Melting Point (6 page)

Gage paused long enough to give instructions. “Grab my hair, Brady. Fuck my mouth. Give it to me as hard as you need it.”

As long as Gage lived, he would never forget the look in Brady's hooded eyes. This was what the control freak needed—a permission slip that flipped his brain to on, whether it was brought on by strong narcotics or the best blow job in the Midwest. Two seconds later, his hand raked Gage's hair and gripped a handful. One smoldering look sought confirmation that this was truly okay with Gage.

He nodded,
Anything you want,
and parted his lips, waiting for Brady to take over. Finally—finally!—he pushed that thick, glorious cock in.

Gage gladly opened up and accepted the swollen head with a lusty suck. Not enough. He needed to feel it grazing his throat, stealing his breath. Greedily, he took him in, inch by magnificent inch, every loud moan he tore from Brady's throat an encouragement to suck deeper.

Brady gripped Gage's head and began to thrust tentatively, as if he was worried about hurting Gage. Determined to put his fears to rest, Gage grasped the steely flesh of his ass and pulled him in deeper.
Give it to me hard, baby.
Those muscles flexed in his palm, all that power in his grip making Gage dizzy with desire. Then he slid a finger down the cleft of Brady's ass and pressed against his hole—another reason why he wanted Brady to stand. The move was enough to send Brady's hips into a rhythmic rock, and his cock seemed to grow a couple of inches in Gage's mouth.

Heaven.

Gage loved every inch of that dick as the thrusts became more powerful. A little more pressure on Brady's entrance and yes—Gage worked his finger in, sucking the loudest moan yet from his guy's throat. In to the depth of the first knuckle, he twisted and must have hit a sweet spot because Brady yanked his hair hard.

Gage almost came in his pants.

“Gage, I ca-can't hold on.” He drew back but Gage held on for both of them. To that beautiful cock filling his mouth, to that hot ass so tight around his finger. To this feeling of connection he'd never had with another man.

Two more jerks and Brady spilled, hot lashes that hit the back of Gage's throat. So much of it, like he'd been saving it up and hadn't already branded Gage's body in the shower that morning. The last drop swallowed, Gage released him with a pop and licked the sensitive head—sort of evil, but whatever—just to hear that groan of pleasure-pain and to feel those ass muscles contract around his finger again. How good would they feel holding his dick like a vise?

Brady dragged Gage's head back by the hair and swiped a thumb across his lips. “
Ta bouche
,
Gage. Your mouth. It's a freakin' miracle.” Tenderness softened his harsh features and he held Gage's heavy-lidded gaze for untold seconds. “Stand up so I can touch you properly.”

Gage stood, unzipped, and released his aching cock.

Even before Brady had gripped him, he knew that this would be different. One hand should feel like another, the build of pleasure should be familiar. He'd been screwing pretty regularly since he was fourteen, so there were no surprises left. But this was Brady, and nothing with this man had played out the way Gage expected.

As Brady stroked a rough hand in increasingly faster motions, his dark, wounded eyes trapped Gage's in their crosshairs. Imploring him to . . . what? Gage had no idea what Brady needed.

Sex, but more.

More, but what else could Gage give?

He felt like a shutter was opening in his chest and pure, white-hot emotion was flooding the space. He wanted to close up, keep it out. Keep
him
out. Because the alternative was to give Brady Smith everything, and with all the shit going on in his life, that scared Gage half to death.

He closed his eyes to soften the crystalline edges of this new knowledge. Mindless pleasure seeped in, sparks popped behind his eyelids as Brady drove him to the edge and pushed him over. The orgasm came on in a heady rush. He'd had longer and maybe more sharply pleasurable ones, but they'd always felt like the completion of a goal. The logical end of a night of dancing and flirting and screwing.

Why did this feel like the beginning of something extraordinary?

After the last drop of cum left his body—and he doubted he would ever again have the reserves for another orgasm—Brady kissed him softly and whispered, “Ding-a-ling.”

