The ETA From You to Me

by Zimmerman, L

  In the end, Clayton footed the bill, leaving Grant to pick up the tip with some spare cash as they left. Grant made a beeline for his Jeep, because he really just wanted to go home, steal his dad’s whiskey, and drink himself into oblivion. He could feel Clayton’s presence following him, making him tense like a robber waiting for Batman to deal the finishing strike. It took Grant a few tries to get his keys from his pocket, unlocking the Jeep and turning to finally face Clayton.

  Hovering less than a foot away, Clayton kept his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, watching Grant with an unreadable expression.

  “I guess…goodnight,” Grant muttered awkwardly, fumbling with the door handle. He’d nearly opened it when Clayton sniffed once, reached out, and set his hand over Grant's.

  "I don't know if this changes things because I don't know if you're okay with this," Clayton said.

  Startled, Grant whipped his head around. "Are you kidding?" he blurted. "That's why dinner was awkward? I thought you were trying to tell me you didn't actually wanna go out or anything because of your past. I'm not gonna push you when you clearly just told me about what happened with the last overbearing boyfriend you had."

  Clayton stared, a myriad of expressions crossing his face. Grant went on, undeterred.

  "I mean, dude, you're pretty great. We don't know a whole lot about each other but I know enough that I would give anything for us to try this. You put up with me and that on it's own is like, reward worthy. I'm annoying--I'm really annoying--"

  "You're not that annoying," Clayton murmured.

  "Shut up, I'm ranting."

  "Okay."

  "So yeah, you put up with me. You think I'm funny--don't give me that look. You think I'm hilarious. I haven't seen anyone try so hard not to smile at half the shit I do and say in years. Also, you banter. Banter is sexy. It's like witty flirting. Witty flirting is hella sexy. So uh... I mean. So yeah, I want to do this--and whatever happened to you isn't going to get in the way of it unless you let that happen. So I guess the question is, are you gonna let it control you?"

  Clayton, at some point, had gotten surprisingly close to Grant. He was crowded up against the door of his car, chest heaving and face just inches from Clayton's. With no idea how that happened, Grant could only watch with wide eyes as Clayton seemed to give him a contemplative look.

  "No, I guess not," he admitted, surging in and pressing their lips together in an urgent open-mouthed kiss. Grant could barely keep up, could barely breathe as he was pushed back against the door of his Jeep, wrist trapped in Clayton’s grasp and his other hand clutching Clayton’s jacket to keep himself grounded. His head spun, lips parting against the press of Clayton’s tongue sliding forward with a claiming persistence and sliding against his own. There was nothing but Clayton’s hands, lips, body and tongue, all surrounding him, filling him, suffocating him with such an insistent passion that Grant was starting to forget where he ended and Clayton began.

  Clayton pulled Grant's hand down to his hip, finally releasing his wrist to bring both palms up against Grant's jaw, coaxing his mouth open with a scrape of his teeth. Grant was only human, and he was only a human who really lacked control on his vocal chords, because he released a low, piteous moan when Clayton crowded him against the door of the Jeep. Clayton growled, chest vibrating with the sound and biting down on Grant's bottom lip in retaliation. His teeth kneaded the soft skin, just shy of painful.

  Gasping softly, Grant wriggled as Clayton stepped in until their hips were slotted together. He shoved a leg between Grant's thighs, rocking it up and making Grant jerk his head back with a moan of pleasure. Of course, Grant forgot he was crushed up against his car door, and stars burst into his vision like some sort of children’s cartoon when the back of his head smashed against the window.

  Yelping, he wrenched a hand up, knuckles bashing accidentally into Clayton’s chin when he tried to hold his head. Clayton jumped, reaching out to palm at the back of Grant's head. "Are you okay?"

  Biting at the corner of his lip, Grant brought a hand up, pushing Clayton's out of the way to rub at his head. He nodded, cringing and biting down harder on his mouth when he pressed a tender spot. Clayton reached up, thumbing Grant's lower lip and then tugging it out from between Grant's teeth, entranced.

  “What’s a little pain without pleasure?” Grant murmured, trying desperately not to show how turned on he was just from Clayton touching his mouth. After a second, he realized that was a stupid thing to do, and leaned in to trap Clayton’s thumb between their lips and kiss him slowly, encouragingly.

  Clayton was quick to pick up on the mood of the kiss, lips parting into slow, teasing presses with every chance he could get. It wasn’t long before things started to get heated again, Grant's fingers curling into Clayton’s jacket and dragging him in close while Clayton pawed at the hem of Grant's shirt.

  Grant was a good five seconds away from asking Clayton about his policy on car sex when Clayton wrenched back with a gasp of air and faceplanted right into the curve of Grant's neck and shoulder. “Someone could see," he gasped out, inhaling deeply through his nose and mouthing wet kisses against the skin of Grant's throat.

  It wasn’t like Grant was using all of his brain synapses, anyway, so it was totally okay for Clayton’s mouth to do things like fry his thought process with just a quick scrape of his teeth and a rolling suck from his lips and tongue. It was like a string was attached between his dick and his neck, pulling him from half-mast into full on raging fuck missile within the span of one breath to the next. “Fuck,” he croaked, clawing at Clayton’s back and trying not to whine needily. “You’re the one who started it.”

