by Peter Styles
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Swear,” Stephen grins, draping his arms over Rowan’s shoulders. He likes the way they stand at just the right angle, comfortable and easy. Rowan smirks, maneuvering Stephen further back until he feels the back of his legs hit the mattress.
“Hm. I’ll find out,” Rowan murmurs, still smirking, and then his head dips into the space between Stephen’s neck and shoulder.
Rowan bites and Stephen moans, the sound embarrassingly loud and heady in the empty room. He’s almost horrified by the way he melts at the touch. How long has it been since someone gave me a hickey? Years, that’s for sure. How am I going to hide it at work? He almost laughs again but holds it back, giving Rowan more access as he tilts his head further. He doesn’t care as much about what happens tomorrow as he cares about what happens in the next moment. He’s pleasantly surprised, then, when Rowan finally shoves him back onto the bed, suspended easily above his body as if he’s done it a hundred times before.
And maybe he has. Far be it for Stephen to judge. He honestly couldn’t care less what experience Rowan does or doesn’t have; all he knows is that for once, he’s not drunk and he’s not regretting anything. He is, in fact, filled with the opposite of regret. He’s suddenly immensely thankful that he ever tried to push things a little, even if it never goes past this. It just feels amazing to be wanted again, or to get any kind of attention. He can tell that Rowan isn’t in it for brief satisfaction; they shared dumb jokes over fast food and Rowan is taking his sweet time. Well, he was.
Somewhere in between falling onto the bed and wondering how he ended up in the situation, Stephen was so distracted he didn’t notice Rowan moving further down his body. He ends up almost yelling in shock when he feels the man’s mouth against his underwear, hot and heavy as his fingers brush along Stephen’s hips.
“You—don’t have to—” Stephen tries to say, everything he wants to say getting stuck between his teeth as he hisses and tangles his fingers in the sheets. This is going to be embarrassingly fast, he thinks, trying to pull Rowan back up. He doesn’t want to leave the other man in the dust just because it’s been a while for him.
“I’m going to,” Rowan says, the same impish grin on his face that was there when the man had made a snide comment in the bakery. “Unless you don’t want me to.”
Shit. He can’t even think of a proper way to answer. All he knows is that Rowan’s answer makes his blood rush south, the image of the usually proper man folded neatly across Stephen’s legs making a completely incongruous and irresistible picture. He knows now that he’ll never be able to forget this. He briefly considers that this might change things at the bakery.
The serious side to their encounter is not a problem he’s willing to think about now, though. Not when he’s suddenly exposed to the cold air and Rowan is throwing his underwear in the corner of the room as if it’s been exiled. Stephen can’t look away when Rowan ducks his head, the anticipation brushing down his spine with a shiver. He loses focus as soon as he feels Rowan’s hot mouth against his skin, the sensation blooming like a fire through his body.
He could probably count on one hand the number of times he’s done this and none of them have been with another man. Not that he’s never been interested—it’s just that he and Melissa were young when they started dating and he never really had any other relationships or even flings. Whatever he thought would happen, all he knows is how fantastic it feels. Part of him recognizes he has no way to judge how good it is—after all, it’s been literal years since the last time he had sex—but another part of him knows he’d very much like to do this again.
Rowan moves slowly, carefully, just like everything else he ever does. It’s like what he’s doing is the most important thing he will ever do in life. It makes Stephen warm in other ways, knowing he’s being given the utmost attention.
But he’d very much like to move a little faster. It has been years.
He can’t really think of anything to say so he reaches down, curling a hand around the edge of Rowan’s jaw. He’s thinking of tilting the man’s head up, pulling him away to try and figure out how to say what he needs. That’s his plan, but Rowan seems to think it’s a request and then he takes Stephen even further into his mouth, the small sound of his lips popping echoing in the room. At that point, everything goes out the window and Stephen cries out, reflexively gripping the side of Rowan’s face.
