by Amy Lane
Wanted him to see what a date could be.
“I’m gonna,” Terry panted. “I’m gonna… again… please, Mace—please!”
His voice, throaty and broken, hit Mason in the groin, and he bucked against the comforter. Oh God! He hadn’t realized he was that close.
He pushed up and wiped his face on his shoulder, then tried to roll to the side to reach into his end table.
“Where are you going?” Terry wrapped his legs around Mason’s chest, and Mason half laughed.
“Condoms?” he asked. “Lube? C’mon, Terry—they’re right there!”
“Aw… dammit!” Terry dropped his legs and Mason scooted quickly, grabbing the supplies from his drawer before sliding his briefs down his legs and kicking them off. Then he sat up on his knees in front of Terry, appreciating the view while he dealt with the condom and drizzled lube.
“Wait,” Terry said softly, reaching out a hand.
“What?” Mason leaned down, covering Terry’s body with his own, supporting his weight on his elbows.
“I didn’t get a chance to….” He stroked Mason’s chest, his shoulders, dropping a sweet kiss on a straining bicep.
Mason stared into his eyes, warm and brown and bright, and had a hard time swallowing. “Next time,” he whispered, taking his mouth.
He pulled away reluctantly, aware that time was passing, and he needed… just needed. Carefully he positioned himself just as Terry said, “Next time?” with all the hope in the world in his voice.
“Yeah,” Mason gave a sigh of comfort, like he was coming home. “Next time.” And then he thrust carefully inside.
Terry palmed his skin, squeezing and rubbing, finally cupping his neck and holding on while Mason thrust and pulled, rocking in and out in that exquisite dance of flesh and release.
“Good,” Terry panted, squeezing his eyes shut and gasping. “You’re good… so….”
“Good?” Mason grinned playfully and lowered himself for a kiss.
Terry returned it with interest, and Mason had to pull away or he’d stop the whole momentum of fucking for the sake of a drugging, wet-mouthed lip-lock that seemed to have everything and nothing to do with the dynamics of cock and ass.
Mason surged forward, growling with frustration, wanting everything, and Terry grunted at the impact.
“Again,” he whispered.
Mason slammed into him again.
“Yes, more!”
And again.
And again, and again, and harder, until Mason’s skin ran slick with sweat and Terry’s face sheened with his own moisture, but it wasn’t quite… was almost, almost….
“Come,” Mason pleaded. “Grab yourself, Terry. Grab yourself and—”
“Coming!” Terry reached between them and grabbed himself, the frantic beating of his fist hitting Mason’s abs, but Mason didn’t care.
Because Terry’s ass was squeezing tighter, a giant band of rubber muscle gripping Mason unmercifully.
“Yes!” Terry cried, and the ripples of orgasm in his body jerked Mason hard, harder, hard enough to—
“Yes!” he rasped, convulsing in climax, forced, finally, to close his eyes against the dark-eyed harlequin beauty of the man in his bed. He collapsed, chest heaving for air, and buried his nose in Terry’s shoulder.
Fabric softener, sweat, some sort of oil for his hair… and warm animal, sex pheromones, and unfettered joy.
Terry wrapped his arms around Mason’s shoulders and murmured quietly into his ears.
“That was amazing. I can’t even… didn’t you get bored?”
Mason pulled back far enough to let it be seen that he was rolling his eyes. “What in the hell—”
“But you spent all that time….” Mason felt Terry’s skin heat up as he flushed. “You know… that time….”
“Making love to you,” Mason said, thinking that as vocabulary lessons went, this one wasn’t bad.
“Oh….” Terry’s mouth went slack, his lower lip as vulnerable as anything Mason had ever seen.
“We were making love,” Mason insisted. “Is there anything wrong with that?”
“I just didn’t know that’s what that was,” Terry said, eyes big. “That’s… that’s awesome.”
Mason wished he could bury his face in Terry’s shoulder forever. “It is,” he said tenderly, dropping a kiss on his sweaty forehead. “Would you like to do it again?”
“Yeah!” Enthusiasm unbound, and Mason smiled weakly.
