Silent Heart

by Amy Lane

  The little house and the path and the new creation in the southeast pasture were for him and Damien.

  That night, at around nine o’clock, Damien sent him a text. Glen says I need to get the fuck out of here—I’m driving him crazy.

  Preston sent him a picture of the new landing pad, complete with a big painted X in the middle and lights to illumine the way.

  Home.

  TWO hours later, as he settled himself sadly in bed, Preacher at his feet, he heard the violence of blades beating back the air.

  And smiled.

  Home

  GLEN had not actually told Damien to get the fuck out of their apartment. No, with Glen there were usually more words than that.

  “Oh my God, are you boxing leftovers?”

  Damien paused as he was setting up the refrigerator. “Yes—yes, I’m boxing leftovers. I cook three nights a week, we eat leftovers three nights a week, and takeout of your choice on Sunday. This is how we’ve done this for years.”

  “Yeah, but Spencer’s living here now—you boxing leftovers for him?”

  Spencer Helmsley was their new pilot, and one of the reasons Damien hadn’t moved out to the ranch yet. When Damien had been hurt, Glen had grabbed one of their Air Force buddies and put him to work. That guy had moved on to selling insurance in Chicago, because he liked the odds of staying alive better, so now, with Glen laid up, Damien had been on his own.

  Damien had almost killed himself those first weeks trying to put their business to rights with half their birds down in Nayarit and Jalisco. By the time they’d surfaced from that and gotten Glen home, he’d been catching up on contracts. Glen was the one who’d started hitting up their old Air Force buddies to find a pilot who wanted a job.

  Spencer had come highly recommended—sort of.

  As a pilot, he was great—his marks were amazing, his job performance in the birds better than Glen’s, if not Damien’s, mostly because Glen liked to show off.

  But there was always sort of a reserve as people were giving up his name, and until Glen and Damien met him, they were puzzled.

  Turns out, Spencer Helmsley was the worst of Preston and Glen put together in one rangy, dark-haired, dark-eyed, closemouthed, handsome-as-sin asshole.

  Also, he was gay, which Damien knew the first day when he’d asked if sleeping with his boss was a side benefit of getting hired there.

  “No,” Damien said shortly. “Not either one of us. I’m taken, and he’s breaking his heart over someone, and if you so much as grab his ass, I’ll break your fingers and throw you out of the nearest helicopter. Are we square?”

  Spencer had grunted and crossed his arms over his enormously broad chest. “Touch-y.”

  “Exhausted. Can you or can you not fly?”

  “I can fly.”

  “Can you or can you not get clients from A to B without setting us up for sexual harassment?”

  “I can fly.”

  “Very funny,” Damien had snapped. “Look—I’d like to see my boyfriend, and my business partner needs to stop fretting over this so he can recover. If you are not going to cooperate here, I know there are probably an awful lot of female pilots who would appreciate not getting their asses grabbed, so I will start looking in those pools.”

  Spencer had straightened. “My flight partner, Elsie—she needs a job. Would you really hire her?”

  And Damien had cursed, because suddenly Spencer wasn’t a douche. “Yes. Both of you. Do you both need the apartment or—”

  “No, she’s got a boyfriend in the city. But if you can get her a job that’s in the air, I’ll be an absolute Boy Scout, I swear to it. You’ll never even know I get laid.”

  “Fine.” Damien had sighed and closed his eyes, the pictures that Preston had been sending him kaleidoscoping behind them. “If she can start this weekend, I might get to go see my own boyfriend eventually, and brother, that would be something special.”

  “Good guy?” Spencer asked wistfully.

  “He’s not bad, considering he’s related to Glen and Glen’s an asshole. Let’s get those contracts signed, and you can call your friend. I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

  So that had been it. Spencer had moved into the guest room, and Damien had taken over as den mother, getting Spencer used to how they did the schedule and keeping Glen from nagging them both into a coma. Between housetraining Spencer and wondering how an asshole like Spencer deserved sweet-as-pie Elsie as a partner, he ordered, begged, and cajoled the people around him to mesh so he could go see Preston.

