by Anyta Sunday
“Quinn, I really do have too much to do—” I looked up, and Quinn was gone.
A shuffle came from under the table.
A hand latched around my foot, and a hot wet mouth engulfed my toe . . .
Wednesday morning, before Quinn, Hunter, and Shannon left for their Thanksgiving weekend, I stole Hunter away for a quick coffee. We met at our usual spot, Crazy Mocha Coffee.
“You sure you’re not coming back with us?” Hunter asked, arms folded, the hummingbirds at his wrists peeking out from under his cuffs.
“Not this time,” I said, picking up my bag and searching for my first draft on how the internet and mass media support student involvement in environmental protection. The printed pages were a smooth weight in my hands, and I slid them over to Hunter.
“Would you do something for me?”
“Why not this time?”
I gestured to the pages. “This needs rewriting in parts. After you’ve read it, give me your honest thoughts.”
Hunter raised a brow. I added, “Would you mind?”
Hunter glanced at the title and scanned the first page, and then he rested it on the table again. “I can tell you my honest thoughts on this already.”
He’d barely read a quarter of it. I sank lower into my chair. I’d listen to the criticism, let it soak in, and then do whatever was necessary to strengthen it over the long weekend. “Go ahead.”
His index finger played at the top corner of the pages, bowing the paper. “It’s smart as hell, but I think you should write about something else.”
A dry laugh left me hollow. He was kidding. Had to be. This was a feature article—correction, the feature article. I couldn’t whip up anything with the quality I needed in only a week. Not if I wanted to do the proper research and interviews—no one was around this weekend. It’d leave me only Monday to Thursday, with Friday to write it.
Then again, that was the world of journalism. Tight deadlines and the pressure to make every report perfect. I could do it. Of course I could.
So long as I had an angle worth exploring.
Tentatively, shifting in my seat, I asked, “What, exactly?”
He scratched his upper arm, sleeve shifting to show the wings of the turquoise hummingbird at his wrist. With a tap of his fingers on the arm of his chair, he said, “Write about me.”
I leaned in to comment, and he held up his hand.
“Let me finish. Not about me, per se, but about my experience. Experiences in general in the dating world as a differently-abled guy. Loads of guys on my basketball team would be open to talking to you about their relationships, successes and failures. Most are gonna be level with you. They’ll tell you all of it. The obvious. The downright scandalous.”
I slid my hand into my pocket, gripping the shaft of my pen, my finger touching the top. Click. Click.
He continued, “You could make us more approachable, Liam. So many people are afraid of dating us, afraid of saying the wrong thing—afraid of even telling us if they like us because they just don’t know enough. Your readership is wide, man, and I think your writing will have just the right amount of punch to make an impact.”
Hunter held my attention with his level stare and a shrug. Click-click-click.
The paper was stained and dented, scrunched at one side. It looked as old and tired as the idea I was forcing onto it.
He was right. The truth didn’t taste pleasant on my tongue, but it was there nevertheless. And hadn’t I in some way wondered the same myself? Why else had I such an urge to show this to Hunter?
I’d wanted his no-bullshit analysis.
And I got it. More than that, I got a new idea. A brilliant idea, wonderful, and I really wanted to do it. But Quinn intensely disliked it and gave me the cold shoulder when I had tried to use him as an angle before. “I want to do it,” I said to Hunter. “But Quinn wouldn’t want me using you as a means.”
Hunter smiled and shrugged. “You’re not using me. And even if you were, I know what this features position means to you. I would look the other way. Quinn would too. The question is, does Quinn know why you really need this?”
The café door opened and Quinn entered, Shannon at his heels. Shannon moved stiffly to the counter, and Quinn flipped his keys over his finger as he threaded his way to our table, a dimpled grin lighting his face. “Thought I might find you two in here.”
Quinn, between Hunter and I, braced a hand on the back of my chair. His thumb casually stroked my back as he told Hunter he should drive his van around to the apartment so they could follow each other.
“Louisville, Kentucky, here we come,” Hunter murmured, glancing toward Shannon balancing two drinks. “So,” he said, “maybe we could change things up? When Shannon or you are driving, one of you could sit with me in the van, right?”
“Miss us already, do you? Or did you want to pry for information about the guy who asked her out on a date?”
“The latter for sure.”
Quinn let go of my chair and dragged another chair over from the neighboring table. He settled himself on it and leaned conspiratorially toward Hunter. A thumb jerked in my direction. “Did you manage to change his mind?”
Hunter laughed. “Better luck next time, Sullivan.”
I picked up the pages from the table and slipped them into my bag, offering my chair to Shannon. She barely looked at me as she nodded and took my place.
I settled my bag strap over my shoulder and said to Hunter, “Well, I’m not sure if I will take that angle, but it wouldn’t hurt to do some preliminary research.”
Hunter smirked. “Just do it. Quinn will get over it.”
“Get over what?” Quinn asked, looking between us.
“I’ve told him to use me as an angle,” Hunter said, puffing out his chest with a large breath.
Shannon hummed, sitting tense in the chair. Hunter glanced at her, as if expecting her to get defensive, but she said nothing.
“Angle?” Quinn’s brow furrowed.
