But Luca, now, kneeling on Emerson’s living room floor between Emerson’s splayed knees, staring up at him through those eyelashes, the tendons in his forearm flexing as he?—
Emerson spent most of his life trying to be as humble, as close to the earth as possible. Producing what he could from the soil, as sustainably as possible; consuming less. Being part of the ecosystem—quiet, grateful—not taking any part of it for granted.
But at this moment, with this image laid out before him, Emerson felt, at least temporarily, like a god. Like an actual fucking king.
“Come up,” he rasped anyway, after a stunned second. As erotic as the image was, he still needed to actually learn. “Come here. I want to see you.”
Luca, again, complied without complaint, climbing up until he was in Emerson’s lap once more. He leaned in for a kiss before returning to his task, a kiss that started out slow,soft, Luca capturing Emerson’s upper lip with both of his before repeating the action with Emerson’s lower, where he lingered. A few more gentle presses, languorous slides, until Luca pushed Emerson’s mouth open. Emerson’s hand came up to grip Luca’s jaw as the kiss deepened. He was learning Luca’s mouth, now, how they worked together. And even if it still felt strange, a betrayal somehow, learning how to kiss someone else—god, Luca’s mouth felt good. Tasted good. Emerson was still depleted from his orgasm, but he could feel something warm and heavy stirring in his gut the longer the kiss stretched. Like he could conceivably, if they kept going, go again.
Eventually, Luca pulled his mouth away. But he stayed close, their foreheads almost brushing, as he pulled himself out of his sweatpants. He turned his head away once to spit into his hand before turning back. Emerson looked down, studied the shape and girth of him, a little thicker than Emerson, or at least Emerson was pretty sure; his brain wasn’t one hundred percent sure of anything. He studied the level of Luca’s grip, the way he twisted his wrist once he got closer to the tip. Maybe it was just because Luca started slow, like he knew Emerson really wanted to look, but it almost seemed—Emerson didn’t know. Skilled, purposeful, like an art. Emerson tried to envision what his own hand looked like when he got himself off and couldn’t picture it. He was positive he didn’t look like Luca looked right now. He was suddenly mournful that all their clothes were still on. He wanted to see what Luca looked like, in this exact position, doing this exact thing, against the background of his bare chest, the muscles of his thighs.
He was pretty sure if he asked Luca to pause, to take off his shirt—if Emerson reached out and took off Luca’s shirt for him—that Luca would say yes. But Emerson felt frozen, incapable of doing anything but watching and keeping a leash onhis own regenerating arousal. Next time. Emerson would be brave enough to disrobe Luca next time.
Because apparently Emerson was already thinking about next time. In the space of a half hour, Emerson had lost his mind.
Luca sped up his rhythm, a low moan humming in his throat, a vibration Emerson could almost feel in his own skin with how close they still were. Luca leaned in for a quick kiss and Emerson was helpless but to give it to him, even if he didn’t want to break his focus on what Luca was doing to himself. The kiss helped revive Emerson’s body, though, made him realize he shouldn’t be leaving Luca so alone in this. His hands woke up, running themselves over Luca’s thighs again. One stayed there, gripping Luca’s sweatpants above his knee, while the other stretched around Luca’s back, underneath his t-shirt, scratching lightly up his skin.
Luca made a grunt of what Emerson hoped was approval. His hand was moving fast now, with less finesse, his breath coming heavy, feathering against Emerson’s chin.
“Close,” Luca said. “Gonna?—”
Emerson squeezed his thigh harder, leaned forward for another quick kiss for encouragement. Luca moaned against his mouth until he pulled away to come, mouth open, spilling over his hand, onto Emerson’s shirt. Emerson didn’t need to study that part. He stared at Luca’s face instead, those long lashes fluttering against his cheek, the tendons flexing in his neck, the sharpness of his jaw.
“Thank you,” Emerson murmured. He relaxed his hand on Luca’s back, switching from scratching to a gentle massage.
Luca stayed hovered over him, one hand gripping the back of the couch next to Emerson’s head to steady himself as he caught his breath.
“Gonna need to wash my hand before we shake on it,”Luca eventually said, still breathing heavy, “but this was okay?”
Emerson could only stare at him and nod.
“More like this?” Luca asked.
I’m so sorry, Jay, Emerson thought. A swirl of emotions burned in his stomach. He couldn’t name a single one.
“More like this,” he agreed.
fourteen
So obviously,Luca was an idiot.
He didn’t know if it would have been better if he’d had it planned out beforehand. If it had been a purposeful thing. If it hadn’t been some reckless part of himself that suddenly sprang to life like a venomous snake the moment Emerson had started apologizing about the kiss. Coiled and ready to strike.
Luca was tired of men apologizing to him over experiences they had both clearly enjoyed. He was tired of men saying,you’re beautiful, but I’m in love with someone else.
He was tired of tip-toeing around Emerson King. Of tip-toeing around his whole fucking life.
At least sitting in that living room, watching the game he’d wanted to watch, was purposeful. Giving Emerson the space and time he’d requested yesterday in the rain had been relatively easy. After Luca had returned to the house, showered and dried off, he’d fucked around town until his overnight renters had left his cabin. His actual home. Where he’d, again, had more cleaning to do than expected. It had taken him most of the day to get it ready for the new folks who would check in this week.
After he’d finished, he’d taken some time to sit on his deck and watch the ocean. The rain had cleared out by then, the sky endless, the world wide open and fresh like it always felt after a rain like that.
He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it. The sound of the ocean. Living right on top of it.
A bunch of words had started wiggling around in his brain as he sat there listening to the surf. And so, despite himself, he’d eventually come back to his laptop, on the bottom floor of the farmhouse, and gotten them all out. Despite himself, it had felt good.
But when he and Jansel had seen Emerson’s obvious bullshit note on the whiteboard this morning about feeling under the weather, Luca had started to get angry.
No, angry probably wasn’t the right word. Irritated, maybe. Like his skin, flaring red every time he pricked a finger on the berry vines or banged an elbow trying to arrange pallets in cold storage.
