Too Stupid to Live(Romancelandia) (29 page)

Ian froze at his cry. “What?” he asked, alert and still. Like maybe Sam had seen a burglar. Or a mouse.

Sam groaned and pounded his forehead against the floor once. “No condom.”

Ian went suddenly limp. “Fuck.”

They didn’t talk about it, not right away. Sam couldn’t make himself look as Ian pushed himself off the floor, then pulled Sam up by his wrist, leading him to bed. “Get in, kiddo,” he said softly, watching as Sam lay down and pulled the blankets up. Then he walked around the bed, losing his kilt on the way, and crawled in on the other side. Sam felt him scooting under the blankets until he was there and warm and wrapping Sam up. Pulling Sam’s head onto his shoulder.

It was hard not to feel loved when Ian did this. Sam had to fight it with everything in him. He could have the romance novel sex fantasies (’cause Ian was clearly superlative at fulfilling those), but he had to keep reminding himself that while Ian may have feelings, he might never come through on the Big Declaration. Sam couldn’t count on, “I love you, I can’t live without you. You complete me.” Or even just, “You’ll do.”

So this no condom thing? That was a potential problem. Not like a romance novel problem. There would be no unplanned pregnancy that would force Ian to offer marriage and keep them in close proximity until the scales fell from his eyes and he realized Sam made his heart beat.

There was no HIV trope. Sam wracked his brain, but he couldn’t come up with a single literary example of a sexually transmitted disease morphing into true love. He was pretty sure sexually transmitted diseases were a no-no in Romancelandia, even for evil exes.

That was what he should be worried about, right? The possibility of getting something from Ian. Except he knew Ian hadn’t been with anyone for a long time before they got together, and he was all but positive Ian hadn’t been with anyone since they’d met. Sam certainly didn’t have anything to give to Ian. Not only was he practically a monk for months before they met, but he’d been tested twice since he and Marley broke up.

“I haven’t been with anyone except you since before my accident,” Ian said.

“I know,” Sam whispered, swirling his fingers in Ian’s chest hair. He sighed.

They lay there quietly a few seconds until Ian jostled him, like he was expecting something from Sam. He lifted his head and looked at Ian.

Ian swallowed. “What about you?”

Sam blinked.
Holy shit
, Ian was worried
he’d
been with someone else? “I haven’t been with anyone for over a year. I blew a guy at a party after Marley and I broke up, but I used a condom.”

“So,” Ian took a breath. “No one except me?”

Sam put his hand on Ian’s cheek and stroked his thumb across Ian’s lips. “No,” he said, then kissed him. “I was tested a few months ago; I’m clean.”

Ian closed his eyes in apparent relief. “Me too.” He reached for the back of Sam’s head and fisted his hair gently.

Sam’s heart beat a little harder. “We could . . . not use condoms. Promise not to be with other people.”

“Yeah.” Ian stared at him. “We could do that.” He slid his fingers around Sam’s chin and pulled him closer for another kiss. “I want that with you,” he said into Sam’s mouth.

Sam cracked the door in his heart and let himself feel a bit loved. Not just liked or desired—and yes, he believed Ian desired him—but loved.

It was possible.

Ian lay awake wondering if Sam had liked his present. And the role-playing. After everything that had just happened—forgetting the condom, and then their conversation about not being with anyone else—he shouldn’t care about this.

But he did. He’d spent an hour trying not to bug Sam about it, and trying not to wonder why Sam hadn’t said anything. Sam could say something later. In the morning, because he was asleep now, as usual. He’d been asleep since about ten minutes after their conversation ended, which was a long time for Sam to stay awake after coming. Ian should be sleeping too.

But he wasn’t. Because ten minutes was long enough for Sam to tell him if he’d enjoyed himself.

You aren’t a guy who worries about this shit
.

Except, apparently, he was now. He sighed and pulled Sam closer. Thank God he’d given up pretending he didn’t like to cuddle. Sam snuffled and breathed heavily against his shoulder, throwing a limp arm across Ian’s diaphragm. Ian winced.

Hell with it
. He untangled himself and got up, wandering into the kitchen for a glass of water, then into the living room to sit on his couch and brood. He’d never brooded about a guy before, but how hard could it be? He kept the lights off because he thought it might help.

It was harder than he’d thought. Plus, he had no clue if he was doing it right.

“What are you doing out here?” Sam’s sleepy voice asked behind him. Ian turned to look. Sam stood there naked in the light coming in the window, rubbing at his eyes and yawning.

“What woke you up?”

Sam hugged himself and came around to the front of the couch. “I got cold ’cause you weren’t there.”

Ian lifted his arm when Sam sat down next to him so Sam could get under it and start to warm up. “I made sure you were covered up.”

“S’not the same,” he said, yawning until his jaw cracked. He settled in under Ian’s biceps, head on his shoulder, breath evening out. Ian almost thought he’d fallen asleep again until Sam moved to kiss him on the neck. “Thank you.”

“For keeping you warm?”

Sam squirmed, turning more into Ian and trying to pull his legs up on the couch. “Toes’re cold,” he muttered, but they didn’t fit between them. He dropped his legs back on the floor. “I was thanking you for the present.”

