by Ella James
"I know." He holds my head against his shoulder. "That's because you're sweet, McD. " His lips move over my hair. "People are intimidated by you. I hear them talk as I’m there on the first floor and people walk around. I know everybody thinks you're powerful and sexy, and good God, Twitter is obscene." I can tell feel him laugh as he says that. "But you're a sweet one. That's your secret. Like a donut with the jelly filling."
My dick twitches, and I guess he feels it, because he laughs and then he reaches down to close his hand around me.
"That's adorable, Sky babe. You know that right? I just got you hard with the words 'jelly filling.'"
I give a hoarse laugh. Then I rub my face against his shoulder.
"It's your voice," I tell him. "Not the words."
"If I say them again," he whispers roughly, "will it get you harder?"
"I don't know." I'm grinning like an idiot, even as I lean my head down and I whisper, "Maybe you should try it."
With his hand still gripping my boner, Rayne murmurs, "Jelly filling."
I laugh as the words do their job. He laughs, too, because he feels it.
"Oh my God, you're like a robot with a special cum code."
His voice gets me even harder. Unbelievable, since I just came—but this is how I am with Rayne. Almost hypersexual.
"Well, you know what I've gotta do now, McD,” he says. “I can't walk out to the car with you and this big boner." He rubs his palm over it, and my knees nearly buckle.
Vanny leads me to my desk chair. "Sit down, Pastor." He rubs his palm over my cock, and I lean my head against the chair’s back, gripping the armrests. He crouches down and moves his mouth close to my dick, so I feel his breath as he says, "Let me help relieve some of this...pressure."
He rubs his flat hand over me for a while, until I’m throbbing hard. Then he starts to stroke me. When I'm close to coming, he stops what he’s doing and sits on my cock, so I can come inside him.
I'm still shaking when he eases off me and holds his hands out for mine. "Let's hop in the shower. I was craving a blow job just now, and I still want a taste of what's mine."
I hesitate, and Vance's face falls. He covers it so quickly, someone who wasn't paying attention wouldn't notice—but I do, and it rips at my chest.
"Or we can go," he says smoothly. "It's been a long day. Let's grab noodles from that Vietnamese place on the way home. What do you think?"
I lean up and wrap an arm around his hard waist, pulling him back down on me, and I kiss his throat. "You know how much I love you?"
He kisses my cheek as I lift my head. "How much?" His eyes crinkle as he smiles, and my chest feels like something's melting inside.
"More than everything."
Rayne presses his face to mine for a second. "Let's go home, Sky."
6
Vance
It would be my fucking shoulder. Just went back to work after a long break caused in part by the trouble with my smashed-up and surgerized left elbow. Things are weird, I'm trying to keep my shit low-key, and I fuck up the damn right shoulder getting plowed on McD's desk.
He's asleep right now—at least, I hope he still is. Tonight was another night it took a long time for the poor guy to dial down. I curled myself around him from behind, unlike the other nights this week, when I was in front with my arms around him, and I think it helped. I make a mental note to try that sooner tomorrow night.
Then I uncork the wine bottle and gulp down some merlot. I don't even want much of this shit. Just enough to hose down the inferno that's ignited under the bones of my right shoulder. Or whatever's up there. Tendons, muscles. I don't know. It fucking hurts.
I should probably try to see a doctor, but I'm a little low on funds, and I'm not using Sky's, despite what he says. When we marry, if we have a joint account or something...I don't fucking know. I'm a giver, not a taker. I've known from square one that he’s loaded, but that's never mattered. I didn’t even think about it when we decided to get married.
Not that we're married yet. Not really. But we will be, and...I drink more merlot, leaning against the counter.
I'm not letting Sky pick up all my tabs. That's not how I'm made. And I'm successful. Moving out here drained my funds down some, plus all the marble that’s sitting in two atriums at Evermore, but that was unavoidable. I could tap into the account that's got deposits from people who're waiting for their sculptures, but shit... What if this right shoulder doesn't ever fully fix, or the elbow that had surgery doesn’t hold, starts getting worse instead of better?
