Finding Refuge

by J. P. Oliver

  “I shouldn’t have, though. One drink—”

  “You weren’t drunk.”

  “But it was enough,” he exhaled. “I should have called someone to pick Joe up.”

  “You knew him, though. It’s easy to say it now, but we both know he was fucking gone that night.” I thought of Joe with his summery hair and his crooked smile and his ability to get carried away. Reckless. “He wouldn’t have waited. Once he made up his mind, he would have taken any ride if it meant leaving when he wanted to.”

  Zach said nothing, but he at least opened his eyes to look at me.

  “And you know the police told you the other driver was dozing. He was falling asleep at the wheel and veered. That’s not something you had any control over.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “Do you?”

  “I mean,” and he shrugged, shaking his head. “I tried to dart out of the way, but it wasn’t enough—”

  “It wouldn’t have been enough for anyone, even if you were absolutely sober,” I said, meeting his eye as a tear slipped down his high cheek. “You did everything you could. It wasn’t your fault.”

  That was the last blow, the thing to crack him.

  I’d never seen Zach Savage cry after the age of fourteen. Not when he got hurt, not when he was afraid, not even at Joe’s wake. He’d kept it bottled inside, like he thought he didn’t deserve to let it out, to feel the relief of it—because, in his mind, he was the one who killed Joe.

  I hugged him to my chest and felt his body shake as he buried his face in my shoulder and let it out, finally. Sobs wracked through him quietly. I felt the wetness of his tears stain into my shirt, but I just held him.

  “It’s not your fault,” I whispered, kissing his temple, hand running over his back. “I promise it isn’t your fault. It’s okay.”

  I don’t know how long we stood there like that, clinging to one another and crying quietly. It felt like forever but not even close to enough. When he was empty of it, we pulled apart only slightly—just enough to look at each other.

  His eyes were red and watery. His cheeks were pink and damp.

  I grinned up at him, chest aching still.

  “Feels better to let it out?” I asked quietly.

  He hummed, still upset.

  “It’s okay,” I murmured, tipping my head up to kiss his forehead. I felt him exhale shakily, and I kissed his wet cheek next. “It’s okay to feel sad about it. You’re allowed to. You lost him, too. You didn’t give him away, Zach, he was taken by something you couldn’t control.”

  I kissed the corner of his mouth.

  My nose brushed his cheek and he tilted into me. The kiss was pliant in the way you might feel lethargic after a long sleep or good cry. Lazy, but meaningful.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  I kissed him again, slow and appreciative.

  He’s here, I thought. He’s here, and Joe isn’t. I can’t lose him, too.

  Affection curled, warm and slow in my chest as he held me. My hand slid between us, up his chest to the first of three buttons at the top of his shirt. I popped the first one open, and our lips parted.

  “It’s not something for you to apologize for….”

  His blue eyes darted down, questioningly.

  “You don’t have to think about it,” I said quietly, undoing the second button. I pressed a slow kiss to his neck. “For right now… just let me show you how happy I am you’re here with me now.”

  I undid the third button, teeth grazing his warm skin; heard him sigh, and felt him relax, running fingers into my hair. His fingers tangled into the curls, pulling gently.

  My lips parted in a small smile, voice a touch more aroused as I asked, “You still know how to use those fingers, I see….”

  “Yeah,” he whispered, face red from this, from crying. “I remember how much you like it.”

  Hearing that shouldn’t have been as hot as it was.

  “I remember you used to pull it all the time,” I murmured, hand smoothing down his chest and slipping under his shirt. I felt the sinews of his muscle in his abdomen, and the soft hairs leading beneath his jeans. “When we’d be fooling around in the back of your dad’s car…parked on the side of the road so no one could find us.”

  When he laughed, it was quiet—just a hot puff of air—but it was something. It dissolved softly into a groan as I sucked the lobe of his ear, biting gently.

