Seeking Sanctuary (Hometown Heroes Book 2)

by J. P. Oliver

  I pulled into Victor’s driveway, hot sweat at the back of my neck as I tugged the helmet off. The cool evening air touched it, and I caught Victor waiting on the porch, leaning against the railing, arms crossed with small grin on his face.

  I shut the Harley off, dismounted. “Nice place you got here.”

  “I heard you coming from halfway down the road. That thing’s not exactly subtle, huh.”

  “Do I look like a subtle guy?” I asked, climbing the steps, bringing us almost nose-to-nose. If I wanted to, I could lean in and kiss him easily like this—but I was getting ahead of myself. It was just dinner—for now. “Not like you have any neighbors out here to bother.”

  Victor huffed a laugh and nodded back towards the open front door.

  He lived in an old gothic Victorian home, far out in the woods like I thought. The facade and wraparound porch were a stained dark wood that continued into the home itself. I whistled as he led us into the foyer, where a particularly grand staircase curled up into the ceiling.

  Victor chuckled and held a hand out for my jacket. “What? A lot?”

  “No. No, it’s great. I love it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.” It was earnest. “I didn’t expect something like this.”

  Victor laughed as he hung my jacket in a small coat closet. “What did you expect?”

  I shrugged, rubbing the back of my neck. “Something… normal, I guess.”

  He pulled the door shut behind him, pausing—eyes trailing over my body like they had in the store, all curious.

  I cleared my throat, arm dropping. “So… dinner?”

  “Yeah. I started it in the kitchen.”

  It was a bit of a trek to the kitchen, through the large living room—which was softly lit, with a nice flat screen in the corner and long windows on the wall, flanked by mahogany curtains pulled back to let the last of the light in. I noted the long, cushy-looking chase and rack of DVDs—and down a hall full of framed family photos.

  “To be honest,” Victor said, chuckling to himself, “I built this place because Winston told me not to.”

  My laugh echoed in the open kitchen. “That’s extremely petty.”

  His lips twitched into a smile. “When you say it like that…”

  “Don’t worry,” I hummed. “Pettiness is the best reason to build a house like this. Smells amazing in here, by the way.”

  Victor moved over to the stove and I followed slowly, taking a seat on one of the stools at the island. The kitchen had the same dark wood as the rest of the house and smooth stone countertops. Propped up on one side was a table large enough to fit the entire Savage family—which, I figured, was probably exactly what it was used for—and beyond that, a set of French doors leading to a shadowy sunroom. Pots and pans hung on hooks overhead, a few of them displaced on burners at the stove.

  “I’ve got…” Victor drew, turning the stove off. “A bit of roast chicken with rosemary and lemon, some tomato and green beans, and—” he paused, plucking two rocks glasses from the open cabinet, “—pass me the second bottle from the rack behind you.”

  I turned on my stool, reaching back, sure to let my shirt ride up a little.

  “Savage Whiskey,” I hummed, glancing at the label. “Unopened?”

  I passed it to him, and he peeled the wax off. “Special occasion.”

  “C’mon.” I set my chin in my palm. “It’s just dinner.”

  He shrugged, pouring us each a glass. “Dinner can be special.”

  We both laughed quietly. Lifted the glasses, anticipating. “To…?”

  Victor raised a brow. “To… extended vacations.”

  I scoffed and took a sip. Watched him glance away and press his smile to the glass.

  The lights were too dim. It wasn’t just dinner.

  It’s a date.

  As he plated our dinner, I had the pleasure of watching him move. His jeans were dark and unfairly tight, clinging to his toned legs and ass. The ends of his blond hair seemed a bit damp—fresh from a shower. The sleeves of his black button-down were rolled up his arms, showing off his sleeve tattoo.

  “I never asked you about the rest of your sleeve,” I said as he set the plates down. We sat next to one another at the corner of the island, him on one side, me on the other. Like this, our knees brushed when he sat, and I felt the thrill of it in my abdomen. “About the other parts of it.”

