by T. J. Klune
“You are going to get us arrested,” Otter snarls at me. “Your little brother’s boyfriend is going to come here and arrest us.”
“That would be the worst thing that’s ever happened,” I tell him. “So, you should probably fuck me as soon as we get inside in case we don’t have a lot of time.”
He makes another strangled noise before he swipes the key card against the door. It beeps, a green light flashing, and he shoves the door open before he jerks me inside and slams it behind us.
“Holy shit,” we both say at the same time.
Because the room is huge. They weren’t kidding when they said we had a suite. The doorway opens up to a large room with two overstuffed couches and a TV that might be bigger than every TV I’ve owned combined. A few stairs lead down to a lower floor where a king-sized bed sits. There is a row of windows that leads out to a balcony that overlooks the Pacific Ocean, lights twinkling on boats, stars bright overhead.
“Can we afford this?” I demand. “We’re about to have twins.”
“It’s fine,” Otter says. “Remember how we get points on the card for this kind of thing?”
“Fuck me,” I whisper. “You are such a dad. Why is that suddenly a thing for me?”
He grins over at me, the green and gold in his eyes darkening a little. “Yeah? That’s a thing? Daddy space cowboy?” He grimaces. “That came out sounding creepier than I meant it to.”
“I’m not going to call you Daddy.”
“You kind of already do.”
“Not like that. That would make it weird.”
“Yeah, because role-playing lounge singer and astronaut leaving for Mars isn’t already weird,” he says, completely deadpan.
“We have to keep the spark alive! Anna says—”
He frowns. “What a minute. What do you mean Anna says? Is that—of course that’s where this came from.”
He pushes by me and heads into the living room. He takes off his suit coat and lays it on the back of one of the couches. He turns back to face me, arms going across his chest again. It’s really a magnificent sight, except for the fact that he seems a little annoyed.
“What?”
“We’re not Anna and Creed,” he tells me.
“I know. We’re John Smith and Valentino—”
“Stop,” he says, cutting me off. “Listen. Just for a minute, okay?”
“Okay,” I say weakly.
He shakes his head and huffs out a little breath. “We’re not them. Okay? And whatever Anna told you should give you no reason to worry.”
“But they….” I sigh and look down at my hands. “She asked me when the last time we had sex was, and I really couldn’t remember.”
“We’ve had a lot on our plates,” Otter says quietly. “Things have happened very quickly.”
“I know that. But it worried me a little.”
“It shouldn’t,” Otter says, dropping his arms. “Just because Anna and Creed hit a rough patch and went to therapy—”
“How did you know that?”
“Creed told me.”
“He did? That asshole didn’t say a damn thing to me!”
“Because he knew how you’d react,” Otter says wryly.
“I wouldn’t react—”
“Tobias and Trixie.”
“Okay, maybe I would, but that doesn’t mean he can’t share shit like that with me.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think I was supposed to know. I overheard him making an appointment on the phone and asked him about it. He wasn’t trying to keep anything from you, just like I wasn’t. It was between them, and it’s helped them. They’re getting back to where they need to be.”
“But—you can’t think that—”
“We haven’t lost anything, Bear.” Otter takes a step toward me. “I want you to listen to me, okay? Can you do that?”
“Yeah,” I say, suddenly nervous for reasons I can’t quite explain.
“I love you,” he says. “And even better than that, I like you. I like most everything about you. There is no one else that I would rather spend my entire life with. We’re busy these days, and sometimes we forget to make time for each other, but that’s okay, because we can fix that. But we haven’t lost our spark. I want you just as much as I did when I kissed you for the very first time. More, even. And I think you feel exactly the same way.”
I nod, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.
He’s standing in front of me, and he puts two fingers under my chin, raising my head until I’m looking into his eyes. “I am going to love you forever,” he says quietly. “Because that’s what I want. And if you want to do all of this, all this elaborate whatever, then that’s what we’ll do. Or if you just want to stay at home and make out on the couch, we can do that too. What you want is important to me, Bear. And you can tell me, always. I know it can be tough sometimes, and you’ll probably piss me off, or I’ll make you mad, but we’re a team, okay? Never forget that. We’re a team, and no matter what happens, I’m always going to have your back. For everything.”
I blink away the burn. “You’re pretty good at that. Words and stuff.”
“Words and stuff,” he repeats. “Thanks? I think.”
“Just—I got a little scared.”
“I know you did.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“I know that too. You just get stuck in your head, sometimes.”
“Understatement,” I mutter, leaning over and putting my head onto his shoulder. “I just didn’t want—I can’t lose you.”
“You won’t,” he says, a big hand on the back of my neck, squeezing gently.
“Promise?”
“Yeah, Bear. I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
He laughs, and I can feel it vibrating in his chest. “Good. Now. Should I still be your space cowboy one-night stand, or can I be your husband who loves you very, very much?”
I pretend to think on it. “Which one will get me fucked into the mattress?”
“Eh. Probably space cowboy. But your husband already knows all the best tricks. John Smith sounds like he’d be selfish about it. He learned it from his dad.”