“Ding-a-ling?” His voice sounded hoarse, the aftereffects of that thick cockhead deep in his throat still felt.

Brady's beautiful crooked mouth stretched wide. “Angel got his wings, Golden. Two of those little shits did, actually.”

Gage threw back his head and laughed. His chef was one funny fucker.

He wanted to hold on to this feeling, not just the pleasure, but the revelation of its rightness. “I'm staying at your place tonight, Brady.” Maybe every night. “That okay with you?”

Brady wore that look, the one that usually meant a negative was on the tip of his tongue and he was thinking about how best to phrase it. So the next words were not what Gage expected at all.

“On one condition.”

“Name it.”

Brady dropped his gaze to the table. “There are dishes that need washin', Simpson.”

Gage had cooked a killer grilled cheese, given this guy an awesome blow job, and now he was on dishwashing duty? Anyone else might call the math on that fuzzy at best. The surge in Gage's chest added up to triumphant joy that rivaled his mind-splintering orgasm.

Yep. Totally fucked.

“Deal.”

B
RADY COULDN'T SLEEP.
Well, that wasn't strictly true. He could. He wanted to. But he fought to stay awake because the alternative would invite the demons to visit. If the bastards would have been content to stay in his head, that would be okay, but they liked to make trouble.

More nights than not he would jerk awake, all twisted in the sheets, sometimes a lamp crashed on the floor. He'd tried sleeping pills, meditation, cooking until his eyelids felt like stone weights. Nothing worked to keep him at ease through the night.

The dream was usually the same, with minor variations. Bearded figures holding him down. The smell of burning skin. The tang of copper in his mouth. Sometimes, it was Staff Sergeant Haynes's screams that woke him up. Sometimes, it was Brady's own.

He looked down at the thick forearm wrapped around his waist. In the darkness, he couldn't see the golden hairs of Gage's arm, but he knew they were there. He had memorized every inch of his body, saving the images in his mental hard drive for the future when Gage was gone.

“Your shoulder bothering you?” Brady heard in a sleep-rusty voice at his ear.

“A little,” he lied, turning flat on his back.

Gage's hand slid down Brady's chest, dancing lightly over his scars as if they meant nothing. Which was correct. These marks on his body were the least he should endure, especially when Haynes hadn't made it out alive.

Callused fingertips lingered on the bumpy abrasions. “I read about what happened to your team online. The sanitized version, anyway.”

During the last Chicago mayoral election three and a half years ago, the capture and subsequent daring escape from the Afghan prison had been rehashed as fodder for Eli's campaign with the rest of the team's names as supporting footnotes. Not that Brady minded being relegated to the sidelines. Eli was the true hero of the day, and nothing stoked voters' fire more than a candidate's tales of wartime derring-do.

“It's ancient history.”

A low hum was Gage's response.
Translation: time you got over it.

Brady stroked his knuckles over Gage's stubbled jaw. “You had a crazy mom and you lost your father and brother in the line of duty. I know that every day you see shit on the job that must make you question whether humanity should even be allowed to continue, but you're the most cheerful fuckin' person I know. Does nothin' throw you?”

Gage chuckled. “Plenty of stuff throws me, such as you playing hard to get. That really pissed me off.”

“I wasn't.” They just didn't make sense together.

Gage made a sound of annoyance as if he knew exactly
how Brady completed that sentence in his head. “I'm cheerful because the alternative is to see obstacles everywhere and expect people will hurt you. I choose to live in full color. I choose to say hey there to the hotties, fuck off to the haters, tell lovers how I want it, and people how it shall be. Now, how about you tell me why you really can't sleep?”

The guy already had looks, charm, and a cock Brady wanted to suck on like an everlasting gobstopper. Did he have to be well-adjusted to boot?

Brady could remain silent. He'd gone years without voicing his pain, a lifetime of containment. When Gage asked if he could stay the night, he could have said no. But with this man, he wanted to try.

