by Aiden Bates
“What if I prefer to watch Bake-Off in my towel?”
“Oh, is that the dress code? Bring me a towel and I’ll comply.” Gunnar wiggled his eyebrows, and then dropped onto the couch and kicked his feet up onto my desk chair.
“No way,” I said. “B-Y-O-T. Remember that for next time.”
I fished clean clothes out of my dresser and slipped into the bathroom to change as Gunnar laughed warmly.
I pulled on a soft pair of sweatpants and a thin t-shirt—one of Pops’ old shirts that no longer fit in him in his old age. It had an old version of the Hell’s Ankhor logo screen-printed on the front, just the anchor with the top of the ankh, no flames at the base as there were now. It had been printed by hand by Dad and Pops themselves in the earliest days of the club.
Gunnar had said he wanted me to have my own life. But didn’t he know the club was my life? I hadn’t been forced into it. I chose it, same as he did, even when I felt a little out of place or wanted to prove that I could handle things on my own.
When I was in college, I’d had plenty of opportunities to cut ties with the club. I turned down a finance tech job in New York and an IT security job in London. I’d had a handful of relationships and a wide circle of friends. I’d fit in fine, but I couldn’t connect—not really. There was always a club-shaped hole in my heart. And the people I hung around with couldn’t understand what it meant to be a part of a club like Hell’s Ankhor. How could I explain to a citizen the brotherhood, the devotion, the intensity, and the pure wild fun of it?
Did Gunnar think I was just in the club because I didn’t know any different? Or that I was simply biding my time until something “better” came along, and then I’d gleefully ditch my family?
I’d experienced life without the club, and I’d found it lacking. I’d thought that when I returned to the club, older and more experienced, Gunnar would see me as his equal. I’d hoped he’d stop pretending he didn’t want me, and we could finally act on the thing that had started simmering between us before I’d left.
But he hadn’t. And I’d spent years trying to get over him. And now, here he was, in my room, telling me he wanted me.
Part of me didn’t believe it was real. Perhaps he’d turned on the charm like he did for all the people he’d seduced over the years. And as soon as he wasn’t required to be my security detail, he’d change his mind again. If I let him get close—if I got attached, and he pulled away again—didn’t know how I’d recover.
But I’d deal with that when it happened. I was a Hell’s Ankhor senior member. Ankh’s son. Tough as nails. Resilient as leather. And right now I was going to sit on the couch with the man I’d pined after for so long and watch television and enjoy it.
I stepped out of the bathroom and sat on the loveseat next to Gunnar. The couch was small enough that we each had to press into the arms of it to keep a small amount of space between us.
I swatted Gunnar’s legs off my chair. “That’s not an ottoman.”
“Hey,” Gunnar said, frowning at my shirt. “What’s that? I’ve never seen gear like that.”
I smoothed the shirt, the screen-printed pattern rough on my palms. “Special edition. High-ranking members only.”
“Oh, I see. I’m not worthy?”
“Not yet.” I turned slightly so he could see it. “It’s not legit. It’s one of the early versions from when Dad and Pops were still designing.”
“So you’re club historian now, too?” Gunnar flicked his gaze up to meet mine. “You’re full of surprises.”
My cheeks burned. I tore my gaze away and fiddled with my phone, pulling up the show and playing it remotely on my desktop.
“This is quite the setup,” Gunnar said.
“It works,” I said.
“I don’t understand how.”
“You don’t have to.”
Gunnar paused. “There’s a lot about you I don’t understand.”
I shifted on the loveseat just enough so our thighs touched. Even through the layers of clothes, the contact thrilled me. I kept my eyes on my phone.
“You don’t have to,” I said again.
Gunnar hummed thoughtfully. Then the show started, the theme song blaring loud enough to rattle us out of the tense moment.
“I’m on episode three of the new season,” I said. “If you were wondering.”
“Oh, bread week,” Gunnar said. “I’m not caught up. Have they done biscuits yet?”
I gaped at him. “Excuse me?”
“What?” Gunnar’s cheeks colored slightly. “It’s relaxing!”