He knows he’s too close to drag things out any further so he pulls Rowan up quickly, enjoying the way Rowan looks hazy and curious, his face red even in the dark room. He thinks he can see Rowan smiling just a little before he drags him closer, trying to explore further than before when he kisses him. He likes the way he can taste his skin and salt in the man’s mouth; somehow, the thought of what Rowan was just doing makes him even more aroused.
When they kiss, he takes the time to reach between them, feeling clumsy but wanting to touch Rowan before he forgets. The moment he finally curls his hand around Rowan’s cock, he’s treated to a low moan. He practically eats the sound as it falls from the other man’s mouth, the tense coil below his stomach tightening just a little more. He feels like they’re connected by the same pulse; every touch and pull is mirrored by the way Rowan rocks against him, breathing heavily until he gives up trying to kiss Stephen, fingers raking against skin. Everything about the way they’re moving is mindless; they’re chasing sensations, the slide of sweat-slick skin and the heat the only things they’re paying attention to. Somewhere amidst the push and pull, he loses track of Rowan murmuring encouragement in his ear—yes, keep moving—and the sound of the bed and their breathing is all that he can hear.
Stephen finishes first, the rush shuddering through his body as he pushes into Rowan’s hand, weak from the force of it. He’s suddenly glad they’re on the bed; he knows if he were standing, his legs would probably have given out beneath him. It’s more intense than he’s used to and the feel of someone else’s hand, steady despite his shaking body, makes him temporarily numb to everything else. Wait, he thinks, mind fuzzy, I have to—He barely moves, trying to turn his attention back to Rowan, and when he finally helps Rowan over that edge, he feels him quiver. He’s not sure whether to keep moving or hold still and settles on leaving a few marks on Rowan’s neck, trying to taste as much skin as possible while Rowan breathes heavily, coming down from his high.
Whatever messy, brief encounter they’ve indulged in, Stephen is glad it happened. He lays against Rowan for a long moment, breathing in the scent of sweat and sex. He almost wants to laugh—it’s like they’re teenagers, rubbing against each other in a brief and explosive encounter. Is that what happens, once you know what you want? When you’re older and you have no time or energy to spend on hour-long sessions during the week? He feels a little stubborn about it—if he does this again, he wants to spend more time on Rowan, exploring more about whatever it is they’re starting.
Will there be another time?
“I should get home tonight,” Rowan finally murmurs lazily. Stephen looks down to see him, cheek pressed into the mattress and eyes closed. He sounds sleepy. Sated.
“Sure. I’ll drive you back. Bathroom’s in here,” Stephen says, wondering if he should offer the shower, but Rowan rolls off the bed with a tired groan and makes his way across the room without saying anything.
He takes a moment to enjoy the view because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get to again. He thinks he likes the faint gold to Rowan’s skin and the way his hair looks after rolling around, a tangle of brown waves. His butt is perfectly formed. Stephen wonders again why Rowan ever decided to let this happen. It’s not like he couldn’t do better, Stephen thinks—especially since he’s living in a bigger city. Is it just something to kill time while he’s here? The insecurity creeps up but he pushes it away, reminding himself of how attentive Rowan was. As if he didn’t care about anything but how Stephen was feeling.
Rowan slips out of the bathroom, clothed but still clearl
y languid from the post-coital high, and he opens Stephen’s closet.
“Thanks for driving me back,” Rowan says, lazily shifting through shirts on hangers. Stephen takes the opportunity to slip into the bathroom, hurriedly cleaning up as much as possible with a washcloth.
“I haven’t driven you back yet.”
“You know what I mean,” Rowan smirks, peering around the half-open door to hand Stephen a clean shirt. “You don’t have to.”
Stephen likes how Rowan is every-so-casually taking care of him in this little way.
“I’d be an asshole if I didn’t,” Stephen says, pulling on the shirt. He’s tempted to kiss Rowan again as he slips out of the bathroom—the man’s mouth is still a little red and the bruises on his neck are starting to pop up.
