Hush (11 page)

“Where are we going?” Cam snags his wallet.

“Thai,” Nate says.

“What the hell? It’s—” Cam checks his cell and groans when he sees a missed call and some texts from Jason.

“It’s—?”

“Ten,” Cam manages distractedly.

“That only means we’re late for our date with the per­fect hang­over food. Even if yours seems to be a boringly intellectual hangover.”

Cam shakes his head and sticks his phone back in his pocket. He’ll have to figure out what to do about Jason later.

“So what blew your mind?”
Nate says around a mouthful of noodles.

“Hmm?” Cam tunes back in. He’s elsewhere: the shimmer of gold threads in Wren’s deep green T-shirt and the strip of lumines­cent skin between the hem of his shirt and the distressed denim of his low-slung jeans; the black Converse shoes he’d been wearing. His black hair had been styled differently: mussed, with frosted tips. He can almost feel his lips, plush and wet from Cam’s mouth.

“What the fuck were you studying? You’re not even here.” Nate snaps his fingers to get Cam’s attention.

“People with gifts,” he responds automatically, scrabbling for anything that might work.

“Gifts?” Nate makes a face.

“What? I’d never heard of them before,” Cam defends himself.

“Seriously?” Nate is systematically separating the broccoli from the rest of his dish.

“Am I the only one? I don’t know!” Cam says.

“Dude, is this another Nebraska thing? That can only be an excuse for so long.”

“First of all, no it’s not a Nebraska thing. But secondly, have you ever been to Nebraska?” Cam asks flatly. Nate shakes his head. “Then really, you have no idea. I can use the Nebraska card any time should I need.”

“Well,” Nate points out logically, “unless we’re talking about Carhenge.”

Cam laughs and leans lengthwise across the seat. His stomach is too full, and he’s tired and distracted. He wants to be left alone with his thoughts so he can relive the night before: from the loud music and discomfort of light sweat in the sweltering club to the reality of having sex with a near-stranger in a bathroom.

Eyes closed, Cam represses the shiver of desire that rises at the thought.

“So what’s the deal? Just looking ’em up?”

“I don’t know,” Cam says. He pushes his plate away and takes a last sip of his Coke. “You know me.”

Nate tilts his head and considers him before shrugging and pushing his own plate away. It’s clean, minus the tiny pile of reject vegetables. Nate checks the time and stands.

“Got to go—promised Ellie I’d meet her for coffee.”

“Ellie, huh?” Cam says with a smile.

“Shut up,” Nate grumbles.

“No, really. That’s the third time I’ve heard the same name out of you. Got anything to share?”

“Like I said,” Nate says, handing his credit card to the server at the front register, “shut up.”

Once home, Cam gathers
his
stuff to shower. He takes his time soap­ing up in the steaming water, closes his eyes and relives Wren’s touch and the spiraling heat, reveling in the dual layers of his own pleasure and what Wren had given him.

Wrung out from the shower half an hour later, Cam collapses on his bed. He can’t stop thinking about it. He really doesn’t want to, either.

He falls asleep with his phone in hand, feeling stupid for hoping Wren will text him soon.

It takes Wren three days
of vacillating to make up his mind. It’s not that he’s never played with someone for a longer period of time; that’s usually what he does. But something—something he can’t put his finger on—that lies between him and Cam makes him hesitate. It’s not a bad thing; he doesn’t sense anything that makes him feel threatened, just unsettled. There’s a tenor to their connection that lingers, maybe because it feels like
theirs
, rather than
his
. The fact that he’d been unable to sense Cam in the club unnerves him.

On the second night after it had happened, lying on the couch watching a show with Nora, she interrupts his thoughts.

“Wren,” Nora says, sleep threading her voice. “You need someone.”

