He’d outrun his emotions by the time he passed through the gates of Folsom Field. He hadn’t intended to go to the field, but his feet led him there regardless. Abused muscles cried mutiny, and he collapsed on his back near the twenty-yard line. Dew-tipped grass cooled his overheated skin through his jersey, while his chest heaved and strained muscles twitched from the intense morning exertion. He kicked off his shoes and socks so his sweaty feet could breathe, but didn’t have the energy to sit up and take his jersey off.
If Owen had only stayed at the bar, if only he’d answered his phone the million times Rory had called last night, this could all be settled in one sentence.
I love you, too.
Rory lost track of how long he lay there on the field, distantly aware that the sun had risen higher and the surface temperature of his skin increased. Familiar sounds of the world waking around him danced on the edge of his eardrums -- morning birds chatted their merry tune, insects buzzed, street traffic echoed from beyond the stadium. His gaze followed an arcing contrail as it faded into a gossamer brush stroke across a canvas of deep blue.
Something hard bumped against his elbow, and he wasn’t surprised when he turned his head to find a football rocking to a halt in the grass. He reached for the ball and turned it in his hands, then cradled it to his chest and released a long breath that whistled through his teeth. He looked in the direction the ball had come from, and saw Owen standing near the benches. He was wearing a Colorado Buffaloes team T-shirt that emphasized his chiseled, broad chest and solid biceps. Dark blue sweatpants hung low on a narrow waist. Red diamond highlights sparkled in spiky dark hair.
Rory’s heart stuttered for a whole different reason.
With an unwavering gaze Owen moved silently into position thirty yards away. He planted his feet shoulder-width apart on the fifty-yard line, arms deceptively relaxed at his side, and waited.
It was a private ritual they started after their first home game when they played for the Rocky Mountain Lobos in high school. The morning after every game since, they’d meet on the field to toss the ball before the daily demands of life came calling -- reliving the previous night’s game, shooting the shit, talking about anything and everything that came to mind. Just the two of them cocooned in an empty, 50,000-seat stadium that shut out the world beyond its concrete walls.
“I’m an idiot,” Rory mumbled to himself. He looked back to the cerulean heavens for contradiction. The sky returned a mocking stare at him, as if to say, Like that's a news flash?
Suddenly, it all became crystal clear, like he’d been wandering around having forgotten to take the protective plastic off the lenses of his vision. All the times Owen had reached out for Rory, all the subtle ways he’d tried to say through touch what he couldn’t say with words. But Rory was so dead set on denial he’d missed every subtle signal. He mistook the caress of a hopeful lover as nothing more than the kindness of a good friend. How many years had they danced around each other? How many times had he misread Owen’s friendship and pushed him further and further way, afraid he couldn’t control his desires -- not realizing Owen wanted the same thing all along?
You’re an idiot and a chickenshit, Rory Ballard. No disagreement from above.
With a low groan, Rory heaved his disgruntled body off the ground and shook the grass from the back of his jersey. He cradled the ball in his hands a moment, watching Owen, the tension radiating off his best friend’s tall body a tangible thing. Rory cupped the pointed end of the ball in his right hand, angled his shoulder back, and let the ball fly. Owen deftly caught it. His honed, naturally athletic form moved with the effortless, enviable grace that made him a highlight reel darling, and he returned the toss.
For the next half hour, the only sounds were that of a leather ball whistling through the air as it volleyed back and forth, and the steady beat of a sunlit heart.
They’d paused only once by unspoken mutual agreement, to pull their shirts overhead and toss them aside as the morning temperature continued its relentless march toward the century mark.
Finally, Rory tucked the ball under an arm instead of returning the toss, and wiped the heel of one hand across his forehead. “You’re my best friend, Owen.”
Owen looked down, seemingly finding something intriguing about his running shoes. “I’m so sorry, Ror.” He glanced up briefly, afraid to hold contact. “You’re my best friend too, and I-- I miss you.”
Rory took a step forward. “You got nothing to be sorry for.”
“No. I was drunk and feeling sorry for myself and didn’t know what I was saying,” his best friend said, eyes downcast, shoulders rolled forward. “You know I-- I do…love you. But you know, like brothers.”
