“Griffin's house. He has eight sisters.”
“Holy hell.”
“All older. Some are married. Their spouses are here. And their kids. And at least five dogs.”
“Is it a party?”
“Oh no, just dinner.” Jim sounded bemused. “I'm a little nervous what a party would look like. I think they rent out the Knights of Columbus.”
“Nice.” Actually it did sound nice, and Jim seemed to be enjoying himself.
“So we on for dinner? This Saturday night—our treat, your choice.”
“How can I say no? I hear you retired cops are made of money.” Matt was wondering how he was going to convince Evan of this idea when the oven timer went off.
“It's a date, then.”
“I'll talk to Evan and give you a call back tomorrow.”
“Fantastic. Talk to you later, man.”
They said their good-byes; Matt hung up the phone and leaned against the side of the fridge. Was he trying to force an issue here? Was he creating a situation where he and Evan would blow up into tiny pieces, and he'd be proven right—this couldn't last? Matt took a deep breath.
Maybe he was. Maybe he was pushing Evan to get a reaction.
Maybe he didn't care.
Chapter Nine
“So, Jim and his boyfriend are in town,” Matt began, and Evan automatically turned around to pretend to be interested in raking leaves out from under the tree.
“Uh-huh,” he said noncommitally.
“He wanted to know if they could take us out to dinner.”
“Not sure of our schedule.”
“This Saturday night.”
“The kids…”
“Oh please.” Evan turned back at the snappish tone of Matt's voice and decided this was not the moment for some classic passive-aggressive behavior.
“Okay.”
“Okay? That was quick.”
“Hey, I'm trying not to be a jerk here. If you want to have dinner with some guy you slept with once and his boyfriend—hell, why not?”
“I knew it.”
Evan dropped the rake against the tree and kicked it for good measure as Matt stalked toward the house.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” he muttered, big strides catching up with Matt as he walked through the sliding glass door into the kitchen. “Matt, I'm sorry, okay? That was a cheap shot.”
“You really wanna go over this again? You broke up with me, and I spend one night with one guy who turns out to be part of the reason I'm even here, right now, in domestic bliss with your grouchy ass, and you can't spare an evening for dinner? You are a dick.”
Evan winced. “Yeah, I'm a dick. A slightly jealous asshole as well.”
“Good point.” Matt's volume dulled slightly; he jerked open the fridge to take out a beer. And didn't offer Evan one.
“New boyfriend, huh?”
“Yeah. I'm glad for him,” Matt said pointedly between drags of his beer. “He's a good person, and he deserves this.”
“Vacation?”
“Post-retirement trip. They're traveling. The boyfriend is a writer. They got a friend opening in a play on Broadway, so they're in town. And they called to ask about Saturday night.”
“So do I have to wear a tie?”
“Will it make you feel better if you do?”
Evan smiled even if Matt didn't. “Yeah.”
“Fine. Wear a vest and one of those pocket hankie things if it'll cut down on the jealous dick factor.” Matt's face was serious.
“I won't be an ass to your friend.”
“Thank you.”
“Really, I won't.”
“Fine.”
The stand-off didn't feel over. Evan crossed his arms over his chest.
“What?” Evan watched Matt struggling with saying something—or not saying something.
“Why is this such a problem with you? You don't even know Jim, but you act like you hate his guts.”
Evan struggled to find a way to express himself that was neither dickish nor jealous, but really, there wasn't much else on his mind. “I guess I just don't understand your friendship.”
“Well, not to be an asshole, but you really don't have a lot of experience with this whole ex-lovers and people you've dated and shit like that.” Matt sighed and finished off his beer quickly.
Evan winced, but he didn't disagree. “True.”
“And I'm not parading a shitload of exes through here. One—that's it, and you know, considering my crappy track record with relationships and general male whoring ways for like, two-plus decades, that's not bad.” Matt mumbled a bit to himself, and Evan felt sorry for being a dick about this even if he didn't quite know how to stop.
