Full Exposure

by Jerry Cole

  “And why is that?” Evan asks, cocking his head just enough that his hair falls to one side, stepping close and pushing himself up into Scott’s space, breathing his air. He knows the answer. Scott knows he does, and that’s what gets him to move forward.

  “I don’t know,” he says, and drops the towel in his hands so he can grab Evan by both shoulders, pulling him closer to make it easier to slot their lips together. It’s not the smoothest maneuver, but it’s enough for Scott, and the awkward clack of teeth is brushed aside by the spark of heat that ricochets up his spine at the first tentative brush of tongue against his lips. He presses on in ill-advised determination borne out of pent up feelings and the way Evan had looked with Scott’s scarf wrapped around his throat, and Scott finds his efforts rewarded by one of Evan’s arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders and the other coming up to tangle in his hair.

  There’s no finesse to it, not by a long shot, but Scott finds that he doesn’t really mind that much with the way Evan’s fingers are carding through his hair, tugging a fistful gently to coax Scott into a better angle. He feels rather than hears the vibrations, the gentle groan that bubbles up in Evan’s throat and spills over his lips, and the only thoughts running through his head are oh god oh god oh god and Jesus Christ why are his lips so soft.

  Evan pulls away with a gasp, his eyes wide and his hand still curled possessively into Scott’s hair. He’s close enough for Scott to count his freckles, to see in full clarity the way his expression morphs from surprise into confusion into a burning desire that blows his pupils wide. “Jesus, Carter,” he says, with a breathless laugh that escapes into the night air like smoke. “Give a guy a chance to breathe, will you?” His tone is light, teasing, his voice dropped to a whisper that send goosebumps skittering down Scott’s forearms.

  “Sorry,” Scott whispers back, voice hoarse. It’s hardly an apology. He can’t even blame it on the alcohol. He’s been sober since Evan walked through his door. A laugh spills over his lips, catching him by surprise, and he’s sure he has some ridiculous, blindsided look on his face because Evan takes one look at him and dissolves into giggles.

  “Took you long enough, didn’t it,” says Evan in a rush of breath. Scott is glad that Evan reaches forward and kisses him again the moment the words leave his mouth. It saves him from having to mull over what the words meant. He melts into Evan’s mouth the way he’s dreamed of doing for months, and it’s everything he’s wanted and so, so much more. Evan is pliant underneath him, soft but not motionless, kissing back with a fervor just this side of sloppy, running his fingers over the short hair at the nape of Scott’s neck and tugging lightly at the longer strands further up.

  They stumble down the hallway in a tangle of limbs, never separating for more than a second, collapsing onto Scott’s bed in a haphazard pile. Evan pauses when they hit the mattress, pushes himself up onto his arms and gazes down with an impossibly tender look in his green eyes, and Scott has to nudge his arm twice before he blinks and seems to come to.

  “You good there?” he asks, heart hammering for a single second at the possibility that Evan might reply with no, never mind, my mistake.

  Evan just smiles, though, the corners of his lips curving up imperceptibly. “Never better,” he says, and then he laughs and pulls Scott closer by the back of his head to kiss him again. It’s nowhere near perfect, messy and uncoordinated and sometimes Evan miscalculates and plants his lips on the corner of Scott’s mouth instead of the center, but Scott’s okay with that. He doesn’t mind at all.

  His fingers thread aimlessly through Evan’s thick curls and Evan groans hoarsely into his mouth, his fingers fumbling uncoordinated on the buttons of Scott’s shirt. He seems to get the hang of it after a moment, making a soft little noise of triumph when he manages to get enough undone that he can push the fabric down Scott’s shoulders and slide his hands against bare skin. Scott laughs when Evan tries to toe off his shoes and stumbles, balanced precariously on his knees and scrabbling at Scott’s shoulders for support, and once he has them off, Scott falls back and Evan comes down with him.

  When Evan sits back up, straddling Scott’s hips, Scott can see his jeans stretching with the move. There’s a shallow outline where his cock presses insistent against the denim, and yeah, okay, that’s something Scott can get behind. Evan kisses him again before he can do anything about it, though, and Scott bites the tip of his tongue lightly in retaliation before reaching forward to grab his ass with both hands, grinding his hips up and pulling Evan down until Evan throws his head back and keens at the friction. The curve of his neck is exquisite, glistening faintly with sweat and stretched long with the way Evan is postured. Scott is overcome with the urge to press his mouth to the bare skin, and then the realization that he can hits him like a freight train.

