by Sidney Bell
Miller couldn’t speak. The hot throb of pleasure inside him had closed his throat, closed his lungs, locked him up. It was... God, there weren’t words for it, there couldn’t be. His eyes had fallen closed at some point, and all he could do to let Church know that he should keep going was groan. He was plenty hard now.
“Definitely better,” Church muttered. “Faster?”
Miller nodded somehow, and Church picked it up a notch. He was thrusting harder too, and thick heat gathered inside Miller, stoked by Church’s cock stretching him open, plunging deep, filling him up, and he lifted his hips a little more, helping Church fuck him, helping Church find that angle, and it was—God, it was good, it was so good that he had to reach down to stroke himself.
Church must’ve liked the idea of that, because he let out a deep growl and his thrusts grew harder still, and Miller didn’t care, didn’t care, he was getting close already, he was so close, he had to come, and his hand moved on his cock with furious speed, and everything was building, building, building, like nothing he’d ever felt, unique from every other time he’d felt an orgasm roll toward him, lower and more diffuse somehow, but also stronger, hard like a fist deep in his belly, and Church was fucking him full-out now, holding him down, shoving into him, and this was fucking, this raw, vicious pleasure, and that was definitely him making that long, drawn-out moan, rough and low and broken, and he was going to come, he was going to come with embarrassing speed, and he had to—
He came so hard that the world almost ceased to exist.
He was only dimly aware of Church crying out, finishing in a flurry of thrusts, and sinking down on him, still inside him. Miller let himself slump onto the mattress. His wrists ached and his ass felt sore already, but it was a surprisingly pleasant ache. If that orgasm alone hadn’t converted Miller into the bottoming-was-good camp, this part would make it worthwhile, this moment when Church was as close to him as it was possible to be, his sweaty chest against Miller’s back, his panting breaths in Miller’s ear, their hearts pounding in tandem.
Miller twisted and found Church’s mouth with his own. It was awkward because the angle was awful, the kiss sloppy and full of teeth, but he couldn’t have stopped if his life depended on it. His friendship with Church had always been crucial, but for the first time, he let himself acknowledge that the bond between them was also gut-wrenchingly huge, a power he didn’t have words for, a need that went down to his very bones. They were linked, more deeply and more permanently than any friendship could manage. If he hadn’t been so rocked by discovering it, he’d have felt stupid for missing it for so long.
“I didn’t know,” Miller whispered, when he finally managed to pull away. He wasn’t sure which of them he was talking to. “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”
Church pressed his forehead to the nape of Miller’s neck.
When they’d caught their breath, Church went into the bathroom to take care of the condom. The faucet ran as Miller shoved the pillows onto the floor and used one corner of the sheet to wipe up his come. The sheets were trashed anyway. Feeling like his whole body was jelly, he flopped onto his side. He was sticky and sweaty and gross, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
When Church returned, sprawling out on his back, face angled toward Miller, the sight of him made Miller’s chest hurt, only partly because of the wariness in his features.
“Is this the part where you run away from me again?” Church asked.
“What would be the point?” Miller replied quietly. He snuck his hand into Church’s, their fingers interlocking. “We both know I’ll end up right back here.”
Chapter Eighteen
What followed were the best two weeks of Church’s life.
Okay, objectively, they were crap, but in experience, they were the best.
The day after they first slept together, and roughly a week after the spray-paint incident, Miller bought and installed motion-sensor lights and security cameras. They spent an afternoon installing them, only to take the light in the backyard down because a neighbor complained about it going off in the middle of the night whenever her dog went outside.
None of it stopped the vandal from throwing eggs at the house.
The camera showed a figure in jeans and a dark parka wearing one of those skier’s knit-mask deals over his face. The motion light went on several times in the process, but there wasn’t anything that would let them identify the bastard.
Miller sighed as he called the cops again to report it. The patrolman suggested filing a claim to get the insurance company to pay for the lights and camera, which was the single useful thing about the whole situation.
Church excused himself to the bathroom while Miller and the cop talked. He couldn’t stand having someone with a badge right there when he had information that could be used to protect Miller, and he wasn’t using it.
Not that Miller would be any safer if Church sicced the cops on Vasily, but still. The lie curdled in his gut, and it got bigger every day.
Also crappy was the way he couldn’t stop himself from sending the occasional text to Ghost. Once, Church broke down and called, but Ghost continued to ignore him. Church didn’t bother leaving a voice mail.
Stuff at Quinn’s Contracting Supply was hectic for a million small reasons that were piling up as they went forward with the new workshop. The website was out of date, and Shelby and Em had been spreading the word to the regulars at the store, so Miller already had a handful of orders that he couldn’t get started on yet. They were still finishing the ductwork to make sure that Miller didn’t end up with emphysema by the time he was fifty.
Adding insult to injury, the Blackhawks had fallen into a mid-season slump.
So yes. Objectively—crap. In experience—Church couldn’t care about any of it.
Because he and Miller were together.
