“Jericho.”
“That’s not a real name,” Atticus scoffed.
Jericho snorted. “My mother would beg to differ. What’s your name?”
“Atticus,” he managed, clearly giving up all attempts at self-preservation.
“That’s not a real name,” Jericho countered, tone somewhere between teasing and seductive, advancing until he stood between Atticus’s splayed knees. His gaze dropped pointedly to his dick straining against his zipper. “Need some help with that?” What Atticus needed was to just open his mouth and say no and then get the hell out of there, but then Jericho said, “I always wanted to suck off a ginger. Do you taste different?”
“That’s offensive,” Atticus managed, earning another grin from Jericho. That fucking smile.
Atticus didn’t remember curling his fingers into the other man’s shirt and dragging him forward, but he must have because their mouths were crashing together in a kiss that was more teeth than tongue. The minute they touched, Atticus’s sense of reason flew out the window, his need consuming him. There was nothing soft or slow or restrained about it. It was rough and borderline painful, teeth dragging and biting over tender skin, tongues fighting for dominance.
When hands caught at the hem of Atticus’s shirt, he didn’t resist, just raised his arms. Jericho tossed it aside, then went to work opening Atticus’s pants. He didn’t stop him. Hell, he lifted up when the man dragged his pants and underwear down just enough to close his mouth over his aching cock.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, hips spasming as this stranger attempted to suck the soul from his body. He fell back on his forearms, stomach muscles clenching as each sucking draw of his lips sent sparks of electricity along his spine. Fuck. The tight heat of his mouth was perfect. Atticus couldn’t stop himself from tangling his hands in the silky strands of his hair and fucking up into his mouth.
Had he ever had anybody suck him like this? He’d fooled around with a man a time or two but his experiences were limited with either sex. Other than his icy, long-term now-ex girlfriend, Kendra, he could count his partners on one hand and have two fingers left. But this… Holy shit. Atticus couldn’t stop the sounds he was making or the way his fingers twisted punishingly in the other man’s hair.
“I’m close,” he muttered.
Jericho didn’t stop. If anything, he doubled down on his efforts. Atticus couldn’t tear his eyes away, almost as turned on watching the head bobbing between his legs as he was by his talented lips and tongue. When brown eyes cast upwards, catching his gaze, that was it. Atticus gave a harsh shout, flooding Jericho’s mouth.
He swallowed every drop, sucking until Atticus’s abs contracted and he hissed, pulling him off his oversensitive cock. He yanked Jericho close, capturing his mouth, sucking the taste of himself off the other man’s tongue as he plunged his hand into his jeans. He wrapped his fist around the other man’s thick, leaking cock, unable to stop his low hum of approval. That definitely didn’t help sell his ‘not gay’ statement, but he was too far gone to care. Atticus worked him with the same level of enthusiasm Jericho had given him, swallowing every panting moan, using them as a guide.
It didn’t take long. Atticus used his precum to ease the firm catch and slide of his movements. Soon, Jericho was fucking up into his fist, hips snapping faster. They were no longer kissing, but their mouths were close enough for him to hear each shuddering breath, every throaty moan. It was hot enough to make Atticus wish he hadn’t come already.
Jericho’s hips suddenly stuttered, and his breath punched from him as he spilled over Atticus’s fist until he shivered with the aftershock of his intense release. Jericho rested his forehead against Atticus’s before he pulled his hand free and wiped it clean on his pants.
Once they separated, they each busied themselves with righting their clothing. Atticus was flustered. He had no idea what had just happened or how things had gone so wrong, but he’d just given a hand job to a man three feet away from a fingerless corpse. There was no way he was telling his father that.
He cleared his throat. “Well, this has been…” He drifted off. What was he going to say?
“Yeah,” Jericho acknowledged.
“Are you sure you don’t need help with…” He pointed to Trevor.
Jericho gave a small cough. “Nah, I’m good.”
Atticus slung his backpack over his shoulder once more. “Okay, then. Bye…I guess,” he managed, making for the door, turning back, then turning once more when he saw Jericho no longer faced him.
He supposed that meant he was dismissed.
It was all for the best, he supposed. He wasn’t gay. Even if he was, what was he going to do? Ask Jericho on a date? They weren’t even living on the same planet. Besides, Atticus had to keep up appearances. As the oldest, Thomas expected more from him. That was just how it was. His father wouldn’t care if Atticus was gay. Hell, Thomas was gay. His brothers were gay, some were bi. It was just… He couldn’t be. He couldn’t. Being straight was just…easier. Girls were fine. They were soft and smelled nice. He had a plan for his life and it didn’t involve jerking off beautiful murderers in creepy cabins. No matter how intense his orgasm had been.
Once he made it back to his car, he tossed his backpack in the passenger seat and pushed the ignition button before realizing he still wore his muddy boots. Goddammit. He smacked his head on the steering wheel then flung himself back against the driver’s seat dramatically.
What the fuck?
Jericho entered his shop through the front office. From there, he could see the counter where he helped his customers and his work space with the hydraulic lift. He could also see the large space he kept available for friends. It had a massive television and a tattered, comfy wrap around sofa where more than one of them had camped on bad nights. He and his brother, Felix, had small rooms upstairs.
He was unsurprised to see Felix and Arseny sitting on the couch, screaming at each other around gales of laughter as they played some game on the PlayStation. Arsen was easy to spot with his aqua-colored hair. As Jericho watched, his brother launched to his feet before crashing back onto the couch, as if that could encourage the character on the screen to do what he wanted. The action had his brother’s strangely flowy printed top falling off one slender shoulder.
He ignored them, leaving his office to walk to the sink, unable to wipe the stupid smile off his face.
He had no idea what happened back in that cabin, but he couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever come so hard from a fumbling handjob. But it wasn’t the act that had gotten him, it was the man behind it. There had been something so goddamn hot about that man, red hair and big blue eyes and freckles that disappeared when he flushed with embarrassment…or from an orgasm. It had been so easy.
All Jericho had done was put the offer on the table; it was Atticus who made the first move, drawing him in, kissing him hard. He’d been so tightly wound, so conflicted. It was like something snapped and all that repression and conflict had just exploded out of him, becoming this wildly desperate act. Jericho was just grateful he’d been on the other end of it.
