Busted (37 page)

He had to stifle a gasp when Chris reached up and traced over the gauze on his shoulder. The light touch shouldn’t have been enough to feel, but the wound tingled and burned where Chris touched. Chris looked at it and frowned.

“Hurts,” said Chris.

“Not too badly,” Joe replied, and it wasn’t even much of a lie. The sharp pain of the cut had faded to a dull, steady burn. It was hardly pleasant, but tolerable.

In response Chris leaned down and softly kissed the bare skin around the edge of the bandage. Joe felt his hand trace light, lazy circles around his navel, each brush of his fingertips sending tiny waves of pleasure across his stomach. Joe wouldn’t have believed it possible to get aroused with a six inch gash in his shoulder, but as the feelings grew the pain faded.

Soon Chris moved on, letting his fingers slide down his side, Chris’ thumb catching the sheet and pulling it away leaving Joe exposed and very erect. He gasped as Chris’ breath ghosted over his arousal and hair dragged over Joe’s nipples.

“Chris, I don’t think—”

Whatever Joe was going to say got lost as Chris swallowed him down to the root. His mouth was warm and he whimpered a little as his body gave an involuntary buck by reflex. There was an answering shot of pain from his shoulder, and Joe felt Chris frown around the cock in his mouth.

He backed off, and Joe had a moment to debate whether the pain was worth the pleasure as the cool air of the room felt like ice on his spit-slick cock. The need to decide was taken away as Chris slipped a finger inside him and rubbed across his prostate.

His head filled with bright, hot pleasure, blocking out the pain in his shoulder — eclipsing everything but the remotest feeling of being stretched that made things all that much better. He arched his body, heedless of the consequences and unable to stop if he wanted to. A high, keening sound escaped him for a moment before he felt something blunt and salty against his lips.

Joe clamped down around them, barely registering them as Chris’ fingers as he sucked. An orgasm built in his groin, sending tendrils of agonizing, wonderful sensation through his body. Fingers weren’t enough, no matter how hard he sucked, how much Chris stroked it wasn’t enough, and tears of frustrated passion leaked from Joe’s eyes as he made muffled begging noises.

That was enough for Chris who took him down again, and the world exploded into starbursts of light as his orgasm erupted. At that moment nothing existed but the white hot pleasure that threatened to devour him.

As the waves of his orgasm faded away, and the last thing he saw before he fell asleep was Chris’ smile in the darkness.

* * *

Chris woke up with the morning sun on his face, feeling happy and remarkably rested. His boxers weren’t even sticky, which was a bonus given how explicit his dreams of Joe had been. He shook his head as he got out of bed. “I have screwed up priorities,” Chris mumbled. The man he’d been having impossible fantasies about had been attacked by a serial killer and he was happy to have woken up with clean underwear. That wasn’t enough to quash his good mood, though. Joe was hurt but he survived, and that’s what was important.

He was almost whistling as he walked downstairs. The house was silent and he startled to see Joe standing in the kitchen. He was staring at the counter, locked in a battle of wills with the coffee maker, a battle Chris’ recalcitrant appliance seemed to be winning.

Chris just stood there and looked. Joe was wearing a pair of Chris’ grey sweatpants, the bandage on his shoulder, and nothing else. A bare hint of black fabric showed above the waistband of the pants in sharp contrast to Joe’s pale skin.The greens and gold of his tattoo were vivid in the bright kitchen light, the Celtic cross accentuating the lean muscles of his back. Chris had vague memories of that tattoo, and his fingers itched to trace its lines.

“It works better if you turn it on,” he said, breaking the silence.

“Huh?” Joe turned bleary eyes to Chris.

Chris walked over to the counter, running a light hand over Joe’s unwounded shoulder. “The coffee maker. You need to turn it on.” With his left hand flat against Joe’s lower back he reached forward and flipped the power switch, making the machine gurgle to life.

“You did put coffee in, right?” Chris asked.

“Uh. Yeah,” Joe said, shaking his head. “Sorry. Bad night.”

“Hopefully today will be better,” Chris said softly.

Joe gave him a tired smile. “Couldn’t be worse than yesterday.”

“So,” Chris said as he pulled away to let the coffee maker work its magic. “Breakfast?”

“Breakfast,” Joe repeated. “That’d be… good. I’ll make it.”

“You don’t have to,” Chris said. “You’re a guest. I’ll take care of it.” Joe was groggy and hurt, and Chris wasn’t sure he ought to be using anything more complex than a spoon. It was nice that he offered, though Even as wounded as he was, Chris could see how much he needed to do something, to have some control over what was going on.

“No, no, it’s okay, just… after coffee,” Joe said. He pulled the refrigerator open, though it took two tries. Chris watched him peer into the depths, surveying what was available. Chris could tell when the wave of cold hit, making Joe’s stomach tense and his nipples shrink. He wanted to step behind Joe and wrap his arms around him, to protect him from the cold and everything e, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.

