by Ella James
Hey, you got your phone?
My phone’s clock says it’s 7:57. Fuck, I slept till almost 10 New York time. No surprise, though. I rub my head. Did I fall asleep right after fucking around? I remember snugging up to him and smile again.
The note he left me ordered me to jerk off, so who am I to argue? I look at the angels painted on the dark wood canopy. Then I shut my eyes and think of him. When I sit up a bit later, grinning, slightly dizzy, almost laughing with how good I feel, I realize I don’t know where the bathroom is. It’s gotta be that door across the way, though.
As I move off the bed, I spot a box of tissue on the duvet. That makes me smile. Thoughtful pervert. I clean up with tissues, ball them up, and go in the door I think is the bathroom but instead discover it’s his closet. Holy shit, it smells so good. So many suits. I find a flannel shirt and rub my face against it. I take a picture of myself smelling his clothes, but I don’t send it yet because I worry that it’s not him who’s got his phone.
The actual bathroom is insane. This whole place is pretty crazy. It’s not like a house; it’s like a palace. I do a quick Google search and find this place was his grandfather’s. Apparently, dude was big political and used to have all sorts of people here. Luke grew up in Sea Cliff—some other fancy neighborhood, I guess—and moved here a few years ago.
I find his toothbrush in a cabinet. He’s got a nighttime mouth guard and an expired bottle of Ambien beside it. Poor guy.
Back in his room, staring at the Dali, I feel a split second of ice cold what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-here. Then my phone vibrates.
Always only me.
Then, rapid fire: You find the tissue box?
What a thoughtful pervert, I say.
He sends back a smilie with an angel halo.
Snort.
He sends the purple smilie with the devil horns.
Yup, I text back.
You good?
Yeah, I got your note. Bout to get moving. Gotta keep my boy safe.
Grab some food first.
Before I can answer, he shoots me another message: Sorry I had to go.
What time u get up?
He sends some googly eyes, followed by: 4:30.
For real?
Yeah.
U tired af?
Nah.
How much do u sleep, my brother?
He sends the little shruggy guy. His guy has blond hair. I can’t stop cheesin’ at it.
Sleep tonight. I’ll snug u up.
He doesn’t reply.
Bert & Ernie style, amirite?
He sends a little guy with its hands covering its face, which makes me grin as I head in the direction I think is the kitchen.
Your house is nuts, I say, stopped in front of a landscape by one of my faves. The art is killing me.
Not my goal.
What did you do at 5 or whatever?
Commentary stuff for HGTV. I helped build this house for charity and now they’re filming the part where I talk. We did it here on campus, but they wanted to start early.
Did u make it thru?
I died during filming. Now you’re messaging my ghost. He sends a ghost icon.
Damn. I waited years for a shot with the big P, then he goes and dies.
He sends the eggplant—for penis, I’m sure.
I shoot back that purple religious cross icon. P for pastor, you animal.
He sends back a pig emoticon.
Mmhmm. There’s a plate of chocolate chip cookies by the stovetop. I stuff one into my mouth and lean against the counter. These cookies are epic.
Cookies for breakfast, Emerson?
What did you have?
Avocado/ham/egg white omelet
I snort. Cook yourself?
Not this time. I’m more of an ice guy, I think. Fire is dire and ice is nice. What did Frost say?
I grin. I think Frost was a fire guy, yeah? ‘I hold with those who favor fire.’
Are you out-Frosting me?
Listen, bud, my name is Emerson.
I’m not your friend, buddy.
I’m not your pal, fucker.
I’m getting in a car with other people, he says.
Think you’re special?
Later, E.V. Paint me something pretty.
8
Luke
He paints an abstract that looks like it could be two figures holding each other in a dark blue void. He sends the photo to me with a blue heart symbol—and because I have no self-control, I open it while I’m sitting next to Pearl in the back of the Escalade, riding back to Evermore after a luncheon at a Mexican place.
