Double Blind (22 page)

Randy knew what
he
wanted, himself—he wanted Ethan to pick up the paddle he’d ignored, the one his hand had brushed but not picked up, and he wanted Slick to slap him with it. But Slick didn’t want to, or didn’t want to admit he wanted to, and even though he really, really wanted it, Randy was fine with skipping that for now. He’d only ever let Crabtree do that to him before. Well, and that one time with Sam, but that was really different. That had been for Sam. This—this would be for him. This would be about letting go, about being that safe with Ethan. And it was a bunch of shit, is what, because he was
not
that safe with Ethan, not yet, not after one day. He was an idiot for doing this much. Not that Ethan would hurt him—he wouldn’t, that wasn’t the issue. It was that this was too much, too fast, for both of them.

But sweet Jesus, Randy wanted this. He loved kneeling here, nervous and twitching, knowing Ethan was behind him, still mostly dressed, touching him, hesitant and powerful all at once, Ethan whom twice now he’d made sweet love to, the kind he never did, really, not even with Sam, and now here he was with Ethan. Oh God, he wanted this to turn loose. He wanted Ethan to slap him. Spank him. Whip him with the lash—stupid, stupid that one, because Slick didn’t know how, and how fucked up was the sub teaching the Dom how to hold a whip—but they were both switches, really, and
fucking hell
Randy wanted it, wanted it—

Thought stopped as he felt Ethan’s cool hands brace against his cheeks. Then he moaned as, with no preamble, Ethan’s tongue pushed inside him.

What Randy liked about the spreader, about being restrained, about having to hold himself still while someone else took pleasure from his body, was how outside of his head and even his body the sex became. He was aroused, physically—his cock was rock hard, and he was gasping and sweating—but more restrained than his body was his mind, hyped on the experience of having Ethan—
Ethan, my God, Slick, baby!
—behind him, his hands on him. Ethan, who ran so hot and cold, so reserved, who right now was so incredibly
not
reserved. Here was Ethan licking him, and Ethan tongue-fucking him. Here was Ethan who had broken down two, almost three times on him now, come close several others—here was Ethan now demanding to know how to tie Randy down so he could dominate him. And Randy submitted to him, because… because….

Because he was Ethan.

Randy would have yielded for Ethan, would have held himself open for him, would have lain down and held his legs back and guided Ethan inside, but Ethan had taken that away, so Randy just enjoyed being taken, especially when Ethan switched to lube-slicked fingers, thrusting as he ran his mouth over Randy’s back, his butt, his thighs, biting again, nipping again as he fucked him, and Randy rode it, accepted it all, hoping he at least had one souvenir hickey in the morning.

Except he’d have a souvenir Slick too.

Ethan had already loosened him, but he relaxed further as Ethan donned a condom and began to push inside him.
Yes.
This, he wanted this—he wanted this, hard and fast, with Ethan slapping his ass, but he’d take it however it came.

And then all of a sudden Ethan was gone, and Randy opened his eyes, blinking as he felt the shackles of the spreader fall away from his ankles, and then Ethan’s shaking fingers were fumbling at the restraints at his back.

“Slick?” he called, quietly, and tried to turn his head.

“I want—” Ethan fumbled. The wicked, possessed Slick was fading, caught in some internal storm. Randy tried to help him back, or at least ease him into something he could handle.

“You want me on the bed, baby?” Randy asked, seductive, not brash. “You want to push me back on the bed and fuck me?”

The hands stilled, then clutched at Randy’s back. “Yes.” Then the hands shook again. “I can’t—it’s—I want it, but it’s too—”

“Too much too fast,” Randy finished for him. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere, baby. We got time. You need help undoing those straps?”

Ethan laughed, a shaking, almost mournful sound. “How? It’s you—” The humor fell away. “I’m sorry, Randy, I’m sorry—”

“Slick, honey, I hate to burst your bubble, but I’ve been in worse fixes than this.” He kept his voice easy, reassuring as he coached Ethan through undoing the restraints, and then, because he could tell Ethan needed to put the whole box behind him, the harness, too. He rose from the bench, took a second to work the kinks out of his knees—such a bitch, getting old—and led Ethan toward the bed.

Sure, people turn their noses up at somebody topping from the bottom, but that was what Randy did, lifting their hands together over his head, then turning his wrists, guiding Ethan to take control, which he did, holding them hesitantly, but holding them, then catching them both in one hand and using the other to guide Randy back to the bed, pressing their bodies together, pushing Randy down. And then he stalled, so Randy lifted one leg and slid it up alongside Ethan, threading it through their arms and up, and by that time Ethan had picked up on it and was moving Randy’s other leg up on his own. Ethan looked flustered, and still slightly lost. But he was rock hard and pressing up against Randy’s thigh, and that was enough.

“I’m sorry,” Ethan said, resting his forehead against Randy’s calf. “I’m so fucked up.”

“I like you fucked up,” Randy said. He turned his captive hands and stroked Ethan’s fingers, then laced their fingers together. “I like you, Slick. You’re weird. But there’s nothing else quite like you. And I live in Vegas, baby. That’s quite a statement.”

Ethan looked down at Randy, his face obscured by the dark, but Randy could still read the tenderness there. “I like you, too, Randy.” And the lust was there too.

Randy pushed against him. “Fuck me, Slick.”