“Yes,” I said as I squeezed out from between Quinn and Shannon. “It bothers me you’re not okay with it, but it really is a good idea, and I am going to do it.”
I clasped Quinn’s other shoulder and bent down, kissing him quickly on the lips. “I have to get everything I need for the weekend from the office. Drive safely. I’ll see you on Sunday.”
Quinn, Hunter, and Shannon blinked at me.
“Oh, and happy Thanksgiving.” I gave them a wave and left, resettling the bag strap on my shoulder.
CHAPTER 18
Drenched from rain, I let myself into apartment twenty-three, flicked on the light, and shucked off my jacket and shoes. With cold, stiff limbs, I dropped onto the couch, my bag wedged uncomfortably behind my back.
With a groan, I stripped out of my wet clothes and padded to the bathroom to dry my hair. The warm air didn’t help me forget the email I’d sent my father.
My Happy Thanksgiving message had come back with an auto-reply.
Thank you for your message. I am currently out of the office over the Thanksgiving weekend. I will be returning on Monday, the first of December. If you need urgent assistance, contact me at . . .
I switched off the blow dryer. Maybe I could try contacting him, though the matter could hardly be qualified as “urgent.”
Back in my living room, I pulled out my notebook and moved back to the couch. Dating the Differently-Abled. I jotted down some of the observations I made about Hunter and Mitch, and I expanded on the questions and answers I already had.
“Definitely need more interviews,” I said, and my voice bounced off the arched windows and back to me.
I stopped note-taking to draw the curtains. Leaning against the window frame, I stared out into the night. Lamplight peppered the length of the street, and car tires chuuurred over the wet road. Quinn should have arrived in Louisville by now.
A step back, and the reflection of me alone in the room winked back at me. The apartment seemed bigger, colder without him.
My stomach rumbled, empty—hungry.
I popped a slice of bread into the new toaster Quinn bought. I ought to write a report on the blessings of an attentive roommate . . . friend. Boyfriend?
A small shock shot up my middle, and I prepared the toast with shaky hands.
Sitting at the end of the table, I ate slowly while reading the current Scribe. I scanned the opinions page and Jack’s report on the reopening of the 32nd floor of the Cathedral of Learning, which ended with a mention of the black-tie event that Mitch had invited Hunter to. Sounded like my type of party. But that Friday wasn’t going to work for me, unless I got my feature article to the chief before that. Considering all the interviews I would have to schedule this week, I didn’t think the black-tie event would be a possibility.
I shut the magazine and pushed it to the middle of the table. Its churr echoed loudly. Staring at the other end of the table at what had become Quinn’s chair, I revisited my reasons for staying home.
I came to the painful conclusion that I’d made the wrong choice.
I woke up to the smell of the neighbors making pancakes, of all things. On Thanksgiving Day, I thought most families would skimp on a large breakfast in favor of the turkey extravaganza later.
I rolled out of bed and took a quick shower. I slipped into a maroon robe, and when I stepped out of the bathroom, the thick scent of pancake goodness tickled my nose.
And then came the distinct sound of shuffling.
I froze for a second before striding to the kitchen—
“Gah!” It wasn’t my imagination. He was here, making pancakes. Quinn.
He twisted from the pan, wielding a spatula in his right hand, a sheepish grin twitching his lips. “Morning.”
The window was hitched open a crack, and I drew my robe tighter at the draught of winter-spiced air. “What are you doing here?”
He focused on the pancake, taking a moment to flip it. Then he pointed the spatula at me as if it explained everything. He added, “You kissed me in the café. In front of everyone.”
I followed the rise and fall of the spatula. “I did.”
Quinn fished the pancake out of the pan and set it atop the others. “I liked it.”
He looked sincerely at me, like he could see through me, somewhere deep that I only occasionally visited. I hooked my thumbs around the robe belt to tighten it.
He poured the last of the batter into the pan and set his spatula on the bench. He lessened the distance between us. Closer. Closer. Closer.
“A lot, Liam.”
He took my hand and drew me into the kitchen until he was pressed against the bench and I stood between his opened legs. His jeans were coarse against my skin, prickling against my hairs.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about it the entire drive home.”
He brushed a kiss over my bottom lip and pulled back to stare, mesmerized, as if my lip could sparkle. I curled my lip in, tasting the warm spot.
“You crossed my mind a fair bit too,” I said. “The place feels so much more comfortable with you in it.”
The next kiss came to the top of my head, matting short hairs to my forehead. “It’s so hard for me not to ask you again.”
I stilled a moment. He meant us, our relationship—being more than friends. More than just having sex. A relationship meant the development of an emotional connection. I teetered on answering him immediately, but reined in the urge. I needed to be one hundred percent sure, and that meant thinking through the repercussions should things turn out horribly in the end.
What would it mean for our friendship? Would this beautiful thing vaporize before my eyes, leaving me alone, grappling at thin wisps in the air?
And then there was Hunter. Quinn and he had been friends forever. Hunter’s allegiance would, and rightly so, be with Quinn.
I’d be back to Liam Davis, reporter for Scribe, with no friends outside of the magazine.