  “Damien,” Glen said now, moving restlessly in order to not jostle his still healing shoulder, “what in the ever-loving hell are you still doing here?”

  “Making sure you don’t chuck yourself out of a bird?” Damien asked, only partly kidding. Glen’s broken heart was as palpable as his broken shoulder and the crushed discs in his back. If Damien could have met Cash in a dark alley, he would have kicked the kid’s ass, twice. Classy fucking move, leaving a man while he was in the hospital—for real.

  “Jesus, Damie—you were a wreck for a year and a half—”

  “And I believe we shared the same apartment then too!”

  “Well, has it occurred to you that I want to know you’re happy? You and my brother go have lots of sex and then invite me to the ranch so I can play with the dogs. It’ll be great. Just… just go be his man first, my friend second.”

  Damien stared at him, waiting for the other shoe or the other snark or the other thing that Glen always had to say.

  “That’s it?” he said, feeling a little lost. “That’s all you’ve got?”

  “What’s the worst that can happen?” Glen asked. “If you break up, you can always move back here with us bachelor losers. But you’re never going to find out if you don’t go.”

  Damien looked away. “I… what if…?”

  “What if God picks up your helicopter and slams it against a mountain?” Glen asked brutally. “I don’t know, Damien. You tell me.”

  “You suck.”

  “Not recently. Now go away.” He turned his head. “Spencer, come here! We need to educate you on the fucking refrigerator. It needs to look like God’s pantry before you think you’re done with the dishes!”

  “What’s Damien doing?” Spencer asked, swinging in from the living room and looking disgruntled, which was the standard expression on his square-jawed face.

  “Damien is going to text my brother and tell him he’s coming home tomorrow.”

  Which is what Damien had thought too, until he checked his phone and saw the full-fledged helicopter pad Preston had laid out for him in the middle of the southeast pasture.

  He showed the picture to Glen, his eyes wide, and Glen just laughed.

  “Jesus, Damie, get the fuck out of here!”

  It took him ten minutes to pack his bag, and Glen filed his flight plan while he was driving to the hangar.

  He was going home.

  HE landed the bird on the fresh concrete and turned off the lights before he grabbed his duffel and took the pathway to the newly refurbished cottage. He stood at the front door for a moment, conscious that Preston was waiting for him, and probably a little bit irritated at the delay.

  Also conscious that Preston had sent more than one naked picture over the last month.

  He swallowed, his throat suddenly drier than sarcasm, and knocked.

  Preacher whuffed low in his throat and the door flew open, like Preston had been on the other side, just waiting.

  Damien stepped over the threshold, and Preston slammed the door behind him, wrapping Damien into a rib-cracking hug that said the brace around his bare shoulders was unnecessary. He was dressed for sleep in his briefs and his skin, warm and scented like country-boy fabric softener, and he enveloped Damien, made him safe, at the same time that hard, rangy body made him hungry.

  Right when Damien was going to step back and say something snarky—“Maybe a kiss?” or “Surprise!”—Preston nuzzled Damien’s chee
k with his own, his breath hot in Damien’s ear as he said, “I’m going to fuck you now. Don’t startle.”

  In the time it took Damien’s jaw to drop, Preston had spun him around, arms braced on the door, and was kissing his neck with aggressive openmouthed sweeps of his lips and tongue.

  “I’d kiss you on your mouth first,” he said, “but I figure you got talking to do, and this way I can ignore you.”

  Except Damien’s body was melting, and his tongue was cleaving to the roof of his mouth, and he didn’t think he had any words at all.

  Broad, capable hands shoved his shirt up to his armpits and then pulled it over his head, and Preston resumed his kissing thing, his mouth on Damien’s skin draining all the “wait” from Damien’s body. Hard kisses, a hint of teeth, the feel of a rough tongue dragging down Damien’s spine, and all he could do was turn his mouth into his bicep and moan.

  “Don’t you muffle that sound,” Preston said brutally. “We’re in the one place you can scream.”

