Get What You Need (3 page)

The room went dark and quiet all at once. There was just the faint glow of the still-powered-up TV, thin lines of light from the slats in the blinds. There was just silence.

Just the sound of breathing.

And that was all it took. Suddenly, although they weren’t touching, they were entirely too close. Greg could feel the static, could feel the inches between their bodies.

His swallow was an audible gulp in the quiet and the dark. He turned his neck, only to find eyes staring back at him. Marsh’s gaze was a buzz of electricity, something that had Greg lighting up from the inside out. Everything blurred except those twin points, and beneath them the curl of Marsh’s lips.

Marsh closed his eyes and shook his head. Beneath his breath, he muttered, “This is such a bad idea.”

Greg didn’t have time to ask what he was talking about, because then Marsh was opening his eyes and propping himself up on his elbow, twisting and leaning forward, and putting his hand on Greg’s face. Greg sucked in a breath, all harshness and too loud in the space.

“What are you—”

It was confusion and want and disbelief, a complete short-circuiting of his brain at the first press of lips, and he froze. His hand stuttered in the air, and his eyes were wide, everything cracking. Because never, not through the month of stilted not-quite conversation, not through the sudden appearance of this man in his door or the way they’d almost touched…
never
had it occurred to Greg that he might not be the only one to feel this way.

Air rushed into his lungs, realization dawning, and it was too impossible a thing. But the second kiss was a question, and the answer was yes, of course it was yes, if Greg could only get it out. He scrabbled at the sheets, wanting to haul Marsh closer. But Marsh was drawing away, dragging his fingers down Greg’s cheek, breathing out a laugh that sounded like an apology, and Greg made a choked little noise. He surged forward. In a blur, he latched on to the collar of Marsh’s shirt and reeled him in, closed his eyes and pressed his mouth to Marsh’s and licked the surprise from his lips.

And it was…perfect, really. Marsh tasted warm and real, a tang of hops on his tongue as he opened up and let Greg suck at his bottom lip. All the curled-up energy from lying beside Marsh leapt from Greg’s skin, electricity crackling through the wet push and pull and the grip of Marsh’s hands on Greg’s hips. Greg groaned into the kiss, because he’d been wanting this for so long, had been starved for someone to touch him and to let him touch, and Marsh was gorgeous. Was so out of his league, but he was here. Greg got his hand up under Marsh’s shirt and pressed his palm to smooth skin. Marsh’s stomach was all muscle, the trace of hair down the middle so sensitive as Marsh shuddered and pulled Greg closer. Rising up, Greg pushed Marsh back and climbed into his lap, straddling him, and maybe this was too fast, but it felt so good.

“Yeah,” Marsh said, one big hand coming up to cup Greg’s neck, holding his mouth there, and a thrill went through Greg. Being held in place like that made him harder, made him want nothing more than to rub himself off against Marsh’s thigh. Maybe, someday, Marsh would really pin him down and take him apart, put all those muscles to the task of turning Greg to liquid, but tonight he wanted something different.

He ground his hips into Marsh’s, shivering when Marsh grabbed his ass and thrust up. Heat pooled deep in Greg’s belly at the answering hardness against his own, and he wanted skin, wanted the musk of arousal and the taste of pre-come and the fullness of hot flesh in his mouth.

“Wanna suck you,” he mumbled into Marsh’s mouth, and Marsh gave a pained little grunt that seared Greg to his bones.

There was a hand on Greg’s shoulder, the one on his ass coming to rest on his hip, and both urged him down. “Yeah, that sounds so good.”

Greg scrambled, crawling down Marsh’s body and taking needy bites at him, getting damp fabric between his teeth. At his navel, Greg pushed Marsh’s shirt up to run his tongue along the ridges and dips of his abdomen, to taste the salt from his skin. Marsh’s hand pressed into the space between them, tugging at the fasteners of his pants, and Greg nosed down into the gaps, pushing fingers out of the way to part his lips around the clothed head of Marsh’s cock.

Marsh groaned and shoved at the waistband of his underwear, and Greg loved this. It had him aching and desperate, the way Marsh arched and the push at the back of his neck. The long, flushed line of Marsh’s dick, the tip slick, and the neat thatch of gold-brown hair, the scent of male wanting. Greg flicked his gaze up Marsh’s body, and his own dick throbbed inside his briefs.