Ian shifted so he could lie back, pulling Sam with him. He had to be practically on top of Ian for them to fit on this couch. “You liked it?”

“Best present ever,” Sam said.

Thank fuck
. Ian squeezed him tightly, then caught Sam’s toes between his feet, trying to warm them up. “Squirrel.”

Sam lifted his head and stared down at Ian in the dark. Ian couldn’t read his expression, but he could guess at it. He probably had that little lip curl of confusion. “What?”

“That’s what I’m going to call you.”

After a second or two of staring, Sam laid his head back down on Ian’s shoulder. “That’s . . . weird. Can’t you just keep calling me kiddo?”

“I call you kiddo?”

Sam huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah, all the time.”

Ian ran a hand through Sam’s shaggy hair. “Isn’t that kind of, I don’t know, condescending?”

“Um, hello? It’s better than squirrel. Why would you want to call me that?”

“’Cause you like nuts.” Ian squeezed him.

Sam was silent a few seconds. “Why do you need to call me anything at all? I mean, other than Sam.” He didn’t sound annoyed, he sounded apprehensive. Tension started to invade his neck muscles again.

“Shouldn’t I have a pet name for my boyfriend?” Ian said and held his breath.

Sam rolled over on top of him completely, feeling his way along Ian’s arms to intertwine their fingers. Ian could sense his intent stare, even if he couldn’t see it. It was in the closeness of his face and the way he gripped him. “Am I your boyfriend?”

Hell
. “Yeah, if you want.”

“I want,” Sam said immediately. Then he kissed him, tongue insinuating itself into Ian’s mouth, and Ian let him have control. Partly because Sam wanted it, but also because Ian needed him to have it. Sam was getting hard again, rubbing against Ian, capturing Ian’s thighs between his and using the hold for leverage.

Ian was suddenly so hard he ached. He lifted his hips into Sam’s, wanting to give him what he was already taking. Sam’s hands gripped tighter, trapping Ian’s. When Ian came, he came for Sam, out of control and moaning into Sam’s mouth, letting Sam draw it out of him. Sam came right after, and Ian understood in that moment what Sam was giving him. He couldn’t explain it later, but for a few seconds it was crystal clear.

When Sam finally let go of his hands, Ian couldn’t stop running them up and down Sam’s back, feeling the sweat he’d worked up. Jesus, even
that
was for him, wasn’t it? This feeling had to be why people sometimes cried after sex. He blinked hard against the urge, but Sam somehow knew and kissed his eyelids closed. He couldn’t miss the wetness there. He didn’t say anything though, he just held Ian’s head between his hands and kissed him softly, over and over, until Ian felt almost normal and lost that weird urge to open his mouth and say things he didn’t know if he really meant.

He couldn’t stop feeling that Sam was holding his heart between his hands.

Finally Sam rolled over partway, almost falling off the couch, but Ian caught him. Sam grabbed the afghan off the back of the couch. “Is this washable?”

Ian had to clear his throat. “Yeah.”

Sam wiped them both off with it, then threw it on the floor.

Ian might have dozed off for a few minutes, lying there with Sam’s arm pillowing his head. When he woke up—after trying to move a half inch and discovering he had no room—Sam was still awake, snuggled under Ian’s chin and running fingers through his chest hair.

“I loved that. When you did that for me. The kilt and the war prize and . . . you know. Played romance novel with me.”

Ian’s heart did a somersault, but he managed a normal tone. “We can do it again, it was hot.”

Sam stretched an inch or two, not quite enough to knock him off the couch. “Good. So, I guess I should have a pet name for you.”

“You could call me laird,” Ian suggested, even though he wasn’t feeling like one right now.

Sam swirled fingers in his chest hair, then tugged lightly on it. “Can I call you laird bear?”

“Hell no.”

Ian felt Sam smile against his neck.

“No,” he repeated.

“Okay,” Sam said agreeably, still smiling.

“Fuck,” Ian muttered.

Sam giggled. It was cute.

“Let’s go to bed,” he said, nudging Sam with his arm. “This couch is too small.”

“Okay, laird. Bear.”

“Ha. Ha.”

The bench at the bus shelter outside Fatty’s was uncomfortable. Actually, the benches in all the bus shelters in the city were uncomfortable, but since Sam was currently sitting on the one outside Fatty’s, it was the one he cared about now.

Fortunately, he had a book to distract him from his throbbing ass.
Too bad it’s throbbing because of this damn seat
. If it was throbbing in a good, Ian-induced way, he’d be fine with it. But it was Wednesday night, and he and Ian were responsible adults who had to get up early and needed their sleep, so Sam had no plans to go over to Ian’s place now that his shift at Fatty’s had ended.

That had seemed like a good decision this morning, when they were making out in the cab of Ian’s pickup in their secluded spot behind the English building.

Right now, Sam’s romance novel was a pretty poor substitute for Ian. A sci-fi romance he’d read at least three times before, and one of his favorites. It was het romance, about two spaceship captains on opposing sides of a war. The hero was in love with the heroine—crazily, madly in love—he kept a journal about his abject devotion to her. The heroine was scornful of the hero. By the end of the book, of course, he’d won her over, the war had ended, and they warped off to the edge of the galaxy in sexual and romantic bliss.