by J. Calamy
“Not my style,” Nick said. “I’d probably be right there in the street with you. I’m that stupid.”
Kicked in the chest again, but in a totally different way. Graves let out a grunt, his heart speeding up. He pushed his face into Nick’s hair, trying to collect himself.
“Nick,” he said. He cleared his throat, wishing his voice wasn’t cracking like that. “Damnit, Nick. You bowl me over. Every time I think I have you pinned.” He cupped Nick’s face in his palms and tilted it up.
“Are you…going to kiss me again?” Nick asked hesitantly.
Graves’s shook his head. Any other night and I’d already be claiming you in my own bed. But tonight?
“I want to,” he said. “But this has been a terrible, difficult night for you. Do you even want to kiss me?”
“I do,” Nick said. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face. “But I admit I feel like shit.”
“Can I take you to bed?” Graves said. “If I promise to behave?”
Nick gave a weak smile.
“Yeah,” he said. “Whatever behave means for someone like you.”
*
Nick woke and watched sleepily as Graves opened the sliding glass doors on the back of the stateroom, letting in the wet morning air. It was quiet. He barely even remembered getting into bed, just that Graves had pulled the blanket over them and tucked Nick under his chin. There had been a moment of adjusting themselves exactly right, and then Nick had slipped under so smoothly he hadn’t even noticed between one breath and the next.
They ate their breakfast in front of the TV, watching the original Star Wars and arguing about minutia like a couple of nerds. Graves did an excellent Darth Vader impression. He played piano, had a long talk with Jeanne.
“He’s fine, darling, only wants to stay here a bit. I’ll tell him. Of course you do. You’re a good woman.”
Eavesdropping, Nick caught the gist, and when Graves told him Jeanne was still solidly on his side, would welcome him with open arms when he was ready—Nick had to go and take another shower to compose himself.
Now the sun was going down, and he was sunk deep in the couch, as comfortable as could be. He had a good buzz going, thanks to their before-dinner drinks, and he watched Graves play through tired eyes.
“Graves?” he asked. “Why did you buy this boat, instead of a good-class bungalow like Jeanne? He said good-class bungalow in a fussy English accent, which earned him rolled eyes from his friend. Graves turned away from the piano.
“This wretched little thing isn’t my ship,” he said. “I just borrowed it from a friend.”
“Little thing?” Nick protested. “It’s a huge thing! It has its own gym and a hot tub and four bedrooms!”
“I hope to show you my yacht someday,” Graves said, dropping onto the couch next to Nick. He grabbed a tablet off the table. Shifting his body sideways, he put his head in Nick’s lap, holding up the tablet.
“This is Scimitar,” Graves said.
“Oh, Scimitar Shipping,” Nick said.
“Indeed.”
A series of images came up of a huge seagoing yacht, all in black and gray. It had a helicopter parked on its nose. As a point of reference, the helicopter showed that Scimitar was a monster. Graves slid through images, rattling off details.
“She’s the fastest yacht in the ocean. A real black flag deep-ocean cruiser. Armed to the teeth. Malaysian crew—incredible sailors, 136 meters—that’s 450 feet for you Yanks. Three above, three below—decks I mean. Makes this little tub look positively quaint.” The pride in his voice was obvious.
Nick leaned forward and took the tablet. His free hand dropped thoughtlessly onto Graves’s chest, palm down over the bare skin where his shirt was unbuttoned. He felt the man’s body tense but decided to leave his hand where it was. His skin was warm and soft. Nick wasn’t a fool. He knew that things between them were slowly coming to a boil. But he was content to let the small intimacies pile up while he considered what it meant and what he should do.
“So where is this ship, and why don’t you keep her here?” he asked. Graves didn’t say anything for a moment but then cleared his throat and relaxed under Nick’s hand.
“She stays out in neutral—or at least unfrequented—waters,” Graves said. “Like me, she is a bit of a nomad. And she is far too large for this place.”
One of the pictures had Graves in it, at the wheel of the ship, laughing with a young man and a little girl. A single glance was enough to see that the boy was Graves’s son. The resemblance was striking. He even had the same trait of throwing his hand over his eyes as he laughed.