  “I used to get so turned on,” I murmured. “Thinking of your hands on me like that. Even when we weren’t together—”

  I cut myself off. Talking about the past together was one thing but talking about our pasts while we were apart was another. To admit that I thought about him—when I was being intimate, no less—felt like a breach in my own wall.

  But wasn’t that what was happening here? We were breaking down those walls. If he could, so could I.

  I drew back and looked at him, feeling vulnerable. His eyes were heavy with the exhaustion of crying, and they slipped shut easily as he cupped my face and pulled me in for another kiss. It was hot as a fever and painfully slow. When he licked into my mouth, it was to feel it, not conquer it.

  My fingers deftly moved down his stomach, undoing the front of his jeans.

  When we broke apart again, he was a little breathless.

  “Curtis—”

  “Let me,” I whispered, hot against his mouth. “I want to….”

  There was a silent exchange, all questions answered via the look in our eyes. With a curt nod, I pressed Zach’s shoulder back softly into the wall and sunk to my knees, holding his gaze as I went down.

  God, he was sexy. All firm lines and soft blue eyes and commanding muscle—and a disposition that would never let him use them for anything other than good, because despite that temper and that guilt, he was a good man.

  I ran my hands over his clothed thighs, feeling the hard shape of his cock trapped beneath the fabric. I pressed myself against it, nosing its outline, and heard him breathe, shaky for a different reason.

  “You’ve always been it,” I mumbled, glancing up at him. “Nobody’s ever made me feel the way you do.”

  As I peeled open his jeans, working his cock out of his boxers, I felt his hand push into my hair. I leaned into it like a cat, loving it.

  His muscles tensed as he was freed. His cock bobbed, long and heavy in front of my face. I licked my lips to wet them, pausing when I heard:

  “Fuck….”

  I grinned up at him. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”

  “No, it’s just….” Zach sighed, head resting against the wall. “Watching you do that.”

  I hummed, licking over my palm before wrapping my hand around him, pumping him slowly. He was hot to the touch and made a low sound of pleasure as I touched him.

  Slowly, I began to lick him, from base to tip, overwhelmed by his heady musk. I felt lightheaded with the taste of him. It was only accentuated when I wrapped my lips around him, sucking pressure around the tip, and he gripped my hair harder.

  It was a reflex, obviously, but the little jolt of pain was unexpectedly nice. It didn’t actually hurt. Just surprise. I hummed, glancing up at him, elated to find he looked a little flushed and fucked out.

  “Sorry—” he started.

  “Don’t apologize,” I huffed. “I liked it.”

  It was nice to be reminded that he was there, that he was the one I was sucking off. It was nice to know that he liked what I was doing, and felt affected by me, just as I was affected by him.

  And, boy, was I affected.

  My cock was aching in my jeans, but I pushed through the discomfort, taking him deeper, bobbing in long, languid sweeps. I set a steady pace—not quite like fucking, but something smoother, less frantic. Taking him deeper and deeper. It was a pace half the speed of his breathing, which was getting deeper. Panting, almost. It reminded me of the other night, of having him inside—

  I pulled off of him, lips wet and probably red from the stretch
. “Ah….”

  Zach pulled my hair again, light and insistent. I tipped my head back to look at him, still working him with my hand.

  “I… let me take care of you, too,” he huffed.

  “But, I wanted—”

  “I know, I just….” He was having trouble expressing himself, after having gone farther on the topic of Joe than he probably ever had before. “I just need this.”

  How could I say no to that?

  Tugging softly on his jeans, I coaxed him down to the floor with me. He sat, back pressed against the wall, and I crawled up his lap, letting my body rest between his legs.

  “Curtis….”

  I pushed his shirt gently up his chest. He got the hint, and I helped him to wrestle it over his head, giggling a little when it caught on his elbows. Between slow kisses, he worked mine off, sliding the dress shirt from work down my arms.

  For a minute, we stayed just like that, shirtless and kissing, lost in our tracing fingers. But his hands wandered farther than mine did, sliding over my hips and waist, palming at the slight tent in my own jeans.

  “Mmh….”

