by J. P. Oliver
The roll of the condom. The plastic snapping of the lube being opened.
“Mmhm. I used to think you were so hot, when I was just the weird goth kid hanging around your brother… I had such a crush on you back then.”
Victor’s breathy groan as he worked it over himself. “And now?”
I grinned, arching my back, my face pressing lower to the arm of the sofa; presenting myself. “Do you even have to ask at this point?”
“Right,” he huffed, and I heard the smile in it. “Well… I’ll take care of you.”
“You don’t have to.”
I felt the pause in him, without even touching him. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I tossed a narrowed glance over my shoulder. “Wouldn’t say that if I didn’t mean it, stud.”
Victor huffed, lips curling into a grin. Behind the curve of my ass, I saw the basic motions—grasping himself and slicking lube over his cock—admiring the flex of his lean muscles. It was getting painful at this point, waiting for him. With a salacious growl, I pushed my hips back against his thighs.
“C’mon.”
“You always this needy?” he asked, voice low.
The first push, his cockhead nudging my entrance. The pinch of it, the hot press, opening me up slowly. The first was always the worst, muscles singing in confusion: pull him in but brace against it. My shoulders shook as he slid inside, an inch at a time, a crawling molten friction filling me slowly.
My breath built in my throat, exploding in a needy sigh. “God…”
“Good,” he hummed, voice a low moan, shaking at its edges. “Just like that.”
Sinking, sinking, sinking. My mind was a hazy mess with only enough power to focus on the way he stretched me open, sweat collecting in the small of my back, damp at my temples. I gasped at the feel of his fingers, sliding over my hips, my back, over every arching notch in my spine; into my hair, just enough of a pull to lift my forehead from the arm of the sofa as he seated himself fully inside.
“You play so tough,” he murmured, groaning softly as his chest molded to my back, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Except here.”
I whimpered softly, hips shifting backwards to get the ball rolling.
His fingers traced up my throat, sliding beneath my necklace.
“Victor,” I whispered. “Move.”
I was burning up. The air around me, inside of me, every breath was pulling in and expelling sticky-hot heat as he drew himself out and shoved his way back in, the press of it desperate. It was raw; it was climbing; it felt like the end of the world, the end of everything. Back to chest and sweating, his mouth on my neck and shoulder, the firm press of our knees into the cushion, knocking, bumping, skin slapping over the sounds of the television; building.
I was barely aware of what I was saying—if I was even saying something real. Blindly, his name fell out of my mouth and I heard him moan, hips driving harder into the endless black heat of me.
My mouth opened around a cry, face screwing, eyes slamming shut.
“Fuck me, I’m—”
He didn’t need to be told twice. My body was giving signals all over: abdomen tightening, fucking back onto him in a quicker rhythm, squeezing around him. Victor’s hand, capable and large, fisted around my cock, pumping once, twice, and then locking around the head in time for me to cry out, to come into the damp heat of his hand.
My body shook.
He rode me through it, pushing and pulling, letting my head rest on the couch arm as he held my hips and threw himself into them, my body lurching with the power.
Too much, I thought, whimpering into my arm.
I was oversensitive, overstimulated, and couldn’t take much more of it, my nerves frying—but he was close, too, lost in the dark of the room and the heat of our bodies, and didn’t need to search long for that sliver of perfection, finishing with a deep, rasping groan, forehead resting between my shoulders.
7
Victor
“Victor, go help your sister.”
I glanced up from my phone in time to catch my Mom waving at me, beer bottle in hand.
“Yeah,” Beth called over her shoulder in the kitchen. “Come help your sister.”
With a heave, I lifted out of my spot at the kitchen table, pocketing my cell. Beth was busy at the stove, seasoning the hell out of chicken breasts. There were several pots on the burners, all boiling and steaming a variety of vegetables; it was a real operation she had going.
“Didn’t you volunteer to cook tonight?” I asked.
She tossed me an oven mitt. “Sure did. Put these in for me?”
“What about Robert?”