“Poor Pocahontas.”
“Poor Pocahontas,” he agrees, and it hits me now that I have this man, this idiot in front of me who loves me enough to go along with my stupidity. Who allows me to do all these things that make no sense but enjoys the ride anyway. I’m lucky that way, because not everyone will find that. Not everyone will ever get to have what I have. Because it might be foolish to think that we’ll have this forever. People change. Feelings change. But I believe him when he says it, and no voice in my head arguing to the contrary will convince me otherwise. We’re solid. We’re good. And if there comes a day when we’re not, we’ll fix it.
I lift my head. “We might have to become one of those couples who schedule sex.”
He shrugs. “So we schedule sex. As long as we’re doing it together, that’s fine.”
I frown. “That—because we’d be doing sex… apart?”
He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean, you ass. Speaking of.” He runs his hands down my back and gropes me.
“That was terrible.”
“Or was it funny.”
“You are such a dad.”
“Is this where I ask you if you’re my good boy?” he asks, and okay, maybe I shudder a little at that, my hips jerking forward.
His eyes are wide.
So are mine, because what.
And then we’re kissing, and it’s messy and wet, and his tongue goes on my chin, and our teeth are knocking together because I’m trying to climb him like a goddamn tree. He grunts against my mouth, and he’s lifting me up, my legs wrapping around his waist. I’m grinding onto him, and—
“Is your leg okay?” I gasp as he bites my neck.
“S’fine,” he says, voice muffled.
“Because you know how it gets before it rains, and I read it
was going to rain—”
“I took some Advil. It’s fine—”
“Oh my god,” I choke out. “You’re so old now, we’re talking about your leg that hurts when it rains—”
“No,” he says, squeezing my ass. “You’re the one talking about my leg after I called you my good boy—”
“Ungh,” I say, going slack in his arms.
“How the hell did we not know that was a thing?” he demands, carrying me toward the bed. He’s down the stairs quickly, and I am trying to unbuckle his belt so I can get my hands inside—
He drops me on the bed.
I glare up at him as I bounce.
He’s panting a little.
“Take off your clothes,” I snap up at him.
“You take off your clothes,” he retorts, but he’s unbuttoning his dress shirt frantically, practically choking himself on his tie.
But that’s okay, because I’m pretty much doing the same. I’m trying to get my own shirt unbuttoned, and I’m fumbling with it, and Otter groans above me before he leans down and just jerks it open, buttons flying, hitting the wall before they clack on the floor.
I gape up at him.
He looks just as shocked.
“That was so fucking hot,” I breathe. “I don’t even care that this was my favorite shirt. Get down here and sex me up, Otter Thompson. I swear to god.”
His shirt goes one way, his undershirt goes another. His pants are down around his ankles, and he’s kicking them off. A shoe flies against the window, bounces off, and lands on the floor. He’s wearing these ridiculously tight black briefs underneath, cut high up on the thigh, and I just stare.
He’s always been proud of his body, even if he tries to deny it. He’s always been big and strong, muscles cut in his chest and stomach, biceps large, legs thick. And he’s still that way, mostly. But now, for some reason I can’t quite explain, he’s better. Yes, his arms are still big and his thighs still chunky, but he’s gotten softer in his stomach, and maybe he’s got a little spare tire going on. And fuck me, it’s hot. His chest is hairy, and there are some grays mixed in, and maybe the hair on his head isn’t as thick as it used to be, but he’s gorgeous to me, better than he’s ever looked. I know he’s struggled with it a little, the whole idea of aging, but seeing him as he is now, tall and strong and real, his dick hard in his ridiculous underwear, I can’t help but think that this Otter is the best Otter there has ever been.
“Okay?” he asks, arching an eyebrow at me, but I can see he’s a little nervous, and it has been a long time since we’ve been like this, just the two of us, not worrying about what’s going on in the Green Monstrosity or what’s coming just a couple of months from now. We’re not building another set of drawers or buying another mobile. We’re not putting more decals on the wall of clouds. We’re just him and me. Bear and Otter.
“Better than okay,” I tell him. “I just—I’m pretty sure I could blow right now just watching you.”
He rolls his eyes, but I can tell he’s pleased by that. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You look so good.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“Yeah, because that sounds like me.”
“A little.”
“Well. Not now. Can you sex me now? Please?”
And he grins at me, that crooked smile I know better than almost anything else. He reaches down and slides off my dress shoes one by one, dropping them to the floor. He pulls off my socks, tossing them over his shoulder as I laugh. My feet are ticklish, and he always tries to fuck with me about it. He lifts both my legs up and tugs on the bottom of my dress pants. I raise my hips and let him pull them off. I take off my shirt and toss it over the side of the bed.
And then he’s crawling on the bed, arms on either side of me, and he kisses my stomach, my hip, before he leans up and bites my nipples, first the right and then the left, the barest scrapes of his teeth that causes goose bumps to crawl along my chest and arms.
He’s above me now, and he’s looking down at me, like he’s studying my face. I wonder, sometimes, what he thinks about when he sees me, if I make his heart stutter or his breath catch in his chest like he does for me. I think I do.
