Good Bones (9 page)

Chris took a few more drags of his cigarette and then stubbed it out in the chipped enamel of the sink. They both reached the doorway at the same time, and Dylan stepped back slightly to let him pass. But Chris turned very suddenly and grabbed Dylan’s arms and
bang!
Dylan again found himself pressed to the wall by Chris’s solid bulk. This time it was Dylan’s hands that clutched at hair, fingers tangling in strands that were surprisingly soft, and he bent his face down for a long, heated kiss.

Chris made a sort of humming noise into Dylan’s mouth and slid his hands over Dylan’s biceps and then down his sides until they settled near Dylan’s waistband. His broad fingertips kneaded at Dylan’s flesh and tugged Dylan’s hips forward so they could feel each other’s heat and hardness, so they could rock and grind just a little for sweet friction.

Dylan shouldn’t have been surprised at this turn of events. Hell, a part of him had been hoping for this since Chris had invited him over. Yet somehow he felt astonished to have this weight against him, to be tasting another man’s hunger as bright and sharp as his own. His fingers tightened their grip, and Chris groaned and thrust hard.

Suddenly, Dylan wanted—no,
needed
—bare skin. He released Chris’s hair and pushed the overall straps down. Chris pulled slightly away, breaking the kiss, but only so he could work at the buttons of Dylan’s shirt. Arms tangled a bit in their sudden desperation, and one of Dylan’s buttons popped off, but soon the overalls were in a puddle at Chris’s feet, and Dylan’s shirt was tossed to the side and each of them was trying to tug a T-shirt over the other’s head.

As soon as their torsos were bare, they were back against one another, chest to chest and lips to lips. Chris pulled at Dylan again, making sure there was enough space between Dylan and the wall for Chris’s hands to wander over his back and shoulders. His fingers were rough, the calluses dragging across skin in a way that made Dylan shiver. Dylan’s hands were just as busy. He slid his palms along smooth muscle and caressed shoulders. He made Chris shiver in turn when he ran his fingers firmly along the bony ridge of spine.

Dylan buried his nose in Chris’s hair, inhaling deeply. He wondered vaguely if he could become drunk off the rich odors of drugstore soap and hard work and spicy meals, and a scent that spoke eloquently to him of Chris’s desire and need.

When his hands moved down, squeezing an ass that was spectacular even in plain white briefs, Chris groaned, moved his head a little, and nibbled lightly at Dylan’s pebbled right nipple. Dylan gasped, and Chris raised his head, smirk in place but pupils wide. “C’mon,” he said. His voice was hoarse. He bent and pulled his overalls high enough so they weren’t hobbling him, and with his free hand he grabbed one of Dylan’s.

Maybe Chris meant to take them to the bedroom, but they didn’t make it that far. They ended up against the back of the couch, those damn overalls back down around Chris’s ankles, Chris’s fingers fumbling at Dylan’s fly. Just that light pressure alone was almost enough to send Dylan over the edge. It had been a long while since anyone else had touched him.

“God… Chris… please….” he panted.

Chris chuckled throatily and pushed down Dylan’s jeans and boxers. Dylan squeezed his hands under the back waist of Chris’s briefs. They both moaned when he finally made contact with the ass he’d first admired from the window next door. Dylan squeezed hard, causing Chris to buck forward and press their cocks together, the already damp cotton of his underwear a maddening barrier.

“Fucking gorgeous,” said Chris, flexing his butt in Dylan’s hands. “So goddamn hot even with that stupid caterpillar on your chin.”

Dylan was lightheaded with the surfeit of sensation, but Chris’s gibe made him laugh, and he pulled one of his hands free to slap playfully at Chris’s rump. Chris laughed in return, then wiggled, making them both serious again: kissing, humping, breathing hard. Sweat gathered along Chris’s neck, and Dylan couldn’t help but lick it off. “You taste good.” Chris’s reply was just a rumble against Dylan’s chest.