  His hands made busy at Damien’s belt buckle then, and the sound of his jeans hitting the floor and the cool air hitting his legs were almost a shock.

  “Here?” he mumbled, but Preston was behind him, shucking his boxer-briefs down his legs and making disapproving sounds.

  “What is this from?” he demanded, palms skirting the new pink skin on the backs of Damien’s thighs.

  “That ride down the hill, soaking wet,” Damien muttered in mortification. “My jeans chafed sores on my legs—I was doing so much flying it took a while to heal.”

  “And you’re still wearing them!” Preston snarled, and Damien kicked off his shoes and kicked the jeans away in response.

  “Better?” This irritated sexual Preston overwhelmed him, dominated him, and without questioning himself, Damien would do anything to please him.

  “Bend over,” Preston snapped, and when Damien complied, Preston’s big rough hands parted his cheeks, exposing him to the air, right before he dove in tongue first.

  Damien moaned, not muffling the sound this time, his body blatantly possessed and invaded.

  “You showered,” Preston observed, but it didn’t sound like it made him happy. “I’ve been waiting for a month and you showered?”

  Damien was having trouble talking anyway—he wasn’t going to point out the potential benefits while Preston was doing that thing… that thing with his tongue… and, oh my God, there went a big, blunt finger.

  “Nungh!”

  And another finger, this one spreading, and Damien’s upper thighs started to shake.

  “Augh! Preston! Oh my God—we need… oh damn… gungh….” Three fingers, and then Preston was fumbling with something, using the unoccupied hand.

  The occupied hand was very occupied, fingers spreading, thrusting, massaging, and Damien had to work to support his weight against the door.

  “I’m going to fall,” he panted. Preston stood and wrapped a heavy arm around his chest, pulling him upright.

  “No. I’ll catch you.”

  Damien saw the lube bottle in his hand before he dropped it on top of the discarded duffel. Preston pulled his fingers out and Damien keened, mourning their loss. His body was shaking—thighs, bum leg, arms against the door. Preston’s weight, his arm, his will were the only things holding him upright, and as Preston positioned his cock at Damien’s stretched entrance, Damien had the thought that he was going to have to have faith, wasn’t he? That Preston wouldn’t let him fall.

  Then Preston thrust hard inside and he didn’t have any room for thoughts. There was only Preston’s cock as it fucked him, hard, powerfully, slowly, and without mercy.

  Damien’s vision washed black, sweat prickling along his skin as he fought the urge to come.

  “Do it,” Preston murmured in his ear. “Come. I’ll keep fucking you. I’ll fuck you until you get hard again. I’ll fuck you until you cry. Come. It won’t stop me. I’m not done with you by a long shot.”

  A hard shudder racked him, grabbing Damien by the balls and taking over his entire body. That quickly, he shot, spattering against the door, and Preston remained true to his word. As Damien clung to the arm around his chest to stay upright, Preston fucked him again and again and again.

  His cock swelled, spurred on by Preston’s merciless thrusting, by the pressure on his gland, by the darkness and the pleasure of bottoming, and he reached down to stroke it.

  Preston batted his hand away. “Still mine.”

  Preston took over the stroking, his thrusts and his hand coordinating to master Damien’s body without effort. There was nothing to do but pant, beg, and scream.

  Damien did all three, shaking, sweating, needing. He simply gave himself over as Preston battered, mauled, and loved him to the brink of another orgasm.

  “I needed you!” Preston shouted as Damien’s body hovered on the edge. “Stop being afraid!”

  And the truth set him free. His body plunged off the cliff and his heart soared. “Not anymore,” he gasped as orgasm swept him. It receded slowly, leaving him weak and naked and unable to lie with words. He slid against the door, Preston pumping inside him, glad for the come, not wanting their contact to end.

  “You promise?” Preston whispered, his heavy body pinning Damien’s and keeping him safe. “No more running? No more running around being everything except mine?”

  “I promise,” Damien mumbled against the door, his eyes burning. “I’ll be yours. As long as you’ll have me.”