Rory’s next step faltered. A hairline crack zigzagged over the surface of his heart and threatened to split it open. “Brothers?”
Owen nodded, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his sweatpants, and flashed a quick, anxious glance over Rory’s shoulder. He was lying. Rory knew it to the core of his soul.
“You’re such a dumb-ass!” Rory yelled across the open space between them, making sure the smile in his voice was clear. Owen twitched but didn’t raise his gaze. “Don’t you think I know when you’re lying? Did you never think I might feel the same?”
Owen’s head shot up, and a comet of hope streaked across his dark eyes. “You aren’t gay.”
“Neither are you.” Rory started walking again when Owen snorted in response, determined and confident as he crossed the thirty-yard line. “What if I told you I love you? What if I told you I want you?”
“Do you?” Owen’s voice cut and shook like he’d veered off the side of the highway and hit a rumble strip. His gaze dropped back to the ground.
“I do,” Rory said, willing Owen to hear his heart in his voice. He stepped over the forty-yard line. “More than anything in this world.” Two more strides, closing the distance rapidly. “What do you want, Owen?”
Owen’s chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths. Skin glistened burnished gold in the late morning sun. Around his neck, a carved greenstone pendant in the shape of a triple twisted figure eight hung by a thin strip of black suede, reflected brightly. The pendant rested just below the hollow of his neck, and matched the one Rory wore. They’d gotten the necklaces when they’d taken a trip to New Zealand after high school, to celebrate their football scholarships. The path of life, it was called, the Maori symbol meaning two people bonded for life by friendship and loyalty.
Distance closed. Rory stood on one side of the fifty-yard line, Owen on the other. The narrow chalk-white line separated their bodies by mere inches. Tension sizzled in the heavy air between them, and still Owen didn’t raise his gaze when he began, “I want…”
“What?”
Owen mumbled; his words lost on a rising breeze.
“O…”
“You.” Owen raised his gaze and locked onto Rory’s. Brown eyes dark and intense, the way Rory had always dreamed Owen would look at him. Owen squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. His voice was low but sure when he said, “You, Rory. I want you.”
* * *
RORY DIDN’T KNOW who reached for whom first, only knew that Owen’s arms wrapped tight around his waist, and his arms wrapped around Owen. Their bodies clapped together with enough force to push the air from their lungs, and just before their lips met, Owen froze.
Breaths rapid and harsh mingled in the sliver that separated them from complete head-to-toe contact. The sharp scent of mint and arousing scent of male, of Owen, gusted over Rory’s cheek and teased his senses. The heated press of Owen’s bare chest against his, seared through skin and tissue and muscle and bone. Electric tingles raced the length of Rory’s tall frame. Rory moved a hand to cradle the back of Owen’s head, threaded his fingers into the silky locks, damp with sweat, and tentatively touched his mouth to Owen’s. He waited for Owen to respond, and barely a heartbeat later, Owen leaned into the kiss.
The first kiss.
The kiss he’d dreamed of since he was thirteen years old. Owen’s lips were soft as satin, hot as caramel on apple pie, and tasted just as sweet. They moved gently across his own -- tasting, testing, teasing -- and when they parted Rory didn’t hesitate to accept the invitation. He swept his tongue inside and slid it against Owen’s. He reveled in the subtle, rough texture on the surface and smooth underside as they twined around one another. A ragged moan rose up between them and Owen’s lean, muscular body pushed harder against him. Every angle and ridge of bone and muscle fit into place as though it were made for only him.
Owen’s hands burned a path up and down the expanse of Rory’s back from the base of his neck to the rise of his ass. Owen held the back of Rory’s head with one hand, slanting their angle to deepen the kiss that had yet to break -- breathing be damned -- and cupped one butt cheek with the other, squeezing hard as he rocked his hips into Rory. The rigid, unyielding length of Owen’s erection rode against Rory’s and a guttural growl vibrated against his skin as it surged up through Owen’s chest.