  Shrugging, Clayton pulled back before he’d even released Grant's skin, sucking the meanest hickey into his neck and then releasing it with a wet pop. Clayton looked like he was torn between biting more marks and actually stepping away.

  Grant was torn between both options, as well.

  Finally lifting his eyes to Grant, Clayton stole a quick kiss, followed by a second and then a third. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he rasped, nibbling Grant's upper lip between his teeth.

  "Okay, yeah. Tomorrow. That sounds awesome," scrambling for the handle to his door, Grant pressed his lips into Clayton’s one last time before cursing under his breath and slipping into his jeep. His legs shook as hard as his hands, breathing uneven as he watched Clayton walk awkwardly back to his truck. It was a walk Grant knew well--one he had labeled the ‘boner-strut’ and had experienced many a time on his own.

  He turned the key in the ignition, cranking the window down to stick his head out, calling Clayton’s name with a grin on his lips. Clayton paused halfway to his truck, turning and looking at Grant in confusion.

  Giddy, Grant called out, “I knew you had a heart!”

  Even from across the parking lot, Grant could see Clayton roll his eyes as he gave Grant a half-hearted wave. “Goodnight, Grant!”

  Laughing, because that was the Clayton he knew--who put up with Grant and still somehow managed to sound completely unaffected--Grant pulled out of the parking lot. When he passed Clayton’s truck, he palmed the horn for a second and then pulled out to head home. He cranked up the radio, trying to soothe the bursting feeling in his chest with heavy bass from the local rock station.

  Grant felt like he was a pinata stuffed with rainbows and happiness, fit to explode at any second.

  Recalling the brighter events of the day, Grant finally released a loud shout of triumph. He beat the steering wheel, bouncing his head violently to the music and then snagging the wheel when he almost swerved off the road during his flailing.

  “Okay, shit. Grant. Focus on driving,” he breathed to himself, mouth wiggling for two long seconds until he couldn’t contain his smiling any longer. He bounced in his seat, tapping the steering wheel to the beat and trying not to spontaneously combust before he got home.

  He barely put the jeep in park in the driveway before jumping out and jogging up to the front steps. The porch
light was on, which meant that his father was home. This was most excellent, because Grant had a lot of feelings and he needed to channel them before he started doing something like whipping up a batch of cookies in the middle of the night. His dad, seated on the couch with a beer in one hand and the remote in the other, barely had time to look up before Grant was behind the couch and hugging his face.

  “You’re awesome,” Grant breathed, crushing his dad’s face to his chest, grinning, and pressing his cheek to the top of his father’s thinning hair. “Best dad ever.”

  Grant's dad raised a hand, petting Grant's elbow and muttering, “I’m starting to miss the pining Grant,” from where his face was crushed into Grant's arm.

  “Uh!” Grant cried, “Fine!” Pulling away, he couldn’t really even feign hurt, petting his father on the head. He just really loved his dad, okay. “Seriously, dad,“ Grant sobered, because he knew that sometimes dudes sucked at talking about feelings and that he needed to abuse the overload of emotions before it was too late, “thank you. I love you.’

  Glancing up, Grant's father leveled Grant with an amused quirk of his brow. “I love you too, no matter what.”

  Grant broke out into another grin, because yeah, feelings. Lots of them. He turned, heading for the stairs so he could bug Adam over the phone when his dad called his name.

  Turning, Grant caught sight of his father taking a languid swig of his beer and then nodding at Grant. “I’m happy for you, kiddo.”

  Grant leaned against the railing to the stairs, fiddling with it for a second and nodding. “Me too, dad.”

  Chapter 9

  Given that Grant had pined after Clayton for nearly two months, it should have been substantially easier to deal with the epic case of sexual frustration that had begun building up for the past two weeks since they’d finally gotten together.

  Grant knew that Clayton was trying his hardest. With conflicting schedules, it wasn’t like they had time to really get beyond a few heavy petting sessions--unlike all those gay romance novels, it was a lot harder to fool around after a long and exhausting work day.

  That was exactly why Grant was delighted when their schedules gave them a free day together. He was currently occupying Clayton's lap, kissing down his neck and appreciating the way Clayton squirmed and spread his legs to let Grant settle in better.

  His teeth scraped against the lobe of Clayton's ear, taking pleasure in the shudder that resulted.

  "Like that, Clay?" he rasped, nails dragging gently through Clayton's hair.

  Instead of answering, Clayton froze under Grant's body. It wasn't the good kind of stillness--it was a tense, uncomfortable one that had Grant pulling back with a confused frown.

  Clayton shrugged, glancing away and muttering, "can you not, uh, call me that? Parker used to call me Clay. It's just...it makes me think of him and I would really rather not."

  Nothing could kill the mood like talking about your psychopathic ex boyfriend during the middle of a makeout session.

  Clayton was glancing back at Grant nervously from the corner of his eye, hand on Grant's hip slowly sliding down to sit awkwardly on the couch. Grant sighed, pulling away and nodding. "Yeah, sure. Did you still want to, y'know?" he gestured, wiggling his hips a little.