  Preston grunted. “Stay right there. Keep your legs spread.”

  “Okay. Whatever.” He had no idea what Preston was doing until Preston shoved his phone over Damien’s shoulder.

  There was Damien’s backside, despoiled, Preston’s come running down his thighs.

  He straightened up against the door, more than shocked. “Preston, that’s porn.”

  “It’s home. And the next time you spend more than a week away from me, that’s going up on my phone as a screen saver.”

  Damien gaped, turning around, his back against the door. “You can’t—”

  Preston took his mouth, hard and uncompromising, only pulling away when Damien was fluid and brainless and ready to concede to anything.

  “I’ll send you a copy,” Preston said. “Every day you’re gone more than a week.”

  “Okay. Okay.” Preston wasn’t kidding. Damien knew it. He didn’t really need the threat, but he took it seriously. Preston didn’t get embarrassed—not about sex. “No more running. I promise. Forever.”

  “Good. Now kiss me again. It’s been way too long.”

  This time Damien kissed him, took over, reassured. This time Damien led, grabbing the lube and walking him backward to the couch that had shown up on his phone again and again, laying him down on it, throwing Preston’s big, muscular legs over his shoulders and penetrating him slowly, being tender. Preston’s crest hit hard and fast, because he was still young, but Damien was still recovering, so he got to take his time.

  He got to see Preston’s head tipped back, his eyes closed, his face relaxed in sex, in pleasure, giving himself over to the belief that Damien meant it.

  He was there, in Preston’s bed, in his home, in his life, to stay.

  They finally made it to the actual bed, naked, sweating, spent, and Damien kissed Preston’s big broad shoulders, tasting the salt of him as they both drowsed.

  “This is a good home you made,” Damien said softly.

  “I made it for you.”

  “Us.”

  “Okay. Us. And the dogs.”

  “And the dogs.”

  Preston turned toward him and looked carefully at his expression. “What is that face?”

  “It’s love.”

  “Good. I like that face. Is that my face now too?”

  “Yeah,” Damien said, swallowing. “Yeah. That’s my favorite face.”

  “Mine too. I love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  That’s all they needed to say for quite some time.<
br />
  Four months later

  DAMIEN sat on the couch, e-book in hand, while Preston played on his tablet behind him. He’d come within a day of getting that shameless sex picture on his phone, and Preston had greeted him at the door in the customary way. They were wearing clothes now and recovering, but Damien was really not interested in moving.

  And then his phone rang with “Danger Zone.” Glen’s ringtone.

  “Fuck.”

  “Just did that,” Preston murmured. “It was awesome. We can do it again after dinner.”

  Damien shook his head and pulled his phone from his pocket. Glen was cleared for short flights now, because apparently his guardian angel hadn’t taken a complete break, and they still got together once a week for takeout. Generally he, Spencer, and sometimes Elsie seemed to be forming their own clique in the city, and while Damien was a little jealous of his best friend getting co-opted by other best friends, he was also happy for all of them. Glen seemed to be covering very well for his broken heart with sarcasm and beer, and Damien thought that showed a great deal more fortitude than he’d shown himself.

  Their once-a-week dinner hadn’t revealed so much as a glitch in their sarcasm—apparently Damien had kept his brother and gained a partner for life.

  He’d doubt that his happiness would last, or even was real, but nights spent in Preston’s bed didn’t allow for any self-doubt. Anything of that sort had been burned away by their first fuck over the threshold. Preston’s thorough possession of him, body and soul, allowed for no questions.

  “Glen?” he asked, puzzled. Glen had shooed him out the door and into the chopper that night, telling him to get laid before Preston got cute with the phone.

  “Cash just showed up at my door.”

  Damien stood abruptly. “I’m, uh, sorry?”

  “He’s found his friend. He needs our help. You guys need to pack your go-bags. Tell Preston we’re going to need Skeet as well as Preacher this time.”

  Skeet was a dog Preston was training for the police force. His specialty was tracking down drugs.