“Well let's just make a pact this is your only ex paraded around, and we know my closet is clean and there you go,” he offered.
Matt sighed. Evan knew the constant bickering was starting to get to the other man; years with Sherri taught Evan that sometimes even the person you loved most got on your last nerve. And that was okay. Natural even.
Matt never had that before. Evan's mood shifted from jealous dick to reassuring lover in a nice move that had him a bit impressed with himself.
“Come on, we're making this into a big deal, and it shouldn't be,” Evan said smoothly. He got a quirked-eyebrow look of suspicion from Matt. “Well it shouldn't. On either one of our parts. We'll go to dinner, I'm sure I'll find this Jim a decent if not hideously ugly guy, he and his boyfriend will go to a play and then fly back to the other side of the country, and then we'll come home. It'll be fine.”
He managed to cajole a half laugh from Matt and walked over to close the distance between them as quickly as possible. “You should be flattered.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah, because the thought of you with anyone else makes me kinda crazy.”
Matt's other eyebrow joined the other in their dubiously surprised expression. “Sexy jealous as opposed to dickhead jealous?”
“Yes.
Matt considered it. “I admit, I like that better.”
“Kids aren't home.”
“We raked leaves, had a tiff, and now we're gonna sneak upstairs before the kids come home.” Matt sighed dramatically as he reached out to grab Evan closer. “We're so suburban.”
“What would be less suburban?” Evan pressed Matt back against the fridge, trying to do sexy grinding through layers of fall outerwear—all while not knocking magnetic sports schedules to the floor. It wasn't as easy as one might imagine.
“You, on your knees…right now,” Matt drawled seductively. He was more effective slipping his hands under Evan's jacket and pulling his shirt out of his pants.
And yeah, that sounded good. They'd been dancing around each other in the few weeks since they got home from the beach. The bedroom wasn't a dead zone, but both seemed to be holding part of themselves back, as if not wanting to approach that “losing control” line again.
Evan missed the naked passion, the times when Matt just didn't care or stop himself from saying or doing what he wanted. He wanted that back again, even as he spent daily hours worrying over “the next time” and whether or not he could go through with it.
“Being gay” meant a lot of things in Evan's head. It meant wanting to sink down on your knees in front of your boyfriend and unzip his shorts in the middle of the kitchen just so you could feel his dick on your tongue and his hands in your hair. It meant wanting to hear dirty whispers of how good and hot and tight your mouth felt as he pushed his cock to the back of your throat.
It meant getting hard in your pants just from the taste and the smell and feeling of his ass under your hands as you rock him harder and faster until he's gasping for air and you're swallowing and it's so, so good you don't need anything else.
It meant that you did need him to sink down onto the floor over you and pull at your clothes until you were naked and writhing and begging for something—anything…
And for Evan, it meant this terrifying m
oment when he was so undone by Matt's come on his lips and his own throbbing erection that when Matt rolled him over and pulled down his pants and pushed his tongue into the place he couldn't imagine being the center of his need—he didn't fight it. He didn't protest or push Matt away as he was filled and fucked.
That was the word. It was Matt's mouth and tongue, but he was being fucked and every stab felt indescribably good. And it shouldn't. It shouldn't but it did, and Evan moaned and pounded his hands against the Pergo wood floors in absolute perfect pain.
Matt didn't let him deny it anymore.
Matt held him open and down and took the orgasm right out of him, taking his cock into his hand at the last possible second and sliding from root to tip once—just once—and Evan came with a choked cry against the floor.
Maybe Matt knew the second it was too cold and too strange to be down on the floor. Before Evan could dissolve into self-recrimination, Matt was pulling him back and up, into his arms, letting him lay back in his strong hold.
“Hey, that was fun,” Matt whispered against his ear, and Evan huffed out a laugh.
“Floor needs a cleaning,” he whispered back.
“Is that a critique of my housekeeping or a compliment on my lovemaking?”