Robert, who was sitting at the table and in the middle of a rousing game of Solitaire, held up his hands innocently. “I would, but I’m finally about to actually win this game for once. It’s a big moment for me, Victor.”
“Which means you,” Beth said, “are my trusty kitchen wench.”
I laughed and did as she asked without any question. The oven gave off a hot waft of heat as I slid the chicken onto the rack. I shut it and set the timer, setting it down—realizing too late that I was still grinning. Beth was staring straight at me, a twinkle in her eye.
“What?” I asked.
“You get laid or something?” she asked. “You seem in an awfully good mood today.”
With a shrug, I went to the fridge—partially for a drink, mostly to give myself the space to not answer her, because I had, in fact, gotten laid. Thinking about it in simple terms like that had me grinning all over again as I pulled out the carafe of Mom’s homemade lemonade.
Tonight was dinner with the family. Now that Zach was officially staying in North Creek with his husband, the whole family was back together. That was unfortunately too true regarding Winston, who was also back, but I hardly like to think he counted. We were having dinner together and visiting Dad, though he’d gone to lie down for a bit before eating. I saw the flicker of guilt in his eyes, knowing he wanted to stick around, but we told him not to worry; we’d all be here still when he woke up.
“Hello, anyone home?”
I perked up just as Dominic and Zach came barreling into the kitchen, bundled tight in their fall jackets, Dom’s a worn bomber and Zach’s sturdy denim. For the moment, the kitchen was a flurry of greeting and Dom laughed as he kissed Mom’s cheek, setting a paper bag on the counter.
“We come bearing gifts,” he said, pushing the bangs from his face.
“Like what?” Beth asked, leaning back in his chair.
“Chocolates.” Dom smirked. “I worked on some older woman’s car all this week and she wanted to thank me with something homemade. Told her I’d share it with the family.”
“Aw,” Beth called. “What a saint.”
Zach snorted as he came up behind me, clapping me on the shoulder. “Mom’s lemonade?”
“Want some?”
“Hell, yeah.” He took a step back, shrugging out of his jacket, the smell of fall practically radiating off of him. “So, how’d the date go?”
“Date?” Beth asked from the other side of the kitchen.
Zach and I looked at each other. You could be mouthing something, totally silent, and yet if it counted as gossip, she’d be able to hear it a mile away. At least Zach looked a little bit apologetic.
“Beth, how the fuck do you do that?” I asked, sagging against the counter.
Robert pointed to his own ears. “She’s got hawk ears, I swear.”
“You went on a date,” she said, grin sly. “Who with?”
I knew she’d find out one way or another; with a sigh: “Adrian—”
“Shut up. Adrian Cole?”
“That’s the one,” Zach hummed, rifling through the cabinets.
“So it was a date,” Dom laughed as he sat next to Robert and his shuffling cards.
“Deal me in? I’m thinking Go Fish.”
“Yes.” I looked away, focusing on pouring the lemonade so I didn’t combust with all the at
tention on me suddenly. “It was a date. Not a big deal.”
Beth and Zach glanced at each other knowingly; conspiring.
“You did get laid,” Beth confirmed.
I said nothing, the sounds of a card game and dinner cooking filling the silence.
“Ooh,” Zach laughed. “That’s a ‘yes’.”
“Shut up.” I was grinning.
“Was he any good?” Zach asked, drawing a tin of cookies from the cabinet.
“Isn’t he, like, younger?” Beth followed, grabbing a pre-dinner cookie too. “Cradle-robber.”
Zach laughed and shoved a ginger snap into his mouth. “He’s my age, Beth.”
“Like I said.”
I sighed, leveling them both with a tired stare. “Y’all are going to ruin your appetite.”
“I think it’s cute,” Dominic called, leafing through his cards and setting down pairs.
“Me, too,” Robert agreed. “Get out there, Victor. You deserve someone nice.”
Another shake of my head. “Thanks, Robert.”
“What’s this about Adrian Cole?”