I remembered going to the Nightmare on Shady Avenue party, wanting to prove there were worse nightmares out there than mine. Instead I’d proven a dream had been missing. Now that I knew it, I didn’t want to mess it up. Friendship was the relationship most lacking in my life.
“Would you still live with me if I decided that I’d prefer us to stay friends?”
His body tensed, his hands clutching tighter around my upper arms. He took his time, swallowing before he answered softly, “I want to have you around.” He rubbed my arms. “Is that your answer?”
“I’m not sure yet. I like having sex with you.”
A laugh tumbled out of him and he turned me, pressing me tight against the bench, his arousal nudging at my lower stomach. He reached around my side, took the spatula and flipped the last pancake. It was a good example of multi-tasking, even if the pancake was close to burned.
“So, you came back,” I murmured, pressing a hand to his chest and playing with the peak of one nipple bumping his T-shirt.
“I said hello to my family and then found myself saying goodbye, hopping in my car, and driving back here.”
“They’ll be missing you then.”
He turned off the stove, slipped the last pancake onto the plate behind me, and kissed my lips. A soft kiss that felt delightfully unfinished.
He ripped up a pancake and fed me bits, pushing the pad of his syrupy thumb into my mouth and scraping over my teeth.
“I hope this leads to a ravaging of sorts,” I said after the next bite, rubbing the heel of my hand against my length.
Quinn’s pupils dilated. His arms came quickly and firmly around me, fingers digging into my ass as he urged me to wrap my legs around him. He walked me purposefully toward his bedroom. “Is it okay to break the wall if you’re the one helping me do it?”
“Yes.”
His laugh tickled at my throat.
“I can’t think straight when you do that.”
Quinn paused in his doorway, arms flexing with the weight of carrying me. I squirmed to my feet, relieving him of the pressure.
“Was that a joke?” he asked as he brushed a thumb over my nose to the edge of my mouth. “Did Liam Davis just crack a joke? The end of the world must be coming.”
My robe had come loose and I shrugged out of it, letting the soft material sink to a puddle at my feet. I stroked myself. “Not the coming I want to concentrate on right now.”
His voice tensed, and his lust was undeniable. “Another one. Shoot.”
“Really?” I said, linking our hands and pulling him toward the bed. I kissed him quickly and flung myself over his semi-made bed. “Because I could, you know.”
He pounced on me, pinning my arms above my head. The bottom edge of his T-shirt fell softly against my shaft as he leaned in and bumped our noses together. “Going to tell me exactly what you want, Liam?”
“You naked for a start.”
He scrambled off me, and I hooked my fingers behind my head as he shucked out of his jeans and almost fell, stomping on the ends to free himself of their hungry grip. The T-shirt came off in record time, followed by his socks.
He paused at his boxer-briefs, stretching the waistband with a teasing wink.
“You can keep them on if you want,” I said, sitting up and shuffling to the bedside, where I pulled Quinn forward. His legs flexed as I dug my hand in the flap of his boxers, gripped his cock and pulled it out. I leaned forward and tasted him. Salty. His velvety foreskin rubbed against my lips.
His moan came long and surprised. “Liam,” he gasped. There was something infinitely motivating about that sound, and I fed more of him into my mouth until the head of his cock was nudging the far roof. The angle was somewhat awkward, so I slid off the bed to the floor.
Quinn curled his toes against the sides of my knees as I stroked and sucked him. He let me lick and explore while he gifted me with little noises of appreciation. He pulled out of my mouth, stripped off his briefs and tugged me up onto the bed.
The bedding cushioned my back as Quinn climbed on top of me and locked me into a de
ep kiss. I arched against him as our tongues danced and Quinn’s fingers slid between our hips and rolled my balls. My grip, splayed over his shoulder blades, tightened as I eagerly drew him closer. More. More of that. I angled my hips and Quinn sought deeper until he was rubbing along my entrance. “Yes, that’s it. That’s what I want.”
Quinn rutted against me as he wriggled the tip of his finger and popped it into my ass.
“More, Quinn. Turn me over and put your cock in there.”
Quinn groaned and drew back onto his haunches, reaching to his side drawers and pulling out lube and a condom. “Are you sure, Liam? I mean, I really want to, but I don’t have to. There are a thousand other ways we can get off.”
I stroked my cock. “I don’t say things unless I’m sure about them. And I’m sure I want you behind me. In me.”
His cock twitched and his gaze grew hooded. He touched warm fingers to my side and I rolled over onto my stomach, stretching my arms out on either side of me, palms open against the sheets.
“All right,” he said, uncapping the lube and dribbling the cold liquid in a line down my ass. “You can change your mind any time, and if you don’t like something—”
“I’ll tell you.”
Quinn chuckled. “Yeah, I know you will.”
His hand came down at my shoulder and squeezed, and then he massaged his way over my back to the base. A light kiss hit between my shoulder blades as his finger drew over the lube, running over my entrance to the base of my balls.
I arched my ass up toward him and, on his path back up, Quinn dipped his lubed finger right where I wanted it. He was thorough with preparing me, which I appreciated on a logical level, but which teased me almost to the point of yelling at him to hurry up and slide in already.
