“Thank you.” His voice is thick, heavy with emotion. “They died in a house fire. The house was old and something in the electric shorted out. The smoke detectors malfunctioned or the batteries were expired, so by the time my father knew what was going on, my mom was already unconscious from the smoke inhalation. He tried his best to save her, but he couldn’t. He made it halfway down the stairs before he couldn’t make it any further. Since it was just the two of us, Rachel and I moved out here after that to start over.”
Conner moves his hand to give the waiter his cleared salad plate. I do the same and take a long pull on my beer. “That’s some move, though. From New Jersey to a sleepy town in upstate New York.”
He rolls his shoulders and glances up at the television over the bar. “We just wanted a fresh start, I guess.” I can hear the “I don’t really want to talk about this” tone in his words. It’s one I’ve used all too frequently, so I know he’s not trying to play games. He really doesn’t want to talk about it.
When our food arrives, we eat in peaceful silence. Occasional discussion of the start of baseball season peppers our meal, which of course leads to me telling him about my fall softball league for The Bridge.
“What position do you play?” I don’t miss the hidden undertones of his question.
“Pitcher.” His eyes widen on my response. “Well, I used to pitch when I was in high school and college. Now, in my old age, I play second or third.”
“I pitch, too.”
His answer catches me off-guard. “I didn’t realize you played. I thought you just fought.”
Conner leans across the table, his large body eating up the space easily. The sand and leather scent of his cologne invades my senses and I want to drown in him, get lost there for some time and not think about how I’ll get out. “I wasn’t talking about baseball.” He winks.
His words make my cock strain in my pants. I could say it’s been too long, that I’m just in need of a good fuck, but it’s more than that. I want more than just sex. I want sex. With Conner. Now.
Simple enough, right?
He takes stock of my wide-eyed non-verbal response and places his hand back on top of mine. When my tongue shrinks back to its normal size, and the sip of water hydrates my turned to sawdust mouth, I ask about his fighting career.
“So about the fighting?” I pull my hand away, needing to regain a sense of my control. “You were favorite to be middle-weight champion of the world in 2013, and then you broke your contract and you were gone. What happened?”
“Someone did their research,” he quips with no added laughter. “What else did Google tell you?” He’s making no effort to cover up his anger.
“Nothing. Nothing at all, actually. Reid told me.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “For the record, I don’t care what Google would tell me. If it’s anything important, which I’m assuming it is, that’s for you to tell me when you’re ready.”
I only hope he’ll extend me the same sense of understanding when, and if, it comes time to talk to him about Shane.
He considers my words before softly saying, “Thank you.”
The waiter drops the check and we fight about who’s going to pay. My concession on his paying surprises even me. “Fine, you pay, but only if you let me make you coffee at my place.”
He’s all too quick to take me up on the offer. On the ride back to my office to pick up my car, I slide right up against him on the back of the bike. My legs cradle his and his ass fits perfectly in between. Rather than leaving my hands to the side, I coil them around his waist, inhaling his leather-scented masculinity the whole way there.
I mourn his warmth as I drive in my car back to my apartment. The rumble of his motorcycle following behind me is tied to my skin, vibrating there like the taut strings of a guitar.
I park in my spot and watch as he eases his bike into the visitor section of the lot. My cock stirs again as I watch him walk toward me. Even in the low light of the early evening, I can see his eyes, sparkling playfully as he approaches.
For a moment, fear washes over me.What have I gotten myself into?I shake my head at my internal question. Because when I feel the heat of Conner’s body behind me as I open the door to my apartment, I’m not so sure that coffee is the only thing on the menu.
I won’t lie; watching the fabric of his slacks hug his ass as he walks up the stairs in front of me is a thing of genius. The innuendo-laden dinnertime conversation bounces around in my head. Only the click of the lock opening breaks my stare. Dylan struts in front of me, holding the door open as I walk through.
“I’m more of a beer drinker than coffee, but I’m sure I could manage something,” Dylan explains as he walks into the kitchen. Opening and closing some cabinet doors, he looks a bit bewildered at what he finds – or doesn’t find, is more like it. “Actually,” he closes the final cabinet in the row, “I only have this old jar of instant coffee.”
I lean against the counter, crossing my ankles. “Sanka? What are you, sixty-five?” I laugh as he puts the jar back in the cabinet.
“No.” He closes the door and moves to the fridge where he pulls out two beers. He twists the top off one and hands it to me. “My parents stayed here for a week or so before they moved away. There was a screw-up with the closing dates and they needed some place to stay. And I’m twenty-six, not sixty-five.” He opens his beer, and then tips the long neck to me. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Twenty-nine. My birthday is August second, in case you were wondering.”
“Oh,” he drags out the word. “The big three-oh. How do you feel about that?” Dylan’s question precedes his outstretched arm, indicating we should move to the living room. I drop my jacket on the back of a chair on the way inside.
The room is cozy, but not small or crowded. It feels like home, much more so than my place, which sits mostly in boxes. “Eh, it’s not a big deal, I guess,” I deflect as we sit down on the couch, turning to face one another.
“It doesn’t sound like it’s not a big deal.” Dylan kicks his legs up and rests his crossed ankles on the coffee table set in front of us.