The fabric between them became too much, and Chris’s briefs were nearly torn as they both tugged them down. Chris’s chest was almost hairless, and only a soft line led from his navel to his groin, but the curls at the base of his cock were lush and thick, darker than the hair on his head. He had no tan lines—and didn’t seem the sort to hang out at SunsUp or Tan Republic—so his lovely light caramel coloring must have been natural. His cock was like the rest of him: not too long, but nice and thick. Dylan would have liked to admire it more closely, and he really wanted to bury his nose in those curls and between those solid thighs, but Chris was squeezing their dicks together, and it felt good.

Very good, actually, especially when he gave his wrist a little twist and rubbed his broad thumb over the wet heads. Dylan’s hips bucked forward into the heat and pressure. “J-Jesus.”

Chris braced himself back against the couch—Dylan’s hands trapped comfortably between his butt and the nubbly fabric—and threw his head back, eyes closed. His neck was corded, bitable, his lower lip caught between his teeth. He balanced his left palm on the point of Dylan’s hipbone but didn’t grab, just letting his hand ride along as Dylan rocked forward and back.

Their breathing was very loud in the small room, Chris’s pubic hairs tickled against the crease of Dylan’s thigh, and the scents were so strong and musky and sweet that Dylan had to squeeze his eyes closed.

Heat was running along his back, pooling at the base of his spine, sending sparks into his belly and legs and balls. “Fuck,” Chris moaned. “That’s so good.”

Dylan couldn’t feel his feet and didn’t care. He was trembling now, hips jerking fast, pounding hard enough against Chris to drive the couch forward several inches. “Like… yeah, like that,” he said when Chris gripped their cocks just a little more tightly. Then he couldn’t say anything at all, white flashing behind his closed lids, knees wobbling dangerously.

“Dylan!” More of a grunt than a yell.

Sticky slickness between them, a salty living scent filling Dylan’s nose, like blood, so like blood.

Chris released them both and then, to Dylan’s surprise, grabbed his shoulders and kissed him again, this time slow and soft. He pulled away, looked down at their torsos, and laughed. “I think we need a towel.”

It took them a few minutes to clean up and dress. All the while, Chris hummed to himself. The rain had begun again, so they dashed between the poplars, laughing as mud squished and wet branches slapped at them.

Dylan was a little worried about the rest of the afternoon. With the notable exception of Andy, he had rarely spent time with a partner once the orgasm had faded. He didn’t know if things would be awkward between them now, whether Chris might be feeling regret.

But his fears proved unfounded. The wallpaper came off in tiny, crumbly bits instead of large sheets, but the companionable cooperation built over the past few days of work remained. They joked and teased and squabbled over the soundtrack, and by the time they headed to Chris’s house for dinner, the kitchen walls were bare. And Dylan was happier than he’d been in ages.

Chapter 8

“D
O
YOU
cook like this all the time?” Dylan asked with his mouth full.

“Yeah. Well, every couple of days, and then I nuke the leftovers. I take it you don’t, even when you have a stove?”

“No. I can do a few things—a guy’s got to if he lives alone—but mostly I do frozen or takeout.”

“So why are you buildin’ yourself such a fancy kitchen?”

Dylan hadn’t really thought of that. “It’s not that fancy.”

Chris waved his hands. “Fancier than mine.”

“I guess. It’s just… a nice house is supposed to have a nice kitchen.”

“There’s no supposed to, dude. It’s your place. Stick a hot tub in the middle and hang Astroturf on the walls—nobody’s gonna complain.” He cocked his head a little. “Unless you’re just fixin’ up the place so you can sell it for a profit. Like that show on TV.”

“You watch TLC?”

Chris looked slightly embarrassed and stabbed at his pork chop. “Not the point.”

“Well, I’m not planning to flip the house. I told you—I want to live—” He almost said
by myself
, but that wasn’t quite right under the circumstances. “I want to live in the country.”

“You’ll get tired of it. Once the house is all done you’re gonna realize there ain’t nothin’ much to do out here, and the nearest Asian fusion restaurant or microbrewery is sixty miles away, and you’re gonna leave.” He was sawing angrily at his meat, not making eye contact.