It didn't sound entirely like a joke; Evan's heart thumped and settled—he turned his head a little, enough to look at Matt's face. “It's a compliment,” he said softly. Whatever his hang-ups and fears, he loved Matt deeply. There was no denying that.
“I should hope so,” Matt huffed. He shifted back and moaned—not in pleasure. “Old knees, protesting…”
“Right, let's go upstairs.” Evan reluctantly moved out of Matt's embrace and stood up, gathering his clothes. They were both naked from the waist down, sweaty and disheveled.
Evan's shame meter blipped slightly, but it got drowned out by the damp aftershocks still stirring through his body. He could deny and deny for the rest of his days, and not a word of it would be true. The way Matt touched him triggered something so deep and needy in his very soul—he felt like a key had been turned inside him, one even stronger than the first time they'd kissed.
Matt wasn't privy to his thoughts, his wonderment. He was heaving himself off the floor, bitching about old age and cold wood floors. He picked his clothes up and looked at Evan, pausing at the expression on his face.
“What?”
Evan shook his head. He couldn't verbalize it, not yet. Not until he came to terms with it.
“Nothing.” He smiled, reached for Matt's hand. “Come on. Bare-assed in the kitchen is weird.”
The kids came home, and they had a normal night. No one seemed to notice Evan's distraction or catch a clue of his internal monologue.
Why did he like that so much? Why did he want it so much? What did that make him?
The idea that his life with Sherri was a sham, a cover-up to a confused sexuality, made him sad. It made him angry. It made him wonder what would have happened if Sherri hadn't died. Would he still be turned on by her for ten years? Twenty years? Would he one day have woken up and felt like a different person?
Matt, oblivious and sleepy, lay on the sofa, his head pillowed on Evan's thigh. The local news was on, the forecast over, the sports highlights winding down. Domestic bliss. Evan trailed his fingers through Matt's hair, remembering when Sherri used to do the same for him, soothing him as he tried to drift off after a long day.
Who was he? Who was Evan Cerelli, and what the hell did he want and need?
* * *
Friday night, Evan found the book. It was crammed under the nightstand on Matt's side, thumping to the floor when Evan was trying to straighten the mattress out. He picked it up and glanced at the title.
The Gay Kama Sutra.
He turned the first page and the inscription could his eye.
Call him.
Underlined for emphasis.
Then, a little below that:
I recommend pages seventeen, thirty, and forty-one. Stretch first.
A wave of conflicting emotion rolled over him. He knew exactly who this book was from, the only person it could be from.
Call him—Jim sent this book after he and Matt slept together, before Evan and Matt reconnected and got back together. Jim had been encouraging Matt, encouraging him not to give up.
Evan owed him a thank you.
But the other lines—they gave him a lurching feeling in his stomach.
It was probably a joke, but—but he couldn't help feeling intimidated. Jim didn't need a book. He could imagine there had been no fumbling or confusion the night they spent together.
Evan's fingers tightened on the book, and even as he resolved to put it back from where it came, he couldn't help but flip through a few more pages. The illustrations were graphic but tasteful, and Evan paused at more than one, his mouth dry as he brought the book up closer under the light.
His clothes felt tight and constricting. His first instinct was to stick his hand down his pants and relieve the needy urge welling up inside him.
The second thought was to find Matt and crawl into his lap and whisper things in his ear that Evan didn't imagine he'd ever say out loud.
He did neither. Shutting the book, he stashed it back where it was and righted the bed.
He wasn't ready. He just—wasn't.
Chapter Ten
James “Jim to almost everyone else” Shea straightened his tie in the hotel bathroom's mirror. He could make out enough of his visage in the fogged-up reflection to pronounce himself fit to socialize.
“We're going to be late,” Jim called to his boyfriend, who was currently attempting to use every drop of hot water in the Marriott's tanks. And possibly all of New York City's.
“Shhhh, I'm relaxing,” Griffin's voice called over the hard spray of water.
