by Beth Bolden
“So tell me why you decided to become a baker,” Landon suggests, sipping at his white wine. It’s light and very crisp; the perfect complement to the rich food. He feels very spoiled and he’s loving every moment.
“I actually fell into it,” Quentin admits. “I needed a job and my local bakery was hiring. But I loved it right away. The early mornings, the feel of the dough underneath my hands, the satisfaction of creating something delicious out of such simple ingredients. There’s a magic to baking, I think.”
“Just really flour and water, yeah?” Landon asks. He’s never baked something a day in his life. But he wants to now, if only to maybe experience a fraction of the passion that’s ripe in Quentin’s eyes.
He says as much and Quentin just throws his head back and laughs long and hard, leaving the gorgeous column of his neck exposed. Landon wants to leave a deep red love bite right along his jawline.
“You don’t have the patience for it,” Quentin admits. “Baking definitely isn’t for everyone. Besides, if we can get you cooking, I’ll consider my job well done.”
“If I learn anything, it’ll be solely because of you,” Landon admits.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Landon,” Quentin retorts. “You’re more capable than you give yourself credit for. Besides, nobody expects you to be a wonder in the kitchen. You’re a singer and a songwriter.”
“A washed-up pop act, more like,” Landon inserts wryly and Quentin just frowns.
“What? It’s true,” Landon can’t help but insist. It’s not exactly true. But it is a little bit true.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Quentin asks gently.
They’ve broken just about every first date rule Landon has. Normally he’d never discuss anything so non-frivolous and incapable of leading to flirtation, but Quentin actually seems interested. So Landon tells him.
It takes the whole salad course for Landon to explain about how much of a public relations nightmare coming out of the closet is. And how so many artists have way more stringent guidelines built into their contracts, but he found a loophole and used it, despite all the advice he was given to wait. Quentin listens intently and just nods as Landon talks. Landon is so grateful at how kind Quentin is that he doesn’t even make a peep of protest at the salad, just is silently and pleasantly surprised that anything comprised entirely of vegetables could be so tasty.
The only thing he leaves out is Steve. If Quentin notices or knows how Steve was involved, he doesn’t mention it. Landon hopes that Steve will never come up, but knows better.
“What you’re saying,” Quentin says slowly and thoughtfully, “is that it wasn’t that you came out, it was when you came out.”
Landon nods. “Basically I was still too young and too cute.”
“Both of which are still very true, I might add,” Quentin says with a little smirk.
“Thank you very much. But yeah, it didn’t help. My next album didn’t sell, my label dropped me and now Ian and I are shopping my new one—or will be shopping my new one, when it’s done.”
“Ian?” Quentin asks, as the waiter clears their salad plates.
“My new agent,” Landon says proudly. “He’s good. Very respected in the industry. Got me on Kitchen Wars to try to ‘diversify my image.’”
Quentin reaches for Landon’s hand again and he eagerly lets Quentin wrap his fingers around his. Quentin is a great hand-holder. Very promising for the future. It’s been a long time since Landon let himself imagine hand-holding and white picket fences but that train has officially left the station.
Quentin’s thumb rubs the sensitive cleft between Landon’s pointer finger and thumb. He shivers a little as the rough callouses caress his skin. Squirming a bit in his chair, Landon tries not to imagine those hands on other parts of his body and fails miserably.
“How’d your recording session go?” Quentin asks.
Landon doesn’t really want to tell him that he spent about thirty minutes on refining an older song that he isn’t convinced is very good and about three hours spouting complete bullshit lyrics about blue eyes and dimples and broad shoulders.
“It’s a process,” Landon finally admits. “A tough one, sometimes.”
“I feel that way with new recipes sometimes. I tweak them for months and months, and nothing ever seems right. You’ll get there.” Quentin squeezes Landon’s hand reassuringly.
Landon realizes then that their passions really aren’t all that different. They both create things for public consumption—Landon has his music and Quentin his bread and pastries. Landon feels another bit of himself shift into place, a building block of his heart settling in where it belongs.
