Chapter Eleven
“Everyone knows that his problem is he’s in love with that friend of his. He just needs to get over him.”
GENNIETCHEDher tongue at Nate when he paid, asked after Ally, and threatened to call around. He wouldn’t tell his mother that. From experience, most people seemed to feel that promising to visit was the same as actually turning up. Under normal circumstances a quick chat about his mother would have put a boot firmly on the throat of Nate’s libido.
But…. Flynn Delaney had been a soldier. That was two of Nate’s more persistent teenage fantasies—and the soldier one actually lasted well into his twenties. He had a thing for men in uniform, bundled into a gruff, “faded jeans wearing” package. Nate put his change in his pocket and walked out of the propped-open door into a drizzling rain.
Besides, it wasn’t like any of it was real. It came with a pre-established expiration date, so he didn’t need to worry about… well, any of the things that usually preoccupied him during real dates.
His friendsdidn’tlike Flynn, but it didn’t matter because they’d be broken up in a month. If Flynn didn’t answer a text, it wasn’t because Nate had been too fucking much or not fucking enough. It was because it wasn’t a real relationship. If Nate screwed up the balance between stylish sophisticated lover and neurotic control freak who was always early, it didn’t matter, because Flynn wasn’t deciding whether or not to go for date three.
Best of all Nate didn’t have to worry that he was wasting his diminishing days as a datable prospect on a guy who might or might not be a long-term prospect. He wasn’t a prospect at all.
He paused midstep to admire the sight of Flynn leaning against the battered door of his jeep, arms crossed and eyes hooded like six foot one of very bad news. His mouth went dry. Okay. So last night he tried to do a push-up. But other than that, the arrangement with Flynn was a very tension-free affair.
“You’re a cheap date,” Nate said as he reminded his feet to keep moving. “I got change.”
Flynn smirked. The drizzle had dampened his dark hair, and as Nate got closer, he could see it glistening in the stubble on Flynn’s jaw. “I think you’ll find that’s just the booking fee.”
He hooked his fingers in the waistband of Nate’s trousers and pulled him two steps closer—near enough to kiss. The hair on the back of Nate’s neck prickled with nervous goose bumps. It was one thing to buss a date in the Tax Shelter, where the worst that would happen would be a disapproving cluck from a rich old lady and the island-gossip version of a vague post about your behavior—a snide comment to your mother. It was a bit riskier outside the Hairy Dog, where the drink was stronger and the drinkers were resentful.
That didn’t stop Nate from leaning into the kiss. He slid his hands around to grab Flynn’s ass—the muscle was taut and flexed under his fingers—and chewed his lower lip appreciatively. Flynn buried his free hand in Nate’s hair, twisted his fingers in the curls, and shoved his tongue into Nate’s mouth.
The rough thrust of slick muscle between his lips pulsed a hot suggestion down Nate’s spine and made his ass twitch. He groaned. The sound was trapped in his throat as he pressed himself against the hard, lean planes of Flynn’s body. His mind was only too happy to call up, in high definition, the image of what lay under Flynn’s T-shirt and leather—swarthy skin, a treasure trail of rough, clipped hair, and muscles that looked like someone had twisted them out of metal wire.
It was a body that made push-ups seem worthwhile, at least until you were in the middle of a set. Of one.
A car drove past and interrupted them, the headlights on full beam. The driver hit the horn, a cheerful rattle of “bra-bra-brap” that was morefancy seeing you herethangonna circle the block asshole. It still made Nate draw back. He licked his lips, and his tongue lingered where stubble had chafed the tender skin.
“You taste like chili,” he said.
Flynn’s hand was still buried in his hair. He used the handle to tilt Nate’s head back and pull his throat into a tight line.
“Bad boys don’t use breath mints,” Flynn growled, the usual rasp of his voice exaggerated.
“I think they should.” Nate reached up and cupped Flynn’s face in his hand and felt the stubble against his palm. He brushed his thumb over the stern line of Flynn’s mouth. “We should probably move off the street.”
Flynn nipped his thumb with a quick, rough bite. There was a chip in his front tooth. Nate could feel the sharp edge of it against the meat of his pad. It prickled over his skin, and his imagination was all too eager to imagine that scrape against other parts of his body.
Frankly Nate wasn’t too sure he’d enjoy that, but at the moment, his dick insisted he definitely would.
It was distracting enough that he almost missed Flynn’s question.
“Your place?”
God, no. Nate might need his mother to find out about him dating on the dark side, but not the same way she found out he was gay. There was only so much humiliation a man could take, and his mother interrupting him and a boyfriendoncewith a cup of tea and a plate of condoms instead of biscuits had put Nate at that limit.
The lighthouse felt… too intimate. Nate might know what Flynn’s come tasted like on his fingers, but he didn’t know his bedroom. Besides, the lighthouse was the center of Nate’s promise to leave Flynn alone once the fakery was over. It felt off-limits.
After a second of racking his brain, Nate realized the choice was obvious. If he was reliving his teenage years with all the sex he’d hoped for back then? He might as well commit.
“I got an idea.” He couldn’t quite keep the smirk off the corners of his mouth. “The Castle.”
Flynn rolled his eyes. “You’re kidding.”
Usually Nate would have been kidding. Or, on the off chance that he wasn’t, he would have pretended he was. He shrugged and let the smirk slide over his stubble-scraped lips.
“Come on,” he said. “Not like you ever got to take anyone up there either.”