Oh God. Marsh was a wet dream. His eyes were locked on Greg, his chin tilted back, and Greg loved the sharp point of his jaw, the shadow of his stubble in the dim light. His abdomen gleamed, and he wrapped a hand around himself and tilted it toward Greg’s lips.

Greg didn’t hesitate. There was the low frisson of shame, because he shouldn’t love this so much, but he did. He loved a good mouthful of cock and the way the head shoved up against his throat; he loved letting go like this. He pushed himself farther than he could take, only letting himself up when he choked, and then he bobbed, up and down. What he couldn’t fit in his mouth, he stroked with his hand. He sucked and licked, and he
loved
this. He ground himself into the mattress, making his lips nice and soft, slurping and working at the underside with his tongue. Marsh was all little gasping sounds, threading his fingers through Greg’s hair and whispering, “Yes,” and “Oh,” and “Like that.”

Marsh rocked up into Greg’s mouth. His thigh was tense beneath Greg’s palm, the muscles of his abdomen rigid. Greg bobbed faster, tightening his fist.

Marsh keened, fingers tugging hard at Greg’s hair, and Greg had to shut his eyes, because that felt so good. He gave his own little whine, cock kicking, balls going tight. And he wouldn’t move, he’d take it all, drink it down, and then it was pouring in. Marsh bowed off the bed as he rasped Greg’s name. Salty come slicked Greg’s throat, and he swallowed and chased every shudder, every spasm until Marsh let go. His hips sank back down, and he gave a little nudge at Greg’s shoulder that Greg ignored. He laved Marsh clean and sucked at the tip until the sounds spilling out of Marsh turned from wrung-out pleasure to the faintest lick of distress.

He let Marsh slip, softening, from his tongue and flexed his jaw as he rose up onto his knees. Holding Marsh’s gaze, he dragged the back of his wrist over his lips. They were swollen, probably looked red and used. Marsh reached for him, and he came readily, tugging at the drawstring of his sweats, and then they were pushing them down together. Marsh got a hand around Greg’s aching dick and stroked it, fast and punishing as Greg panted and fell into his mouth. It was less a kiss and more a sharing of air, more just a place to rest and connect and feel. Marsh’s other hand was on Greg’s cheek, holding him and grounding him, and Greg pressed his forehead hard against Marsh’s brow.

Pulling away, panting for breath, Marsh swiped his thumb through the slick at the tip of Greg’s cock and twisted his wrist. “Fucking loved your mouth, so filthy, you felt so—”

Greg didn’t hear the rest. He shook his head and buried his face against the hot, damp skin of Marsh’s neck as he shot across his naked hip. Shaking pleasure made his vision go blank.

And he was laughing and pulsing and convulsing, because, God, he’d needed that.

When he started to come back to himself, Marsh was easing him down onto his side. He rolled easily enough, sliding off onto his back, and he flung his arm across his eyes as he let out a deep, long sigh. The thrumming beneath his skin was something good now, something sated and satisfied, and he hadn’t felt this easy and pliant in months. Rubbing his hand over his face, he looked down at himself. He was still fully clothed except that his pants were around his thighs, his cock lying half-hard and wet against his stomach.

The mattress shifted beneath him. Marsh was tucking himself away and refastening his jeans, dragging a hand through his hair as he sat up against the headboard. Somehow, he managed to look composed enough. Greg gave a little groan as he tugged his own sweats to rest on his hips and pulled his shirt down.

Without a word, Marsh reached for the bottle of Jack on the shelf. He uncapped it and took a big swig straight from the bottle before passing it over. Greg almost didn’t take it, but the lingering taste of come wouldn’t stay sexy for long. He paused as he grabbed the bottle. It was lighter than it had been.

His gaze darted to Marsh’s face, looking deeper, and it was dark, but his cheeks were flushed. Maybe with more than just the sex. Greg had been so aware of him all through the movie, but he’d been paying attention to his closeness. Not to what he’d been doing. The hazy afterglow started to fade, and a pit opened up in Greg’s stomach. He sipped at the whiskey before handing it back. Marsh capped it and set it aside.