Normally he’d be terrified that this isn’t going to work out. That he’s getting in too deep, too fast. But it all feels so easy and comfortable with Quentin. Like their hearts have known each other forever and their minds are just now catching up.
When the main course comes, a delicious Dijon chicken with little perfect potatoes roasted in the wine and garlic and chicken drippings, they finish off the bottle of wine and start another. Landon feels drunk not necessarily on alcohol, but on wonderful food and even better company.
“I wish I could cook like this,” Quentin moans around a mouthful of chicken.
“I thought all chefs could,” Landon protests with a teasing smile. “Only reason I was considering keeping you around.”
“No. No. I wish, really. I’m a baker, like I said. I went to cooking school. I could hold my own at most restaurants, probably. But I can’t cook like this.”
“Damn.”
“Don’t worry,” Quentin says with an adorably lopsided grin, “I’m plenty good at other things.”
“Like baking?” Landon asks, trying to ignore the way his heart is racing in his chest and how tight his jeans feel—and not from the food he’s been devouring all night.
“Sure, that too,” Quentin says, the corners of his lips turning up into a rather slyer smile.
The waiter comes to clear away the plates. “Dessert?” he asks.
Quentin glances over at Landon. Landon hesitates. He definitely wants dessert. He’s just not entirely sure which variety of dessert he’s more desperate for.
His hesitation is apparently all the confirmation Quentin needs. “To go,” he tells the waiter decisively enough that Landon suddenly feels a bit fuzzy. All the blood in his entire body has rushed to his cock and when he stands up, it’s going to be obvious that he’s hard and ready to go.
It takes them ten minutes to get dessert which should be plenty of time for Landon to get himself together. Unfortunately it doesn’t happen.
It’s just that it’s very tough to calm down because even as they’re making harmless small talk, chatting easily about the different contestants on Kitchen Wars, Landon’s mind is literally one constantly looping dirty fantasy—Quentin on his knees in front of him, mouthing at the tip of his dick through his pants, glancing up, his eyes wide and blue and as innocent as they are dirty; Landon in Quentin’s lap, cock inside of him, rocking relentlessly against his prostate as he sucks the love bite he’s been dying to give Quentin all night right into his chiseled jawline; Quentin fucking Landon’s mouth, holding him down, making him take it, wrists bound together behind his back as it slides so big and hard between his lips.
The waiter brings their dessert, boxed up. “Pots de crème, chocolate of course, with a white chocolate ganache,” he says, and then disappears, leaving them to the rest of their evening and Landon to his imminent detonation.
Landon is a volcano. One touch, and he’s definitely going to explode.
Quentin must notice Landon’s panicked expression at the thought of leaving and he smiles. “Don’t worry, I’m . . .uh . . . plenty excited myself.”
Landon’s temperature ratchets up another few degrees. He swallows hard, his mouth dry as a bone, and licks his lips. Imagines Quentin’s soft, plush mouth on them. “Okay. It’s a quick walk, yeah?”
Quentin nods, and he looks just about as eager as Landon feels.
When Quentin gets up, Landon feels zero shame in ogling how hot and ready he looks in his tight jeans. Not that Landon is any less obvious. It’s a good thing that while they were eating dinner, dusk has fallen and it’s grown dark outside, offering up a bit of protection from prying eyes.
The walk to Quentin’s place feels like it’s over before it even begins. The blood in Landon’s veins goes from a simmer to a full-on boil as they walk up the stairs and Quentin unlocks the door.
Landon doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t think. He just acts.
He shoves Quentin back up against the door. He’s smaller but it doesn’t seem to matter as their mouths meet in a kiss that melts all the nerve endings in Landon’s body. It’s hot and sweet and longing, almost, as if they both spent the entire dinner wishing they could get their mouths back on each other, and now it’s finally happened.
Quentin licks determinedly into his mouth and Landon can’t help the long, throaty moan he makes. He takes advantage of the momentary break in the madness only to delve right back in, licking and sucking alongside Quentin’s criminally chiseled jawline, right to the spot he’s been fantasizing about since he spotted it. Quentin’s skin is equally salty and sweet, delicious really—the perfect finish to a truly wonderful meal—and it turns out that the spot is even better than Landon could have even imagined because when he finally hits it, Quentin’s knees actually buckle.