  “I love the sound of your voice,” Zach whispered, pressing harder.

  “Zach—”

  “Of all the shit I left behind, you’re what I missed the most.”

  I whimpered as he massaged by cock through my pants, the dull friction of it still so good, just because it was him. And what he was saying had an effect, too.

  “Really?” I asked, voice a little uneven.

  Zach nodded.

  “I-I—oh,” I murmured, feeling the wetness collect in my eyes.

  His kneading stopped. “Curtis?”

  “Sorry,” I laughed, wiping at my eye. “Sorry. It’s nothing.”

  Zach’s expression turned concerned, which meant he didn’t buy that.

  “Sorry,” I said again. “It’s just—that means a lot, that’s all. I thought….”

  I thought when you left, you didn’t care that you’d hurt me.

  “Whatever I thought,” I told him, sniffling a little, “it doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”

  Zach nodded, looking up at me dreamily. As we kissed, he worked me out of my jeans, and his grip around my cock was warm and consuming.

  “Zach,” I gasped.

  “Let me,” he said. “Let me make it up to you….”

  He jacked me off steadily. I felt safe in his hands, as we kissed, tongues brushing and sucking gently. He drew noises out of me that I hadn’t made since we were last together; nobody did it to me the same way he did. Had the same effect.

  My hands explored his chest as my hips canted slowly into his grasp. Finally, I found what I was looking for, brushing my fingers over his nipples.

  I felt the shape of his mouth as he gasped.

  “How do you,” he started asking, words choked as I wrapped a hand around him, too. “I mean—fuck, how do you want to—”

  “Like this.” I was shaking. Even just like this, I felt like he could still take me apart. “Just like this, if that’s what you—”

  “Yeah,” he groaned.

  Maybe it would have been worth it to break apart and grab the lube and whatever else, but I just needed to be near him. Needed to finish close to him like this.

  “Let me,” he said, letting go of my arousal to brush my hand off of his.

  I blinked at him, confused, but that only lasted for a second. In the next, he was wrapping his large hand around both of our cocks. The slick-silk slide of his against mine was driving me crazy, shocks of soft heat dragging as he masturbated us both in tandem.

  “That’s—Z-Zach, I’m—”

  Close.

  It was a lot tonight. The emotional closeness was making it easier, quicker.

  His brow arched, pleased. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Shh, shut up,” I half-laughed, half-panted. I pinched his nipple, earning a soft moan.

  His hips pushed up into his hand, and it was a delicious friction. The drag of him was so sweet, and it went both ways. I knew it wasn’t the same, but I was drunk off the thought that maybe this was what he felt when he slid into me the night before, that little piece of red-hot perfection….

  His fingers slid along my neck, slipping up the back—fingers fisting in my hair and drawing, hard enough to tip my head back.

  I let out a cry, wanton and helpless, as he mouthed at my exposed neck. My body felt like it was full of static, of little vibrating stars that came alive whenever he touched me.

  My hips fucked against his in search for that heaven, body strung tight with the need to come.

  “Zach,” I gasped, his teeth biting down.

  “Fuck,” he growled, jacking us both harder. “I’m almost there, I’m—”

  “Yes,” I replied breathlessly.

  I felt the tears clouding my eyes as just enough became too much. It was the tipping point of everything: physically, emotionally, mentally. My body was on fire, and it was all because of Zach Savage. With a particularly filthy moan, I came into his hand, expecting him to let me go after.

  But he didn’t. He kept me there, cradled me through the aftershocks, working over us both until I started to twitch, gasping at the clawing sensitivity.

  “Zach,” I pleaded, the first tear trickling down my face.

  He pounded up into us, lost, and with a ragged groan, he spilled up into his hand, too, taking the mess with him. Blindly, he wiped it off on his shirt before pulling me closer.

  I collapsed against him, resting my sweaty forehead on his shoulder as I ached for a good breath.

  I wanted to tell him a million things, but none of them felt good enough here in this perfect moment. The silence was enough, and as he kissed my neck slowly, breath steadying, I felt a sense of peace.