“Good,” he said quietly, lowering his head for another kiss. Terry gave it to him, but Mason could feel his cock softening in the chill. He pulled back from the kiss and glanced at his clock, heart sinking. “Are you sure you can’t stay another….”
Terry glanced too, and his unhappiness was palpable. “No,” he said, looking away. “I’m sorry.”
Mason kissed him one more time. “Next week,” he said. “After the soccer game.”
And that smile, the one that said Mason would never know the gift he’d just given—that smile practically blinded him. “I’d like that.”
Mason closed his eyes against the separation and then rolled away. He disposed of the condom and stared blindly around for his clothes. “Me too,” he said, voice thick in his throat. A weekend thing? Was that what this was? What they’d just done had felt much bigger.
“Hey,” Terry said, putting his hand on Mason’s back. “I… I mean, maybe I can get away other nights too.”
Mason swallowed and nodded, not meeting his eyes.
Terry’s hand fell away, and he found his boxers and yanked them up with unnecessary force. “I knew it,” Terry muttered. “You’re going to get all pissy and possessive—”
“No,” Mason said quietly, standing up and finding his own underwear to put on. “I’m not. I… I like spending time with you, that’s all. It doesn’t all have to be sports and sex.”
“Oh.” Terry paused in the act of pulling his shirts on. One of those was the sweatshirt Mason had provided for him, and Mason wasn’t going to say a word about Terry having something of Mason’s on his body. “What do you—”
“We could see a movie,” Mason suggested hopefully. “Or you could come over and watch one. Or play… well, I don’t play them, but my brother plays video games, or….”
Oh Lord, this was embarrassing. This was like being in grade school and looking for a playmate after the debacle of the puberty video.
Terry hadn’t put on his shorts yet, but that didn’t stop him from moving into Mason’s space and wrapping strong arms around his waist. “My mom is… needy,” he said at last. “She wants me home all the time I’m not working. And I keep trying things—got her enrolled in classes or job placement or stuff—but….” He let out a half laugh. “She’s so mean, Mason. Nobody wants to talk to her. But I’m all she’s got. I… I don’t know how to—”
Mason captured his chin and kissed him as sweetly as he knew how. “Just think of me when you can,” he said, his heart twisting in his chest. “Just… if you can come over, don’t worry about time for sex. It can be time for television. If you’re near Tesko and it’s lunchtime, text me—we can eat together. I’m just….”
Terry’s lips twitched. “Think bigger,” he said, then laughed a little at the dirty pun. “You want me to think bigger than a meet-and-fuck.”
“Yeah.” Mason’s heart untwisted—not completely, but enough to beat.
“I can’t promise you movie dates or anything like that.”
And then it stopped.
He must have made a sound then—of hurt, or disappointment, of something—because Terry took his cheeks in both hands and looked up to meet Mason’s eyes through his wedge of streaked brown hair. “Wait,” he said softly. “I’ll tell you what I can promise, if it’ll help.”
And oh! Mason hadn’t counted on how much this interlude would mean to him, because it was like spring had arrived in the bleak, foggy January.
“What?” he asked, knowing he sounded young and needy, and to
o damned hurt to be embarrassed about it.
“I promise I won’t do this with anyone but you. So, you know, next time, remember the lube, forget the condoms. That is if….” Now Terry bit his lip.
Oh.
“Yeah, I want that. As long as we’re doing this, we’re only doing this with each other.”
Whatever this was—but it would have to do.
Cookies and Curry
THEY MADE their way downstairs in a subdued sort of quiet, only to be stopped by voices—and the smell of baking.
Terry’s eyes got big and Mason grimaced, shrugging. They knew both those people.
“I’ll sneak out the front,” Terry hissed.
Mason rolled his eyes. “Do you think Dane hasn’t told him?”
That brought Terry up short, and he didn’t actually make any sound, but Mason had been able to lip-read “fuck” since the fourth grade.
“Mason!” Clay Carpenter called excitedly. “Jefferson! Is that you guys? Come in here—we’re baking cookies.”
“C’mon,” Mason said philosophically. “They smell pretty good.”
Carpenter’s broad, semibearded face peeked around the corner. “You guys—chocolate chip! What are you, inhuman?”