  “God, fuck,” Evan babbles as Scott manages to latch his lips to a patch of skin just below Evan’s ear, and then he grinds down against Scott again all of his own accord and Scott can feel just how hard he is even through the layers of thick fabric separating them. “A little eager, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Scott snorts, even though he’s harder than a rock in his jeans and he knows Evan can feel proof of it every time he presses his hips down against Scott’s. Evan raises an eyebrow, shifts back just enough that he can get a knee in between Scott’s thighs, presses up against him just firmly enough to pull a long, drawn-out moan from the back of Scott’s throat. “Touché,” Scott concedes when he gets his breath back enough to speak.

  “Didn’t say anything,” Evan says, like the smug little fuck he is. Scott adores him. His lips miss Scott’s again when he leans down for a kiss, brushing the skin just to the right of Scott’s mouth, and he makes amends by trailing open-mouthed kisses outward to his jawline and then along the curve of his neck. Scott tilts his head back as Evan noses along his jawline, one hand planted firmly on the mattress behind him for support and the other reaching up to tug at the collar of Evan’s shirt. It unbuttons easily when Scott finally has the presence of mind to fumble with the buttons, and Evan pulls away for just long enough to tug the shirt off altogether, leaving it abandoned on the floor, and suddenly there is so much skin pressed up against Scott that he feels a bit dizzy with the intimacy of it all.

  Evan’s thigh brushes up between Scott’s legs and he rolls his hips again, sliding his hands back down to rest against Evan’s waist. One comes forward to paw blindly at Evan’s button and zipper and Evan groans low and throaty and grinds down again even harder. “Fuck,” he says emphatically, and Scott makes a noise of agreement in the back of his throat.

  Scott has no luck with Evan’s jeans, and even less with Evan canting his hips down every couple seconds, so he settles instead for just pressing the heel of his hand against the bulge in the fabric. It seems to do the trick, Evan switching to shallowly rutting against his hand. Scott can hear him making barely audible, high-pitched noises with every thrust, and he drinks in the noises like he’s dying of thirst. Eventually, Evan manages to fuss with the button enough that it comes free, and Scott wastes no time at all in pushing the thick denim to the side so he can press up against the soft, thin fabric of Evan’s briefs instead.

  “Oh,” says Evan, and it comes out like oh, surprised, shocked, pleased. Scott doesn’t reply, just looks up to watch the way Evan’s eyes flutter closed at the contact, his head tipping back to the ceiling. His hair shifts, falls, settles and frames his face like a portrait done up in gold and ivory. Blindly, his hand drifts to Scott’s jaw, running fingertips over his barely-there stubble, and with Scott’s free hand he reaches up to ghost his thumb over Evan’s own.

  “Scott,” he says, hand pressing more firmly against the skin of Scott’s jaw as Scott turns his head, mouthing kisses along Evan’s palm, the curve of his thumb, treating him like something to be worshipped. It’s heady, breathtaking, seemingly impossible that this is happening. Scott wonders how long they could have been doing this, wonders why it fee
ls like he’s only just discovering something that’s been his all along.

  It seems momentous in a way. It’s like this is something they’ve been barreling toward for as long as they’ve known each other. At the same time, though, it’s hazy and impulsive. It’s weighed down ever so slightly by the late hour and the adrenaline of the night on the town. It gives the whole affair a sort of unreality, like it’s a moment stolen out of time, kept in stasis just for them.

  This, though, the press of Evan’s fingers against his face the feeling of his fingers hot and heavy as they dip underneath the waistband of Evan’s briefs. The touch keeps him grounded. His uncertainty flings itself gracelessly out of the window. Evan tilts his head back down and opens his eyes, finding Scott watching, and darts the pink tip of his tongue out to wet his lips. When Scott leans up and in, bending his knees and bracing himself with a hand on Evan’s thigh to brush their lips together, Evan makes a hoarse, guttural sound in the back of his throat.