The shoulder’s been bothering me for a few years, but it's never hurt like this before. If things went really sideways, I could end up having to refund some of my customers’ deposits. The amount they had to put down wasn’t small, and the contract stipulates each customer will get their piece within thirty-six months, max.
I take another long swig from the bottle, put the cork back in, and wander over to the living room. It's so damn opulent. I can't imagine growing up with wealth like this. Or with pressure like what Sky had. Even if his parents were mostly nice, and I believe they were, to think of getting sent away with your dad’s friends for a weekend of trying to get it up for pussy when your dick only gets hard for other dicks sounds right up there with torture. It's no wonder he feels so awful right now. I know it's gotta be a hell of a strain to be out with me. I feel another bolt of regret for being the one who outed him, even though he always says it's fine.
I pace around the room, looking at framed pictures. They wanted him to have a wife, and not a husband. His mom's been nice and stuff, but that may be more resignation than anything. She wants Luke happy. I look at a framed shot of him as a little kid and think about our future kids. Where will they even come from? We'd need an egg donor, a surrogate. What if we can never get those details worked out, and we don’t have kids? How can Sky be happy?
He'll be happy, V. He'll be happy because he'll have you.
That's what I tell myself, but fuck me. I rub at the shoulder. Then I'm so fucking stressed, I have to get a puff of my inhaler.
I think about my body when I got out of the hospital. How weird and pale and thin I was, and how McD didn't want a thing to do with any of it. He was good when we were there, but after we got home, he didn't want to touch my dick or be close to me. Because he felt so guilty.
There's so much buried underneath the surface with him. It feels like I'm out on a limb in this whole situation, even though I know I'm mostly worrying for no fucking reason. He tells me all the time how happy he is. But...doesn’t he kind of have to now? I did a martyr sort thing, even though I didn't mean to, when I shoved him out of the way of that goddamn car. If I hadn't done that, where would we be?
He had already said he wanted to be with you, dumbass. What is this, the pre-prom jitters?
I rub a hand over my still-short hair and keep my eyes on the rug as I walk back toward the bedroom. Luke's room. Our room.
Before I get into the bed, I set my inhaler on my nightstand, cover it with a clean wash cloth that's lying around in case we need it. Then I pull out my pill bottle, taking one of the new pills I got back at the hospital for my post-ventilator lung fuckery. That’s yet another way my work could go south; since the hospital, my asthma is so much worse, sometimes I worry that the sanded marble particles might fuck me up.
When I climb in bed and settle close to Luke, he turns toward me, pulling me close. It hurts my fucked-up shoulder, but I don't care. I need it. I need to know he wants me. That he's going to stick with me forever. Even though he hasn't worn that ring a damn time out in public, and he didn't mention anything today about stopping by the courthouse.
That shit doesn't matter, I tell myself as exhaustion tugs my eyes shut. All that matters is the weight of him pressed up against me...
I hear him from inside of dreamland.
"No...God. Please! No, no, no!" It's Luke, and it sounds like he's sobbing. There's a bolt of panic—what happened?—and then my eyes are open an
d I'm blinking, my heart pounding till he makes another low, soft sound and I realize Luke is wrapped around me, and he's sobbing, moaning, quaking as he holds onto me.
"Hey there buddy..." I stroke his hair, gripping his arm lightly. "Sky babe?"
He lets out another sob, his body rigid.
"McD...what's the matter?" I'm stroking his face when he opens his eyes, and his mouth trembles as he squeezes them shut.
"Sky..." I cup my hand around his forehead, which feels damp. "What's wrong, baby?"
I tuck his head against my chest, and he lets me. He doesn't move, except some trembling, as I stroke down his neck and rub his back between his shoulder-blades.
"It's okay, man. I got you. We're okay."
He nods, and he hugs me tight. "Could you turn on the light?" he rasps.
"Sure I can."
I reach over to turn it on, noticing he doesn't let me go as I do. In the light, I see his red eyes and his pale, splotchy face and pull him close, onto my side of the bed. I kiss his cheek as he lies on his back, and I on my side, facing him.