  "Not really," Clayton admitted, "maybe in a little while?"

  “Awesome,” Grant muttered dryly, slouching back and then climbing off of Clayton's body, resisting the urge to sigh. He knew Clayton was trying, but it was still aggravating when every little thing seemed to trigger him into thinking of Parker.

  Clayton pursed his lips, stared at his knees. Grant grabbed the remote, turning up the volume and flipping through the stations for something they'd both like to watch. He felt Clayton grab his legs, pulling Grant's feet into his lap. Grant let him, shifting a little to get comfortable while Clayton absently rubbed at his ankle.

  "Want to watch the History channel?" Grant asked, spotting that there was a documentary on about dinosaurs.

  "Sure," Clayton rubbed his feet, like he was trying to soothe away Grant's frustration from touch alone. Grant knew he felt guilty, but he also knew that trying to stop Clayton from wallowing in self-hatred was the best way to start a fight, which was the opposite of what he wanted.

  Halfway into the first commercial break, Clayton's hands started to wander. He dragged his fingers up Grant's calf, stroking softly back down and up again. Normally, it might have been no big deal, but Grant still felt keyed up from earlier. He squirmed, stretching his legs a little in Clayton's lap and trying to stare holes into the television.

  Clayton's fingers tickled the inside of his knee and Grant jerked his leg at the tingle it sent up his thigh. He whipped his head around, prepared to lecture Clayton on things like 'if you don't want to do the sex, don't make me want to do the sex', when, in a startlingly quick movement, Clayton twisted his body and had Grant's legs pulled up and apart so that he could weasel his way in between them.

  Grant had a half second to register what was happening before Clayton lowered himself onto his hands and knees and slowly began crawling his way up Grant's body. Grant whimpered before he could stop himself, knees falling apart instinctively when Clayton started sliding one hand up Grant's chest and pushing his shirt up along the way.

  “I’m sorry,” Clayton mumbled, lowering his body down against Grant's so slowly that Grant could feel every single ounce as it pressed him into the cushions of the couch.

  Clayton pressed his lips into Grant's throat, finding his favorite spot in the entire world and nuzzling against it. Grant couldn’t remember what they were arguing about, couldn’t really think past Clayton’s warm hand pressed into his naked side, his other palm cradling the back of Grant's head, and the way their hearts seemed to thud together in sync. It was nice, really nice, because Clayton loved to touch him and mark him and pretty much make Grant completely forget why he ever lacked confidence in his own sex appeal.

  Grant hissed when Clayton’s thumb brushed his nipple at the exact same time he felt the tiny scrape of Clayton’s teeth along his throat.

  Grant, of course, spread his legs wide so Clayton could slot nicely between his thighs, instinctively arching up just the tiniest bit into the touch. He reached for Clayton’s hair, grabbing a fistful and forcing Clayton’s head back. “If we were a democracy, I’d vote you spent more time making it up to me. I expect lunch tom--” Grant's words broke off when Clayton pressed their lips together in a wet, open-mouthed kiss that left nothing but fizzling brain synapses in its wake.

  Instinctively, Grant sucked on Clayton’s tongue the instant it made a cursory swipe between his lips and along his teeth, nipping the very tip before shifting his hips up into Clayton’s. He was already halfway to creaming in his pants, and would be completely shameless to admit that pants-jizzing was not something he was entirely opposed to, if it meant the experience was one shared with Clayton.

  Grant curled his fingers into Clayton’s shirt, the fabric soft as it shifted against his skin. He couldn’t help the choked off groan that left him when Clayton shifted just enough so the outline of his cock pressed hot and hard up alongside Grant's. With a mumbled, incoherent curse muffled into the kiss, Grant shoved his hands between their bodies and fumbled with the button to Clayton’s fly.

  Clayton hissed into Grant's mouth, nipping the corner of his mouth and turning to bury his face in Grant's throat to start in on making a nice, fat hickey that was just above the collar of Gran't shirt. Grant wrested the button free, dragging down the zipper in a jerky movement because it was really hard to concentrate on trying to get Clayton’s pants on when Clayton himself was more focused on thrusting their bodies in a slow, rhythmic roll of his hips.

  “Clayton--gfffg, Clayton, c’mon you’re giving my fingers rug burn,” Grant gasped against Clayton’s ear when a downward grind trapped his hands between their hips. Clayton huffed out a moan of a laugh--one that rocked straight through Grant's core and made his dick twitch painfully--and pulled aw
ay to stare down at Grant with pupils so dilated that there was barely a ring of pale hazel circling around them. Grant leaned up to steal a kiss and mutter, “Come on, man, pants disengage.”

  At first, Clayton didn’t move, just kept pressing soft, firm kisses against Grant's mouth, until he was satisfied enough to sit back and stare, lips twitching into an almost smile. Grant squirmed, hands sliding towards his own fly before he went out of his mind from the sheer confinement.

  If possible, Clayton’s eyes went wider when he watched Grant start to fumble with the clasp to his jeans, expression blank in the way that Grant very well knew meant he was mentally overloading on one emotion or another.