  “What’s to ask?” he hummed.

  “When did you start it?” I asked. “Did you always know you wanted a full sleeve?”

  “No. I just kept adding more and more.” He smiled and the curve of it was soft in the lamplight. “And I didn’t start until after I was eighteen and all graduated. Not until—”

  Silence. He cut himself off, glancing at his plate.

  I raised a brow. “Until?”

  “I didn’t get around to it until Winston left,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t mean to keep… bringing him up. He just had a thing against tattoos. Never shut up about it.”

  I took a sip, nodding. Set my glass down with a confident thud.

  “Can I say something?”

  “Sure?”

  “I’m not just saying this because I have tattoos myself, but he’s a real asshole. I don’t get how you two can be related. Really drives home the nice twin-evil twin thing.” I paused, frowning a little, heat seeping into my face. “Uh—wait, no. That was probably fucking rude, wasn’t it? Sorry—”

  “No, it’s…” Victor sat up a little taller, exhaling a short laugh. “No, you’re right. Speak as freely as you want to about him. He’s an ass.”

  “Sometimes I just say shit without thinking about it.”

  “It’s honest.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I like that,” he said. “It’s… I value honesty. Even if it’s tough.”

  Our eyes met.

  Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was the home. Maybe it was the lighting—but I felt it, in that moment: the same spark of mutual interest I’d felt at the grocery and at the Speakeasy, multiplied tenfold. We were alone here. My body caught up to my mind in remembering that, buzzing with anticipation.

  I want to touch him.

  “This chicken’s fucked-up good.”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “Thanks.”

  “Bet you had to get real good at cooking,” I hummed. “I doubt the pizza parlor delivers this far out.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  I want to touch him.

  My eyes took little pit stops as we ate and drank, as we chatted—about life in Nashville and my business, about the distillery and his father’s health and his brother’s quest to help save the town from some sleazy developer, about bikes and fixing them, about classic cars—all across his body: his throat at dinner, his mouth as he drank, his fingers as he rinsed our dishes, the peek of his chest beneath the buttons as he poured a second glass and asked me, “Wanna watch something?”

  “Hell, yeah. Got anything good?”

  “No,” he laughed, leading me to the living room. “I only buy the shittiest movies.”

  “Ugh. I knew it.”

  He set his glass on the coffee table and went to the movie rack. I settled onto the sofa, which was just as comfy as it seemed, a soft leather. The world outside the long, open windows was totally black: the woods unoccupied. We were alone out here; no one can hear you scream.

  “No one can hear you scream,” he said.

  I tensed. Can he read my mind?

  “W-what?”

  “That’s the tagline for this, right?” He flashed a DVD at me. “Alien?”

  I laughed quietly, relaxing a little. “I think it’s: ‘In space, no one can hear you scream.’”

  “Right.”

  “Alien’s good. I love that one.”

  Victor smirked at me and went to pop it in. “Should have pegged you as a horror fan.”

  Pegged. I liked the sound of that.

  “What about me gave i
t away?” I asked.

  I took a long sip and set the glass next to Victor’s as he dimmed the lights and took a seat next to me. He was close—close enough for me to feel the heat of his body between our parallel thighs, to smell the soap from his shower. The almostness of it was intoxicating.

  His eyes watched the screen dutifully as the movie began.

  I wasn’t interested in it. I was only interested in one thing…

  Fuck it.

  Victor sucked in a soft breath as I touched his chin, taking it in my fingers and turning him to look at me. It wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t featherlight, either; just enough to make sure he looked.

  His dark brown eyes were wide as he studied my face. The light of the TV was reflected in them as they dropped to my mouth.

  Fuck it.

  I pulled him in.

  His lips were strong against mine, the kiss sturdy, infallible, and tasting of whiskey. The fingertips at his chin traced down over his neck, fingers threading up into his blond hair. Our mouths slotted together confidently, but slowly. It was a test; was it a good fit?

  Victor sighed and opened his mouth to me.