Wren doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead he cuddles closer to her, pulls the soft crocheted throw his mother made him when they moved into the apartment closer to his neck and sighs.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she continues. She’s playing with the ends of his hair; the sensation cascades through him pleasantly. “I love hanging out with you, but you’ve been an octopus all summer, and it’s only getting worse.”

“I have to get what I can,” Wren says. He yawns. It’s late. “I get so much less Nora time when you’re out with Matt.”

“Mmm, do I detect jealousy?” she asks. He sits up and lets the blanket slip down, dislodging her hand when he turns to face her.

“Not at all. I’m glad you’ve found someone you like,” he says. “I just miss—“

“Yeah,” Nora interrupts. “But that’s why I said you need some­one. Because I know you, Wren, and I know how important touch is to you. I don’t know if you get what you need when all you do is play, but you haven’t even been doing that for ages now, and you’ve pretty much attached yourself to me any time I stop moving.”

“I’m sorry, it’s probably annoying you, isn’t it?”

“No.” Nora smiles and then sinks down, tucking her head onto his shoulder. “It’s just the same old conversation. I want you to be happy. And I want you to know that even if you don’t want to, or can’t see it, you have needs you’re not meeting the way you’re living now.”

“Nora,” Wren says, whispering into her hair. He doesn’t want to have this conversation, not when he’s so tired and knows deep down that she might be right. He smiles. “I’ll find someone to play with, and you can have some peace of mind.” He doesn’t need to tell her that maybe he already has.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” She pinches his side, making him giggle and squirm away.

“Well, the rules demand that’s what I do.”

“Ugh,” Nora says. “I hate your rules.”

“So you’ve said, honey,” Wren replies. He pulls the blanket back up around them and buries himself in the hum of the show they’ve been mindlessly watching.

He’s fighting inevitability. Wren avoided Cam from a sense of responsibility and respect: both because Cam didn’t know what was happening and because of his own rules. But Cam knows, now. He’s not new, and the taste of what they had isn’t nearly enough to satiate Wren’s hunger. He refuses to let himself consider what Nora had said, because if he goes forward with this, it can’t be about anything more than the game. He’s not sure of his footing, which is unsettling, but he wants more. So, as he does best, Wren makes a plan. And then he slowly crafts a text.

Library, tonight. 10
. You know
where

Cam is in bed drowsing when he gets the text. It’s already nine p.m., and Tuesdays are the longest days of his week. One hour hardly seems like enough time to get ready; he just has to shower and find clothes, but he wishes he had a lot more time to mentally prepare.

His closet is a mess; he’s been so lost in the aftermath of being utterly wrecked by Wren that he’s let his careful order go; it’s been hard to care. But it is annoying right now, when he needs to decide what to wear. He resists the urge to ask Nate for advice. Maybe he should dress to impress; but in his experience, the context for dressing to impress involves job interviews and weddings, not a potential rendezvous in a public location with a man capable of commanding his desires and actions.

Perhaps this is not a completely productive line of thought if he needs to focus.

Simple but good is probably best. He himself finds tighter shirts, pants and rich colors attractive. His newly discovered penchant for cowl-neck and slim sweaters probably won’t work here. Not if he’s going for a repeat of their last encounter. Cam knows there’s no guarantee that’s what will hap­pen, but he can certainly hope. And dress for the possibility. He doesn’t own pants anywhere as tight as what he’s seen Wren wear, but he can do a flattering shirt. It’s cold enough out that he can’t justify something short-sleeved, so he opts for a soft Henley shirt in an olive green that Maggie had insisted highlights the caramel of his skin.

“What are you doing?” Nate says around a mouthful of chips. “Finally reorganizing?”

“Was the mess bothering you?” Cam turns from the closet. The pile of discarded and dirty clothes mingling on the closet floor is pushing into the space on Nate’s side of the closet.

“Naw, you know I don’t care. I’ve just been wondering how long you could stand it. Not your style, man.”

“True,” Cam acknowledges. “No, I’m getting dressed. I’m gonna go to the library.”