“Are these your kids?” Nick asked. Graves tilted his head to see, which had the effect of moving Nick’s hand across his chest.
“Yes, that is Davy, and my little Fiona there,” he said warmly. “Fifi I call her. She is eight now. And Davy is almost sixteen, God help me.”
“Do you see them a lot?”
“As often as I can,” Graves said. “Their mother and I are still close, but my life is…unpredictable. I have another daughter as well—my oldest. She lives in Sydney. She’s at university there.”
“Does she look like you too?”
“No, thank heavens! She looks like her mother, Jane, a real Aussie surfer girl with sunny hair and freckles. Mathilda’s a ferocious thing. Janey is the same. A lawyer. My lawyer in fact. You’d love her. They’re the best thing that came out of my years in the Army, those girls. “
“It’s nice that you are close to them,” Nick said. He let his palm slide back and forth over Graves’s clavicle. His skin is so soft.
“I love them all very much, including their mothers,” Graves said. He closed his eyes and tilted his neck, pushing into Nick’s hand. “Family is important to me. We speak on the phone and video a lot. I stay involved as much as I can. I keep the ship close enough to fly in when I’m needed.”
“Needed for what?”
Graves barked out a laugh.
“Last time it was that Fifi had organized her little gang into a protection racket for the smaller children. There was a bully of some kind. Anyway Nali, that’s my second wife, thought I should have a word. So I flew in and gave her a stern talking to that I assume accomplished nothing.”
Nick tried to imagine being eight and having Nelson Graves fly in on a helicopter for a stern talking to. The idea of Graves with small children was surprisingly easy to imagine.
“And I pay for everything, of course. Davy called about money for a trip to America the other day. He is an artist and there was a show—” Graves was still talking, clearly one of these fathers who doted on their children.
“All this has explained a mystery to me,” Nick said. “That this isn’t your boat, I mean. Because there are no pictures of your family anywhere. I didn’t want to ask…”
“That is correct. Scimitar is another world. Pictures everywhere. Their artwork, Davy’s sculptures, their rooms full of their things. Toys all over my office. It’s a home.” Graves sighed, shifting his head the other way, inviting Nick to rub the other shoulder, which he did, trailing his fingers through Graves’s chest hair. “This is only a hotel for me.”
Graves was frowning off into the distance. Nick pushed his hand deeper into Graves’s shirt. His palm slid over the wide planes of Graves’s chest, down over his ribs and back up again. He put down the tablet and ran his other hand over Graves’s forehead, feeling the rough stubble on his head. He needs to shave. I wonder why he does it? He used his fingers to smooth the frown off Graves’s brow. Graves smiled, eyes closed.
“Maybe you should grow your hair out,” Nick said softly.
“It covers my tattoos,” Graves said. “And it’s so curly my friend calls me Lamb.”
They were quiet again, and Nick stared out at the city lights and the bay.
“Nick,” Graves said quietly. “This feels good.”
Nick expected more but Graves lay still under his hand, his body loose and relaxed.
“
Yeah, it does,” Nick said softly. I’ve got a buzz on, I’m full of dinner, and the rain stopped. He smells good. It’s quiet. Everything is right. I think this might be it.
Chapter Twenty
They were quiet. Graves didn’t sleep, occasionally opening his eyes to glance up at Nick who never stopped his strokes. He ran his hands over Graves’s tattoos, tracing them with his fingers. When Nick stroked his scalp, Graves could feel the rasp of hair. I need to shave. God, this feels good though.
Nick rubbed his open palm down Graves’s cheeks, feeling the stubble there. Graves turned his face side to side, enjoying Nick’s blunt fingers scratching in the scruff on his face. He needed to shave his face even more urgently than his head. Downright scruffy, old boy. Nick’s fingers trailed down Graves’s throat over the tattoos there. The touch sent goose bumps all the way down Graves’s arms, making him shiver as Nick reached his clavicles.
“You know how I knew your little charm campaign was working?” Nick asked softly. Graves kept his eyes closed but raised his brows.
“You wore a shirt, with no tie, and the top two buttons undone. This was when we went racing.”
“I remember.”