“I have nightmares sometimes. The punchy kind.”

Gage propped up on one elbow. “Sleep fighter, huh?”

“It can get . . . messy.” This whole thing was already messy, but the idea that he might harm Gage while he slept made Brady physically ill. Guilt about how he had failed his team was his constant companion; he sure as hell didn't want to place Gage in this latest line of fire. “Don't want to hurt you.”

“Then don't. Or if you do, wait until we've paid a visit to the sex toy emporium and figured out which floggers we like.” Smile breaking wide, he gripped Brady's already erect cock at the base. “Until then, let's see if I can think of another way to relax you.”

chapter seven

G
AGE SMILED AT ANNIE,
the nurse who always greeted him at Hillview. Usually he checked in with her after each visit, but today she beckoned him over before he made it to the activity room.

“She's been asking for you. For Gage.”

Gage's heart kicked a slap shot to his ribs. He'd told the staff his true identity back when he first started visiting, but had asked them not to mention it to Emmaline, saying their relationship had been acrimonious and he didn't want to upset her.

“Did somebody say something?”

Annie shook her head. “Sometimes they have moments of lucidity, spaces where the smoke clears and the past rushes in to fill the gap. It could be that you being here has triggered something. She might not have made the full connection, but, whatever's happened, it's the first time we've heard her say your name.”

She cut him a weird look, and only then did he realize that he had backed up, like he wanted to run. Firefighter Gage Simpson, afraid of no one and nothing, was turning yellow.

“My childhood wasn't a very happy one,” he said by way of explanation. After Emmaline gave up on antigay bath time and other aversion therapy fun because she had run off to join some cult in New Mexico, it had been fine. Or, on the road to fine. It took him awhile to develop coping strategies to block out the taunts of “Gay Simpleton” from the other kids at the home. And then he had been chosen, like one of the three-eyed aliens chanting “the Claaaw!” in
Toy Story
. Sean and Mary Dempsey had wrapped him in a big Irish hug and assured him every day that he was worth something no matter that his dick pointed in the direction of boys.

“With this condition,” Annie said, clearly sensing his hesitation in facing this head-on, “deterioration could happen very quickly, and you might run out of chances to reconcile.”

Wasn't this what he had been waiting for? An opportunity to get closure and put that painful chapter of his life to rest?

“She in the usual spot?”

Annie smiled her confirmation, squeezed his arm, and went about her business.

Not quite ready to deal, he stepped outside the main entrance and battled to control the maelstrom of emotions swirling through him.

His mother was dying.

The caseworker he'd met before the first visit had explained that anything could take her at any time—pneumonia, a heart attack, just her broken body catching up to her poor choices. Gage had placed that in a box for examination later, and now he needed to open it up and comb through the contents, especially if her memories were returning.

What if she started screaming when she saw him? Or chanted Bible verses and called him a dirty little Sodomite? Worse, what if he lost his shit and screamed right back? But she had asked for him. If she still carried all this hate inside her, would she have done that?

The September air was still warm, but his body's temperature was cooling, his skin turning clammy. In his chest that all too familiar tightness was gaining a foothold.

A panic attack.

He should have outgrown this. As a kid, certain things triggered the shortness of breath and darkness closing in on the edges of his vision. The smell of swimming pools. Or, leather-bound books with thin, silky pages. When he went to live with the Dempseys, Sean would recognize the signs immediately: Gage's breathing would pick up and he would fall uncharacteristically quiet. His foster father's strong arm around Gage's scrawny ten-year-old shoulders, and rough-yet-soft Chicago accent soothing in his ear, would yank him off the ledge.

But Sean had been gone for over eight years now, having saved three lives in a high-rise fire. After he had saved Gage's own so many times.