  Goosebumps licked down my spine at the sound.

  Every kiss was more open, more frank about wanting than the one before. As I let him run his hands along my hip, my waist, trailing down, electric, to palm at my ass, I realized just how long it had been since I let someone touch me like this.

  More importantly, I realized how long it had been since I’d wanted to return the favor so badly.

  Victor was silent but strong. He guided me into straddling his lap with one suggestive hand and his coaxing, curling tongue.

  “Come here,” he breathed, eyes shut.

  I let myself slide against him, his legs parting underneath my own. Even in my jeans, I felt exposed by knowing him, knowing who I was with. The light from the hall melted against the hard outline of my cock in my jeans. His eyes flickered down to it, the look in them surprisingly… needy.

  I huffed, grinning.

  The power, shifting.

  “How long has it been since you’ve had someone here?” I asked, hand trailing down the front of his shirt, over the glinting metal knob of his belt—over the swell of his cock pressing hard against the denim. “Since you’ve had someone touch you…”

  I watched his eyes shut as I palmed against him in earnest.

  “A long time,” he murmured. Our lips brushed, his moan soft against my mouth, stronger than liquor. Strong hands took hold of my hips as I shifted against him gently. The angle wasn’t perfect, but it was enough—just a taste—to create a little lick of friction for the both of us.

  “Not for a long time,” he whispered again.

  There was a weight to his words; a story behind it. But I wasn’t in the mood for stories.

  I groaned softly at the feel of his fingers brushing along my throat, a digit slipping beneath my tight necklace—twisting it, pulling it tighter against my skin: a real choker. It wasn’t suffocating, but there was pressure. His eyes, admiring.

  “I like this,” he said, voice a little steadier. “I want to see you in it.”

  I huffed, lips curling. “I’m already wearing it.”

  “In just this.”

  Lightning and white-hot blood pooled lower, below my core, a twitching interest in my jeans.

  “How long has it been since someone’s touched you?”

  “Long enough,” I murmured. “Too long.”

  His finger unwound from my necklace and I missed the tightness of it, even as he took the hem of my shirt and drew it up over my body. It ruffled my hair as I shucked it off, tossing it aside. An appraising hand drew down my chest. Victor laughed quietly.

  “What?”

  “This.” He pulled my nipple between his fingers—along with the silver hoop pierced into it. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Don’t like it?” I asked, biting back the urge to groan.

  Be rougher with it.

  Victor looked up at me, eyes impossibly dark. “The opposite, actually.”

  “Bet I’ve got a few other surprises you might like,” I said, unbuttoning his shirt blindly as I dove in for another kiss.

  Our lips moved on the same wavelength of desire, hot and consuming. I didn’t care if I came off desperate, just like he didn’t seem to either. We were both adults, we were both consenting, we were both painfully, achingly hard. I needed this now, needed the raw power of having him fuck deep inside me.

  I bit his lip, sucking it between my teeth.

  His hand gripped the front of my jeans, undoing the fly.

  “Off,” he growled.

  I groaned, nodding. He let me slide from his lap to push them off, kick them into obscurity as he did the same with his own. I stood between him and the coffee table, panting slightly, shocked and abhorrently turned on by the sight of him on his sofa in the dark, palming his cock through his boxers, just… watching me. Admiring my body from afar.

  “Fuck,” I huffed.

  I threw myself at him, literally, back into his lap, and he caught me by my ass, hands squeezing and kneading the flesh beneath the fabric. Free to stand and tent, our cocks bumped as I rolled my body against his, the rhythm getting rushed.

  Release, release, release.

  He would get me there; one way or another, Victor would be the means to my end.

  “Let me,” I whispered, mouth trailing along his jaw, up to his ear where I could breathe against him. “I’m good at it.”

  He moaned, holding me closer.

  “Please. It’s been a while—”

  “Do it,” he huffed.

  Nipping at his ear, I let my body slide down over his, between his legs, knees pressed to the creaking hardwood of the floor. Brown eyes followed my every move. My mouth curled into an anticipatory smile. I lived for giving head.

