The ETA From You to Me (16 page)

Halfway into the first commercial break, Clayton's hands started to wander. He dragged his fingers up Grant's calf, stroking softly back down and up again. Normally, it might have been no big deal, but Grant still felt keyed up from earlier. He squirmed, stretching his legs a little in Clayton's lap and trying to stare holes into the television.

Clayton's fingers tickled the inside of his knee and Grant jerked his leg at the tingle it sent up his thigh. He whipped his head around, prepared to lecture Clayton on things like 'if you don't want to do the sex, don't make me want to do the sex', when, in a startlingly quick movement, Clayton twisted his body and had Grant's legs pulled up and apart so that he could weasel his way in between them.

Grant had a half second to register what was happening before Clayton lowered himself onto his hands and knees and slowly began crawling his way up Grant's body. Grant whimpered before he could stop himself, knees falling apart instinctively when Clayton started sliding one hand up Grant's chest and pushing his shirt up along the way.

“I’m sorry,” Clayton mumbled, lowering his body down against Grant's so slowly that Grant could feel every single ounce as it pressed him into the cushions of the couch.

Clayton pressed his lips into Grant's throat, finding his favorite spot in the entire world and nuzzling against it. Grant couldn’t remember what they were arguing about, couldn’t really think past Clayton’s warm hand pressed into his naked side, his other palm cradling the back of Grant's head, and the way their hearts seemed to thud together in sync. It was nice,
really
nice, because Clayton loved to touch him and mark him and pretty much make Grant completely forget why he ever lacked confidence in his own sex appeal.

Grant hissed when Clayton’s thumb brushed his nipple at the exact same time he felt the tiny scrape of Clayton’s teeth along his throat.

Grant, of course, spread his legs wide so Clayton could slot nicely between his thighs, instinctively arching up just the tiniest bit into the touch. He reached for Clayton’s hair, grabbing a fistful  and forcing Clayton’s head back. “If we were a democracy, I’d vote you spent more time making it up to me. I expect lunch tom--” Grant's words broke off when Clayton pressed their lips together in a wet, open-mouthed kiss that left nothing but fizzling brain synapses in its wake.

Instinctively, Grant sucked on Clayton’s tongue the instant it made a cursory swipe between his lips and along his teeth, nipping the very tip before shifting his hips up into Clayton’s. He was already halfway to creaming in his pants, and would be completely shameless to admit that pants-jizzing was not something he was entirely opposed to, if it meant the experience was one shared with Clayton.

Grant curled his fingers into Clayton’s shirt, the fabric soft as it shifted against his skin. He couldn’t help the choked off groan that left him when Clayton shifted just enough so the outline of his cock pressed hot and hard up alongside Grant's. With a mumbled, incoherent curse muffled into the kiss, Grant shoved his hands between their bodies and fumbled with the button to Clayton’s fly.

Clayton hissed into Grant's mouth, nipping the corner of his mouth and turning to bury his face in Grant's throat to start in on making a nice, fat hickey that was just above the collar of Gran't shirt. Grant wrested the button free, dragging down the zipper in a jerky movement because it was really hard to concentrate on trying to get Clayton’s pants on when Clayton himself was more focused on thrusting their bodies in a slow, rhythmic roll of his hips.

“Clayton--gfffg, Clayton, c’mon you’re giving my fingers rug burn,” Grant gasped against Clayton’s ear when a downward grind trapped his hands between their hips. Clayton huffed out a moan of a laugh--one that rocked straight through Grant's core and made his dick twitch painfully--and pulled away to stare down at Grant with pupils so dilated that there was barely a ring of pale hazel circling around them. Grant leaned up to steal a kiss and mutter, “Come on, man, pants disengage.”

At first, Clayton didn’t move, just kept pressing soft, firm kisses against Grant's mouth, until he was satisfied enough to sit back and stare, lips twitching into an almost smile. Grant squirmed, hands sliding towards his own fly before he went out of his mind from the sheer confinement.

If possible, Clayton’s eyes went wider when he watched Grant start to fumble with the clasp to his jeans, expression blank in the way that Grant very well knew meant he was mentally overloading on one emotion or another.

