remembering when Sherri used to do the same for him, soothing him as he tried to drift off after a long day.
Who was he? Who was Evan Cerelli, and what the hell did he want and need?
* * *
Friday night, Evan found the book. It was crammed under the nightstand on Matt's side, thumping to the floor when Evan was trying to straighten the mattress out. He picked it up and glanced at the title.
The Gay Kama Sutra.
He turned the first page and the inscription could his eye.
Call him.
Underlined for emphasis.
Then, a little below that:
I recommend pages seventeen, thirty, and forty-one. Stretch first.
A wave of conflicting emotion rolled over him. He knew exactly who this book was from, the only person it could be from.
Call him—Jim sent this book after he and Matt slept together, before Evan and Matt reconnected and got back together. Jim had been encouraging Matt, encouraging him not to give up.
Evan owed him a thank you.
But the other lines—they gave him a lurching feeling in his stomach.
It was probably a joke, but—but he couldn't help feeling intimidated. Jim didn't need a book. He could imagine there had been no fumbling or confusion the night they spent together.
Evan's fingers tightened on the book, and even as he resolved to put it back from where it came, he couldn't help but flip through a few more pages. The illustrations were graphic but tasteful, and Evan paused at more than one, his mouth dry as he brought the book up closer under the light.
His clothes felt tight and constricting. His first instinct was to stick his hand down his pants and relieve the needy urge welling up inside him.
The second thought was to find Matt and crawl into his lap and whisper things in his ear that Evan didn't imagine he'd ever say out loud.
He did neither. Shutting the book, he stashed it back where it was and righted the bed.
He wasn't ready. He just—wasn't.
Chapter Ten
James “Jim to almost everyone else” Shea straightened his tie in the hotel bathroom's mirror. He could make out enough of his visage in the fogged-up reflection to pronounce himself fit to socialize.
“We're going to be late,” Jim called to his boyfriend, who was currently attempting to use every drop of hot water in the Marriott's tanks. And possibly all of New York City's.
“Shhhh, I'm relaxing,” Griffin's voice called over the hard spray of water.
“Ahhh, so all those weeks in Hawaii followed by being spoiled at your dad's house really did a number on you—we're lucky you haven't broken under the strain.”
“You're harshing my buzz, man.” The water shut off, and Griffin poked his head out, a comical expression on his face. “Dad's did not have this amazing water pressure.”
“You act like we got clean by sitting in the creek and beating ourselves with rocks.”
“Kinky. It's always the quiet ones,” Griffin said drily. He wrapped himself in a fluffy white towel with a blissful sigh. “I'm from Hollywood, man. I like the luxury.”
“Well, put on your fancy-pants suit and shiny shoes—we have good seats for this…play.” The word dropped off Jim's lips like a bowling ball crashing into the floor. He was less than thrilled with their plans for the evening, though the consolation for sitting through Griffin's friend's play was seeing his old friend Matt Haight for dinner.
A double date. Him and his boyfriend and the guy he met for a one-night stand and his boyfriend. It was either the setup for a porn movie or a disaster of epic proportions.
“You have to promise not to snore,” Griffin said. He dried off and immediately reached for the ever-present products he used to keep his unruly hair out of his eyes. Jim refrained from commenting on the sheer volume of items on the bathroom counter. “I mean it; we're in the front row.”
Jim groaned and ducked out of the bathroom. The steam was getting to him.
“Hey, I'm having dinner with some guy you're buds with because you screwed said guy in a bar pick-up scenario. I need leverage and leeway here.” Griffin came out of the bathroom massaging gel into the wet wavy mass on his head.
“It was before you,” Jim said, uncomfortable.
“Right, I get that. I'm fine with that. Mutual virginity was not a requirement of us.” Griffin stopped, hands on his hips, watching Jim with a mixture of humor and love. “It's just…a little weird.”
“We're friends—that's not weird.”
“One-night stand, e-mails, phone calls. Chummy dinners with current lovers. There's a script here somewhere.” Griffin finished with his hair, his eyes squinching up, as if he'd just realized he could barely see Jim without his contacts or glasses.
Jim sighed. “Okay, Hollywood, get dressed. I promise not to snore during Daisy's play; you promise not to take notes during dinner.”
Griffin's eyes nearly rolled out of his head. “I promise to behave.”
“Cross your heart? I know how you are after your second cocktail.”
“I promise not to blow you at the table.”
“Good boy.” Jim made shooing motions.
“You say that now. I know how you get after your third beer.”
Griffin stalked back into the bathroom with a jaunty hip move and a whistle. Jim briefly reconsidered the entire dinner and “play” evening in favor of sex with his ridiculously hot younger boyfriend…but figured he didn't have the romantically suave moves to talk (or blow) Griffin into skipping the play in particular.
Griffin had issues to deal with when it came to his former best friend Daisy Baylor. Jim had some issues as well—mostly how to keep from shaking the famous movie star until her IQ notched up a few dozen points and she realized how much her boneheaded actions nearly ruined Griffin's life.
He was doing this for Griffin and his “closure.” He wasn't under any impression that Griffin and Daisy were done with each other—you weren't friends with someone your entire lives to just dump them. At least Griffin wasn't that person. He wouldn't give up on Daisy or their friendship or anything, anyone he loved.
Reason number 104 Jim was stupid crazy about him.
So he'd watch the dumb play and stand around with his lips zipped when Griffin's and Daisy's phone calls went from “once in a while” to “all the damn time” again. He would perhaps quietly mention caution and trust, but he wouldn't be surprised when famous movie star Daisy reentered their lives.
* * *
They took a cab to the restaurant as butterflies danced in Jim's stomach. He was suddenly flashing to that night when he and Matt met and recognized kindred souls—middle-aged guys with a sad sack of no prospects and not much time to change the course of their lives.
Except they both did. Both of them were walking into the restaurant with exactly what they were yearning for that night. Matt had Evan back, and Jim had… Well, Jim had Griffin, who was a surprise and a gift and not the person he was yearning for back then.
Thank God.
“Good Lord, man, I was kidding before. Relax,” Griffin muttered, giving his tightly fisted hands a squeeze. “I don't mind this. Hell, I'm curious.” His boyfriend's grin glittered under the passing bright lights of midtown, bouncing off his glasses. “He's a dead ringer for me, isn't he?”
“Your twin,” Jim said. He let his hand linger on Griffin's, then rested on his knee. “It's eerie.”
“I knew it!” Griffin snuggled a little closer, assuring and warm. “You wanted me before you even met me.”
“Something like that.”
They passed the next few minutes of traffic and congestion in silence before the cab pulled over in front of the restaurant. Jim overpaid the cab driver as Griffin nearly jumped out of the backseat; clearly he was now in anticipation mode.
“Hurry up. We're like five minutes late.”
“What happened to being fashionably late?” Jim straightened his tie and smoothed a hand over his nearly non-existent hair.
“That's Hollywood. This is New York City—I think we're supposed to be early.”
“Let's go back to Hawaii, where no one needs to be anywhere but the beach.”
Griffin gave him a sympathetic look and slid his arm through Jim's. “I can't believe Mr. Workaholic likes retirement so much.”
“It's only been a few months. I might get antsy at some point.”
“We'll figure out a hobby for you. Like—needlework or painting landscapes.” Griffin led the way through the front door of the small bistro they'd selected to meet Matt and Evan at.
“Ha.”
“No, really. We'll ask my dad what he likes to do.” Griffin smirked as he slid his jacket off. The two men had gotten along so well that he'd constantly joked about being a third wheel.