  Moment of truth.

  I helped work his boxers down over his legs, leaving them hooked around his ankles. Pushed his knees further apart to get nice and close, because, fuck, he had a good one. Rock hard and already weeping at the tip, not outrageously big, but enough to know by looking at it that it would definitely satisfy.

  “Adrian,” he said, sitting up a little. “You don’t have to.”

  “Shut up,” I chuckled.

  His breathing was unsteady. Oh, he wanted this.

  I stuck out my tongue, flashing my tongue ring: a little stud. I saw the recognition in his eyes, saw his mouth part to ask some probably adorably innocent or caring question, and stopped him before he could start with a nice, long lick.

  Metal and spit and a velvet tongue dragged across the precum leaking from his tip.

  “Ugh… fuck—”

  “I’m only getting started,” I sighed, wrapping a hand around him in earnest.

  I let my mouth suck kisses along the base, nuzzling gently in the fine hairs trailing down his abdomen, soft and blond. He seemed to like that enough, panting quietly overhead; not enough. Wetting my tongue with a gratuitous amount of spit, I laved along his cock—long strokes and kitten licks, savoring and teasing his cock like I’d savor a Popsicle melting all over my fingers.

  Victor’s hips twitched in search of more.

  “Greedy,” I laughed, voice sounding fucked out even to my own ears.

  I pressed my thumb down on his leaking head before taking it into my mouth. A few deep bobs, my throat giving itself over to the sweet, familiar sensation of having a cock nudge against it, pushing the limits. I’d had plenty of guys like this before, but this felt different. No guy had ever threaded his fingers into my hair like he were fucking admiring me.

  It’s just sex, I reminded myself. That’s all. Nothing’s different.

  But that wasn’t true. Already it was different, because it was with Victor, the guy I used to look up to; the guy I’d had my first wet dream over; the guy I’d practically melt over when I saw him smile, running around the Savage property with Zach, lusting over my best friend’s brother.
I knew him better than I knew every other guy I hooked up with—and that was the difference.

  I pulled up, sealing my lips around the tip and sucking a pressure into it.

  Victor hissed. “Adrian—”

  I glanced up the length of his body, muscles pulling taut, flexing. I saw the power in them, knew what they could do if they were being used to piston his cock inside me. My tongue flicked against the head in my mouth, pierced ball dragging through the precum.

  “Adrian, just—”

  “Tell me what you want,” I huffed, a little breathless as I pulled off.

  “I want you,” he growled. “All of you.”

  The more responsible part of my brain told me we ought to go upstairs to bed or find a towel at least to preserve the sofa’s innocence here. But a very small part of me was actually, truly responsible, especially in times like this. I crawled back into Victor’s lap and let him push me down against the couch, let him tell me, “Turn over.”

  I twisted, my arms bracing on the armrest of the couch, knees pressing into the cushion. Behind me, I heard his footsteps as he paced across the living room toward his bathroom.

  “Wait,” I said.

  He paused in the doorway, his silhouette obscene with his cock at attention.

  “I have some shit in my bag.”

  The foyer was closer than the bathroom. He stooped and unzipped my bag, pulled out the condoms and lube, and grinned at me as he came back, dropping it all on the coffee table.

  “You plan for this?”

  “Please,” I hummed. “I’m always prepared—mmh!”

  I bit into my lip as he grabbed the back of my boxers and yanked them down to the crooks of my knees. I felt the cool exposure, the vulnerability, as he let a hand glide along my ass, thumb brushing teasingly light over my hole. My head dropped between my shoulders, his hand traveling up—over my tailbone, my spine, my neck, fingers threading into my hair as he pressed his erection between my cheeks, its thickness fully felt.

  I heard the rip of foil. The heat of his cock pulled away, and for a moment, as I closed my eyes, I was left floating in space.

  “You know,” I laughed, “I used to think about this.”

  “Yeah?” He sounded a little surprised.