by Cooper Davis
I sit up in the darkness, a little frightened. We’ve come to this place, and now what? I can’t go, but I’m not quite sure how to stay, especially with the way I feel.
I’m aching, inside and out, from how he moved within me, making love to me like some desperate summer storm.
Maybe that’s left me feeling a little bit weird, but not really. It’s this leaving thing, or rather, this staying thing, that’s starting to freak me out. Hell, I’m feeling stranger by the moment, sitting here in my lover’s bed.
He’s curled on his side, looking more beautiful than any man should be allowed. That golden body is coiled against white sheets and pillows, and despite myself, I run my palm down his naked hip. A soft murmuring sound escapes his lips as he stirs there.
But he doesn’t wake. He trusts that I’m here, knows I won’t leave.
Because I won’t—it’s like I told him, I could never leave him now. Again, such a strange feeling moves right through the heart of me, knowing that I can’t leave.
Slowly, I lower myself over him, sliding my thigh between his legs, parting them with my knee, and he opens his eyes sleepily. “What?” he asks, blinking up at me. “What’s wrong, Hunter?”
I roll him onto his back, kissing him. “I need you to wake up.”
“Oh, okay.” He nods as I push my hips against his. He’s definitely awake down there—sweet dreams, no doubt.
Our hardened cocks brush and push against one another, and we’re covered in silence. I’m not sure that I want to make love exactly; I just wanted to be with him.
He seems to sense my hesitation, tilting his head to study me. “Something’s wrong.”
“Not really,” I disagree, but I can’t shake this incredible melancholy feeling, this weird feeling right inside.
“You’re scared.”
He knows me too damn well, and for a moment I consider saying so. But I don’t, instead I look into his eyes, knowing his very glance can calm me in an instant.
But my expression must betray me, because he laughs softly, as he stares up at me.
“Hunter, you can go,” he whispers, stroking my hair with incredible tenderness. He brushes at it, combs his fingers through the length of it. I want to purr, and stretch from head to toe beneath his gentle attentions. “I mean, you know, go home,” he clarifies, and then it hits me what he’s really saying.
“Maxwell, hush,” I snap, despite myself, even though his understanding has pierced right through my heart. I don’t get how he always knows me, knows the fears that riddle my imagination.
“I mean, we can work up to you staying,” he explains hoarsely. “If-if being with me like this is too much. I mean, it’s a lot of commitment, maybe.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“I’m not,” he argues, the lovely eyes undeniably soulful. “I’m really not. I want you to know that you’re free here, that I can wait for the rest.”
“Maxwell, I’m not going anywhere,” I manage, and my voice is thick and strange. “I can’t.”
“But it’s hard for you here,” he whispers. “Staying like this. I know it.”
“Yeah, you’re fucking right it is,” I blurt angrily, rolling off him in exasperation. “Okay?” God, this fury is surging from absolutely nowhere and I’m dumbfounded by it.
But he remains calm, still, my center. “Okay,” he encourages, stroking my back beneath his fingertips. No one has ever shown me the kind of love this man has, and I’m overwhelmed by it, humbled. “Then tell me why it’s scary,” he encourages softly. “Staying with me.”
“Because I never want to leave, all right?” I cry. “Don’t you get it? It scares the shit out of me, but I don’t want to leave you anymore. Period.”
I sit there in bed, and feel his generous hand touch my back, stroking the length of it. “Then don’t.” So soft, so gentle, the sweetest thing I know.
My hands shake and tremble as I rake them through my hair. I didn’t realize that I had any battles left within me, didn’t anticipate this; I thought we’d won them all. How is it that I still had some strange, hidden demon coiled right within me? And that he understands it so easily?
I never knew that needing someone this much could hurt so badly, that’s what I think, as tears blur my vision. Maxwell’s finally done it, broken me completely.
“I-I…want more than this,” I manage, and I know he’s waiting. Waiting for what I want to ask of him, because it has to come from me this time.
“Me, too,” he agrees, but I still don’t look at him, as I tug at the sheet where it wraps around my waist.