Except he still doesn’t know how far Rowan wants to take it so he holds back, fishing his keys out of his pocket at he leads the way back downstairs. The drive to Rowan’s family’s place—which, thankfully, isn’t far—is pleasantly quiet. Part of him knows that they both need time apart to digest what happened and decide whether they want to do it again. He doesn’t push the subject, letting the lingering pleasure hum between them in place of conversation.
The lights on the property are all out when they pull in. Stephen puts the truck in park in front of the guest house, unsure of what to say, and Rowan turns to him.
“Thank you,” Rowan smiles, a glint of mischief in his eyes, “for following through and driving me back.”
“Now you’re welcome,” Stephen grins.
“Don’t stay up too late. I’m not cutting you any slack if you show up late to work.”
“Yes, sir.” He watches Rowan unlock his door, waving, and then heads home. He showers and pulls himself into bed before he realizes he’s still smiling.
I want this to last, he realizes, staring at the ceiling. More than anything I’ve wanted before.
10
The morning after, Rowan wakes up half an hour before his alarm and immediately starts to worry. What did I do? All the steps that had seemed logical last night aren’t so clear-cut anymore. Everything he did to convince himself evaporates in the early morning sun like so much water. He stares at his clock, willing time to move backwards or at least freeze so that he can get his thoughts together.
It wasn’t an accident—he can admit that much. He wasn’t drunk enough to pass it off as a stupid mistake. Not that he would, of course; it would be a cowardly and terrible thing to do to a man that already has issues with self-confidence and worth.
As much as Rowan knows it’s only partly the reason, he did kind of want to help Stephen by showing him his worth. His initial plan had been to accept the dinner offer and get Stephen to open up. They were sidetracked by Jen taking them to the bar and Rowan had been terrified for a bleak moment that he was going to experience firsthand just the kind of drinking spiral Stephen was so used to playing out every night. By some miracle or chance, though, Stephen held the same drink all night and instead seemed more interested in the conversation. Rowan’s conversations, particularly. Once Rowan caught on—maybe he’s trying to stay sober for my sake—he became excited. He wondered if he could get Stephen to realize that his destructive habit wasn’t worth it. Rowan suggested dinner, however late it was and however dumb the idea, and they ended up at Stephen’s place.
That was really where his plan was supposed to end. He was only supposed to be a friend for the man—someone willing to be firm and point out his mistakes while still offering a sympathetic ear and bad jokes. It started that way, too. Their takeout and conversation were innocent enough and then Rowan spilled Stephen’s drink like an idiot and then Stephen took his shirt off and…well, one thing honestly led to another. Once they started, he half-believed that Stephen might push him away and leave him to get picked up by Jen. Rowan still isn’t sure what to think about the way things happened or the fact that Stephen looked so happy after.
If he’s being honest, it’s kind of an ego boost. Stephen wasn’t so hesitant and so withdrawn that Rowan worried he was misreading everything. After all, the man had been married to a woman before and he had a daughter. For all Rowan knows, it was something like a one-night stand or an experiment with a lonely friend. He could get nothing but a cold shoulder and forced politeness for his last weeks in the bakery. That more than anything would hurt him, he thinks—losing everything over one night.
“How hungover are you?” Jen asks when he gets into the car.
“I’m not.”
“Oh. Why do you look like you’re in pain, then? Your face is all screwed up,” Jen says, tapping his forehead tiredly.
“How long were you out?”
“Too long,” she groans, rubbing her forehead with a closed fist. “I swear my friends are bad for me.”
“It was probably good for you to get a break. I can take the front counter today if you want to work the kitchen.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Lunch tax, of course.” He smirks, watching Jen roll her eyes and then wince.
Stephen isn’t there when they show up, which is normal, but Rowan feels more anxious than usual. He can’t stop wondering what the man did after Rowan went home. Did he drink? Is he still awake or did he ever go to sleep? Questions fly through his mind but he resolves to ignore them, focusing on the shop. He’s not going to make things weird, he tells himself, especially if Stephen is nervous about it.