“I’m not the only one full of surprises,” I said.
The episode started. As the hour-long program continued, Gunnar relaxed minutely next to me, sinking deeper into the loveseat, our legs pressing together.
“That’s over-proved,” he commented at the screen as one of the contestants set their bread dough on the counter. “Gonna ruin the texture of the brioche. Rookie mistake.”
Never in my life had I considered that Gunnar might know something about how long a brioche dough needed to rise. It was enough to make me wonder what else I didn’t know about him—what other parts of him were performance, and what other facets of his personality I could unearth. I’d known him for so long—but did I really know him?
I’d forgotten to put on socks, and so I pulled my feet into the couch and tucked them under me, and leaned closer to Gunnar. He was solid and warm against me, soothing my nerves.
God, it was intoxicating. He smelled like cheap soap, unscented deodorant, and sweat—his sweat, a rich, musky scent that made me want to press my face into his nape and inhale.
Eventually, I leaned all my weight on him, awkwardly pressed against his shoulder. Gunnar shifted slightly and raised his arm, wrapping it around me so I could lean more comfortably against him.
“That okay?” he asked, super-extra-casual, which meant it wasn’t casual at all.
“Yeah,” I murmured. If I relaxed fully, I could probably fall asleep.
This version of Gunnar, this relaxed, warm, open guy whose attention was half on a baking competition show and half on me, was a lot better than the uptight, aggressive sergeant I’d gotten used to dealing with. He reminded more of the guy who’d been a friend to vent to in confidence when Dad and Pops were driving me crazy. Of the guy who taught me to throw a punch and disarm a knife. The guy whose steady, strong demeanor I’d been able to rely on during my craziest teen days.
Maybe I shouldn’t have turned down his offer to jump into bed so quickly. This was nice—really nice—and the longer I spent pressed against him, the closer I wanted to get. I wanted to feel his bare skin on mine. I wanted to feel his muscular body pinning me down again. I hadn’t been this close to Gunnar since our one night together, and I’d still been recovering then. My hands itched to touch him more now.
As the episode wound down, my gaze drifted away from the screen. Gunnar’s legs were long and strong in his jeans, kicked out in front of him casually and crossed at the ankle. His t-shirt was soft and loose on his body, his breaths slow and relaxed. The tattoo of the Hell’s Ankhor logo was clear but slightly faded on the side of his neck, immense and gorgeous, proof that he’d never abandon the club.
He really was strikingly handsome. Over the years I’d trained myself not to think about it, but now, with his arm around me, I let myself admire the strong, square line of his jaw and aquiline nose. His blond hair, always cropped short, had grown out just enough to reveal a slight curl above his cauliflower ears.
Gunnar fidgeted under my stare and finally met my gaze. “What are you looking at?”
I reached up and ran my forefinger gently over the shell of his ear where it was swollen and deformed. “I never noticed how bad your ears are.”
“Oh, thanks,” Gunnar said, low and teasing. “It’s from being punched.”
“Just proves you’re good at your job,” I said. “That you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty.”
Our faces were
close together, close enough that Gunnar’s breath was on my lips as he exhaled, his expression softening. “I get them too dirty.” His brow furrowed deeply, suddenly. “I’m not—”
I cut him off with a kiss.
The world seemed to careen suddenly to a stop, like slamming the brakes on my bike and skidding out. Controlled and shocking stillness.
Gunnar cradled my jaw with his free hand, his other arm still wrapped around my shoulders, guiding me to deepen the kiss. I pressed as close as I could, wrestling a confusing desire to crawl on him, over him, to get as close as physically possible. I choked off a moan—I couldn’t help it. This was even better than it was in my fantasies; everything about Gunnar seemed to be better than it was in my fantasies. His mouth was so hot and demanding, kissing me as if he needed it more than breathing.
He hummed into the kiss, and then he pushed me backward, and I moved easily beneath him. It was awkward on the tiny loveseat, a tangle of limbs, my head on the arm of the sofa and our legs half-on and half-off the cushions. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was his mouth on mine, his warm callused hand combing through my hair, his hips pushing down on me.