So, that’s handy. It turns out that Quentin loves getting a good love bite as much as Landon loves to give one. Landon wants to fucking eat him alive. He does, wrenching his mouth off and admiring the intense red of the mark he’s made before diving back to Quentin’s sinful, plush mouth. The kiss goes from passionate to insatiable and Landon barely even registers when Quentin exercises his strength and flips them easily. The back of Landon’s head hits the door with a solid thunk but the pain barely registers. He’s too awestruck watching Quentin sink to his knees in front of him, an image practically ripped out of his earlier fantasy.
Quentin wastes absolutely no time, hands on the button of Landon’s pants, unzipping them and pulling them down like he’s waited as long as he can.
Like he’d seen a vision from Landon’s mind, Quentin is right there, nuzzling at the hard cock in his pants, sending little bursts of sensation sparking through his body. Landon slurs out a pained plea for more, god, please, because Quentin’s teasing him and he’s desperate for more.
Quentin groans and then suddenly there’s no fabric between his hot wet mouth and Landon’s dick—only damp air. Landon gasps and strains against the desire to just buck up into Quentin’s mouth. Normally he likes a good bit of teasing himself, and in a more restrained mood, he might be the one to taunt Quentin with what he clearly wants so much, but Landon is undone by the evening and by Quentin and just pleads for Quentin to do something, anything.
Quentin listens and when he slicks his tongue up the underside, then sinks down, tonguing at the head, wrapping his cock up in the most sinful mouth that Landon has ever been privileged to enjoy, it’s pure bliss.
It doesn’t take long for Quentin to develop a devastating rhythm, giving Landon everything he didn’t even know he wanted. Then his hands creep back to Landon’s butt, kneading and caressing his cheeks. There’s only the slightest hint of a damp finger nudging at his hole before Landon loses it, suddenly and completely. His life flashes before him in a blinding flash of white light and he dies a little, feeling only a tiny niggling shame for his lack of blowjob etiquette as he shoots come down Quentin’s throat.
But Quentin doesn’t look even the slightest bit annoyed. He only reluctantly pulls off, licking the last of it from his lips and gives Landon the most scorching, devastating look from his position on his knees.
Landon is dazed and still horny, the aftershocks of his orgasm still pulsing through his veins and he only vaguely registers Quentin moving to his feet and grabbing Landon’s hand, leading them through the apartment to the bedroom.
There’s a bed. That’s literally all Landon registers about it. There’s a bed and then he’s on it and Quentin is crawling up him like a man who’s starving to death and Landon is a banquet feast.
Quentin nuzzles into the damp spot on Landon’s neck and even manages to breathe sexily into Landon’s ear. “Wanna ride you, baby,” he moans, rutting against Landon’s hip, hard and insistent and even though Landon is still a bit dazed, it seems that’s all it takes for arousal to start fizzing through his veins again.
But he’s not sixteen still, and Quentin seems to be pretty respectful of that fact so they kiss for a long time, Quentin grinding alongside Landon’s hardening cock. He’s hard long before they can possibly tear their mouths off each other, panting helplessly as Landon stares into Quentin’s eyes.
“Want you,” Landon moans as Quentin executes a particularly filthy grind. “Wanna fuck you.”
Quentin throws his head back and he looks so exceptionally gorgeous that Landon can’t really believe his luck. At some point in this evening, he is going to pinch himself and wake up.
But it seems like that’s not even close to happening now. Quentin reluctantly leaves Landon’s side for a moment, to gather condoms and lube and shed his clothes as Landon watches hungrily, eyes eating up every bit of skin that he uncovers, littered with tattoos and damp with sweat.
“Gorgeous,” Landon breathes out unsteadily. “Fucking gorgeous.”
Quentin blushes as he slicks up his fingers and Landon makes a sound of protest. “What, you wanna?” Quentin asks shyly, and Landon nods, eagerly.