“Such a good boy,” he says quietly, and fuck, I hate how that’s an apparent weakness of mine, and the sound that comes out of my mouth then is low and painful.
“You can’t keep doing that,” I growl at him.
“Oh? I think I can.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
He grimaces. “That’s… wow. That’s not good.”
And then he’s laughing, and I’m laughing, and it’s such a grand thing, being almost naked with my best friend who I also happen to be married to. It’s so good that we’ve gotten this far, that after everything, we’re here, we’re together, and we’re living. And it’s when his mouth is on me, cheeks hollowing, my eyes rolling back in my head that I send up a little quiet thank you to whoever or whatever might be listening that this is mine, that I get to have this. Because there was a time when that wasn’t a sure thing.
It’s when he’s hiking my legs up around his shoulders after having dug the lube out of his pocket, when he’s grunting as he fucks into me, his forehead sweating, whispering my name against my neck, almost bending me in half, that I know how close it could have been. My hands are running down his broad back as I call out his name, and they’re on his hips, and then his legs that are curled underneath him, and I trace along the jagged scar there, knowing there’s metal underneath. It was close. It was so close.
He’s telling me he loves me, that he’s always loved me, and his thrusts are becoming more erratic, and there’s this fire in my stomach, and it’s burning. I start to jerk myself off, but he bats my hand away and does it himself. He fucks into me once, twice more before I’m coming with a shout between us, spunk warm and sticky on his chest and my chest.
The cords in his neck are standing out as he groans, “Bear,” and his hips still, pressed firmly against me, his shoulders shaking, breathing, breathing, breathing harshly near my ear.
And then he collapses on top of me, sweaty and sated.
We’re both panting, unable to speak, but I’m rubbing his back, and he’s kissing my neck again and again.
Finally, he says, “My good boy,” and I pinch his sides, and he’s laughing again, bright and vibrant and mine.
LATER, WE toss the comforter on the floor, and I’m feeling a little bad for the cleaning staff because it’s gross, but it’s probably not the worst thing they’ve ever had to deal with. Otter’s gotten a cloth from the bathroom, and it’s warm as he’s washing my ass. I sigh at the soft touch, and then he throws it on the comforter and collapses at my side, a thick thigh resting on top of my legs, his arm thrown over my stomach. His face is on my pillow, and as I turn my head, our noses brush together. The light is low in the room, but I can make out his face, his heavy-lidded eyes.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey, yourself,” I say back.
And that’s it, at least for a little while. We’re content to just be. It’s quiet aside from the air-conditioning switching on and off and the sounds of the waves through the open sliding door. I’m tired but not ready to sleep. I ache, but it’s pleasant. My mind is calm for the most part.
Then, “Valentino Valentine? Really, Bear?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re just jealous because the best you could come up with was John Smith.”
“I don’t think jealous is the right word. Try appalled.”
“You were a space cowboy. You don’t have any room to talk, John.”
“That’s Commander John to you, I’ll have you know.”
He laughs as I pull his arm from my chest to my mouth and bite his wrist. I let him go after a moment, and his hand is on my face with a strong grip, turning me toward him. He kisses me, long and sweet, and I sigh against his mouth.
He settles again, his weight heavy and comforting.
“We didn’t have to do this,” he s
ays. “I would have been fine at home.”
“I know.”
“But I’m glad we did.”
“Yeah?”
He shrugs. “S’nice. Just being with you. You know that.”
“Helps to hear.”
He frowns. “Don’t I tell you that enough?”
“Hey, hey, now. That’s not—I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just—an idea I got in my head, that we hadn’t been just us for a long time. And I… I wanted to do something. For me and you. Not for anyone else. It’s not anything you did. It’s on me, if anything.”
“We’re not Anna and Creed,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
“But even if a problem did come up, we’d work through it. Just like we always do.”
“I know that too.”
“Good.”
I hesitate. Then, “Do you think they’ll be okay?”
“I think so. They both want it bad enough, and they’re working for it. Which means they love each other just as much as they always have. I think they’ll be fine. But if they’re not, we’ll deal with that too.”
I groan. “We’ll have to be those people that will have to decide who we’re going to hang out with and not tell the other one about it. But then they’ll find out anyway and make me feel guilty for being a bad friend. They can’t divorce, because it’ll inconvenience me. Oh, and also their whole family, but whatever.”
“Your heart is so big.”
“Right? I care too much.”
He grabs my wrist and tugs as he starts to roll away from me. I know what he wants, and I find it ridiculously endearing. For how big and intimidating he is, for how strong and protective, there is nothing Oliver Thompson loves more than to be spooned after sex. The fact that he’s lasted ten whole minutes is frankly a miracle, but since it’s pretty fucking awesome, you don’t hear me complaining about it.
It’s practiced, this. It’s one of those secrets of those who’ve been together for a long time. I know his body, every scar and freckle. I know the twist of his muscles, the way the hair on his chest and stomach feels underneath my touch. I know the way his hand fits into mine, his fingers thick and blunt and soft from that overpriced lotion he insists on using.