The warmth of the room was suddenly sucked out, absorbed by a single body. I whipped my head up in time to meet Winston’s piercing gaze as he slid onto the counter, dressed like he’d just come from a Wall Street office.
“I’ll take some lemonade, too. Don’t be stingy.”
“What are you doing here?” I huffed.
“Mom invited me, actually.”
I didn’t look, but Zach and Beth glanced at our mother for confirmation. She shrugged, expression conflicted—he was, after all, still her son, still a part of the family, and he had a knack for just knowing shit. He probably would have sensed us all coming together with some form of Savage telepathy and shown up uninvited anyway.
“Fine,” I muttered, nodding to the cabinet next to his head. “Pass me a glass.”
He did. “So, Adrian Cole?”
I said nothing.
“He’s cute. Good for you.”
The sincerity of it was barely there, but it was shockingly palatable of him.
“I hear he’s a pretty good lay. I’m guessing you two have… you know.”
“It was probably just a one-time thing.” My face was suddenly a hundred degrees. “And I don’t really think that’s any of your business—”
“Hey. I’m just looking out for you.” He slid off the counter. “I mean, I wouldn’t get too into him, if I were you. I hear he’s got a habit of bouncing around, running with some less than reputable people, and we all know how quickly you can get attached—”
“Winston,” Dominic warned.
“What?” He looked around the room, as if he’d said something inconsequential. Like he was just stating facts about the weather. “I’m just trying to look out for him. I mean, we all remember what happened with the last guy you got too into—”
“That’s enough, Winston,” Beth said.
“Just saying.” Winston lifted his glass, the look in his eye betraying that he knew just what I was feeling. I felt exposed and he knew it; got off on it. “We all know you’ve had trust issues since… well. You know. Don’t wanna see you get hurt again—”
“Do you ever shut the fuck up?”
The kitchen went silent. Even the boiling pots seemed to go quiet as Dom set his cards down, eyes locked on Winston, who grinned despite seeming taken aback.
“Dom, language,” Mom said, trying to diffuse the tension.
Not that Dom listened. He was usually the most mild-mannered of us, the quiet middle child, so the outburst was unexpected, commanding attention. Dom shook his head and went back to flicking through his cards.
“Excuse me,” Winston huffed.
“You heard me. Do you ever shut the fuck up—”
“Yeah, I heard you.” Winston smirked. “I’m just saying the truth.”
Mom huffed under her breath, setting her glass down. “I’m going to check on Markus.”
The room was tense as she went, in a rush to get out of there before she got upset. I felt guilty watching her go, knowing this was probably hardest on her and Dad. It would have been easier for everyone if we could all just get along. And it pissed me off knowing that Winston, who instigated every time, was probably the only one who didn’t feel bad.
“You’re being fucking rude.” Zach said, breaking the silence once she was gone. We all looked at him, tempered for the time being. “If you want to hang around and have a civil conversation with any of us, feel free to stay, but I know Mom and Dad are too nice to say it to your face, so I’ll say it for them: if you’re going to keep being like that, then just get out.”
“Be like what—”
“You know.” Zach leveled him with a steady, challenging glare.
“Zach,” Winston sighed. “Fuck off, okay. I didn’t ask—”
“Yeah, just like nobody asked for your opinion,” Zach asserted.
“Zach, it’s fine,” I tried to cut in.
“No, it’s not fine.” Dom frowned at me. “You just won’t say anything to him.”
“I’m not arguing with Mom around.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Zach said, looking pointedly at Winston.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked. “Apologize? For what?”
Winston had the self-destructive nerve to laugh, which was exactly the wrong thing to do with Zach and Dom around. Even Beth was pissed enough to shake her head and mutter something barbed under her breath, which caught Winston’s attention.
“What was that, Bethie?” he asked, head cocking. “Wanna speak up for the room?”
“Don’t fucking talk to her like that,” Dom said, standing. “She’s not a dog—”
“What’s with you and Isaac butting into other people’s conversations?” Winston snapped.