God, I just went to pieces beneath him. I squirmed on the loveseat because I wanted him to stop me from moving—wanted to feel his physical strength. I skated my hands across his back, and then dared to slide my hands under the hem of his shirt. I pressed my palms to the warm skin of his lower back. My fingertips dipped beneath the waistband of his jeans but went no further. He kissed me and kissed me, passion without pause.
“Fucking hell, Raven,” Gunnar murmured, his voice wrecked like he’d just chain-smoked a pack of cigarettes. He pulled back enough to meet my gaze, and his expression was unreadable, shifting, and his lips were slightly swollen. He touched my hair again where it was damp from my shower and now from sweat, and his gaze darted over my face greedily like he wanted to memorize it.
I murmured his name, and then arched up to kiss him again. I shifted my body and pushed my hips up to meet his. Our legs tangled and his thigh slid between my legs, and I couldn’t help but thrust forward. My cock was so hard in my sweatpants, unmistakable, and I gasped at the bolt of pleasure that shot through me. I was desperate for more—more contact, more Gunnar—and I jerked against him.
Then suddenly he was off me, across the room as fast as a dog who’d just run into an electric fence.
“Sorry.” He exhaled hard. “We should slow down.”
I blinked slowly at him. My brain needed a little time to catch up. He was trying to use words to communicate when all I wanted was more of his mouth and his hands. “Huh?”
Gunnar stared at me. I was lying on the loveseat, my head on the arm, one foot on the floor and one leg kicked onto the other arm. My erection was clearly visible where I was sprawled out, and Gunnar stared at it for a long moment, his mouth slightly open. Then with visible effort, he looked towards the ceiling and scrubbed his hands over his face.
“I got carried away,” he said. “We should slow down. You’re right. I don’t want to push you.”
I had said no earlier. That much was true. And if he hadn’t stopped the kiss, I certainly wouldn’t have. I didn’t know how far we would’ve gone, and I didn’t know if I would’ve regretted it. I’d wanted to wait, to make sure Gunnar wasn’t just in this for the night. I wanted to be sure he was in it for the long haul.
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay,” Gunnar repeated, apparently mollified. “I’m going to, uh, go. To my room. And shower. Before we have to… I don’t know. I think there’s a meeting.”
“Sure,” I said. My mind still felt like it was working at half-speed. Like this was all a dream I was bound to wake up from.
Gunnar stepped forward and leaned over me, kissing me briefly, almost chastely, and then slipped out the door.
Lying on the loveseat, I lingered in a daze of confusion and arousal. On my computer screen, the Bake-Off credits rolled merrily as the streaming service threatened to start a new episode. I let it begin, the familiar noise soothing me as I stared at the ceiling. I had never thought of Gunnar as the type to put the brakes on. I thought he’d take what he wanted, regardless of the consequences. That was how he gave me that blowjob when I was recovering. That was how he operated with all his previous hookups, as far as I could tell.
Maybe he didn’t think of this as a hookup. Maybe it was more than that.
That little spark of hope jumped in my chest again, and this time I didn’t try to tamp it down.
That didn’t change the fact that I was half-delirious with arousal, though. Next time. There’d be a next time. He wouldn’t have left the way he did if he didn’t think there’d be a next time.
Right?
I sighed and touched my lower lip, remembering the pressure of his mouth on mine and the sharp edge of teeth in his hungry kiss. Next time I’d take what my body wanted and let my heart catch up after.
16
Gunnar
I stumbled into my bedroom, thankfully undisturbed by any other club members. My blood felt like it had been lit aflame in my veins, and my cock was painfully hard in my tight jeans. I fell onto my bed, flat on my back, and palmed my hard-on through the denim.
God. It wasn’t nearly as good as Raven’s slim leg between mine. Or as good as the feeling of his erection pressing against my leg as he rutted against me unselfconsciously. He was so gorgeous beneath me, his pale skin flushed pink as he moved beneath me, constantly wiggling like he had stores and stores of pent-up energy.
And he’d kissed me.