He did. He pushed inside Randy, then bent and kissed him, soft at first, and then hard as he began to move, and then he let go of Randy’s hands, pushed back against his legs and rode him hard, and Randy laid back and took it, a good, hard fuck, a good, twisted little fuck, with push and pull and so much switching he couldn’t keep up.

It worked. And it was good.

It was really, really fucking good.

Ethan
woke once again in Randy’s bed. His head hurt four times as much as it had the day before.

He couldn’t even roll over, because the thought of moving hurt too much, so he pulled the pillow more completely over his head and concentrated on trying to absorb himself into the cotton of the sheets, into sweet soft oblivion where he might have a prayer for peace. Certainly none was going to be found inside his skull. Or his stomach. This was twice now in a row he’d had too much to drink, and he was too old for this.

Twice, too, that he’d had mind-blowingly intense sex before going to sleep. Three bouts of sex total—in twenty-four hours. He’d thought he was too old for that, too, but clearly not.

He opened his eyes and stared at the white nubs of cotton, remembering, or trying to. What his brain was telling him had happened could not be what actually happened. Because he would not have—

Memory flashed, like sharp frames of video, and he saw Randy bent over a bench, wearing this black strap thing, his arms—his
legs
—

Ethan’s head still killed, but his eyes were wide now, and he was absolutely awake. He could
not
have done that. He didn’t doubt that Randy would have, and yes, there was a part of him that was curious, but he never—he
wouldn’t
—

Fighting off nausea, he maneuvered himself to the edge of the bed, then over onto the floor, half-climbing, half-falling out as he made his way to the small wooden chest tucked back against the wall beside the nightstand. He flicked open the catch and lifted the lid. He blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes, but even before he did that he knew what he was looking at, not by name but from exposure. The black strap thing with silver rivets and a ring. Another one which they hadn’t used but he vaguely remembered Randy explaining was to help hold a plug in place. Which they hadn’t used, because Ethan had wanted full access to Randy’s ass. He flushed in memory, because he remembered feeling very rough and raw as he’d said it, wanting to use Randy—
use,
not make love to, not even have sex with,
use
—and he thought he might have said so, and Randy hadn’t even blinked, just continued to explain how better to strap him down.

Ethan leaned on the lid and reached into the chest, touching the dildos, the whips, the long wooden paddle he’d wanted to use, but had at least had the sense to know he should leave right where it was. What he couldn’t understand is why he’d only seemed to have sense in that one regard. Why had he—What the hell had he been
thinking?
He hadn’t been thinking. He’d been drunk, he’d been stung by Crabtree’s beating, and he’d been caught up in the feel of Randy and the pulse of the bike and the sensual swirl of Las Vegas at night, and he’d thought, like a fool, he could be as good as that gangster. He thought he could be what Randy wanted, what he wanted for himself—

A soft knock startled him, and he slammed the chest shut, catching the edge of his finger on the way down. “Shit!” he whispered, and his fingers flew into his mouth as the door opened, and Sam stuck his head in.

“Ethan? Are you—” Sam spied Ethan on the floor. “Oh, you are up.”

Embarrassment colored Ethan in a wash, and he looked around for loose clothing to grab, but Randy had cleaned it all up. He reached up and tugged a pillow from the bed. “I—ah—” He tried to distance himself, too, from the chest, which unfortunately made his position even more obvious. He watched Sam’s eyes slide over and take it in. He also saw the very brief smile, which Sam just as quickly buried. Or, more accurately, the smile he tried to bury. Yes, Randy had it right: Sam didn’t have any kind of a poker face at all.

Sam gestured back to the kitchen. “I thought you might be getting up soon to get ready for Crabtree, and I wondered if you wanted breakfast first. I’ve got coffee on. Would you like some?”

“Sure,” Ethan said, feeling all the more foolish for feeling foolish in front of Sam, the consummate ingénue. “I’ll come and get it.” He started to rise, felt his head swell, and fell back down with a groan.

“No,” Sam said, quickly, looking as if he’d like to give Ethan comfort, to help him up, but despite their initial introduction, was trying to respect boundaries. “I mean—let me bring it to you. Do you—I mean, some people need to eat when they’re hung over, and then some don’t—”

“Food would be a godsend,” Ethan admitted. “There should be—yesterday I asked Randy to get yogurt, and granola?”

“Sure, sure,” Sam said, nodding. “And I’ll bring you some water, too, because that will make you feel better than anything.”

“I honestly can get myself to the kitchen,” Ethan insisted.

“If you’d rather, okay,” Sam agreed. “But I’ll get it ready for you.” He disappeared and shut the door.

Ethan did manage, but it was rougher than he would have cared to admit. He pulled on a pair of Randy’s sweatpants, stopped at the bathroom, avoiding his own reflection, and then staggered into the kitchen where a canister of yogurt, a box of high-quality granola, and a bowl were waiting for him, alongside a spoon and a steaming mug of coffee. And a bottle of water. Sam was sitting on the other side of the table, eating a bowl of what looked like Frosted Flakes.

He smiled at Ethan. “Have a seat.” His smile tipped a little. “And sorry that we keep meeting embarrassingly in the morning. I’m
really
sorry about yesterday.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Ethan waved the concern away and reached for his coffee. He slurped, winced, then set it back down.