Face schooled to go blank, David looked at his cards seriously for the first time that night. He hadn’t been letting Trace win, but he hadn’t been taking his usual risks either—the risks that usually paid off. Flicking the edges of his cards, he folded them face down on the table. “I’ll take two.”
Trace gave David two cards, and then he looked at his own. Strip poker with David. What a crazy-ass thing to do when I barely know how to play the game. He traded out one, chuckled, and shrugged. “I took one.”
David flipped over his cards, trying not to smile. “Aces and nines.”
Wrinkling his nose, Trace looked at his cards and shook his head. “Just eights.” He looked down at his clothes and shrugged, pulling off a black dress sock and dropping it to the floor.
“Oh no,” David chided. “Anything that comes in pairs, goes in pairs. Take ’em both off.”
Trace rolled his eyes and yanked off the other sock, exposing long toes that sank into the thick carpet as he pulled up one knee to lean on. “Picky, are you? Fine. I’ll remember that,” he said after another sip of scotch. He shuffled and dealt.
Five hands later, David looked at Trace over the top of his cards, eyes narrowed. Trace had lost his socks, his dress shirt, his belt, and his watch. The next thing to go would be the thin white T-shirt that was stretched across his well-defined chest. David wasn’t sure he could take it. As for himself, he’d started off with nothing but jeans and a T-shirt, and he’d already lost the T-shirt. “I call.”
“All right,” Trace said, setting down the glass he’d emptied of scotch again before he fanned out his cards. “Three of a kind,” he crowed.
“Nice. Very nice,” David agreed. Pressing his cards to the table with a flourish, he smirked. “Just not quite good enough. Flush of hearts.”
Trace’s face fell comically. “I thought I had you that time,” he pouted, shaking his head so his hair flopped over his shoulders. He tossed down his cards and pulled the T-shirt out of his waistband and over his head, laying it over the arm of the couch as he reached for the cards to shuffle again.
David knew it just didn’t occur to Trace to be uncomfortable. He wore shorts and tanks when he and David played racquetball. He’d even been in clinging, soaked swimming trunks when they’d gone to the water park. Oh, wrong thought, Carmichael.
David shifted uncomfortably on the couch and couldn’t drag his eyes from Trace’s smooth, tanned chest. It was obvious that he’d stepped up his workout routine; he hadn’t been nearly this defined last summer. David shifted again, reaching for his glass of scotch and finding it empty. He either needed to get drunk really quickly or get out of this room. Not wanting to waste exquisite scotch, he opted for the latter. “I think maybe it’s time for bed. The meds mixed with alcohol are getting to me,” he stammered, standing.
Trace blinked owlishly through his glasses as he watched David get up. “Okay,” he said, sounding a little concerned. “Are you all right?” he asked, seeing the other man’s flushed face but easily attributing it to the scotch.
“Ah, yeah.” David shook his head, still hesitating beside the couch. He needed help with his jeans unless he wanted to sleep in them, but Trace’s hands anywhere near the vicinity of his crotch was just not a good idea right now. Making a silent vow to wear sweatpants the next day, he cleared his throat. “Um, if you’ll just undo the button, I think I can handle the rest,” he said, motioning toward his jeans. He was half-hard but hoped Trace just wouldn’t notice. The man was straight, after all; he wasn’t going to be looking for signs of arousal from a man.
“Sure.” Trace pushed away the niggle of concern. He’d probably been mother-henning David too much anyway. If the man was tired, he was tired. He shifted to his knees, reached up, and slid his fingers into the waistband on both sides of the button as he pulled it open. It did occur to him to glance over what he was doing. Some part of his head noticed, “Hey, David’s got some size on him,” but as soon as he released the jeans and sat back, the thought was gone. “I’m gonna chill awhile, then I’ll clean up.” He smiled lazily. “Thanks for the scotch.”