“I won’t get tired of it.”

“But you won’t explain why you want to be alone.”

Dylan squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “Nothing to explain. I like quiet.”

“Huh.” Chris wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, then wadded it into a ball. And then whatever anger he’d been feeling seemed to drain away, and he gave his half smile. “So your shiny new stove is gonna be kinda like those throw pillows with the little tassels. Nobody ever uses them for nothin’—they just cost a heap of cash and look pretty.”

Dylan blushed a little and decided Chris didn’t need to know he had actually kept a number of throw pillows on his bed until he moved. “Tell you what. You can come over and cook me dinner on my fancy new stove.”

“Yeah?” Chris raised a single eyebrow. “You figure you’re gonna get a chef and a handyman and a piece of ass out of the deal?”

“If I’m lucky. Oh, and a mechanic too. Don’t forget that.”

Chris snorted noisily and watched Dylan start his second serving of sautéed vegetables. When the meal was done, Dylan washed their plates and stacked them on the gold-flecked Formica countertop while Chris sat and smoked. Dylan turned to look at him. “I should go.”

That little flicker of emotion crossed Chris’s face—whether anger or fear or disappointment, Dylan wasn’t sure. Chris didn’t say anything, though. He just lit another cigarette.

“I have to wake up early tomorrow. I have a meeting in the city.”

“I ain’t stoppin’ you.”

Dylan waited a moment, then nodded. “Well, thanks for dinner.”

His only answer was a cloud of smoke.

He went through the living room—carefully not looking at the couch—and out the back door. He still hadn’t been through the front door, and he hadn’t seen Chris’s bedroom. He stepped out onto the back porch and stood there with the drizzle in his hair, dripping down his collar and into his eyes. And then he turned around and walked back into Chris’s house.

Chris was sitting at the kitchen table with his shoulders slumped. He looked up sharply when Dylan entered the room. “Forget somethin’?”

“Yeah.” It took only a few strides to cross the little room. Dylan set his hands on Chris’s shoulders, leaned down, and snuffled his hair. “I really do have to turn in early tonight,” he whispered. “But Friday we can get some more work done, and then I can stay up as late as I want.”

“Maybe I have plans Friday.”

Dylan didn’t release him. “Saturday then.”

“Maybe I want the weekend off.”

“What if I pay you time and a half?”

Chris tipped his head up to look at him. He was smiling. “Asshole.”

T
HE
radio was tuned to NPR, but Dylan wasn’t paying attention to
Morning Edition
. As he piloted the Prius down the seventy-mile route that was already becoming familiar, his mind was on the events of the day before.

He knew why he’d had sex with Chris—the guy was hot as hell, and Dylan was desperately horny. What he didn’t understand were his feelings afterward: guilt for not sticking around after dinner and accepting Chris’s unspoken invitation to fuck again, and worry that he’d hurt Chris’s feelings. He knew he was stupid to feel that way. A little frotting did not equal a marriage proposal. And Chris was… opportunistic. He’d practically admitted that himself. Dylan was a chance for him to pay some bills and get off a few times, and that was all. Not that Dylan blamed him for that attitude.

Besides, Dylan knew full well that he was in no position to form any kind of attachment to another person.

He zoomed down the highway past trees with fresh new leaves, and he thought about how fucked his personal life had always been. He hadn’t dated at all in high school. He had still been somewhat in denial about being gay—or maybe just afraid to climb out of the closet—so he’d kept his nose buried in books. His horizons had expanded a little his freshman year in college, but that had led to the mortifying moment when his mother walked in on him and his biology lab partner during one of their “study sessions.” Not long after that had come the grief over his parents’ deaths, the hectic schedule of school, and—he’d convinced himself—no time for anything more than quick, back-room blow jobs.

Traffic slowed to a crawl as he arrived at the suburbs. Sandwiched neatly between a Ford Excursion and a furniture delivery truck, he returned to his reverie, remembering those couple of years after architectural school, when he was building his career. Designing houses for other people. Still too busy for a commitment. Still too forgettable for any first date to turn into a second.