Marsh pulled a face as he sat up higher and rose. He stumbled a little on his way to Greg’s desk. He yanked a couple tissues from the box there and hiked up his shirt to dab at the mess Greg had left on his skin.

“Sorry,” Greg started.

Marsh shook his head, a lazy grin curving parted lips. “No apologizing.” He came over to the bed and bent down, bracing himself with an arm against the mattress as he ducked to press a slow, filthy kiss to Greg’s mouth. “You were so good at that.”

It was a compliment, but it left Greg cold. Marsh was gorgeous and popular. He probably had a lot of mouths to compare Greg’s to. The pit in Greg’s stomach deepened into something gaping. He’d asked Marsh why he was here—he’d been so sure there’d had to be a reason.

Maybe this had been it. Maybe he’d known Greg was a repressed little queer who’d suck anything if he could just get up the courage to let himself go. The shutters fell, all the tension seeping right back in.

He forced a smile, touching Marsh’s neck for just a second before letting his hand fall away. “It was good.” He steadied himself and leaned back.

It had been
so
good, but that didn’t mean anything. Especially if Marsh had been drunk. If Marsh had been drunk, Greg shouldn’t even have touched him, but he hadn’t been thinking beyond the heat and the press and the pleasure of being kissed. Of having all that attention on him. It had made him feel…special.

He shook his head at himself as Marsh stood. Steeling himself, Greg looked up at him and tried for nonchalance. “You going to be okay getting back to your room by yourself?”

Something strange passed across Marsh’s face. But then it was gone. Maybe it hadn’t been there in the first place, just a trick of the shadows in the dimness. Marsh straightened his shoulders and gave a little laugh as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah. Pretty sure I’ll be fine.”

Marsh unfurled his arms, and his hand twitched at his sides. He stuck his hands in his pockets and turned away. Pulling the door open, he poked his toe at the jamb. “Thanks,” he said, not looking up. “For the movie. And everything.”

“Anytime.” And shit, Greg shouldn’t have said that. He’d do it again, but Marsh didn’t need to know that.

“Great,” Marsh said, and it sounded like relief. He met Greg’s eyes and nodded. “Good night.” His voice was warmer now, and yeah. Greg would do it again.

“Good night.”

Marsh let himself out and closed the door behind him. The instant he heard the click, Greg dropped to lie flat on his back and pulled a pillow over his face, breathing into it to try to calm his heart. He’d made a dent in all the work he had to do, and he’d sort of gotten laid. He’d gotten everything he wanted, and yet he felt just as frustrated as he had when the night had begun.

He shoved the pillow away and lifted his head to glance at the piles of papers that still needed his attention, then down the length of his body. At the spatters of white drying on his shirt. He might have gotten what he wanted, but it hadn’t been the plan.

A quiet, productive night in, his ass.

Dropping his head, he ran his hand through his hair. Somehow, things had gotten completely out of control.

He didn’t know what he was going to do about it.

Chapter Two

There were days Marshall Sulkowski really, really, really didn’t want to get out of bed.

Shit, how long had he been dozing now? He dragged his head up and off his pillow to glance at the clock. At the sight of double digits, he groaned and face-planted again, pulling the covers up over his head. Not that it did any good. It was too fucking bright in his room. Maybe Yulia could use her ninja-girl skills and make him some curtains or something. Someday. Then again, that would mean he’d have to ask her to make some, and she and he both knew that wasn’t going to happen. One more thing to add to his list of stuff to see if he could find at the thrift store.

He rolled over and punched his pillow down, but it wasn’t any use. Giving up, he tossed the covers off and stretched his arms over his head, then scrubbed his hand across his face, rubbing at the crud in his eyes. For a long minute, he stared up at the ceiling without really seeing anything.

This wasn’t where he’d been planning to wake up. He was supposed to—

—Fuck, fuck,
fuck
, he wasn’t going there. Because, sure, maybe he’d finally made a move, and maybe he’d even gotten what he wanted, and maybe he’d gotten kicked out on his ass before he could even get up the guts to ask if he could stay, but whatever. It was done. He’d gotten laid. He knew what was between Greg London’s legs now, and it had been awesome, and he wasn’t going to sit here stewing and feeling like shit about it all day.