David swallowed, looking down at Trace. His eyes were closed, and his mouth was curved up into a satisfied smile. David was nearly overcome with a desire to lean down and kiss those plump lips. Clenching his fists, he forced himself to turn away from his friend and walk toward the bedroom, adjusting the growing tightness in his jeans once his back was turned. If his right arm had been functioning properly, he’d have locked himself in the bathroom and taken care of the developing problem, but annoyingly, he wasn’t at all ambidextrous when it came to self-pleasure. Once safely hidden away in his bedroom, he shuffled his jeans to the floor, cursing softly as his hand brushed the bulge in his boxers, torturing himself by letting his fingers linger and flex over the stiff shaft. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” He stretched out on the bed.
Humming slightly as he enjoyed the buzz, Trace lay sprawled on the couch for some time before yawning and deciding he should move before he fell asleep right there. He stretched and yawned again, then knelt down on the floor, and cleaned up the rest of the popcorn, secreted away the scotch, and scooped up his clothes. Turning off the light, he wandered down the hall, stopping to drop his clothes in the hamper in the hall closet. With a sigh he pushed the bedroom door open and peered in at the figure under the covers. David had taken to sleeping on his good shoulder, uncomfortable on his back, and the soft light from the bathroom fell on his blond hair. Trace slid his hand into the bathroom and clicked off the light before walking around to the other side of the wide bed.
An audible shift of clothing told David that Trace was slipping out of his pants, leaving them puddled on the floor, and crawling into bed in just his briefs. Then Trace sighed and stretched out on his belly, pulling the pillow under his chin.
David shifted as the bed dipped under Trace’s weight, keeping his breathing even so that Trace would think he was already asleep. He’d been lying in the dark trying to make sense of his conflicting thoughts. He and Trace had been friends for years without the hint of something more, and now, suddenly, he was assailed by erotic thoughts of stripping the handsome brunet bare and licking every inch of his body. Biting his lip, he moved his leg slightly forward to hide the evidence of his wayward thoughts. But he cracked open his eyelids when Trace sighed.
Trace curled his body toward David unconsciously, drawn by the heat of the other man’s body. After a few long minutes, he shifted further in David’s direction as he slept. Tensing as Trace threw an arm over him some minutes later, David bit back a moan. Oh, great. Feed Trace decent scotch and the man becomes a cuddler.
David attempted to inch sideways to put more space between them, but Trace’s arm resting at his waist tightened and pulled him back into the curve of his body. With a resigned sigh, David attempted to relax. It felt good to be held, and he was asleep before he knew it.
Chapter 4
IT WAS late the next morning before Trace stirred, shifting slightly against the warm body he held close. It didn’t occur to him to be confused. He hummed slightly, nuzzling the neck in front of him before stilling again, drifting along in a light sleep. His dream was one of pleasant satiation and rest; Trace purred softly and pulled the warm body closer, pressing his lips gently to the side of the neck. He wasn’t conscious enough to really be awake.
Sighing, Trace cuddled closer, inhaling deeply. It was warm and pleasant, having someone he really cared about so close, though he was too far asleep, even in his dream world, to open his eyes and look at his lover. His hand curled over the body’s waist, flattened, and rubbed ever so slightly over warm skin.
The sudden shift of the bed and the body confused him, and it took him a long moment to figure out what was dream and what was real as he pushed himself to sit up and open his eyes. He blinked, seeing immediately that David was gone and that he was in the middle of the bed instead of on his side. A groggy glance told him the bathroom door was shut, so he turned over, scooted to
the cooler sheets on the far side, and curled back up around the pillow. He hoped he could have that dream again. It was warm and comfortable and smelled familiar, a smell that he instinctively recognized as belonging to someone dear to him. But he drifted back off before his brain could connect the scent with a name. Trace sighed happily as he sank back into the dream, pleased by the arms that curled around him, the scent filling him and making him feel like he was where he was supposed to be.
CALMING THE pounding in the lower part of his body with several deep controlled breaths, David leaned back against the bathroom door for a moment, trying to get his breathing evened out. After a minute or so, he turned and started the shower. Pushing his boxers to the floor, he stepped into the stinging spray—sling and all. He could throw it in the dryer later. But when he closed his eyes, it all came rushing back.