“I don’t know how to ask. For what I, you know, what I want.” I’m a stammering fool, for crying out loud, but I can’t seem to end the terrible awkwardness.
His hand cups my hip, holding me that way from behind. But he says nothing, reassures me with his presence. “It’s easy enough,” he finally says. “You’re asking me now, Hunter.”
“Okay,” I agree, sucking in a sharp breath. This takes all the strength within me, as slowly I turn in the bed and stare down at him. “I want to be with you, Maxwell. I don’t want to go anywhere else. I want…more.”
“Tell me what.”
“To live with you, to stay here.”
For a moment, I picture Aunt Edna again and I wish there were more I could ask of him. I picture crisp tuxedos and gorgeous Pacific sunsets, as I kiss him and sigh, marry me?
He doesn’t know that I picture a shower of rose petals and champagne.
He doesn’t know that I want to spend my life with him, and that’s what I really mean.
Our fingers thread together and he draws my hand to his mouth. For a long moment, he slowly kisses my fingers, and plants a kiss tenderly within the palm of my hand. He reaches beside the bed, back to the table again and for a moment I flash on what we did earlier, feeling my face flush sharply.
But his eyes never leave my face as he retrieves something in the darkness, then gingerly hands it to me.
I stare down, squinting at it, and can see it’s a small box, bluish colored, tied with a white ribbon.
“Maxwell?” I ask, feeling strange and confused. But oddly breathless, too. It’s like a little jewelry box or something.
“Open it,” he encourages, and I see how he smiles, even in the near-darkness.
I tug at the ribbon and it falls loose easily, then I spy the word Tiffany. It is some kind of jewelry box and my heart begins to beat insanely as I open it.
My fingers withdraw a small silver trinket, and I place it in the center of my hand. It’s a key ring, a little motorcycle on a chain. And on the end, one key dangles neatly—the one to his apartment.
“I’d wanted to ask you when we got home,” he explains huskily. “I was waiting for the right moment.”
Damn, he’s flipped those freaking roles around again. He’s asking me to live with him, he’s asking me for the commitment.
I turn it over in my palm, feeling the cool metal of the key.
“It’s a Harley,” he says with a nervous laugh. “Like yours.”
“I can see that, man.”
“Sterling silver.”
“Like that matters.” I’d have accepted his key on a shoestring and considered it pure treasure.
“Well, I wanted it to last,” he explains, sitting up beside me in bed, as I keep staring at it. And I don’t miss the significance of what he says, as I trace the outline of the key beneath my fingertip.
I love his apartment; it’s been my home for months. Maxwell has been my home for months, maybe even years now.
This is where I want to be, more than any place else I could ever imagine in the world.
I grin like an absolute idiot, and nudge him with my shoulder as I dangle the little key chain in front of me. The silver motorcycle catches the gleam of moonlight spilling across our bed. For a moment, I imagine it’s a gilded ring, a band of commitment.
“So?” He giggles, and it’s a girlish kind of sound that I find o
ddly arousing.
“So?” I tease him. I’m baiting him now, as he leans against my shoulder. “You gonna marry me, or what?” I laugh a little giddily, glancing sideways at him.
I’m blown away by how his eyes widen in shock, and I guess he has no idea what I’m even thinking. I mean, we can’t get married, not really.
Can we?
I make a mental note to go search the goddamned Internet in the morning, as I draw him right into my arms.
“Baby, I’m yours, all the way,” I murmur, as our lips begin to crush together. I ease him down onto his back. “I want everything you’ll give me.”
“I’ll give you everything.” His answer comes without a moment’s hesitation.
“Okay, but one question.” I suddenly sit up again as an idea hits me.
“Yeah?” He lies there, staring up at me, maybe a little flushed and breathless.
“Now that I’m gay, do I have to change my name to Brian and become a pickup basketball player?” I ask, staring at him in intense seriousness. I even manage to furrow my brow into a fine scowl for good measure.