“What exactly is at the library? It’s like you’re in love with the place. And it’s already nine,” Nate points out.

“I need to get more research done. I thought my project was due next week but I was wrong,” Cam lies easily.
And just where did that skill come from
?

“Uh, all right.” Nate doesn’t sound convinced, but a glance at the clock shows Cam it’s actually a quarter past, and he still wants to shower. Ignoring Nate—he really doesn’t want to answer ques­tions or have to lie again—he rushes out with his stuff.

When he gets back to the room, Nate is occupied with watching some greatest moments of pro football thing on Sports Center. Despite an upbringing immersed in college football-crazy culture, Cam’s never been a fan. He tries to take extra time with his hair without being obvious. When he picks up his phone to pocket it, he sees another text.

just to talk. then we’ll see

What does that mean? Cam sends back an
ok
so that Wren knows he’s gotten the messages and is coming, and before Nate can say anything else, he slips out the door.

* * *

Wren gets to the library
with twenty minutes to spare. It gives him time to settle and to think. Unfortunately, the more he thinks, the more his body buzzes with hunger and impa­tience. He knows he needs to lay out what is going to happen for Cam, but isn’t quite sure what will happen after that. Should Cam say no, Wren feels as if he might still be hard to resist. Which is just not acceptable; he won’t compel anyone without consent,
ever
. Nor is he willing to try being with anyone outside of specifically designed play.

“Hi.” Cam comes around the corner of the stacks, breathless. His hair looks different—not neatly combed to the side, not damp with sweat. It looks like a richer brown, paired with the green of his shirt, and it’s lifted a bit and styled for height. Wren’s mouth waters, which he thought was just a figure of speech. Cam’s lips draw his attention—and then his eyes, which are on the edge of troubled and deep with questions.

“You came,” Wren manages.

“I—” Cam comes closer, and then, to Wren’s surprise, kisses him. Takes his face between the palms of his hands and kisses him. The kiss is not soft or laced with the uncertainty Wren had read; instead, it’s surprisingly confident.

“Wow.” Wren pulls back and catches his breath. “That… I… wasn’t—”

“I’m sorry,” Cam whispers.

Wren doubts very much that he is, considering that he’s crowd­ing closer, kissing the corners of Wren’s lips and across to his ears. Wren shivers and tilts his head for more before he thinks better of it. A sensation of drowning in pleasure covers him, something delicious and heady and
dangerous
.

“No, no—” Wren gently pushes Cam away with hands on his waist. “We need to talk first.”

“I know.” Cam pulls away. His lips are wet. “Or I don’t know—I’ve never been like this before; I apologize.”

Wren smiles and bites back the return confession on the tip of his tongue. He can’t say things like that and maintain the distance and dynamic he’s looking for.

“So,” Cam says, looking around. “If we’re just talking, why are we here and not sitting?”

“Call it nostalgia,” Wren says coyly. He runs a finger up the defined muscle of Cam’s forearm where the sleeve of his shirt is pushed up and lets himself bleed a little of what he’s feeling into Cam. Cam’s eyelashes flutter, and when Wren uses that finger to trace a circle inside the tender crook of Cam’s elbow, exerting a little more energy and pulling on the reservoir of desire pooled inside Cam, he revels in the hitch in Cam’s breath.

“How can I just talk when you—” Cam traps Wren’s finger with his free hand.

“Because I get to,” Wren says simply. “That’s what we’re here for. You want more.”

“Absolutely,” Cam confirms.

“There are rules,” Wren says. He leans against the wall and delib­erately relaxes his body in a way that draws Cam’s eyes. “They’re non-negotiable. It’s how I play.”

“Play?” Cam repeats faintly.

“That’s what I do. That’s what this would be.”

“Okay,” Cam agrees. Wren wonders at his fast acquiescence. “What are the rules?”

Wren swallows and licks his lips.

“First: You tell no one. Ever. If you do, it’s over.”