He had been having the best dream. Trace had him pinned facedown on the bed, his face buried in the fleshy crook between David’s shoulder and neck, his dark, sweet-smelling hair spilling over them as his lean body arched, his cock sliding slowly in and pulling even more slowly out of David in steady, rhythmic glides. David pushed his ass back onto his lover, mumbling a quiet plea for more into the sheet-covered padding.
“Mmm. Yes… Trace,” David had moaned, pushing his ass toward the hard cock that rocked in and out of him.
David’s body had rolled to the right to give his lover better access—and he had glanced his broken shoulder against the stack of firm pillows. With a jolt of sharp pain, he had snapped wide awake. Horrified, he had practically jumped away from Trace’s sleep-warm body, jarring his shoulder again and clenching his teeth to keep from crying out. Panting, he had slung his legs over the side of the bed and hurried into the safety of the bathroom.
Letting the water sluice over his body, he couldn’t seem to stop his hand from curling around his still half-hard cock. He groaned, squeezing, but still not fully committed to bringing himself off. There was just something about jacking off to thoughts of Trace fucking him that pushed him across an invisible line he wasn’t sure he was ready to cross. Having Trace playing nursemaid was both the best and the worst thing that had ever happened to him.
Squeezing his eyes shut, David awkwardly added a palmful of shampoo to his hair, working it into a lather. As he rinsed the suds from his hair, his hand followed them down over his chest, his fingers running into the hair around his still-throbbing cock, and he gave in. Still slick, his fingers curled around the shaft and stroked, the awkwardness of using his left hand eased by the soap and frustration. His forehead came to rest against the cool sandstone wall as his hand shuttled up and down, images from his dream quickly pushing him over the edge. He gasped, whimpering as his cock pulsed in his hand. “Trace,” he whispered desperately.
David’s body shook with the force of his orgasm, and he stood with his left shoulder braced against the shower wall until the water had heated his skin enough for it to feel cool. Twisting the faucets to turn it off, he stepped out of the tub, his muscles feeling like wet noodles. Drying himself as best he could, he gingerly slipped the sling off, letting it fall onto the floor with a wet squelch. Then he remembered. Damn. He’d been in such a hurry to hide in the bathroom that he hadn’t brought in any clean clothes. Peering out the bathroom door, he verified that Trace was still asleep before tiptoeing to the dresser and pulling open a drawer to find a clean pair of boxers and sweatpants.
The sounds of the drawers pulling open shook Trace from sleep, and he turned his head, lifting up a bit and mumbling, “David? Izzat you?”
Jumping guiltily, David looked back over his shoulder, sure Trace would be able to read everything in his face. Clutching the folded clothes to his crotch, he walked back toward the bathroom, keeping his back to the bed. “Ah, yeah, just grabbing clean clothes. Go back to sleep.”
“’kay,” Trace said sleepily, shifting to bury his face back in the pillow, just one drowsy eye staying open and training on David for a moment before drooping closed. Safely hidden in the bathroom, David looked out the mostly closed door at the dozing man. How was it possible for one man to be so erotically tempting and cuddly cute at the same time? With a sigh, he quietly shut the door.
ABOUT TWO hours or so later, Trace walked out to the kitchen wearing his suit pants and dark socks with just an undershirt. His damp hair was pulled back into a neat tail at the nape of his neck. He opened the fridge and pulled out the juice, pouring himself a glass. “Morning,” he mumbled, still sleepy and grumpy despite his shower. He was not a morning person.
David stared at the jug sitting next to Trace’s hand on the counter. He never kept orange juice in the house. He didn’t like it. But with Trace doing all of the shopping now, the contents of the refrigerator were a mix of both men’s favorites. It was both comforting and alarming at the same time.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” David teased, hitting save on his laptop. His writing had slowed down considerably with only one hand, but at least he had the kind of job he could do from home in a pinch. And missing Monday morning editorial meetings wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Sliding the bottle of juice back in the fridge, Trace pulled English muffins out of the cabinet and popped one into the toaster. “Want a muffin?” he asked sleepily as he got butter and a knife out after a long minute of staring at the sink.
“I had one of those premixed omelets when I got up,” David said, forcing his eyes back to his computer screen. “So, into the office today?”
