Games Boys Play (28 page)

Dylan’s fingers tented against the sides of his face, as if he didn’t want Brian to think he was holding him to this—
go on and back out anytime; it’s okay.

Too late to stop
. The thought dropped through him like a hot, needy weight. Too late because his own cock was straining hard in his jeans. Too late because he’d come too far to turn back—they’d either only wind up right here again, or they’d wind up going back to how things used to be before all this. And that seemed like such a sad consolation prize right now.

Spreading Dylan’s fly open, he leaned his face into it, breathing in. Heat and sweat and the smell of a summer afternoon after a good, hard day of work. He grazed Dylan’s white briefs with his lips, millimeters of cloth separating him from Dylan’s heat. He tugged Dylan’s jeans down, noticing for the first time the arrow of dark hair that plunged into the waistband of his briefs.

Dylan’s cock pressed heavily against the stretched white cotton.

He opened his mouth against the ridge, wrapping his lips around it. Its heat burning through the cotton. He scraped his teeth lightly as he pushed his fingers into the waistband and tugged the briefs down, moving his face back from the cotton to let Dylan’s cock spring free. It brushed his cheek, feeling like warm, hot silk bumping against his skin. He turned toward it, his fingers still buried in the briefs, and opened his mouth, dragging his lips along the length of Dylan’s freed cock.

The ragged breath from above was exactly how
he
felt. His blood was rushing so fast he felt light-headed. He slipped his tongue just below the head of Dylan’s cock and licked underneath the smooth ridge of the glans.

He caught the jump of Dylan’s stomach muscles out of the corner of his eye.

Dylan’s fingers tightened in his hair.

Gripping Dylan’s cock, he brought it back in reach of his mouth. Turning his eyes upward, he watched Dylan’s face—Dylan’s eyes closed, his lips parted, just like when he was touching his tattoo, meditating on whatever it was he meditated about. Dylan’s fingers twitched. His lower lip caught under his teeth. His eyelashes fluttered like sparse wings above his cheeks.

The salty tang of sweat and precum blossomed against Brian’s tongue, and he was surprised to feel a throb in his cock at the realization that he was tasting cum. He put his mouth around the head of Dylan’s cock, sucking, licking, tasting more of it, all while he watched Dylan’s head tip back, his chest rise. His hips eased forward, pushing a little deeper into Brian’s mouth.

He closed his lips over those first few inches and sucked.

Dylan’s fingers skated over his eyelids, his cheek. They hooked lightly under his jaw, guiding his mouth.

Am I really fucking doing this?

The storage unit suddenly seemed bright, the floor under his knees and the metal walls around them closer and more real. He pushed his hand under Dylan’s shirt, his warm skin tacky with drying sweat, the muscles hard and shifting underneath. Brian sucked in his belly and pulled his back straighter, tipping his head, taking in more of Dylan’s cock, playing with it, getting it slick with his spit, like the Fudgsicle Dylan had made him lick. He thought of that as he licked Dylan, as he pushed his mouth deeper onto Dylan’s cock—hot and hard and thick, not like the Fudgsicle at all. And Dylan wasn’t reacting like he was sucking a Fudgsicle. He tented his fingers against Brian’s head, encouraging him, getting him to move faster, then faster yet as Brian’s trapped cock twitched impatiently, wanting out, wanting to be touched, fondled, fucked.

He flattened his tongue, taking Dylan in as far as he was comfortable with, two fingers holding his shaft while his other fingers splayed against Dylan’s taut and jerking stomach.

With a quiet groan, Dylan dug his fingers against Brian’s head, urging him faster again. Brian reached down and squeezed his own cock, holding it through his jeans as he rocked his upper body, sucking, swallowing, sealing his lips tight around Dylan. Dylan, his stepcousin, his best friend, his perfect fucking match if one of them had been born a girl, and now even that didn’t matter so much, because he
liked
sucking Dylan’s cock.

He heard a hoarse groan. Dylan put a hand against his forehead, pushing him back. “Gonna come.”

Brian pulled his mouth away, shifting to the side, jerking Dylan’s cock with his fist, his thumb sliding over its head, Dylan pumping his hips, one hand twisted into Brian’s hair, and then jism arced in the air, splattering the concrete floor. Dylan’s hips kept moving, another groan pushing from his chest. Brian kept working, slower, drawing it out, his gaze riveted on the pearlescent drop that clung to the side of his hand.