I don’t know…I guess I smile or something, because Pearl grins like she knows a secret and says, “Something good, huh?”
It hits me…she doesn’t know. How would she? How long until Megan tells her friends and people find out? I lower the phone to my lap.
“Not her.”
“No?”
I shake my head, and I’m a jackass, because I know I don’t even have to tell Pearl. She knows me so well, she can tell just from my face.
“Ohhhhhhh.” It’s murmured.
I let a breath out.
“Okay. Well, that’s okay. Is it okay?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“I’m so appropriate,” she says. “And professional. I’m not asking any questions.” She mimes zipping her lips, and that makes me smirk.
“Somebody’s up in your inbox.” Pearl mimes zipping her lips again. I look back at the phone. At Vance’s painting. That he did for me. Today. At Evermore.
I let a long, slow breath out. Risk a brief grin. Pearl slaps both hands over her mouth.
I type a couple blue hearts into text…and then delete them. I feel…not sure what to say about it. But I can’t not text him back. Especially when what he did for me is so beautiful.
I hold the phone the whole way back to campus, feeling warm and weird and sort of like I can’t breathe. When Bernard turns the car onto Evermore Way, I grit my teeth and send just, Thank you.
It’s all I know to say that feels real.
He sends me a red heart back. Then I’m striding toward the building where he is. I’m walking down the corridor right by his atrium, and my heart is beating off-rhythm. Pearl looks at me, and I give her a fake smile, and that was stupid because she can tell. Her whole face gets that worried look—the one she’s really bad at hiding. She says, “Want me to reschedule chess?”
Oh. Chess. I’ve gotta leave to go play chess with one of our big donors in an hour. He’s a shut-in, lives in Alameda.
“Foy is expecting me.”
“I can still reschedule,” she says as we step onto the elevator.
“It’s all good, PNW.”
“You gave me a TV smile.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It looked nice, but I know better.”
I arch my brows. The elevator door opens, and we step off. Pearl starts toward her office door, then turns back to me. She claps her hand over her mouth again.
I give her a real grin. When she’s out of sight, I duck into the stairwell.
VANCE
I marked my grid up on the wall then worked on the palette all day, and my back and shoulders are on fire. It’s 3:45, and I just want to feel the sun. I seal some paints up, set my brushes in a bucket, and walk into the garden outside my atrium. There’s a port-a-room with a bathroom, shower, and table in the nearest corner of the walled garden—set up there so I can wash up, rinse paint, and sometimes work with chemicals, all without messing up their pristine bathrooms.
I wash my hands and stand there at the little sink, letting the orange-scented soap sit on my hands and forearms. I picture him riding in a car somewhere. Where is he going? Who’s with him? I can’t even guess at what he might be doing. That’s how little I know about his job.
Did his “thank you” mean he liked the painting? Did I seem too thirsty, painting something like he asked? He hasn’t texted since the “thank you.”
I wash and dry my hands and arms, slather some lotion on because my hands get so damn dry, and step slowly out into the grass. I get a long, slow breath, scented by flowers. Then a low voice hisses: “Back here.”
I glance around the garden—there are three big trees, two benches, flowers, and a tiny goldfish pond—then bite my lip so I don’t laugh. Back here? I turn around, kneeling to fuck with my shoe lace so I can check out the gap between the church building’s wall and the back wall of the port-a-room.
There’s enough space for him to squeeze in there—maybe.
Trying not to laugh, I take one more look around and then turn sideways, squeezing in between the walls. I see his face, blotted by shadow. He’s behind the port-a-room’s back wall. I’m still squeezed beside the side wall.
We’re both grinning. He looks like a little kid, mischievous and silly.
When we’re close enough to touch, he reaches his hand out, and I grab it. Then I shuffle my feet so we’re standing side by side, our backs against the church’s wall, the plastic-y port-a-wall six or seven inches in front of us. We can’t even turn fully to face each other—both our shoulders are too wide—and it’s so fucking funny, I start laughing.