Trace dropped the toasted muffin onto a paper towel and fixed it up as he muttered to himself before answering “Yeah” a little louder. He brought the glass and the muffin to the table with a yawn, sitting down across from David. “Gotta work on the Readers’ Choice restaurant reviews. I won’t be home for dinner.” He took a bite of muffin and chewed, head propped in one hand, eyes closed again.
He won’t be home for dinner. Home. David blinked away the dangerous thoughts. “I imagine I’ll survive. Where are you reviewing tonight?” He got up and retrieved the strawberry jam from the refrigerator, snagging a spoon out of the drainer. Setting it down next to his sleepy friend, he realized that he knew Trace’s preferences almost as well as Trace knew his.
Trace heard the clink of the jar hit the table and opened his eyes, brightening at seeing the jam. He pushed the split muffin over for some. “Kabuki uptown, Raffi’s on Highstreet, and Delectable, the new dessert place. I’m gonna be a whale when I get done. I really ought to make them spread these reservations out more. I start at five and probably won’t be done until eleven or later.”
“Awwww. It’s rough, but someone has to sacrifice and consume all those gourmet meals for free,” David answered, carefully spreading a thin layer of jam on both halves of the muffin with the spoon in his left hand.
Trace sighed. “Yeah, and I’ll have to spend an extra couple of hours at the gym to offset the calories. Thank God they only do this every other year.”
Images of Trace half-naked and sweaty swam through David’s mind. It was a familiar vision that now carried a different, more heated connotation. Shoving it firmly aside, he pushed the muffin back toward Trace, grabbed his mug, and went to pour himself another cup of coffee. Out of habit, he reached for the sugar with his right hand and yelped.
“David,” Trace whined, “have some respect for the half-asleep, would you?” He shifted to look over at the other man and frowned. “Where’s your sling?” he asked suspiciously.
“Ahh, well,” David stammered nervously. “I sort of got it wet in the shower. It’s still in the bathroom. Right after breakfast, I’m going to put it in the washer.”
Trace raised an eyebrow and squinted his eyes in disapproval. “Sit your ass down, mister,” he ordered as he stood up and headed back to the bathroom. Looking around, he found it on the floor against the cabinet; he’d missed it when he’d taken his shower. He wrung it out as best he could and took it straight to the dryer before heading back to the kitchen to cross his arms and sha
ke his head at David.
David bit his tongue to keep from defending himself. He was a grown man, for fuck’s sake. If he wanted to go without the blasted sling, he could do it. He couldn’t tell if Trace was angry or disappointed, but either way, he felt like he had to explain. “I tried to keep it dry, but the soap slipped and….” He couldn’t very well tell Trace why the soap slipped or what he was doing at the time. Fuck, he was an awful liar. “I tried. Honest.”
Sighing, Trace walked over. “Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked in concern. “I would have helped. That’s why I’m here, David. I’m sorry if it feels like I’m mother-henning you. I’m just worried. I know it’s hard for you to do things left-handed.”
After running his fingers through his hair, David massaged the knotted muscles in his neck. “I just feel so blasted useless. I can’t even do up my own jeans. I appreciate everything you’re doing, really I do. I guess I’m just feeling too dependent.”
“All right,” Trace said soothingly, moving to lightly pull David’s hand away and replace it with his own fingers, rubbing at the twisted tendons. “It’s only been about a week, and you can’t just start using that shoulder again so fast. But we’ll work on getting you better, okay?”
“Okay.” David hummed. “That feels really good.” He swayed closer, his forehead dropping to rest on Trace’s belly as the strong arms wrapped around him to massage his neck. It was true that he was tired of being weak—tired of being limited—but he wasn’t tired of Trace being around. In fact, he was getting sort of used to it. Maybe too much.
“Your neck’s a mess, probably from favoring your shoulder,” Trace murmured. “And not wearing your sling won’t help, either,” he poked gently. “I know you’re sick to death of it. I don’t remember you ever being laid up this long before.”
Dreamspinner Press Year Three Greatest Hits Page 115