“It was like you were naked. I kept looking…here…” He dragged his fingers over the base of the big man’s throat. “And here.” He ran his thumb over the edge of his clavicle, pushing his shirt to expose part of the tattoo on his shoulder.
“Really?” Graves asked. The idea amused him. If I had known I would have played it up. Ah, missed chances.
“Yeah. See, I’d never looked at a guy before. But…well. That was the first time for me,” Nick said.
“Interesting. You know, the first time I saw you properly, beyond just a pretty face, that is, I threatened you in Jeanne’s kitchen. Remember?” Graves said.
Nick snorted and Graves caught him rolling his eyes.
“You didn’t back down,” he continued. “You came right after me. I admit. I was a bit starstruck.”
“Really? That wasn’t my finest moment, man,” Nick said.
“Perhaps. I’m not sure why, but it was eye-opening to me. You were handsome and you were funny, but I saw you had…no…you have a core of steel. It was obvious once I saw it. A good man. A decent man. Ferocious…bah…a weakness of mine, maybe.”
They grew quiet again. Nick’s hand was flat on Graves’s shoulder, the heel of his palm following his clavicle back and forth.
Without opening his eyes, Graves reached up and unbuttoned his shirt. He sighed and turned his face into Nick’s hip, scooting closer.
“You’re a cat,” Nick said.
“Shh, let me enjoy something uncomplicated for once.”
“Poor Lord Graves. Such a rough life.”
He snorted against Nick’s hip and then let out a long sigh when Nick ran his hand over his pectoral, dragging his fingers through his chest hair and over to the other side.
Nick’s hand cupped the back of Graves’s head, and it felt good, so good. Tender. It was getting hard to focus. Something is happening here. Something is different.
“Hey, Graves?” Nick said softly.
“Mmm?”
“What is this?”
“What?” Graves asked, muffled against Nick’s T-shirt.
“Right now. This…right now. I feel…different.”
“Shh, so do I. Don’t rush it.”
“Okay,” Nick said, settling back.
Graves kept his breathing steady but the boy was right. This was different. He felt like pieces of him were falling away, things he thought were important, ego—all falling off—icebergs calving into the ocean. In his mind he heard Mozart. He hummed a few bars, tapping out the notes. Something was changing in him. Worries sliding away. Unwilling to force it, he just watched, concentrating on Nick’s hand.
Slowly, so Nick’s hand simply followed the movement, Graves rolled toward him, pressing his face completely into the side of Nick’s belly. He fumbled Nick’s shirt up until he had what he wanted—bare, sweet-smelling skin against his face. He pushed harder, mouth open and eyes closed, groaning low at the feel of it. His hand slid around Nick’s side to splay in the middle of his back, holding him close against his face.
Nick’s hand slid around to the back of his neck and pulled as well, keeping Graves tight against him.
They didn’t break contact, shifting until Nick was on his back, Graves pushing his shirt up and pressing openmouthed kisses against Nick’s belly.
Nick’s hand was down the back of his shirt, so he shrugged out of it, undoing the last buttons and pushing it off without stopping the way his face rubbed back and forth over Nick’s navel.
“Goddamn,” Nick breathed. “Yes, Graves. Yes.”
“Mmph.” Graves felt sluggish, weightless, happy. It felt like being underwater.
Graves pushed Nick’s shirt up, shoved it all the way so he could kiss every flushing inch. His thoughts were small bubbles bursting in a sea of lust.
Finally. Christ, I’ve dreamed of this. His skin is even sweeter than I thought; he’s strong. He’s melting though. Sweet boy. Mine. Mine.
*
Nick felt heavy and loose-limbed in Graves’s arms. There was no pause before they kissed, just a scrape of unshaven cheeks and then Graves’s mouth on his, hot and rough. Nick made a desperate sound. Graves’s response was to kiss him harder, to tangle his wide fingers in Nick’s curls and tug, to grip the back of Nick’s neck and hold him while he lapped at Nick’s upper and lower lips. Nick’s mouth opened without any conscious thought, the tips of their tongues meeting, and he dragged on that plush lower lip. Graves was kissing the breath right out of him. Taking Nick’s mouth however he wanted. Goddamn, it felt good. Nick’s whole body sagged. This is what being taken care of is like. This is it.