“Ahhh, so all those weeks in Hawaii followed by being spoiled at your dad's house really did a number on you—we're lucky you haven't broken under the strain.”
“You're harshing my buzz, man.” The water shut off, and Griffin poked his head out, a comical expression on his face. “Dad's did not have this amazing water pressure.”
“You act like we got clean by sitting in the creek and beating ourselves with rocks.”
“Kinky. It's always the quiet ones,” Griffin said drily. He wrapped himself in a fluffy white towel with a blissful sigh. “I'm from Hollywood, man. I like the luxury.”
“Well, put on your fancy-pants suit and shiny shoes—we have good seats for this…play.” The word dropped off Jim's lips like a bowling ball crashing into the floor. He was less than thrilled with their plans for the evening, though the consolation for sitting through Griffin's friend's play was seeing his old friend Matt Haight for dinner.
A double date. Him and his boyfriend and the guy he met for a one-night stand and his boyfriend. It was either the setup for a porn movie or a disaster of epic proportions.
“You have to promise not to snore,” Griffin said. He dried off and immediately reached for the ever-present products he used to keep his unruly hair out of his eyes. Jim refrained from commenting on the sheer volume of items on the bathroom counter. “I mean it; we're in the front row.”
Jim groaned and ducked out of the bathroom. The steam was getting to him.
“Hey, I'm having dinner with some guy you're buds with because you screwed said guy in a bar pick-up scenario. I need leverage and leeway here.” Griffin came out of the bathroom massaging gel into the wet wavy mass on his head.
“It was before you,” Jim said, uncomfortable.
“Right, I get that. I'm fine with that. Mutual virginity was not a requirement of us.” Griffin stopped, hands on his hips, watching Jim with a mixture of humor and love. “It's just…a little weird.”
“We're friends—that's not weird.”
“One-night stand, e-mails, phone calls. Chummy dinners with current lovers. There's a script here somewhere.” Griffin finished with his hair, his eyes squinching up, as if he'd just rea
lized he could barely see Jim without his contacts or glasses.
Jim sighed. “Okay, Hollywood, get dressed. I promise not to snore during Daisy's play; you promise not to take notes during dinner.”
Griffin's eyes nearly rolled out of his head. “I promise to behave.”
“Cross your heart? I know how you are after your second cocktail.”
“I promise not to blow you at the table.”
“Good boy.” Jim made shooing motions.
“You say that now. I know how you get after your third beer.”
Griffin stalked back into the bathroom with a jaunty hip move and a whistle. Jim briefly reconsidered the entire dinner and “play” evening in favor of sex with his ridiculously hot younger boyfriend…but figured he didn't have the romantically suave moves to talk (or blow) Griffin into skipping the play in particular.
Griffin had issues to deal with when it came to his former best friend Daisy Baylor. Jim had some issues as well—mostly how to keep from shaking the famous movie star until her IQ notched up a few dozen points and she realized how much her boneheaded actions nearly ruined Griffin's life.
He was doing this for Griffin and his “closure.” He wasn't under any impression that Griffin and Daisy were done with each other—you weren't friends with someone your entire lives to just dump them. At least Griffin wasn't that person. He wouldn't give up on Daisy or their friendship or anything, anyone he loved.
Reason number 104 Jim was stupid crazy about him.
So he'd watch the dumb play and stand around with his lips zipped when Griffin's and Daisy's phone calls went from “once in a while” to “all the damn time” again. He would perhaps quietly mention caution and trust, but he wouldn't be surprised when famous movie star Daisy reentered their lives.
* * *
They took a cab to the restaurant as butterflies danced in Jim's stomach. He was suddenly flashing to that night when he and Matt met and recognized kindred souls—middle-aged guys with a sad sack of no prospects and not much time to change the course of their lives.
Except they both did. Both of them were walking into the restaurant with exactly what they were yearning for that night. Matt had Evan back, and Jim had… Well, Jim had Griffin, who was a surprise and a gift and not the person he was yearning for back then.
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