He extracted his phone with a shaky hand. If he called Alex or Luke to get that anchor he needed, they'd immediately know something was up. He'd have to listen to their censure about this choice he was making, this world of hurt he was choosing to bring upon himself. Beck or Wy would be better, but the result would be the same. They'd hear him out and then say, “You know I gotta tell the others,” because the Dempsey code had always been
one for all, all in yo bizness
.

But even before he'd pulled out the phone, he knew whom he wanted to talk to. The only person who wouldn't judge him for not being 100 percent on.

He scrolled and hit call before he lost his nerve.

“Yeah?”

That gruff voice rocketed through his bloodstream like jet fuel.

“Just checking in on the patient,” Gage said, working to speak more slowly than usual. His voice sounded like it was coming from a spot two feet to his right.
Clink-sizzle-clank.
The noise in the background on the other end of the line drew his focus to something not related to whether his mom might have suddenly remembered the gay son she despised.

“Are you at the restaurant, Brady?”

“Stopped in to see if Javier needed anythin'.”

Gage heard a muffled, “
Hola,
Gage,” followed by “
sá
lvame
.”
Save me.
Brady countered with an affectionate “shut the fuck up.” So damn cute. Brady and his sous chef were close, a fact Gage might have been jealous of if Javier wasn't straighter than the pole his girlfriend danced on.

“For fuck's sake, Brady, you know you're not supposed to be working in your condition,” Gage said, a wave of protectiveness for his man coming over him and partially dislodging the blockage in his chest.

“This why you called? To play nurse?” But the smile in Brady's voice told Gage he was pleased at the interruption. Such a small thing, but it was everything he needed in this moment. Gage could feel his bones loosening, his blood simmering down, his lungs expanding to receive full breaths.

A return to his unsinkable self.

“Just wanted to hear how you were doing.”
And right now your voice is the only thing stopping me from breaking apart into a million screams.

“You sound different. Everythin' okay?”

“Peachy keen.” He added, “Can't wait to taste you again, Chef.”

That earned him a husky “Gage,” and by the sound of the crew's jeers in the background, Brady must have blushed. Or developed a visible hard-on.

Either way, Operation Diversion: success!

Three minutes later, Gage walked into the activity room and spotted her in her usual cozy armchair by the window.
She has no power over you anymore. You are stronger than you have ever been. You
are loved by awesome people.

Tentatively he approached, ensuring he made a little noise so as not to frighten her when he landed a hand on her shoulder.

“Emmaline,” he said, the name clotting in his throat like lumpy gravy. The next words emerged barely above a whisper. “Mom, it's Gage.”

She looked up, her face open and accepting. That smile—a funhouse version of the one he saw in the mirror every day—caught at his heart, and he immediately knew. She'd retreated into herself, those memories creeping back to the dark recesses.

He'd missed his chance.

“Oh, John, you came.” She squeezed his hand. “Sit and tell me all about your day.”

So he sat and told her, half-relieved at the death-row reprieve, not ready for the full-on truth.

Wondering if he ever would be.

T
HE TEXT CAME IN AT 2:10 A.M.
Just got off a shift at the bar. U up for a visit?

Brady's heart—and dick—jumped. He texted back:
Sure.

Should he wrestle a T-shirt on and cover up? Yes, Gage had seen his scars already, but there was no need to shove them in his face. On the other side was the discomfort of working a tee over his shoulder and . . . The decision was made for him when his buzzer interrupted the internal debate, sounding remarkably like here's-yo-booty-call. Gage must have been close by when he sent that text.

Look at me, grinnin' like a fool.

Gage's blond head appeared at the top of the stairs and Brady saw the moment he clicked over to his sunny self. Like a lamp.

“What's wrong?” Brady asked, concerned.

Gage stopped, hands in jean pockets. “Nothing. Just wanted some company.” That voice was sexy as ever, but there was something else. An edge of weariness that sounded so strange on him. He lay a hand on Brady's hip, covered in gray sweats, and nuzzled his neck. Didn't kiss him, just breathed him in.