He looks uncertain for a moment, until I burst into a wild fit of laughter. I feel it rumble all the way through my chest, especially when he scrunches his nose in an adorable expression of distaste, before he begins laughing gently.
“You know, would you believe that his name really is Brian?” he asks me, with a broad grin.
“Nah, man,” I snort. “You really are shitting me now!”
“I shit you not.”
“No wonder you got pissed,” I pronounce, leaning low to steal a heated kiss. “I was right, damn it. Brian the super gay stock trader.”
“Who seems straight as an arrow, I promise.”
My chest puffs out with a little bit of jealousy, even now despite myself. “Well those are the ones you gotta watch out for,” I caution, rolling completely atop him, possessing him. “Those straight types who are secretly queer as hell.”
“At least I got you to admit that you’re gay,” he giggles with a gasp, breaking our kiss. “Only took me the whole summer.”
“Took you all of a minute to make me gay,” I disagree, brushing his hair back from his cheek. “The first minute you ever kissed me. God, Maxwell, you changed me for life that night.”
“Yes,” he breathes, and the word electrifies me strangely.
“Yes, what?”
“I’ll marry you.” He grins, those sweet dimples popping right into view. He’s so damned handsome that I can’t breathe, as he draws my lips to his for a slow, fevered kiss.
Oh God. I sure hope the Internet has some answers, as suddenly I imagine walking right into Tiffany’s one day soon.
I imagine kissing him, with all of our friends tossing silly rose petals at us, and a photographer snapping loads of pictures. Everything’s like a movie, all in slow motion, and I imagine Louisa and Veronica and Ben beaming as they shower us with expensive champagne.
Aunt Edna stands in the shadows, clapping with glee, and what I really imagine is the fairy tale.
And that’s what I’ve got. I’ve got the fairy tale because I’ve got Maxwell Daniels right here in my arms.
I’ve got him and even more than that, I’m here to stay.
About the Author
Cooper Davis is a lifelong writer and reader who fell in love with books as a child thanks to a cadre of powerful women: Trixie Belden, Nancy Drew and Betsy, Tacy and Tibb. But it was Scarlet O’Hara who truly kicked her into gear, inspiring Cooper’s first short story. Scarlet may have launched Cooper’s writerly game of casting herself as the heroine (what woman wouldn’t want to wear that red dress, even if it marked her a harlot?), but that passion continued long past the discovery of Jane Austen. Cooper writes paranormal and contemporary romance, and is an avid reader of many genres.
A temporary arrangement? Don't bet the ranch on it...
His Convenient Husband
© 2009 J.L. Langley
Innamorati, Book 1
At the tender age of seven, newly orphaned Micah Jiminez lost everything—and got lucky. The Delaney family opened their hearts and their home, treated him like one of their own. One Delaney in particular, though, became more than a brother to Micah. The handsome and protective Tucker is the man to whom he wants to give his love.
But after a single passionate night together, Tucker rebuffs him and hightails it to Dallas to pursue his dreams. Leaving Micah to pick up the pieces of his broken heart—and feeling like a fool.
The impending death of the Delaney patriarch brings an unsavory relative out of the woodwork, threatening Micah’s beloved adopted family. They’re going to need all hands in the fight to keep The Bar D from being pulled out from under them all—including Tucker. Micah steels himself to convince the man he can’t forget to come home.
To his everlasting surprise, it’s Tucker who comes up with the perfect solution: a marriage of convenience—to Micah. His gut tells him Tucker’s motivation involves nothing more than saving the ranch. Now he just has to convince his fragile heart.
This title has been revised and expanded by more than 10,000 words from its original published version.
Warning: This book contains threatening emails, imaginary sex, excessive use of antacids, non-homophobic cowboys, a bed being misused as a trampoline, male bonding during a gynecological examination of a pregnant mare, steamy manlove and a very hot-tempered Latino.
Enjoy the following excerpt for His Convenient Husband:
“Okay, okay…” Tucker held his hands out in surrender. “Make noise.” Pushing himself up off the bed, Tucker locked the door and checked it by turning the handle. “I’m going to take a shower, but I’m not done discussing this.”