They walked into a disaster of flour and cookie dough and chocolate chips. Dane was on his hands and knees wiping off the sides of the cabinets, and as they entered, he looked up guiltily like a little kid.
“You weren’t supposed to see it until it was clean.” He grimaced.
“Isn’t Carpenter supposed to be helping?” Mason asked, and Carpenter grinned.
“I’m on for dishes, but Dane knew where the cleaning supplies were.”
“Why baking?” Terry asked, bouncing on his toes. “I mean… Subway has really good cookies.”
Carpenter’s palpable disgust made them both laugh. “For one, the smell is half the pleasure. For two, this is a step on the Make Carpenter Less Fat plan. I’ve been an awesome dieter for the last week, and my carrot on a stick was homemade cookies. Dane promised me. So here we are, making cookies. And when I’m done doing dishes, we’re going to sit down with some milk and gorge like ten-year-olds. I’ve earned this.”
“You’re not fat,” Dane said staunchly, pushing himself up on the counter. “This is Make Carpenter Healthy, not Make Carpenter Less Fat.”
Mason took in Carpenter’s husky form and had to concede that he’d slimmed down since Thanksgiving. Then he looked anxiously at his brother to see if his hope had spilled over into infatuation yet.
Mason couldn’t tell, but Dane looked happy, and Mason wouldn’t shit on that. “Well, I’ll just take my cookies and run, then,” he said, amused. There were two-dozen misshapen but warm and gooey cookies cooling on racks on the counter, and the stove timer said more were baking. He pulled out some paper towels and, hissing at the heat, loaded them up with cookies. “I’ll be back in half an hour,” he said, bumping Terry’s arm with his own and holding out the cache of purloined cookies.
Terry took them without a word, big-eyed and a little shell-shocked.
“Hey, Jefferson,” Carpenter said as they were leaving. “You going to practice Thursday?”
Terry nodded, suddenly a little more comfortable. “Yeah, why?”
“’Cause we need you. Jimenez is on a business trip, and Singh and his family are in Hawaii. Without you, we’re fucked.”
“Mason’s playing too,” Terry said, and Mason met Carpenter’s surprised gaze.
“You play?”
Mason grimaced. “I stand around looking awkward and occasionally kick the ball.” Honesty—nothing beat it.
“He’s a toe-poker,” Terry said matter-of-factly. “But then, put him on defense and all he’s gotta do is look scary.”
Mason smiled with all his teeth and Carpenter cracked up.
“Yeah. You’re terrifying. But we still need you, so practice.”
“We’re gonna get creamed,” Jefferson said, but he didn’t sound like he was put out about it. “But who cares—we’ll be playing!” He bumped Mason this time, and they made it out the door.
THE COOKIES were gooey and delicious, and Terry made yummy porn sounds as he forked lumps of warm cookie into his mouth with two fingers.
“You sure you don’t want the las’ one?” he asked through a mostly full mouth.
“Nope. I’m old—I’ll get fat.” Which was partly the truth, but most of it was that he hadn’t made that bagel he’d planned on, and Terry obviously needed cozening.
“You’re not old,” Terry said, taking another bite of cookie and closing his eyes in bliss. “You’re hot.”
Mason guffawed. “Uh….”
“No, seriously—you’re… groomed.”
“I’m old,” he said. “That thing you’re doing with your hair? I’d look like a jackass. I’m still listening to Offspring and the Killers, and you’re listening to Imagine Dragons and Grouplove. I’m old.”
“Imagine Dragons is passé,” Terry said ruthlessly. “But that’s okay. They’re still pretty hot too.”
“D’oh!”
Terry’s throaty laughter followed, and conversely, Mason didn’t feel so old anymore.
But he did feel awkward and sad as they pulled up next to Terry’s car. “So, uh… Thursday?” he said brightly.
“Yeah. Practice!”
“Do you want to get dinner or something, you know, afterwards?”
Terry blinked. “You want to?”
“Not sex, Terry. Dinner.”
“Oh. Okay—yeah. After the beer in the parking lot, we can go to Denny’s or something.”