“You gonna turn down a little company?”

Nah, I don't want a blow job . . . said no one ever.

So why wasn't Brady all over this? Something about Gage's body language was throwing him off what little game he had.

He cupped that strong jaw with the day-old stubble and wandered fingertips to the thundering pulse at the base of his throat. “Gage. Talk to me.”

“I'm fine . . . I'm just . . . I'm . . .” The smile slipped and the world tilted and Brady was pushed back against the doorframe while Gage fucked his mouth with his tongue. Such hunger. It howled through Brady's body like a cat-five hurricane.

A shocking question cut through the storm: was it possible that Gage actually needed him?

In the brief time they'd known each other, it had always been about Brady.
His
intimacy issues.
His
fears. Gage projected sunshine and confidence and invincibility. But when he called Brady this afternoon, he hadn't sounded like the Gage that Brady was cuckoo about.

He had sounded like a man reaching out for comfort. Now he tasted like a man who needed this connection so badly that Brady actually reveled in the moment, independent of the imminent pleasure. His failure to get his team—and his body—out of the desert in one piece had left Brady unmoored. Finding his passion in cooking had been a good next step, but the rest of his life was a broken mess. What Gage was offering him—and he likely didn't even realize it—could make him feel useful again.

He broke away and backed into the loft, dragging Gage with him.

“Tell me what you need, Gage. I'll give you anything.”

Gage wore this stunned look, like he was just waking up from a hundred-year sleep. Raw desire made his features harsh.

“Your shoulder. Don't want to hurt you.” But even before the guttural words were on the air, they both knew Brady's shoulder would not be a barrier to anything tonight.

“You won't.”

They walked-kissed-rubbed their way to the door of the bedroom, the friction unbearably arousing, the kisses wet and deep. Need sharpening the pleasure, pleasure cranking the need. At the last moment, Gage steered Brady into the bathroom.

“Over the sink,” he panted between lip bites and tongue sucks. “Better balance.”

“Just a sec.” Still reeling from the knowledge that he finally had something to give this man who had already given him so much, Brady tore open a drawer and grabbed what was necessary to get this party started—condoms and lube.

Gage lifted that sinful mouth, his good humor returning for an instant. “Buy me dinner first, Chef.”

“Considering I'm the one who'll be feeling that gorgeous cock of yours in my ass, then I'd say dinner should be on you.”

Brady swept his mouth over Gage's gaping one, matching each hungry and insistent stroke. He dragged up Gage's T-shirt until the man got the memo and took it off. He covered Gage's perfect, sun-baked skin with soft kisses, realizing that he could really take his time exploring. But that's not what Gage needed now. Brady drew back, pushed down his sweatpants, and leaned his good arm on the vanity.

“Fuck me, Gage.”

A few seconds passed, stretched to a painful thirty, then a torturous minute. Dread soured Brady's chest, and he didn't dare to meet Gage's reflection. Maybe he'd overestimated his interest. Maybe it had occurred to him that sinking inside Brady in front of that mirror meant he had to confront Brady's scars.

“How long's it been?” Gage grunted.

“Long.” He drew a deep breath, trying to extend it to every cell. “Really long. So—
ah!
”

Soft lips pressed firmly against Brady's ass.

Gage had fallen to his knees. Not expecting that. Now he gifted Brady with open-mouthed kisses of worship, licks along his cleft that came wickedly close to his entrance. It had been an age since he'd allowed anyone to be this intimate with him, this gentle. Long before he'd been brutalized in the desert and his body no longer felt like it belonged to him. But even then, it had never felt like this.

Like he might die if it went on, and want to die if it stopped.

Spreading him wide, Gage moved his mouth down to tongue all the sensitive places he could reach with that slick weapon of pleasure. A teasing stroke of his balls, a long lick of his taint, and then—
oh God
—he thumbed Brady open and speared his tongue inside his asshole.