  Scott tastes Evan slowly, thoroughly, kissing him until his lips are pliant and open, learning the movements of his body in slow motion. He tastes like coffee and the hours gone hint of sweet liquor, a touch of peppermint from the chewing gum he keeps in his coat at all times, and underneath it all something musky and intoxicating that Scott pins down as just Evan. Scott pulls Evan’s bottom lip between his teeth, sucks away the traces of bitter and sweet lingering there, and Evan melts.

  All at once, like the flare of a lamp, the mood shifts. Evan scrambles further upright, shucking the denim of his jeans and tossing them to the side unceremoniously, leaning forward to help peel Scott’s own pants off as well. Scott could lose himself in this, in the wild and reckless slide of skin and tangle of limbs, in the way Evan tears at his clothes like he needs to feel as much of Scott against him as possible. When the last article of clothing hits the floor, Scott stops. He is keenly, vitally aware of Evan’s naked figure, of his long legs draped around the dip of Scott’s hips, of the way his back arches up when Scott reaches out to run hands along the curve of his bare back and down over his ass.

  Evan leans in to kiss him, smiling into it, before reaching between them to wrap his delicate photographer’s fingers loosely around the shaft of Scott’s cock.

  Scott has to fight the urge not to rub up against the first touch of Evan’s palm to his skin, settling instead for a rough grab at his ass, and Evan rewards him with a squeeze and a tighter grip. He keeps his strokes infuriatingly light, so much that Scott can barely feel them if not for the heady spike of want that ricochets up his spine with every upstroke. Scott leans closer, presses his lips to the soft skin just below his jawline, revels in the way it makes Evan give a full body shiver and tilt his head to give Scott’s mouth better access. He squeezes once, drags his fingers up Scott’s cock in a deliciously slow way, and Scott groans audibly into the side of his neck. He can feel the low, throaty chuckle that Evan gives him in return.

  “This is nice,” Evan says, with the same kind of tone he would use to say lovely weather today, isn’t it, or could you pass the sugar, please, and when Scott pulls back enough to see his face Evan’s got a sly, mischievous sort of half-smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

  “Come here often?” Scott quips in return, but the effect is somewhat ruined by the way his voice pitches up in octave at another particularly rough pull of Evan’s hand on him. He bucks, arches up into Evan’s touch like a bowstring. “Jesus, shit, do that again.”

  “You’re pushy, aren’t you,” says Evan, but his tone is teasing and there’s a glint in his eye. Scott groans, pushes his hips up into Evan’s hand, lets his eyes flutter closed at the sweet friction.

  “Bite me, princess.”

  He does, and Scott tips his head back and lets out a hoarse moan at the way he runs his tongue over the bite, chasing the sting and soothing it away. When he pulls away Scott surges up, captures his lips in a blistering kiss and pushes him back into the pillows lining the headboard. He protests a little, making a face when his hand gets knocked away from Scott by the new angle, but his eyes go dark and blow wide as he watches Scott crawl over him. Scott is all lanky limbs and sharp edges and he knows it, knows it like he knows Evan has the broad shoulders and lean muscles of a god, but Evan seems to like the way Scott tries to close him in with a cage of skin, leaning down to press chaste kisses up his sternum before lightly brushing his mouth against Evan’s own again.

  “Holy shit,” he can hear Evan say, voice disembodied somewhere above his left temple, and he looks up to see Evan with one hand flung over his eyes. He parts his fingers to peer out with his right eye, looking down at Scott like he’s a god damn diamond necklace on a silver platter.

  Scott can feel heat prickling across his skin, warmth blossoming up his cheeks and over his shoulders. Evan looks glorious even with how disheveled he is, the clean, hard lines of his figure stretched out for miles against Scott’s sheets like he’s in some sort of debauched Renaissance painting, draped sinfully across whatever horizontal surface might be available. Scott all but whines at the sight, tracing a hand down over his stomach appreciatively. Evan twists under his light touch, trying to pull away and get closer all at the same time, and Scott has to suppress a high-pitched giggle when he realizes that Evan is squirming because he’s ticklish. Scott spares him. He pulls his hand away from the enticing trail of sandy hair running down his navel and guides it instead to the base of Evan’s cock. A low, needy sound fills the air, Evan’s eyes lock onto his own, green blown over impossibly wide with black. It’s as if an oil spill caught fire, the way the sight sends sparks ricocheting through Scott’s nervous system like a burst of gunpowder going off.