* * *
When they were out in public, things were like usual. They were buddies, nothing more. If anything, they touched less than they used to, because Miller was paranoid that people would get suspicious, and Church had no need to push, not when Miller’s body language relaxed the minute they were alone. He was quick to reach for Church, to take his hand or set a heavy palm on Church’s hip, and he responded freely to kisses and hugs, tugging Church close and dipping his face to rest in the curve between Church’s throat and shoulder.
He was ridiculously easy to get into bed. A few times he even shyly instigated sex, his cheeks flaming red, his fingers tentative on Church’s belt, his eyes darting away as if he expected Church to turn him down, as if Church could. The first time he took Church into his mouth was a revelation for both of them; there was more teeth than Church liked (which was zero, for the record, zero teeth), and it was fumbling at best, but the surprised, wondering look that Miller had aimed at Church’s cock after the few seconds, and the clear pleasure he’d gotten from it made for the most satisfying blow job Church had ever gotten.
It turned out that Miller liked sucking Church almost as much as he liked being fucked.
Church was more than happy to volunteer for either.
In fact, for those first two weeks, they didn’t go a single day without sex. Frequently they did it twice. That meant hurried, quick hand jobs as soon as they got home to burn off the need built up after a long day. They just hauled their jeans down right there in the tiled entryway, touching everything they could reach, kissing until their lips were swollen and their cheeks were sore with beard burn.
That was usually followed by a second, more leisurely round before bed: rubbing off against each other while Miller held Church against the dresser so the knobs left an imprint against his back; Miller bent over the back of the couch, his hands clamped white-knuckled on the cushions, his moans muffled into his inner elbow; Church sprawled on the bed, laughing as Miller worked up the nerve to put his fingers in
side him, scared he’d hurt Church though he had to know better by now.
They spent most of those two weekends in bed, talking and fucking and watching bad reality TV in their Jockeys, eating nachos and getting crumbs in the sheets, arguing about how much to charge people for Miller’s furniture or whether the referees in the most recent game were part of a grand conspiracy or simply blind. The afternoons were lost to dozing in the weak winter sunshine pouring through the window shades that they hadn’t bothered to close, their bodies overwarm and a little sweaty where they were pressed together, neither of them willing to move away. If they hadn’t needed to shower or scavenge for food, they wouldn’t have gotten out of bed at all.
Church had never had regular sex before. He really liked it.
He also really liked sleeping on a mattress again.
Miller wasn’t much of a talker after sex. He seemed content to listen to Church’s random, rambling stories, and if he suspected that parts of them were exaggerated to make him laugh, he never said so. He just rubbed his thumb at the corner of Church’s mouth as if testing his smile before kissing him.
* * *
If Miller had to choose a favorite moment during those two weeks, it would probably be this one:
After one of the Blackhawks was boarded during a game, Church spent the ensuing fistfight jumping up and down on the couch cushions, whooping and cursing along with half of the furious fans at the United Center. Their half-eaten pizza was forgotten in the melee, although their beers rattled alarmingly each time Church got a big jump in.
“This is not the way to handle this,” Miller said disgustedly, gesturing at the screaming coaches and the bloodied players, leaning back to avoid Church’s flailing knees.
“I love my team, okay? My guys have to defend themselves.” Church aimed double middle-fingers at the TV screen. “Suck it, St. Louis!”
“Fighting causes concussions. Concussions mean your guys miss games.”
“I love my team,” Church prattled again, and he was so loud and obnoxious that Miller wanted to kiss him. Only hockey could reliably bring out the scrapper in Church these days, and Miller had developed an embarrassingly potent fixation on Church’s gleeful aggression during games. “I love my team, all right, and I don’t want the stupid Blues trying to bash their heads in so they can’t play. So we have to bash their heads right back so they know better. Okay? Go watch baseball if contact bothers you.”
To which Miller said, “I love contact. Clean contact. The goal is to get the puck, not break someone.”
“Stop using logic,” Church yelled. “I love my team!” He mimicked the goal horn, then started screeching “Chelsea Dagger” at the top of his lungs like a lunatic, though the Blackhawks hadn’t scored. Play hadn’t even resumed; the refs were still trying to sort out the scrum. “Duh duh da, duh duh da—”
“We need to crack down on dirty hits and fighting,” Miller said reasonably, if also mostly to himself, because there was no way Church could hear him over the racket he was making, “unless you want that team you claim to love to have brain damage by the time they’re fifty.”
“—duh da duh da duh—”
“Intent to injure should be taken more seriously too.”
“—da DUH!”
Miller threw a balled-up napkin directly into his face, and it was on. By the time they were wrestling on the floor, they were both hard and laughing like idiots, and it wasn’t long before Church was laying wet, hot, painful bites along Miller’s collarbone. The sounds of the game evaporated under the rush of Church’s hands in his jeans, of Church’s ass cupped in Miller’s palms as his hips rocked, of Church’s skin on his tongue. After they’d both come, leaving them filthy and sticky, Church rolled off and they lay on the carpet side by side. The intermission commentators were talking about the fistfight.
“God, I love hockey,” Church said, chest heaving, and Miller had to agree.