Dylan slowed, his fingers loosening. Brian’s hand relaxed. He put his forehead against Dylan’s hip, feeling Dylan’s stomach move against his head as Dylan breathed.

He brushed his lips against the line of dark hair that widened into the tangle surrounding Dylan’s cock.

He pushed his lips against the tangle as well, still smelling a summer afternoon after a good day’s work, with a fresh, sharper scent added.

Spit dried against his lips. His cock ached for release, both from his jeans and from its need.

“I can’t believe I just did that,” Brian said, his voice coming out like his throat was parched, like he’d marched through a desert for days.

“
I
can’t believe you just did that.” Dylan made him shuffle back so he could sink down onto his knees with him.

Grasping the back of Brian’s neck, he pressed his mouth against Brian’s. His tongue was soft and quick, flicking against Brian’s, a contrast to the hard cock his mouth had just been filled with.

Dylan’s tongue retreated. Brian tried to capture it before it was gone, but Dylan broke away, leaving Brian wanting, leaving his mouth empty and wanting.

He let Dylan nudge him onto his back. He looked up at Dylan, the dark, sweat-separated curls hanging forward as he braced himself with one hand to work the zipper. Quickly growing frustrated with it, he pulled back on his knees to use his teeth while he held the fabric taut with his fingers. His chin dragged over the hard bulge of Brian’s cock, and then his nose pushed aside the flap of Brian’s fly so he could do what Brian had, clamping his lips over the ridge of cock, breathing against it through Brian’s cotton briefs.

Swallowing, Brian tipped his head, pointing his chin toward the ceiling. He put his hand against the top of Dylan’s head. He wasn’t going to last long. There’d been too much teasing; since the moment he’d hauled himself into the van, knowing he was stepping into a trap, his balls had ached dully with need. And then the other nights, on top of this—the hitting, the clothespins, the fighting and ropes and tape and having his mouth stuffed with foam. Or cock. Cock in his mouth. Gloved fingers in his mouth. His mouth was open, his lips remembering the drag of a spit-slicked cock over them, his tongue holding the memory of hot silk stretched over a hard piston. He lifted his hips so Dylan could peel his clothes down his thighs. Reaching over his head, he pushed against the metal wall, straightening his arm, arching his lower back as his cock jutted up toward Dylan’s mouth—and that hot, wet mouth caught it and sucked it in.

Oh God.

He dug his heels against the mattress, bending his knee as much as the chain around his ankle allowed, remembering for the first time in a while that he had a chain around his ankle. He pulled against it, and that, that solid reminder of his bondage, brought him teetering to the peak. He forced a warning through his tightening throat—“Come”—as he pushed at Dylan’s head, but Dylan gripped him hard by the hips and plunged deep onto his cock, taking it into his throat. The blood drained from Brian’s face in a rush at the feel of it—the
fact
of it—leaving him with a prickling chill across his scalp, a disorientation in his head. His hips bucked. He spent helplessly into Dylan’s throat until the bucking of his hips dissolved into shudders and jerks, Dylan continuing to suck even as Brian’s cock started to pull back on its own, softening, going limp, just the way Brian’s body felt, lying there on the mattress with the chain digging hard against his ankle.

Dylan pushed up on his arms, then over to the side, rolling onto his back. He lifted his hips enough to drag his clothes up, then dropped down with an exhale.

Brian put his hands together, like an open book, and laid them over his face.
Jesus
—he just came in his cousin’s mouth.

By marriage
, the voice prompted in his head.
Cousin by marriage. It’s not the same thing.

You didn’t even grow up together.

And to the voice he said,
My best friend, then. My business partner. I just came down my business partner’s throat, just now, just two fucking seconds ago, and I can still taste him on my lips.

From behind his hands, he said, “Did we just do that?”

“I think we might have.”

“Shit.”

“Good shit? Bad shit?”

“Stunned shit.” He lifted his hips to pull up his jeans and underwear.

Dylan’s finger stopped him as it circled a sore spot on the outside of his thigh. “Did I do that?”

Brian looked at the blossoming bruise. “Pretty sure that matches the toe of your boot.”

Dylan took his hand away.