He hisses, “Shut up, Emerson.”
Hearing my given name—which no one but my second grade teacher has ever used—just makes things worse. His hand clamps over my mouth, but he looks so awkward, pressed between walls.
I’m half-howling, still. He slips his hand around my jaw to the back of my head and jerks me closer, so we’re pushed against both of the walls, but his mouth manages to reach mine. He bites my lip.
I yelp. And now he’s laughing. He licks my lip, and holy hell, I want him so much. I can’t even reach his dick because of how my arms are.
“You’re crazy,” I manage between kisses.
“For this.”
We kiss until I feel like all the air between the walls is getting used up. Then I get my hand up to his face and brush my fingers over his jaw.
“You smell good. Like Luke McDowell.”
“You smell like Successful Artist.” His eyes shut a little as he nibbles at my jaw and earlobe. I let out a low moan.
“Quiet.”
“Sorry.”
Then his hand is on my cock. I moan again, and we contort ourselves so that his mouth is over mine. Every time he pumps me, I’m groaning into his mouth, until I come so hard my legs give way, and I have to steady myself against the port-a-room’s wall.
“Oh, man.”
He laughs darkly. I reach for him, my palm rubbing his erection, but he pushes my hand away.
“Gotta go play chess.”
“What?”
“I have a standing chess date with a donor. Old guy. Shut-in.”
“What, you don’t keep spare briefs in your office?”
He looks abashed. “No.”
“We’ll have to fix that.”
I kiss on his neck a little, till he groans and shoves me away. “You’re gonna make me,” he murmurs.
“Make you what?” I work on his pants, eventually unfastening them. Then I push them down and look into his dazed eyes as I stroke his boner.
He grits his teeth and breathes hard, but he doesn’t make noise, even as my hand moves faster and I feel his dick swell. His head bows. He presses a fist against the port-a-room as a tremor jerks through his abs and he jets into my hands.
“You’re the worst…”
I wipe my hands on the underside of my shirt and then wipe his cock again with my damp fingers.
“Says the man who called me back here.”
He gives me a small smile, and I kiss his cheek.
“I was just thinking about you,” I tell him.
“What were you thinking?” In the small space, his low voice is warm and husky.
“Wondering where you were, what you were doing.” I lean against him…lean my head against his. A cool breeze blows between the two walls.
“I fucking miss you when we’re not together,” I say.
“Same.” It’s raspy.
He buttons his pants, and my hand finds his. I trace his knuckles, envisioning the lines like I would sculpt them.
“You like the guy? Chess guy?” I ask.
“He’s cool.”
“Good for you to get away, yeah?”
He smiles wryly. “It’s never good for me to get away.” After a second, he adds, in a hushed voice, “We’ve got some supply drops in Syria today. The charity.”
“Do you keep track of all that?”
“As much as I can. At this point, it’s all with some on-the-ground org. So, more their thing. But I like to watch live footage if there’s any.”
“Is that happening during the chess match?”
His lips twist a little. “Yeah.”
My fingers stroke the inside of his wrist, and his eyes slip shut.
I’m in so much trouble. I know it cerebrally, but being near him is like anesthesia. I feel brave leaned up against him. I could give him all of myself and not worry what I get back.
I rub my cheek against his hair. “You’re such a prince. The most gorgeous man in San Francisco…hiding out with me.”
I can feel him swallow. His head sort of bows.
I trail my fingertip over the warm skin of his forearm. “You feel that?”
“What?” It’s husky.
“That’s the lack of strings attached, my dude. Just you and me here, right now.”
His hand grips mine. “There’s this guy…” His voice is so quiet, I can barely hear it. “On the board of elders. Really pissed that someone left a rainbow flag in the grass by the sign.”
I tuck our joined hands against my leg…stroke my thumb over his bent fingers. He pulls his hand away. When I open my eyes, his are full of feeling. I try to hug him with us pressed between the walls like we are.