Cam nods, unfazed.

“I’m in charge,” Wren continues. “I can end it any time.”

“What else?” Cam says quietly.

You make me everything
.
You let me own you
.

“You understand what I can do, right? What I’m capable of?”

“I think so,” Cam says slowly.

“I’m going to use you, Cam,” Wren says sweetly. “I’m going to make you use me. I’m going to make you want things you never thought you would.”

“That sounds—” Cam takes a deep breath.

Something dark and hot curls in Wren’s belly. He can feel how much Cam wants this. “You need to think carefully,” Wren warns him, “and understand what you’re signing up for.”

“I—” Cam pushes Wren back against the wall and leans in to whisper kisses and words, nipping at Wren’s lips. “I know,
I know
.”

Wren kisses him back, really kisses him for the first time. He wants to see Cam on his knees. Wants to see him slicked with sweat, on his back, begging. Wants to watch the flex of muscles along his back and the line of his spine while Wren fucks him sense­less. Wants, wants, wants so much.

“You should have questions,” Wren points out, breathing the words heavily against Cam’s lips. “Aren’t you a little scared?”

“Of what you can do?” Cam whispers. His fingers are wrecking Wren’s hair. “No.”

Wren takes a deep breath and pulls himself in and together, and then gives Cam the same, cools him and draws him back. Cam is so open, so fucking open, as if he’s left all of his doors ajar and is just waiting to let Wren in. The feeling of potency rushes through Wren like a crackle of lightning rolling across the sky.

“If you ever really don’t—I’ll know. I’ve done this, I know how. I can tell the difference between a no you want me to push and no you don’t.”

“I can’t imagine ever feeling that,” Cam admits. He smoothes his hand over his chest and tugs his shirt straight.

Wren smiles. “You’d be surprised at what I’m capable of, Cam,” he says. “Don’t underestimate me.”

Cam looks at him seriously. His eyes are slanting and warm, dark chocolate in the too-bright library lights.

“I can tell you’re calming me down,” he points out.

“If you really let me in,” Wren says, “you won’t always be able to tell.”

Cam swallows and closes his eyes. “Yes.” Wren can feel the ris­ing desire to touch him seeping from Cam’s body and pushes back harder. “I want that.”

“Good,” Wren says, running one finger over the plush swell of Cam’s lips. “You can’t think straight right now, you know,” he points out with wisdom born of experience. “I’ll contact you tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Cam seems dazed.

Good. He likes his boys off their feet, so to speak. He presses a light and teasing kiss to Cam’s lips.

“Good night.” He keeps Cam where he is, standing between rows of musty reference books long left to solitude.

“I hope you know
what
your aura is doing,” Nora points out from her perch in front of the TV. She’s watching
A Few Good Men
for the millionth time. He has no idea what draws her to it so often.

“Nora, mind your own fucking business,” he snaps.

“I’m not even offended,” she sings, “because I can see the sexual tension all over you.”

“I swear to god,” Wren snarls.

“Relax,” Nora bites back. “I can’t help it. It’s huge. I don’t know who the hell he is but he’s got you
goooood
.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Wren takes a deep breath and dismisses her comments.

“I know, I know,” she says flippantly, waving her hand. “You’ve got him; you’ve got the whole thing under control.”

Wren wrangles himself together and turns on his heel, smartly closing the door behind him.

Meddling friends who can see more than they should be able to are the fucking
worst
.

* * *

This is me contacting you.

Cam smiles when his phone vibrates. He’s in Environmental Economics; he attempts to respond surreptitiously under the desk. It’s a small class, only about twenty students, and he knows he’s being obvious. But he doesn’t want to wait.

This is me saying yes.

He reads Wren’s text again, then again. Its tone is different. Or maybe Cam wants it to be.

He’s spent the last day in such a heightened state of awareness and arousal and longing it’s a wonder he’s managed to function during classes and social interaction.