And then Owen forced his hands between them. The heel of one hand followed the outline of Rory’s cock through the thin denim, while the other frantically worked at releasing the button. Rory rolled his pelvis back only far enough to give Owen the room he needed to complete the task. He wanted the material that separated the last of their bodies gone. He wanted Owen to take him in hand and pull every day of the last seven longing years from his body.
Owen tucked his hands beneath the waistband of Rory’s briefs, and pushed them and his jeans down together. Hot sun attacked his bare ass and he shivered. His cock sprang free of its confines and pointed toward Owen instinctively. The rough heat of Owen’s hand wrapped around his shaft and Rory jerked forward, sparks shot in every direction and had him a heartbeat away from coming right then.
Rory broke the kiss for the first time and between gasping pants, said on a hoarse voice, “Holy. Fuck. Owen.” He clamped his hands around Owen’s wrists. “You’re killing me.” He hooked a heel behind Owen’s knee, and with a quick push-pull, tackled his dazed best friend to the ground before he had a chance to counter the action.
Owen hit the forgiving turf with a startled grunt as Rory landed on top of him, wrists still tightly held in Rory’s grip. Rory pushed Owen’s legs apart with his knees and settled into the welcoming space between them. Owen looked up at Rory, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded with lust, his breath coming in shallow puffs, his heart pounding powerfully against Rory’s chest. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” Owen whispered, his deep reedy voice dripping with desire. He clenched his hands into fists against Rory’s unyielding hold, but Rory wouldn’t budge. “Kiss me, Ror.”
And Rory did. This time it wasn’t a gentle exploration. It was a frantic, mindless, desperate claiming. The release of too many years of longing, too many years of denying what he craved most. Rory devoured Owen’s mouth, sucked and swirled the length of his tongue. Lips swollen and hypersensitive pulsed with the rapid bass drum beat of his heart. Rory felt like he was trying to climb inside, and still he couldn’t get close enough, deep enough.
He rocked his hips into Owen, who bucked to meet each thrust in equal measure. Owen tried again to free his hands from Rory’s hold, but Rory kept him pinned tight to the ground while he had his way with that beautiful mouth. Too long he’d wanted. Too long he’d needed. And now that he finally had a taste of Owen, there was no way in hell he was letting go.
With a rumbling growl, Owen arched his body up off the ground and forcibly flipped them over, but instead of straddling Rory, he yanked him by the hands and hauled him to his feet. Rory swayed for a brief second and then Owen was dragging him toward the locker rooms.
“What the hell, O?” Rory squawked as he held his pants up with his free hand and stumbled behind.
“Can’t wait, Ror.” Owen sounded nearly panicked. “Can’t wait.”
Rory laughed. He couldn’t wait either.
The slap of Rory’s bare feet and softer pound of Owen’s rubber-soled ones, echoed off the tunnel walls as they ran from the field and into the empty locker room. Owen released Rory’s hand as soon as they were inside the door and reached for a garbage can along the wall.
“Doorbell,” he said as he rolled the large can in front of the door. “Just in case.”
Rory opened his mouth to tell Owen that was a good idea, but before he could get a word out, Owen was on him. His mouth fused to Rory’s in an aggressive, demanding kiss. More hands than seemed possible dug into bare skin, tunneled through hair and tugged; shoved at his jeans until they shackled his ankles and threatened to topple him as Owen back-walked him. His calves hit one of three leather couches at the far end of the room, where the team gathered to study practice and game videos with their coaches.
The second Rory’s butt sank into the plush leather Owen pushed him back and began tugging his jeans over his feet. Owen stood there, staring down at Rory, his desire palpable; jeans still in clutched his hand all but forgotten. “Heaven above…”
Rory held a hand out. “Come here.”
Owen took the proffered hand and knelt between Rory’s bare legs. Rory pulled him in and once again claimed those swollen, caramel apple lips. Owen stretched his body over Rory’s and pressed their crotches together. Rory slowly slid his hands down Owen’s strong back, tracing every angle and curve of muscle, over each bump of his spine, under the band of his sweatpants and down into the two dimpled valleys that hovered above a perfectly defined ass. He pushed the pants down with open palms, covering as much skin as possible as he went. And God, if that wasn’t the softest skin he’d ever felt.