More like he wasn’t done trying to boss Micah around. Wait. Did he say—? Ah, dios mio. Micah closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Tucker in the shower, naked, dripping wet, right in the next room— “What? Make noise?”
“Moan and grunt.” Tucker crossed the room and pulled the curtains, before going into the adjoining bathroom.
“Ugh.” Trying to get his heart to slow, Micah sat on the bed. What was Tucker doing?
“Micah…”
Micah opened his mouth to ask why, then snapped it shut. Why not just turn on the radio? Did Tucker really think Duncan was listening to them? Micah glanced at the door. There wasn’t that much space under the door, probably less than an inch. It was doubtful anyone was standing outside it. Micah went to the door, lay in front of it and looked under. His glasses shifted when the frames touched the floor but he could still see through them. It didn’t look like anyone was there.
“What are you doing?” Tucker kept his voice low and leaned against the bathroom threshold, a smirk on his handsome face.
“What’re you doing?” Micah got to his feet.
“Looking for shaving cream. Why aren’t you making noise?”
“Ugh!” Micah stomped his feet in place a few times.
Tucker rolled his eyes. “You sound like a dying cow.”
“I don’t think anyone is out there listening,” Micah whispered back, walking closer to Tucker. “The shaving cream is in the cabinet to the left of the sink.”
“Thanks.” Grinning, Tucker dragged a hand over his face and through his short, dark blond hair, and turned back toward the bathroom. “Try to sound like you’re having sex. Duncan’s in the room across the hall.”
“Oh.” Oh! Micah rolled his eyes at himself. Dork. Shaking his head, he went back to the iron-framed bed. He sat on the edge and bounced a little. The bed protested nicely. This could be fun. He pulled off his shoes and tossed them away. Bouncing again, he let out a long, ragged moan. Just like old times, he wondered why he let Tucker talk him into these kinds of things. Oh yeah, ’cause you’re in love with him and would do anything for him. Micah was really gonna have to stop that. He groaned, but it added to the sex noise.
“Oh Lord. Don’t overdo it. You just got out of the hospital, remember?” Tu
cker disappeared back into the bathroom.
Of course he remembered. Tucker wouldn’t let him freaking forget. “Oh, oh yeah. Mmm…” Crawling onto the bed, Micah hopped on his knees a little. The bed squeaked. “Oh yeah, baby.” Take that, Duncan. ¡You pendejo!
The water turned on in the bathroom and Micah grunted, trying to cover the sound. He climbed to his feet and wobbled on the soft mattress. Bending his knees, he made the bed squeak again. Would the bed hold him if he actually jumped? He’d always wanted to jump on a bed. His mom would have killed him when he was a child. Jostling the bed, he glanced around the room. The floor was wood. If he jumped, would the bed be too loud? “Oh yes, yes, yes.” He moaned for effect. He really, really wanted to jump. “Micah,” his mother’s voice admonished in his head. He could almost see her shaking her finger at him.
Fuck it. Micah’s feet left the mattress and the headboard thunked against the wall. “Oh yeah, baby, take it.” His glasses slid down his nose and he had to push them back up. This was fun. He’d wanted some fun back in his relationship with Tucker, but what an odd way to get it. Micah stifled a chuckle.
The water shut off.
“Oh yeah, take that cock.”
Tucker appeared in the doorway with half his face covered in shaving cream and his mouth hanging open. “What. Are. You. Doing?”
Holding his glasses with one hand, Micah jumped and lifted his legs, coming down on his butt. Clunk, clunk, screech. The bed walked back and forth on the wood. “Oh yeah, baby!” He hopped back up, grinning from ear to ear. “You said to act like I was having sex,” he whispered. Dipping his knees a few times, he made the springs bounce. Chuckling, he hopped in a circle. “You like that, baby?”
“Micah,” Tucker snapped out.
“What? You said—”
“I top. Stop with the ‘take it’ stuff. And quit jumping on the bed before you hurt yourself.”