“That’s it.” Zach took the challenging step forward. “Give me your glass and get the hell out of here, Winston. Now.”
Winston wasn’t stupid. He looked around the room, surveying the scene: he wasn’t small by any means—he kept in physical shape—but Dom was an auto mechanic with bikers for friends and Zach was an ex-Navy SEAL. Robert and I were there, too, as backup, and we all knew Beth could scrap if she needed to. The odds weren’t particularly in his favor.
Winston huffed, lips pulling into a bitter smile.
The room was tense. His footsteps were the noisiest thing in the room as he drained his glass and set it in the sink, tossing me a careless wink as he plucked his jacket up off the counter.
“Good luck with Adrian,” he said, all condescension. “I’m sure you’ll need it.”
Zach shoved him towards the door, hand on his back, but annoying as ever, he smiled like it didn’t even bother him. It was the last thing we saw as he made for the door with a careless wave over his shoulder.
“Tell Mom I said I’m sorry to miss dinner.”
We all waited in silence for the door to shut: confirmation that he was gone.
“Wow,” Robert huffed, looking at Dom. “What a prick.”
I let out a sigh, capping the carafe.
Zach laughed and shoved the cookie tin away. “You have no idea.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Beth said, hand on my arm. “Seriously, he’s such a dick.”
“Yeah.” I rolled my shoulders. “Yeah, I know.”
“We mean it,” Zach agreed. “If you had fun with Adrian, just… let yourself enjoy it. You’ve been under a lot of stress lately, man. If anyone deserves to just have something fun and easy right now, it’s you.”
“He’s right, though,” I said, feeling the anxiety curling through me, doubts casted.
I thought of Adrian and how nice and simple last night had seemed—but Winston was right. There would either be feelings, or it would fizzle out. Already I was feeling something for him. Interest. Affection. I didn’t know how to label it, but it was something.
“He’s not, though.” Dom nodded to me. “There’s nothing wrong with havin
g feelings for Adrian, dude. Just go with it.”
“Right.”
“Right,” Zach echoed, gripping my shoulder. I looked at him, his blue eyes all serious and imploring. “Tonight’s family night. Don’t even think about it. And forget about what Winston said. Say it with me: fuck Winston.”
He nodded.
Together, slowly, we said: “Fuck, Winston.”
“Nice.” Robert laughed and waved to us. “Come on. We’re playing Bullshit next. We’ll deal you guys in.”
Zach went and grabbed a seat, but I waved to them to go on without me.
“Can’t. I’m Beth’s kitchen wench, remember?”
It got a laugh and did well enough in making them move on, the cards dealt as I slid up to Beth at the stove, checking pots, somehow able to organize her thoughts in the midst of her culinary chaos as she asked me about the bike I was working on, some old Harley Sportster that had been giving me all sorts of trouble since I’d gotten it five years ago. Bit by bit, I was piecing it back together, the process almost complete.
I told her as much before asking, “I just wanted to talk to you about work quick. The business loans—”
“Victor, I love you, but maybe now isn’t the best time?” She glanced up at me, apologetic but firm. “Family dinners are kinda sacred and we haven’t had one in a long time, so we can talk about it tomorrow at the office, okay?”
“Okay.”
My thoughts were a tangled mess of things: emotions and Winston and Adrian and work, money and the distillery, tattoos and arching backs, evil brothers and family feuds. It must have shown on my face. I was brought back to Earth by the sound of Beth’s muffled laughter.
“What?” I asked, meeting her light gaze. “What?”
“Nothing,” she chuckled. “You need to relax.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“That’s the funniest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“I’m relaxed,” I repeated, gesturing to my lemonade. “See? I’ve got a nice fruity drink. I’m the damn poster boy for relaxation.”
She snorted and passed me the wooden spoon. “Keep stirring this for me, would you?”
I did so as she checked the baked chicken, the smell of whatever spices she’d loaded onto them wafting up in one delicious wave. My mouth started watering. I’d almost forgotten how good a cook she could be.