He doesn’t realize Stephen is in until he hears Jen talking. She says something about killer hangovers and Stephen chuckles. He doesn’t sound bad, Rowan thinks, uncertain. He realizes something with a start—what if he thinks I’m hiding from him? He panics, thinking of all the ways a miscommunication could ruin things, and then turns on one heel and throws the doors open.
It’s just too bad he didn’t think of what he was going to do, past dramatically entering the kitchen.
“What?” Jen asks, raising an eyebrow. Rowan mostly ignores her, trying to gauge how Stephen is feeling. He looks…awake. Hopefully not hungover, Rowan thinks, although he can’t really tell. He’s wearing fresh clothes, though, and seems to have shaved. Rearranged his mess of dark hair. He looks really good, actually.
“I finished,” Rowan blurts, nothing else coming into his blank mind.
“Great. What do you want, a medal?” his cousin asks wryly.
“Don’t be an ass,” Rowan grumbles half-heartedly, relief flooding his system. Stephen doesn’t seem like he’s trying to run away or avoid conversation. A good sign, right? “I was going to see if you needed help, but I guess you don’t!”
He half-yells the last part, smirking, and Jen flinches away, glaring daggers at him. She throws a few chocolate chips at him and he ducks back through the doors, smiling to himself when he hears Stephen snort. He starts to think that maybe things aren’t so bad—they’ll have to confront each other at some point about their night together but at least it seems like Stephen isn’t shying away. The man seems to be willing to treat Rowan civilly, at the very least.
Most of the day passes without incident. Rowan thinks maybe it’s a good thing he’s not working in the back with Stephen; they have time apart and he’s starting to calm down and stop thinking about everything that could go wrong. The customers come and go, Stephen stepping out to chat with regulars, and Rowan easily navigates the crowd without a second thought.
By the time quitting time rolls around, Rowan is in a good mood and decides to ride the feeling and invite Stephen out to dinner. He makes it sound casual, not wanting Stephen to worry that Rowan put too much stock in the previous night’s encounter.
But Stephen turns him down.
Rowan tries to keep a smile on his face. “Cool. I just thought you might be hungry. Another time.” He manages to turn before tightly closing his eyes in embarrassment. I’m an idiot.
“Wait, Rowan.”
Rowan forces a smile on his face and turns. “Yeah?”
“I’d actually really like to, but I’ve got
a prior commitment.”
“Don’t worry about it, seriously. I,” he laughs, “I hope you don’t think I think we’re, you know...together...now...or anything.”
Stephen gives him a sweet smile. “Rowan, I mean it. In fact,” he says, as he starts to take off his apron, “come with me.”
“I don’t want to be a...third wheel or anything.”
“Not at all. I think you’ll like this place.”
Rowan feels a flutter in his stomach as he accepts.
They work together to get the bakery clean, and then head out to Stephen’s pickup.
“Where are we headed?” Rowan asks. He looks down at his clothing, still tidy thanks to his apron, but chosen for comfort and utility instead of fashion or attractiveness. He just hopes it will do.
Instead of an answer, Stephen asks a question. “Did Jen tell you how we met?” When Rowan tells him she has not, he continues. “She is probably one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. And I’m sure you know that she gets that from your uncle. About four years ago, they brought a truckload of pastries to St. Matthew’s shelter for Christmas morning breakfast.” He paused to clear his throat, and when he speaks again, his voice wavers ever so slightly. “It was the first food I’d eaten in two days. I’d spent my last five bucks on the biggest bottle of whiskey I could afford. Nasty shit. And...I probably stank. I wasn’t staying there—had the townhouse, of course—but I stumbled in looking for something to eat. They were so...kind. No judgment. No repulsion. No pity. Just kind. Jen reminded me of my daughter. But my daughter didn’t have someone like your Uncle Robert.”
Stephen is silent again. Rowan doesn’t know what to say. He’s touched by the description of his own family, and saddened by Stephen’s confession.
“I didn’t quit drinking, as you know, but that’s when I decided to make some changes. I sobered up long enough to look for a job, and when I saw that the bakery was hiring, I jumped at the chance to work for such great people. And I started volunteering at St. Matthew’s.”