"You wanna talk about it?" I whisper.
He shakes his head. Then he frowns at the wall behind my shoulder. "What's that on the nightstand?”
I glance over and my stomach flips. The wash cloth I tossed over my pill bottle has fallen off, so he can see the prescription label. "Oh, that? It's my asthma pill."
His frown deepens as he sits up and reaches over me to grab the thing. "An asthma pill?” He frowns at it. “When did you get it?"
I can barely breathe as he checks out the bottle, making me feel like a fucking kid who's been caught by his dad with drugs or something.
"They gave you this back at the hospital?" he asks.
"Yep." I’m trying hard to keep my tone chill.
"For what?"
I can't help a laugh. "Well, for my asthma."
He frowns at the bottle again before frowning more deeply at me. "Were you on this before?"
Ah, hell. "Well, no." I try to keep my face blank as he tilts his head.
"So why did they prescribe it?"
"To help with my asthma."
“Even after you came home?”
I suck a breath in, cursing myself for leaving the damn thing so close to the duvet that the covers knocked the wash cloth on the fucking floor.
I’m opening my mouth to tell him I’m not worse now, but that they realized I should have been on this before I was hurt—a lie—when he shakes his head, looking pissed off.
"So what happened made it worse. Being on that ventilator. Having your lungs get hurt.” He reaches up into his hair, his fingers tugging. “Shit. I fucking knew it would—"
"Did you just drop an F-bomb?"
"Yes. Because of you!"
I laugh again, and take the bottle from him. Then I wrap my arms around him, snuggling up to him and tucking the covers around us both.
"It's not funny.” He looks anguished, his eyes still red from his nightmare. “What happened was my fault. I’m never going to not feel bad about it. Your arm—” He shakes his head, for which I’m grateful; he used to talk about my elbow all the time—just using it to beat himself up. “And now the asthma,” he says. “What exactly happened to your lungs?”
“You gonna trade me in?” I’m teasing, playing out my insecurity if anything, but he sits up, putting space between us, looking livid. “No, but you could trade up. Find yourself someone that isn’t recognizable from just the way they walk.”
I smirk. “Have you read all that stuff on Reddit?”
“Reddit?” He rubs his head. “No, I haven’t. Am I being mocked on Reddit?”
“You’re being turned into .gifs because they want that thic ass.”
He rubs his eyes, exhaling loudly. “Tell me, Rayne. Tell me what they told you at the hospital, about your asthma.”
My pulse quickens. “Dude, it was nothing. They just said to take this pill and it’ll help me.”
“Are you having trouble?” He lowers his hand, pinning me with his eyes, which look anguished.
“No.” I shake my head.
Sky’s hand goes back over his face. “It’s still my fault. This whole thing.”
I scoot closer to him, gritting my teeth at the pain in my shoulder and then shifting onto my knees so I can rise up a little bit and brush kisses over his brow. "Sky, Sky, Sky..." I kiss his cheek, scratchy from needing a shave. "I thought we were avoiding cognitive distortions?"
"This is not a damn distortion."
"Who is this guy with the potty mouth and where is my preacher?"
He rubs his eyes, and a tear falls, and I feel fucking awful as my stomach does a rollercoaster drop.
"Shit. I'm sorry." I hug him, and he scoots back toward the headboard, pushing me off as he does. Then he gets down off the bed, which I'm learning is a sign he's really freaked out. I'm trying to decide if I should go after him when he gets back on the bed, sits cross-legged, and covers his face with one hand. His shoulders hunch as he bends down, so I can’t really see his face. "I'm sorry, Rayne."
"Hey, buddy. Don't be sorry. We're all good."
He nods, and I sit close enough so I could touch him—though I don't, because I can't tell if he wants it.
"My asthma is fine," I lie. "Daily meds make sense. I've been on them before," I tell him. Another lie. “There are no side effects.” At least that part is true.
He lifts his head. "You have?"
I nod. "Almost all asthma peeps take medicine for it. It's no big deal." You’re a goddamn liar.