“I love you. Like friends love each other. Don’t get scared because I said so. Promise?”
He shakes his head once. His handsome features bend with tension.
“I’ve got enough of the warm fuzzy shit so I can give it out without needing to get it all back. You know what I mean?”
His eyes are shut, his face grave as he rasps, “You go out first. If someone’s out there, kneel down by the other side of the porta-a-room and pretend to mess with the foundation of it. Push against it. It’ll push against me, but it’s okay. Frown at it and go inside. Text me how long I should wait. If you step out and I’m all clear, say that out loud. Go into the port-a-room, and I’ll go inside. You stay in there for another five.”
When his eyes meet mine, they’re hard. I fucked up. Too much, too soon. Where’s your chill, bro?
Then he grabs my face and kisses me so hard it hurts.
“You’re the prince, Vance Rayne.” His eyes are shut again, his head bowed.
I do as he said, and we both make it back inside.
9
Vance
He steps into my foyer at 10:15 that night, wearing a hooded jacket, dark jeans, and gray boots. As soon as he lowers the hood, I know there’s something wrong. His lips are pressed together, and he won’t meet my eyes.
He hangs his jacket on the coat rack, and I move in closer. I can’t tell if he would want it…but I want to hug him. I’m relieved when he comes for it first. He locks me up against him, pulls a big breath into his lungs. Then another, like he hasn’t breathed all day till right now, pressed against me.
Then he shoves me up against the wall, covers my mouth with his own, and rubs himself against me till we’re thrusting at each other. I go for his zipper, and his hand locks around my wrist.
“No. Not here.”
He drags me upstairs, not letting go of my wrist until I’m on my back on the bed. Then he strips me of my boxers and shirt. He’s up on his arms above me, rubbing his thick cock against mine.
“You good for it?”
“Ready.”
He fucks me so I’m wasted by the time I come, so
that I know I’ll hurt tomorrow. When we’re panting on our backs, he surprises me by turning on his side—so I do, too. He shuts his eyes, and I can feel the tension in him.
“You hungry?” It feels like a stupid thing to say, but I can’t keep from saying something.
His eyes open. He reaches out, rubbing the back of his hand over the trough between my pecs.
“How was your day?” The words sound thick, as if he’s speaking underwater.
I fold my hand over his, press his palm against my chest. “How was yours?”
He licks his lips, seals them together. Then he sets his gaze away from mine.
“That good, huh?”
He’s up off the bed so fast it makes my head spin. I hold my breath until I find him at the kitchen counter. His whole body’s taut, his shoulders heaving, casting thin and wavering shadows in the dim light of the table lamp.
Shit.
Brother’s not a talker. I don’t know if I should pry. I’m pretty good at leaps of faith, though, so I move over to him slowly…wrap myself around him from behind. I kiss his nape and stroke his back until chills move in the wake of my fingers.
He lets out a low groan, and my hand roves down his abs, stroking till I find him hard against his belly.
“You do this.” His voice is flat. I can’t tell if he’s angry or resigned.
I grip my dick with my free hand, rubbing against his flank. “And you do this.”
“Clouds my head,” he rasps.
I start to stroke him. “That’s why I came out here. To make your head so cloudy you can’t think of anything but me.”
I want to prove that I can take his mind off what it’s on and put it here—on us. I get on my knees and move in front of him. Then I take him down my throat. He grips my head with both hands, pulls my hair the way he likes to, and I blow him, using every trick I know to hold him here with me. He grunts, then comes with a hot spurt as his legs quake. He groans as I move him out of my mouth, gripping the counter with white knuckles.
I stroke his leg. “Go sit down. I’ll make something for us.”
He sits at the diner-style booth, propping one arm on the table and his forehead in his hand, and I make sandwiches with what he got out of the fridge. My boner bounces as I move around the kitchen. When I step over to the table with two plates on my arm, I can’t help smirking. Luke grabs my hip, then my cock.