Brian pulled his jeans up and zipped them. “Don’t worry about it.” He bent his knee, the muscles in his thigh tightening, making him aware of the soreness in the bruise. He didn’t mind, didn’t mind any of it.

Dylan pushed to his feet with a grunt, that one knee popping again as it straightened. “I need a smoke.”

“I can’t believe we just fucking did that.”

“Seriously, are you okay with it? What am I saying? I shouldn’t be asking that right now. How would you fucking know if you were okay with it right now?”

“I must be. I did it. It was my fucking idea.
Again
.” He rearranged his ankle, giving the chain more slack. The chain was starting to bug him. “Are
you
okay with it?”

Dylan’s cigarette pack had seen better days. He teased out a crooked smoke and put it between his lips. “I think I can live with it.” Patting his pockets, he headed for the unit’s door.

“Hey, what about me?” Brian jostled his ankle, making the chain clink against the concrete.

Dylan looked at it, looked at Brian. Shrugged. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Brian dropped back against the wall with a little growl that was lost in the clatter of the door rolling up.

The night sky didn’t look so inky black anymore; the security light didn’t look so bright.

“What time is it?” he called.

“Hold on.” Dylan took a drag, then held his cigarette behind him while he unlocked the driver’s side door and retrieved his phone. He squinted at the display. “Nearly five.”

“Shit. Where are we?”

“The Morage Storage about a half mile from my place.”

“Shit. That’s the other side of town.”

“Wanna grab a shower at my place? Some breakfast? I’ve got eggs. Might need to run out for orange juice.”

Orange juice sounded amazing. “I am so down with food.”

Dylan bent into the road case and came up with Brian’s shirt, then his other boot, with his sock and belt stuffed down inside it. He slung them all toward Brian before tossing the key to the padlock. It bounced off the concrete. Brian had to chase it down. He slipped it in the lock and popped it open, then unwrapped the chain from his leg. Red dents circled his ankle. Rubbing his fingers over them, he was pretty sure most of them would become purple bruises by the end of the day.

He pulled his sock and boot back on and got up, taking a couple hitching steps from the mattress with his shirt in his hand.

“All right?”

“Just stiff.” A smirk twisted his lips. “Well, some of me’s stiff, at least.” He pulled his shirt on, grabbed his jacket off the side of the road case. It looked so everyday, the case. He’d seen a thousand road cases in his life.

“Wanna ride back in it?” Dylan asked.

“Maybe another time.” He stepped out onto the gravel. They were near the back end of the storage lot. The units they were facing were the last before an eight-foot chain-link fence separated the storage property from an overgrown field.

“Ready?” Dylan ground out his cigarette.

“Yep.” Brian walked around and waited for the passenger door lock to pop up. Climbed inside. Leaned back in the comfort of a padded seat while Dylan pulled the storage door down and locked it.

Chapter Thirty

They were quiet on the way to Dylan’s, driving toward the first tendrils of dawn as it pinkened the horizon. Unlike the complex Brian lived in, Dylan had an apartment in what looked like an oversize house. Wooden stairs went up one side, two apartments off the long landing at each level. Brian followed him up the stairs to the third floor.

“You want to shower first?” Dylan asked as he let them into the kitchen. To the immediate right was the doorway into the living room, but it looked more like an attic, piled as it was with boxes.

“I want to
piss
first.” Brian’s gaze skated across the boxes. He recognized an old stereo receiver stuffed between two of them, and the dull pewter of a medal that had slipped between the slats of an overstuffed laundry basket perched on top of a couple others. He was used to seeing this stuff piled in Aunt Patty’s basement. “I thought you said you were going to put this stuff in storage.”

“I did. Then I moved it all out temporarily when I needed the space for other things.”

“Jesus. You hauled all this crap up two flights of stairs just for us to do
that
?”

Dylan opened the fridge. “It looks like more than it is.”

“I would have just rented a second unit for whatever the least available amount of time was.”

“Well, maybe someday when
you’re
in charge, you can do things
your
way. The john’s all yours, by the way. I can wait.”

The bathroom was on the other side of the kitchen. Brian slipped through the door, nudged it half-closed with his elbow, and unzipped.

“I’m gonna run out for bacon and OJ,” Dylan called over the sound of Brian emptying his bladder. “You need anything else?”