“Little help?” Grant asked, grinning when Clayton instantly was batting Grant's hands out of the way to do the job for him. It was always the best thing ever when Grant got Clayton riled up, because it was like all of his reservations went right out the window and he gave in to the urge to just let his passion take over. Grant didn't know he had a roughness kink until he'd gotten Clayton worked up enough one day that he'd shoved Grant up into a wall to kiss him stupid.

Clayton wrenched Grant's jeans down his hips, the muscles in his arm flexing when he pulled them off so fast that Grant's legs flailed and the jeans went sailing somewhere over the couch and into the darkness of the apartment. Both of them could see the giant tent in Grant's boxers, the tv’s light making the outline of his erection painfully evident.

A pained, needy sound came from somewhere deep in Clayton’s throat and Grant reached out to drag him down into another kiss. One hand slipped between their bodies, and Grant could feel the movement as Clayton trying to pull himself out of his jeans. It made Grant's entire body shake with excitement and anticipation and just pure, unblemished
want.

It was possibly the worst timing in the world when they were interrupted by Clayton’s cell phone going off. They both froze, knowing full well that Clayton was the third out on call that night, and his phone only rang if it was Grant, or if he was being sent on a run.

“Clayton,” Grant whined, because Clayton was already starting to get up reluctantly. He reached out, palming at Clayton's shirt to try and pull him back in. “Clayton, no, let them wait--it’s probably Esurion or something. It's not even worth it.” Grant almost had his fingers into Clayton's shirt, but it was futile when Clayton was already grabbing his cell phone off of the coffee table.

“This is Clayton," he answered hoarsely, tonguing at his bottom lip that had gotten swollen from their kissing. He clambered off of Grant, making a noise of understanding to the night dispatcher. "It's okay. Just let me get a pen and paper."

Clayton headed over to the kitchen table, grabbing his notepad and clicking his pen. The second Clayton bent down over that paper, Grant felt all of his self-control fly out the window. He slid off of the couch, slinking over while Clayton started to write down the information that the dispatcher was citing off.

Clayton stiffened when Grant pressed up against his back, arms reaching around his body. Grant nuzzled up against the back of Clayton's neck, taking a sinister pleasure in the way Clayton's pen jerked a line across the paper when Grant reached around to push his open fly out of the way and cup him through his boxer-briefs.

“What kind of car is it,” Clayton choked out over the phone, half grinding back into Grant's crotch, half rocking forward into his hand. Grant mouthed at Clayton’s neck, nuzzling behind his ear before taking the lobe gently between his teeth. Clayton shuddered violently in his arms and Grant dragged his hand up and down the outline of Clayton’s cock.

“Eastbound or westbound,” Clayton gritted out with a strangled hitch in his tone. It was kind of addictive, the feeling of power that came from slowly driving Clayton mad like this. He growled softly, more of a heavy rumble, and bit softly at the hinge of Clayton's jaw and giving a shallow thrust up against his body. Clayton jumped, hips bucking into Grant's hand and the pen falling from his fingers so that he could grip the table. Grant went to wriggle his fingers down the elastic band of Clayton’s underwear when his wrist was caught. Startled, Grant had a half second to register movement before Clayton turned and kicked his feet out from under him, knocking him to the ground.

Jesus fuck, the guy was like Jackie Chan on steroids.

Grant wheezed from his prone position on the living room floor, Clayton’s bare foot pressing down on his chest to keep him there while he finished writing down the information for the run. For good measure, he wrapped his hand around Clayton’s ankle, thumbing the outline of the bone and getting a toe jabbed into his sternum for his efforts. Clayton finished up the call in record time, hanging up and staring down at Grant with an almost wild-eyed expression.

Hot.

Clayton pulled his foot back, reaching down and grabbing Grant under the arms to haul him up. Grant bit down on the shout of surprise at the action, half tempted to go utterly limp when Clayton pushed him against the kitchen table.

“I’m going to do this run,” Clayton began lowly, shifting his grip to Grant's hips, “and when I get back, I’m going to make you regret that.”