"Why did you hide it from me?” he asks.
"Well, I guess I didn't want you worried."
"You don't trust me."
"Sky…” I shake my head, and his lips twist into a harsh frown.
"Do you really, Vance? Or are you scared I'll break things off if I get spooked?"
I suck in a big breath. "Are you sure the middle of the night is the right time for this, McD?"
"Yes, it is. I can tell you're nervous—I’m making you nervous right now—so that moves it even further up the urgent list."
I make a note to myself: McD has an ‘urgent’ list. Then I tilt my head to one side. "How? Can you tell?"
"I don't know. Because it's obvious?" He gives me a glower. "And I know you're shoulder's hurting. I could smell the weed rub before, and right now I smell the...what is that? Some sort of merlot?"
"God, you're like a bloodhound." I crack a small smile, and his lips twitch. He presses them flat again.
"Already, this is an uphill battle,” he says. “It’s hurting you in multiple ways. Maybe I need to resign tomorrow."
"What?" My first thought is he means that he’ll resign from me. But Luke says, "You heard me. Maybe I should just resign from Evermore and stop trying to be something that I don't think I can be."
"What is that?" I ask gently.
"A gay pastor."
"And why can't you be one?"
"Because I'm gay. Because the Bible's nebulous, and people think inside the box, and politics—"
I’m shaking my head. "You can help them get out of the box. People follow leaders, and you are one, Sky babe. You're a great one. It's not a job, it's a calling. You told me that."
He rubs a hand back through his hair, and with his head hanging, chin to his chest, I can see how blotchy his face looks as he stares down at his lap, shoulders rising as he breathes in short tugs. "I don't know if I can do it."
"Yeah?"
Sky nods, looking at me miserably. "When I think about doing a Q&A like I told you, it makes me feel sick."
"Maybe just don't do one."
"Then I feel like a fraud. Like I'm not open and accessible and honest anymore. I want to be all the way out, but every time I think about it..." He shakes his head, tugging at his hair again. I see him struggle to swallow. "I just keep hearing all the things that people said,” he rasps.
I scoot closer, so our arms touch, and since I'm cross-legged, my knee touches his.
“Yeah,” I interrupt. “The fucking assholes. Sorry,” I add, realizing that I interrupted him.
Sky keeps going. “I've been around countless people who will say, like right out in the open, that you can love the sinner but hate the sin, and if someone who's gay can't live a ‘Godly’ life, then it's okay to cut them out until they choose to obey God’s word. It's not uncommon at all. It's common. You should see things in the South.”
"Does anyone in leadership roles ever talk about this? Like what about pastor forums and shit?" I ask. “Doesn’t anybody strategize or talk about theology together?”
"People in positions like mine tip-toe around it like it's a bomb."
"But you... Luke, you're influential. You could change this, all of it." I fucking know he could, but only if he wants to take it on—and I don’t want to push him if he doesn’t.
"I'm not trustworthy anymore. Don't you see? Because I'm one of ‘them’ now. I'm one of the gays. I’m...biased. Because of course I'd say it's okay now.”
Shit, he’s really thought this through. Probably obsessing about this all damn day. He even speaks as if he’s their mouthpiece—the bigots.
“So what is the main fear here?” I ask. “Of losing ground with the church as a whole, or more like not connecting to the congregation? Being judged? Or what?”
“All of it,” he says, blowing a breath out. “I don't want to lose ground, but that's not the worst thing. I guess I'm scared of being called a hack. A hypocrite. I don't know. That's not that big of a deal. But what if...I don't know. I guess it's...what if someone shouts me down while I'm up on the stage?"
He mentioned this in the car, too—the fear of being confronted and not knowing what to say. "You said there's a lag time. It's not really live. Right?"
He nods, looking shredded.
"But that's not the point. I know that, baby." I shift so that I’m close enough to wrap my arms around him. "You are not a fraud. At all. I don't know much, but if your God made people in the image of whatever God is, some of God must be gay. Got a little rainbow in there...you know what I'm saying?"