Quentin’s got a little peach of a butt, small and compact and surprisingly curvaceous for its size. Quentin’s finger is already tucked inside and once Landon wets his own fingers, he slides one alongside, gasping a little at how tight and hot Quentin feels, how insanely perfect around him. He can’t wait to get his dick in there. Can’t wait to make Quentin look even more wrecked than he already does, grinding back on their fingers.
His dick is hard and purple, pre-come bubbling at the tip, and it bobs between them. Landon leans over and licks at the wetness and loves how loud Quentin is when he sucks the head into his mouth.
“Gonna come, gonna come,” Quentin pants. “Wanna come around your cock.”
Landon wants that too. Wants that more than he wants to take his next breath. He carefully slides another finger in and gives it a few experimental thrusts, making sure that all Quentin feels when he finally gets where he wants to be is pure pleasure.
“Ready,” Quentin moans, and Landon pulls his fingers out, reaching for the condom. His fingers shake as he slides on the condom and gives himself an extra layer of slickness. He wants this to be mind-blowing; wants Quentin to feel just as good as he made Landon feel.
Wants to make Quentin feel even better.
Quentin sinks down on his dick like he’s born to it, his rather ungainly body discovering a new grace as he slowly slides down, works his way slowly but steadily down onto Landon’s cock.
He’s so tight and so hot, Landon screws his eyes shut so he doesn’t come embarrassingly quick. Quentin lets out a long drawn-out moan and Landon tries counting to ten as he bottoms out. The problem isn’t just the way Quentin feels around him, but the visuals—his abs contracting as he rises back up and sinks back down again, curls bouncing, eyes completely blissed out. Landon shivers and tries to snatch back his self-control, which pretty much disappeared the moment his lips touched Quentin’s for the first time.
Landon’s hands move to Quentin’s hips and grip him tight, probably tight enough to leave bruises, but Quentin only groans dirtier, filthier, spouting phrases that make Landon’s eyes roll back in his head as he takes his cock deep and hard. He angles his hips, trying to catch Quentin’s prostate and he knows the moment he hits it, Quentin’s mouth opening in a silent scream of pleasure. He hits it once, then twice more and Quentin’s gone, ropes of come shooting from his cock, painting them bot
h.
Quentin clenching down is all it takes Landon to lose it again, shuddering helplessly as he grinds deep and fills the condom.
“Fuck.” Quentin slumps forward onto Landon’s chest, and they’re both wet with come and sweat and lube and Landon can’t even find it in himself to care. This was one of the most overwhelmingly insane sexual encounters of his life. Maybe even the best sex of his life. And it was literally the very first time.
Twenty minutes later, they’re finally cleaned up and cuddling again, this time on the couch with Quentin’s arms wrapped tightly around Landon. He’s got the dessert container open on his lap and he’s spoon-feeding heavenly bites of chocolate mousse into Landon’s waiting mouth.
“To die for,” Landon moans, lips closing around the spoon, refusing to let it go as he tries to clean every last bit off the plastic.
He finally relinquishes the spoon and Quentin steals a bite, his expression thoughtful as he carefully tastes it. “It’s good,” he finally admits. “Very good. I can make better though.”
That gets Landon’s attention. “You are absolutely shitting me. This is a tiny bit of heaven in a cup. There is nothing better.”
Quentin shrugs rather smugly. “I can think of a few things.” He taps the spoon on the very tip of Landon’s nose, leaving a speck of mousse behind. He leans in, cleans it off with a quick lap of his tongue. “Well, one thing specifically.”
Landon blushes. He doesn’t know what to say. Then he does. “This was the best date I’ve ever had,” he says. Telling Quentin the truth doesn’t feel like an uncomfortable admission, but a secret confession, whispered underneath a nest of blankets. Except there’s no blankets, there’s only Quentin, and he’s keeping him plenty warm.
“Me too.” Quentin’s grip tightens a little, as if he’s got such precious cargo he can’t bear to let it slip away. As if Landon would. As if Landon could. “Gonna be hard to top this one, to be honest.”
Landon giggles. Quentin is smiling. He doesn’t exactly look worried.