Grant opened his mouth to point out that Clayton's intimidation attempt was more like a seduction attempt, but was silenced when his lips were claimed in a bruising kiss that left his head spinning.

By the time Grant had processed the situation enough to reciprocate, Clayton was pulling away and heading down the hall to change into his uniform. Grant waited until Clayton and his perfect ass were entirely out of sight before heading for the couch to plop down.  He rustled around in the satchel he'd brought along, grabbing his laptop and gearing himself up for a couple hours of self-entertainment.

Clayton came back into the living room a few minutes later, looking far less ruffled and tense. “I’ll be back in an hour or so, it shouldn’t take long. It’s just a tow down the road to their house,” bracing his hand against the back of the couch, Clayton leaned in to press a kiss to the arch of Grant's cheekbone, adding, “I suggest you text your dad to let him know you’re staying the night. I have plans for you. Sexy plans.”

“Okay,” Grant breathed, staring up at Clayton with a dumbstruck look. "How sexy are we talking?"

Clayton rubbed the short fuzz of Grant's hair, smirking. "Ones that involve you, my bed, and a lot of physical activity."

Brain flatlining, Grant struggled to come up with something to say but his mind was too busy thinking of all the dirtiest, deepest fantasies possible. He gaped for a bit longer, finally breathing out, "sounds plenty sexy to me. I'll keep my schedule open," and then yelping when Clayton tweaked his nose. He grinned nonetheless, holding his face and trying to hide a smile as Clayton went to grab his keys.

"I didn't realize jacking off and playing video games kept your agenda full, but thank you so much for your time," he said dryly, walking backwards for the door.

"Okay, har har. You're hilarious. Now go work," Grant waved, making a shooing motion soon after so that Clayton would stop staring and just leave already. The faster he was gone, the faster he would be back.

Staring forlornly at the door for a moment, Grant searched for his jeans, pulling them back on but leaving the fly open, and sat down on the couch. He opened up the internet browser, loading an online game from his bookmarks. He would have opened up one of his downloaded ebooks for some reading, but that usually left Grant wanting to shut out the world while he powered through every chapter right up until the end. Clayton would be back in no time, which meant he needed to be ready at any moment. Grant couldn’t help but feel endless excitement at the prospect.

At some point, between the fifth and sixth hour mark, Grant drifted off completely against his own free will. He didn’t know how long he slept for, only that he woke up to the sound of the front door opening and the feeling of Clayton gently lifting the laptop from where it sat on his stomach. Groggily, Grant cracked an eye open to see that Clayton looked utterly exhausted.

“Wh’time’s’it?” Grant mumbled, letting Clayton take his hand and help him to his feet. Clayton steadied Grant when he swayed, one hand pressed between his shoulder blades to gently guide him towards the bedroom. Grant was all for sleepy sex, at least in theory, but he'd been hoping their first real time together would have involved something more intimate than borderline somnophilia.

“Little after three,” Clayton said, giving Grant a gentle shove that had him toppling face first onto the bed like a rag doll. Grant grunted, spreading his legs to let Clayton know that he’d have to be doing all the work if he wanted to get any action. Grant was not a morning person, it usually took him an hour to actually wake up completely.

“S’more’n an hour,” Grant pointed out, eating the comforter unintentionally. Being in Clayton's bed was like being encased in his scent--a practical nest of quilts and pillows that rivaled the room of an affectionate four year old.

“There was an accident on the highway. It caused three wrecks in four hours.” Clayton explained from somewhere in the room. Grant turned his head, watching as Clayton kicked his boots off and stripped down to his boxer-briefs. Grant buried his face halfway under the comforter to hide the fact that he was unabashedly watching Clayton practically shimmy out of his underwear on his way into the attached bathroom.

Grant crawled his way up onto the bed, struggling to get his socks off using only his toes, and then curling up over the half that was furthest from the bathroom so the light coming from it didn’t bother his eyes. Snuffling into the pillow, Grant listened to the sound of Clayton puttering around in the shower, door left open for steam to drift into the bedroom.