  11

  Zach

  “Ooh,” Curtis hummed, glancing up from the pool table. “Scratch.”

  I shuffled my pool stick from one hand to the other, reaching under to grab the white ball from the underbelly’s old wooden gutter. Rounding the table, I brushed close to him, pressing it into his hand.

  “Go ahead,” I said, holding his gaze, warm and flirtatious. “Let’s see you do better.”

  Curtis huffed a laugh, nudging by me. He plucked his beer up off the pool table’s ledge, taking a sip. The white ball was set down on the worn green felt. Curtis lined up his shot, stick and body stretched across the table, and—my eyes lingered on his ass.

  I was allowed to ogle him a little, right? The shot was a far one, and he had to push it out a little to get close, but I got the feeling he was showing off a little.

  With a crack, Curtis shot the white ball into a yellow-striped one, sinking it in the corner pocket. With a little flip of his curly brown hair, he tossed a competitive smile over his shoulder at me.

  “Told you I could do better,” he said.

  I slid up beside him, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Sure. You could stand to show me a few pointers.”

  “Wouldn’t that be helping the competition?”

  “I’m rusty. Cut me some slack.”

  Curtis hummed, surveying the table. He detached from me gracefully, lining up for another shot. “Not in a million years, Zach.”

  Retaliatory, I lightly smacked his ass as he walked away. Curtis said nothing about it, only shot me a knowing look, grin halfway between turned on and chastising.

  Tonight was a date. Of sorts.

  Last night had been an emotional one, for sure; complicated and exhausting. But when I woke up in the morning, and Curtis was still there, I felt a little lighter. Like the weight of all that I’d been keeping in was lifted, just a little. And the best part about it was that he didn’t hate me or blame me. He’d pulled me in close and kissed me, until things got, uh, hot and heavy again.

  I looked away, sipping at my glass of sweet tea to hide my smile at the memory of how sweet he’d been, how pliant and noisy—

  “Hey, get that look off your face,” a woman told me.<
br />
  I turned to the sound of it, surprised to find it was no stranger; it was my cousin, Kathline “Kat” Cross.

  She was the granddaughter of Martha Cross, and the spitting image of her, too. Young and fiery, with dark red hair and green eyes to match, she was a petite ball of energy. Tomboyish in spirit, but feminine in looks.

  “You don’t look like my cousin, smiling like that,” she said.

  I huffed a laugh, pulling her in for a hug. Of all the Savage-Cross family, she was one of the few who hadn’t been able to swing by the reunion my dad had put together to welcome me home. Ever the workaholic, she was right down here, doing what she did best: running The Speakeasy and adjoining North Creek Hotel.

  “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” I laughed.

  “I know.” Drawing away from the hug, she flicked her hair over her shoulder with a sigh, surveying the table. “What’re you drinking, cousin?”

  “Uh, sweet tea.”

  “That right?”

  “I’m designated driver.”

  She whistled around her fingers, loud and bright, catching Curtis’s attention. “You makin’ Zach here drive you home tonight?”

  “That’s the plan,” Curtis laughed. “‘Course, I’m planning on taking him home with me.”

  Heat swarmed under my skin as she leaned into my side, patting my shoulder. “I should’ve known, seeing you two here together. Once you’ve fucked, there’s no being friends—”

  “Kat,” I groaned.

  “It’s the truth. Anyway, I’m sorry I couldn’t show up at Uncle Markus’s party.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “But I actually wanted to talk to you about something. Not family related.”

  “All right,” she said, always straightforward. “Shoot.”

  “You ever think about making this place official? I’m talking a real historical spot, with the paperwork to back it and everything.”

  Kat made a noise, looking around the place: it was slower this evening on account of the rain, the first warm shower to signify the peak of spring becoming summer. It pounded the tin roof, mixing with the music from the speakers. It felt warm in here, clearly but and somehow timeless, all wooden beams and lacquered surfaces and moody yellow fixtures.