“Yes,” he said again. “Graves, yes.”
“All right, darling. I’ve got you,” his voice was slurred with want, rough, approximating the deep bass Nick had only ever heard Graves use in anger. No anger now. Just a burning lust and…happiness? Graves sounded happy.
Suddenly, Nick was lifted, their lips still mashed together. He wrapped his legs around Graves’s waist and clung to his shoulders. Graves’s hand stayed on the back of his neck but the other cupped under his ass and Nick realized with a jolt that almost his whole backside fit in Graves’s hand.
Graves carried him through the doors to his suite without breaking the kiss, or stopping the deep rumbles in his chest that vibrated right down Nick’s spine.
Graves turned and sat on the bed before scooting back. Keeping Nick on top of him. Nick wasn’t sure when or how the pants came off, the prosthetics, their underwear, but soon enough he was naked and sprawled over Graves’s belly, legs spread and grinding against him helplessly. They couldn’t stop kissing long enough to do anything else, hands on each other’s faces and necks, kneading shoulders and rubbing their chests together.
It was desperate. Impossible. Nick slid his body a little, and they were grinding their cocks together.
“Oh, dear God,” Graves barked.
“I ain’t gonna last,” Nick warned, but Graves just rolled him over, hooking one of Nick’s knees in his elbow and bending him in half. He pressed down so while he ground his cock between Nick’s legs, Nick’s prick was slipping and sliding against his belly, both of them leaking and sweating and completely unable to try anything more sophisticated.
“Oh, Christ, me neither,” Graves gasped.
They came all over each other, curses muffled into each other’s mouths, hips stuttering, neither even trying to hold back.
They rolled to their sides, heaving chests still together, foreheads pressed, eyes finally open, gasping and smiling into each other’s mouth.
“I’d like to say,” Graves gasped. “That isn’t what I imagined our first time together would be like.” His eyes were the merest slits, his cheeks flushed.
“What— How did you imagine it?” Nick was still panting, still shuddering, leg hiked high
over Graves’s hip.
“Well, I thought I would be much more… I don’t know…refined?” Graves said, lapping at the sweat on Nick’s throat. “Christ, you made me come like a sixteen-year-old. I thought I would get to take my time, pull you to pieces little by little. I didn’t think I’d be so…” He kissed Nick again, nipping at his lower lip. “So bloody desperate for you.”
Nick’s toes curled at this. The idea that Graves, who was vastly more experienced, had fallen apart, lost his cool? That’s an ego boost. Damn. It isn’t just me.
“Well, we have time now, and we got all that out of the way,” Nick said.
“Twenty-year-olds,” Graves muttered. Nick pushed him backward, rolling up so he could straddle Graves’s hips and look down at him.
He slid his fingers through the splashes of come on his belly and brought them to his mouth, holding Graves’s gaze. Graves’s whole body lurched under him.
“Oh, Nick…” he purred.
“There it is—there’s that shark smile I was expecting,” Nick said and did it again, scooping up their shared spend and licking it off his fingers. Salty, sweet, bitter. Me and him. Me and him together.
*
“I’m going to ruin you,” Graves said with a growl. “I hope you know that. I’m going to be so good for you, you’ll never be able to shake another man’s hand without thinking about me.”
“Promises, promises,” Nick said. He folded forward, graceful as always and ran his tongue over a smear of come on Graves’s belly. He planted his hands to either side and slipped lower, holding those amber eyes, still trailing his tongue over Graves’s skin until he had licked and sucked every drop.
Graves wasn’t all the way hard, but he was getting there, and as Nick looked down at his cock a fat bead of precome welled up from his slit. It trembled there, clear and reflecting the lamps.
“Jesus,” Nick whispered.
“Go on,” Graves said. “You’ve been wanting to look since that morning at Jeanne’s. So look.” He dragged over a pillow and put his hands behind his head so he was propped up enough to watch.
Nick’s face when he lifted his head almost undid Graves right there. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were glazed. His lower lip, red from kissing, hung slightly down, a little bead of saliva hanging from its bottom edge.