Owen leaned back, breaking their kiss. His lips, full and flush, glistened with moisture. He sat back on his heels and looked up at Rory with the expression of a child on Christmas morning. “Can I?” he whispered in a graveled voice.
“Please. Yes.” His dick pulsed in agreement.
With hands firmly holding Rory’s hips, Owen leaned forward and kissed him one more time on the lips before his tongue led his mouth on a journey from Rory’s jaw, down the side of his neck where Owen nipped at the thick, corded muscle. He followed the line of Rory’s clavicle into the hollow of his throat, then down the center of his chest and over to a hardened nipple. He teased it with his tongue and teeth and Rory’s head fell back against the couch. He closed his eyes to focus on the sensation of touch that swept through his body under Owen’s devoted worship.
Owen continued his southbound journey until his chin bumped the head of Rory’s cock, and a spike of electricity charged through Rory’s every vein. “God, Owen. Suck me. Please.”
Rory caught his breath when Owen’s tongue, hot and wet, twirled around the head of his straining shaft, and then down the underside to the base, before returning to the tip. And then he was engulfed in the most incredible heat he ever felt. All he’d known to this point was his own hand. Rory had never wanted another living soul as badly as he wanted Owen Harris. He wanted Owen to be his first everything.
Owen released his hips and wrapped one hand around the base of Rory’s cock, while he moved the other down to cup and gently squeeze his balls.
“Damn, Owen. That feels amazing.” Rory lifted his head to watch as he carefully rocked his hips upward, pushing himself deeper into Owen’s glorious mouth. Owen looked up and met his gaze with an intensity Rory felt like a punch to the gut. His heart smashed against his ribcage with brutal force, perspiration broke out on his forehead and the telltale tingling began at the base of his spine.
Too visceral. Couldn’t be a dream.
“O…” Rory warned. He grabbed Owen’s head and tried to push him off his dick. But Owen wasn’t having any of that. He gave one shake and clamped down with his lips, then sucked back up so hard his cheeks hollowed. The crawling tingles exploded into blinding bolts of lightning that shocked Rory with their force. He shouted Owen’s name as his body ripped apart and scattered throughout the stratosphere. Owen didn’t let go, di
dn’t stop through that moment of pure, mindless bliss. He stayed with him, strong and protective, and carried him gently back to earth -- spent, sated and speechless.
Owen slid his arms behind Rory’s back and dropped his head on Rory’s stomach. Rory had yet to detangle his fingers from Owen’s hair, couldn’t command any part of his body to move. He could only focus on the slowing aftershocks of the best orgasm of his life.
“I can’t believe how fucking good you taste,” Owen said with a note of awe in his voice.
“Share,” Rory said.
Owen crawled up Rory’s torso and kissed him open mouthed. His abdomen clenched when he tasted himself on Owen’s tongue. Need fluttered through his insides and Rory wanted more. Wanted everything. He pulled back, looked into those beautiful brown eyes and said, “I want you to fuck me.”
Owen’s eyes widened, desire and trepidation danced a slow waltz in their depths, his lips parted and his mouth worked silently. “I-- ” He lowered and raised his gaze. “I don’t know…what to do.”
Rory’s heart clenched at the admission. All these years he’d been pining for Owen while Owen had been waiting for him. Rory took Owen’s lips in a demanding, impassioned kiss. He didn’t really know what he was doing either, but he would do everything he could to make sure their first experience together was perfect. He pulled back slowly, nipping gently at Owen’s lips, and upped Owen’s face in both hands. Smooth skin and rough stubble under his palm a pleasant contrast. “Don’t worry.” He smiled. “I know.”
Owen’s brows furrowed. “How do you know?”
“Gay porn, dude.”
Owen laughed and leaned his cheek into Rory’s hand. “Figures.” The nervous tension that had bunched in his best friend’s shoulders eased.
“Don’t suppose you have a condom, eh?”
Owen shook his head and Rory didn’t miss the fleeting shadow of disappointment that crossed over his features. He ruffled Owen’s spiky locks. “Let me up.”
Don't Read in the Closet volume one Page 20