I’d let him. I hadn’t pulled away.
I’d wanted it.
Did he know how few people I’d kissed? Did he know how new this was for me? I hadn’t made out like that since I was a teenager. And somehow, that clothed, juvenile make-out session had gotten me harder, more worked up, than any hookup I’d had in years.
Kissing Raven had awoken something in me. When I looked back on my hookups now, they all felt—perfunctory. I had been going through the motions for a hit of pleasure. And sure, they’d been enjoyable, fun even, but nothing like this. Nothing like this electric attraction I felt for Raven.
I ripped my jeans open just enough to get my cock out. With a sigh of relief, I fisted myself once, twice, enough to take the desperate edge off.
I’d stopped our tryst as soon as his hard cock had pressed against my leg, because I knew I only had so much willpower. Had it gone any further, I didn’t trust myself to stop. The man I’d craved for years had been lying beneath me, willing and ready to give me probably whatever I wanted—honestly, I was proud of myself for stopping it when I did.
And that was the right decision for both of us. This had to be on Raven’s terms, whatever it was. I wouldn’t push him into anything he wasn’t ready for. And I wouldn’t let him push his own boundaries in an attempt to prove himself to me. We’d go slow. I was fine with that. Slow was good. I just had to keep repeating that to myself whenever I got frustrated.
In the privacy of my own room, though, I let myself imagine what might have happened if we hadn’t stopped.
I jerked myself slowly, smearing precum down my shaft. I would’ve gathered his slim body in my arms and deposited him on the bed. He’d have laughed warmly and pulled me on top of him. I ached to hear his quiet, barely there laugh now—wanted it like a strong drink after a hard day. He’d been so focused and gloomy for so long that seeing him smile beneath me had sparked a flame deep inside me.
If we’d continued, I’d want to keep hearing it, so I’d drop kisses on his neck and collarbone, and I’d slide my hands under his shirt. (Shouldn’t have told him to put on clothes before we sat down to watch Bake-Off together. Learned my lesson.) He’d be deliciously responsive beneath me, moaning and shifting under my hands.
I stroked my cock faster and tightened my grip. I imagined Raven spread out on the bed beneath me, naked now, all that pale skin on display, his cock hard against his belly. His cock had tasted so
good in my mouth when I’d given him that blowjob, and he’d gone so crazy for it—I wanted to see how many other ways I could make him come.
In this fantasy, it was simple. It’d just be his body pressed against mine. Tangled together in the sheets, I’d kiss him deeply and thrust my bare cock against his, and the heat and pressure of it would make him moan and drag his nails down my back.
My orgasm built inside me. I pushed my heels into the mattress and thrusted my hips to meet my hand. I imagined Raven coming against me—he was so sensitive, the kissing and the intoxicating contact would be enough to drive him over the edge. He’d gasp into my mouth, a sweet sound, and tense in my arms as he came.
I exhaled hard and came harder. My orgasm bowled me over and left me exhausted, like I’d just gone a few rounds with a guy twice my size. I melted into the mattress, slowing my breaths to slow my pounding heart.
I felt like I was a decade younger than I was. Like I was discovering sex for the first time. In a way it was unnerving.
We hadn’t even taken our clothes off together, and already it was better than any of the one-night stands I’d had with club hang-arounds. I hadn’t known it could be this good.
If I could have something even better than this—how would I stand to let it go?
The thought swept away my post-orgasmic dreamy haze. I sat up, cleaned up, and changed out of my sweaty clothes.
No point in worrying about that now. Regardless of my personal feelings about Raven, I was still his personal protective duty until we got all this shit with the Vipers sorted out. Whatever was going on between us couldn’t overshadow that.
Over the next three days, Raven and I didn’t talk about what had happened between us—not really.
But since I was still on protective duty, we spent all our time together. It was surprisingly easy to fall into a rhythm with him. I guessed our first official make-out session had taken the edge off our relationship, in a way that the blowjob hadn’t. Raven seemed calmer, more at peace—had my behavior been bothering him that much? Had the space I’d put between us really been driving him that crazy?