The sound of small feet shuffling down the stairs caught Chris’ attention. “Morning, Papa,” Toby said as he wandered into the room. He stopped when he saw Joe standing in the middle of the kitchen.

“Morning, Toby,” Joe said almost by reflex as the boy looked at him blearily. This was the second morning in less than a week that Toby had found Joe in his kitchen. Joe and Toby had matching groggy looks, which Chris found kind of cute.

Toby gave Joe an appraising look before turning to his father. “Pop tarts?” he asked.

“French toast,” Joe countered. Chris watched the man wake up, the sleepy softness fading from his face, the tired stoop seeming to drain away as he concentrated on Toby.

“Toast?” Toby turned his gaze on Joe.

“And bacon,” Joe added, as he re-examined the contents of the refrigerator. Chris had considered making pancakes, but the conversation between Joe and his son made him happy and more than happy to step back.

Toby took two quick steps and wrapped himself around Joe, almost knocking him into the counter.

“Um, help?” Joe asked Chris.

Chris was trying hard not to laugh at the helpless confusion plastered across Joe’s face. “I think he likes you,” he said.

Toby nodded into Joe’s stomach. His hair bounced with the nod, and Joe had to work to not laugh as it tickled.

“I like you too, Toby,” he said. “C’mon, lets make some breakfast.”

* * *

Chris changed quickly, not wanting to leave Joe alone with Toby for long. Breakfast had gotten Toby awake and moving, but Joe had still looked tired when they’d finished. No surprise, really. Chris’ own shoulder ached in sympathy — he remembered how much it had hurt when he’d been stabbed, and he’d been on painkillers.

He was still tying his tie as he clomped down the stairs, an oversized t-shirt tucked into his back pocket. The kitchen was empty, but he heard faint noises coming from the living room. Chris looked into the room to find Toby fully dressed in denim shorts and a bright turquoise shirt. Joe was sitting on the couch still bare chested, but he had one shoe on and Toby was busy tying the other.

“That’s right,” Chris heard Joe say. “Tug it tight first.”

He watched Joe bend his knee and bring his foot up onto the couch, Toby holding the laces out tight by the ends. Joe put a finger in the center of the knot while Toby made a big wraparound bow.

“I did it, Uncle Joe!” Toby said. He patted the knot like it was a happy puppy.

“Yes you did. Good job, Sport,” Joe said as he ruffled Toby’s hair.

Chris coughed quietly. He didn’t really want to interrupt, but the clock in the kitchen read 8:15. Two heads swiveled in tandem, catching sight of him standing in the doorway.

“I’m afraid I need to get going,” he said. “Do you want to stay next door with Mary today?” he asked. “She won’t mind.”

“I need a change of clothes,” Joe said, looking down at his bare chest. Chris did too, and it was for the best that he could only see part of it over the couch, since dress slacks and boxers hid very little.

“I brought you a shirt,” Chris said, pulling it out from his pocket. “It’s a bit big, so it ought to go over your sling okay if you want to wear it like that.”

Chris watched Joe eye the shirt warily, lifting his injured arm just a little. “I’m not sure—” he started to say.

“Just lift your good arm a little,” Chris said, interrupting him. “This will be more comfortable than anything else I have.”

Joe looked like he wanted to argue. He got up from the couch and started to speak, but his face twisted with pain and he stopped.

“You can argue with me when you’re better,” Chris said. “For now just let me put the damn shirt on you.”

Joe had the good grace enough to look abashed, and Chris had to stifle a grin at winning the small argument. Joe closed his eyes and lifted his good arm until he winced. Chris bunched up the shirt and slipped it on Joe’s arm, then pulled it over his head and let the fabric drop down. The shirt was huge, hanging halfway to Joe’s knees.

“There,” Chris said. “You should be able to take that off easily enough.”

“I feel like Toby,” Joe grumbled. He tugged at the bottom of the shirt, the hem hanging a few inches past his grasping fingers.

“Nah,” Chris said. “He can tie his own shoes.”

“Oh, great,” Joe grumbled. “Fine, pick on the injured man. Everyone’s taking advantage of me.”

Guilt suddenly shot through Chris. The only reason they weren’t fighting was because Joe had been attacked and was feeling vulnerable. It wasn’t fair that Chris was using it to his advantage, treating the man he’d fantasized about for months like he belonged in Chris’ home and his life. That wasn’t the kind of relationship the two of them had — when Joe wasn’t hurt they fought whenever they were within sight of each other.

That realization hurt, the sudden memory of the kiss they shared feeling like a knife in his gut. Joe had someone already; he had Alex, and he
wanted
Alex, not him. Chris wanted to say something, to try and convince Joe he could do better than Alex, that Alex wasn’t real. When he opened his mouth, though, he said “Do you want to run to your apartment for a change of clothes?” instead.