Awesome. “Sounds like a plan,” Mason said. “Look forward to it!” And some of his desperation must have broken through his voice.
“It’s a plan,” Terry said softly, pausing with one hand on the door handle.
“Then have a good week.” Mason tried a smile. Failed.
Terry turned away from the door and kissed him softly. “Was the best… making love, I guess, ever,” he said, brown eyes intent and sober on Mason’s. “I’ll… I’ll text you over the week.”
“Deal,” Mason breathed. He’d never been anyone’s best ever. “See you Thursday.”
Terry grinned and bounced out of the car. Mason waited until the piece of junk started up before pulling away.
The sun was peeking out of the fog, and Mason thought that a nap would feel good about now. He really felt like pulling the covers over his head and not coming out.
CARPENTER AND Dane almost had the kitchen cleaned by the time he got back, and he passed up the nap for a corner of the couch while the two of them went after electronic enemies with bloodthirsty glee.
“Mason—Mace!” Carpenter urged, poking his shoulder. “You’re up. Don’t you want to play?”
Mason shook his head and leaned his chin on his hand. “Naw—you guys are entertaining enough. I’ll watch.”
To his embarrassment, Dane put the game on pause. “What’s up?”
Mason glared at Dane and tried not to flick his eyes at Carpenter like a sitcom hero.
“Give it up, Mason,” Carpenter said gruffly. “I was here long enough to make cookies, and you guys weren’t quiet.”
“Aces,” Mason snarled under his breath. “He’ll be thrilled.” But Mason couldn’t be too mad—Dane had been doing something with a friend, something safe and happy, and Terry hadn’t been too upset in the end.
Carpenter shrugged. “He’s got nothing to worry about. Skip and Richie came out to the club after Thanksgiving. It was all good, people were chill—”
“Obviously not too chill, because Skip had a bruised cheek,” he pointed out, remembering standing in his office and watching Richie drop Skip off that morning. He hadn’t asked—hadn’t been close enough to Skip as a friend to ask—but he was putting it together now.
“Yeah, well, that guy was an asshole without the homophobia—and Skip hit first.”
“Seriously?” Dane interjected, and Carpenter nodded, grinnin
g.
“Skip’s got a bit of a temper. Like, Richie’s asshole stepbrothers pissed Skip off in a wrecking yard once, and Skipper threw a sledgehammer through a car window. He was all modest too, like it wasn’t nothing, but Richie was like, straight through the windshield.”
Mason had to laugh a little. “Okay. So I get it. The team’s fine with the gay. But I don’t think Terry is.”
“Jefferson?” Carpenter asked—Clay Carpenter, and Mason had a moment of fury for bullshit male codes that said the soccer team all used their last names because that was manly.
“Yes. His name is Terry Jefferson. And I don’t know if he’s had a normal relationship in his entire life, and everything I say and do makes him look at me like, ‘Here is the rich douche bag in his natural habitat. Watch as he looks fruitlessly for dinner after sex. Look, rich douche bag, look! You are playing with a different breed of asshole now, and there is no dinner to be found!’”
He had to stop because Carpenter and Dane were hanging on each other helplessly, laughing until they cried.
“It wasn’t that funny,” he said with dignity after they’d stopped.
“Oh my God, it really was,” Dane panted, catching his breath. He stayed there, leaning on Carpenter, and Carpenter didn’t seem to notice.
“Jesus, that was awesome,” Carpenter confirmed. Then he sobered and looked at Mason perceptively. “But not so easy to live through.”
“No,” Mason said shortly.
Carpenter grimaced. “I don’t know him that well, honestly. You know who you should ask, don’t you?”
Of course. “Skip.”
Carpenter shrugged. “He’s the captain of their little ship, as far as that goes.”
Mason scrubbed his hands through his hair. He hadn’t put any product in it, and it was sort of a curly riot at the moment. He liked it like that sometimes. “I don’t understand him either,” he confessed, feeling pathetic.
Carpenter sighed. “You know, Dane talks about your folks all the time. My folks are just like ’em. Still a couple. Got their shit together in a paper cup. It makes you feel invincible, right?”