  “Evan,” he says, broken and wanting, and he sees the need in his voice reflected in the soft lines of Evan’s face. It’s a question, written into a name.

  “Yeah,” Evan replies, his accent thick and heavy and something impossibly tender in his voice. “God, Scott, of course,” and it sounds like Scott’s heart screaming out I need you, I need you, I need you.

  He leans back in, presses his lips to Evan’s forehead, cheeks, eyelids, jawline, soft and aching lips.

  “Yeah, I got you,” he says as he begins to take Evan apart beneath him. “I’ve got you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Scott wakes in starts, slowly first and then all at once, blinking his eyes open to see the shock of curls splayed out over the pillow in front of him.

  The mid-morning light filters through the big industrial window in the kitchen, just beginning to edge from pink to gold when Scott shuffles in, still slightly asleep. The tile is cool under his feet, just this shy of icy now that the mid-February air has started to become more bearable. It’s silent, silent like every morning before, with the children upstairs already gone to school and the city not quite up to its usual rush hour buzz yet. A yawn pulls itself from his throat unbidden. He rolls his shoulders experimentally and groans at the way the stiff muscles pull tight.

  Evan’s jacket is still half-draped over the edge of the counter, and Scott carefully avoids making eye contact with it. There’s a little pit of guilt nagging away at him, reminding him that he can’t just screw with Evan’s feelings like this when he still isn’t able to sort his own emotions out, but it’s done. Absently, he scratches lightly across his bare stomach. If he stops into the bathroom on the way back, eyes up his shirtless reflection, he’ll probably find more than a few marks littered across his shoulders and torso. Other places too, if his drunken and suddenly very detailed memory of the night before serves properly.

  Letting a long breath out through his nose, he lifts a hand and runs it through his hair. Coffee first.

  This is a ritual he doesn’t do very often these days, not since he met the girls and started centering his haphazard life around Mitchell’s coffee shop and a photo album and the photographer behind it. Still, there’s a certain kind of familiarity to it, like riding a bike, intrinsic enough that he can do it while half asleep, and usually does
. His coffee machine is old, left over from the days when April had settled herself easily into his life, before everything in him broke and before he picked himself up and fixed it again. It’s hideous, decals and labels peeling and the inside of the glass pot perpetually coffee stained, but it works well enough. He wonders if Evan would let him borrow one of the spare machines that Mitchell had gifted him, then wonders why he would want to replace the one he has at all. Pulling the carafe from the machine, he swirls it underneath the faucet, rinsing out the stale traces of the last pot of coffee he had made, filling it up halfway with water. He pauses, looks at the hallway, then adds enough water for a second serving.

  He empties the carafe into the tank without fanfare, replacing it and then pulling the used filter out to replace it with a fresh one. Evan is still asleep down the hall, no sign or sound of movement from the bedroom, and Scott winces when the trash can lid swings back into place with a louder thump than usual. Everything is different now, for some reason, and not just because he had fallen into bed with Evan. The more he looks around his home, the more he finds reminders that he isn’t living his life alone anymore. His sink is clear of dishes because Frances nags him every time she steps into his house, his counters are wiped down because Evan likes to sit on them and swing his legs as Scott is cooking. It’s strange, he thinks, that he didn’t realize the change until it was staring him in the face. He let these people into his life. All this time, he’d lived by the assumption that the only person he’d ever loved was dead, but here they are. Not taking April’s place, per se, but sitting alongside it, perching in the chambers of his heart while still leaving an empty seat at the table for the ghost of his ex-girlfriend.

  It doesn’t hurt as much, anymore.

  The paper filter rustles underneath his fingers when he pulls a fresh one from the box, the coffee beans rattle noisily into the grinder, the blade starts up with a loud whir that cuts through the still morning air and makes Scott whip his head around to make sure he hadn’t woken Evan up. Waking up with someone feels like a brand new experience. He’s far too out of practice. April had always been up before him, making the coffee and burning breakfast and washed and dressed before he even managed to drag himself out of bed, but now? Now he feels like he’s a teenager again, walking on eggshells around the boy who makes his heart beat a furious cadence against his chest and unable to say a single thing he’s feeling. The hallway is silent, the bedroom is dark, and Scott’s pulse hammers in his throat.