* * *
After work on the Thursday at the end of those blissful two weeks, and three days before Christmas, Church bussed to the store, where he and Em talked music and presents and women’s rights and the injustice of Puerto Ricans being subject to the US draft even though they couldn’t vote for president. “All the responsibility, none of the rights,” Em said, scowling her adorable little face off, and Church kissed her forehead to make her roll her eyes and bat him away.
“Will you buy me a vibrator?” she asked him near closing when the store was empty, so completely chill about it that Church thought he’d misunderstood at first. But then she just stood there waiting patiently for him to respond.
“No,” he said, appalled. “No. A thousand times no. No. No. No, I won’t. NO.”
She tugged thoughtfully on a strand of her strawberry-blond hair. “Is this because you feel that women shouldn’t have access to items which enable us to reach for sexual freedom outside of male—”
“It’s because your mother would murder me,” Church interrupted. “And because you’re like my little sister, and that’s...creepy. Beyond creepy. No. No. No.”
“But it makes sense. You want to know what’s going to keep me from jumping into bed with the first bone-headed teenage boy who pays me any attention?”
“I think I see where you’re going with this,” Church said, “and I’m going to stick with your brain.”
“No, because smart girls get knocked up every day or get HIV because they let their normal sexual urges dictate their choices. Plus, popular culture totally overemphasizes the importance of male approval. Whereas I, a modern woman—”
“—girl—”
“—woman, have the option of telling that boy to get lost because I’d be more satisfied and far safer if I went home and hung out with my friend Mr. Batteries. But I can’t buy one of my own until I’m eighteen unless I lie to my mom or get it from some skeezy place on the internet, and I don’t want the guilt that comes from such an underhanded purchasing decision.”
“You are terrifying,” he told her. “I adore you, but I think I’m having a panic attack. I can’t breathe, seriously. Can we please talk about music again?”
She took pity on him, and they discussed cover songs until she said, “I think I prefer the Fleetwood Mac version of ‘Gold Dust Woman’ to the one by Hole.”
“Why do you want to hurt me?” he asked, throwing his hands up, making her laugh.
Miller came out of the office ten minutes before closing, and it was excruciating. He wore faded blue jeans and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the spattering of freckles over his throat grouped roughly in the shape of a star. Church had kissed every one of those freckles several times over—they were his—so being unable to taste them now was driving him crazy. Church had been spoiled rotten at home by being able to touch Miller however and whenever he liked, and it only made the non-touching hours crawl by more painfully than ever.
Church lost track of the conversation when Miller edged up next to him to do something with the register. He could smell the remnants of Miller’s shampoo, and he was hyperaware of the warmth of Miller’s body beside him, nearly brushing but never quite making contact. Miller paused, his breathing quick, his gaze averted, and Church had to touch him, he had to, but Em was right here, so he settled for elbowing him in the side. Miller grinned and elbowed back, and they shoved at each other until the credit-card machine beeped the hour. They both jumped, brought back to themselves and where they were, and after a second, Miller stammered an excuse for why he had to be in the office and fled.
When Church turned to Em, she looked thrilled.
“No,” he said, making a hold-your-horses gesture.
“I knew it!” she cried, loudly enough that he winced and glanced toward the back of the store to make sure Miller hadn’t heard. Also, how the hell did teenage girls get that high-pitched? �
�I mean, the pining has been over-the-top, so it was sort of inevitable. Oh my God, how long has this been going on? Oh my God, no wonder he keeps turning mom down when she offers him women from the PTA—as if they’re objects, jeez—but oh my God, Church, you’re gonna be like, my uncle now! Or would it be uncle-in-law? Second uncle?” She frowned, puzzling, then shrugged. “You’ll be Uncle Church.”
“You can’t tell him you know, Em,” Church said quickly.
“What?” She deflated. “Why not?”
“He’s not there yet, okay? He’ll freak if anyone finds out.”
“Uncle Mill’s not like that,” she said uncertainly.
“No, he isn’t, but he hasn’t figured that out yet. He’ll get there, I think, he just needs more time. He’s still getting used to the idea.”
“Maybe he’ll feel better if he knows that me and mom are okay with it.”
“Maybe, but if he isn’t the one to tell you, he’ll lose his shit. Trust me, Em.”
She studied him doubtfully, chewing on her lower lip.
“He’ll end it,” Church heard himself say, making her brow crease. “Please. Don’t say anything.”
She considered for another few seconds, then nodded. “Okay.”
He kissed her on the forehead. “How did you figure it out? We’ve been keeping it a secret.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re practically a demonstration of the role of mock aggression in homoerotic male relationships.”
“It’s like you’re not even speaking English,” Church complained, partially to cover the fact that his heart still beat too fast.
“You guys roughhouse a lot,” she clarified.
* * *
Miller was supposedly doing paperwork, but he was actually thinking about what he could do to Church when they got home. He’d press him up against the wall, maybe, and kiss him until his gaze went all unfocused and hot. The daydream was so absorbing that when Shelby knocked on the half-open office door, he jumped about a foot and a half.
