He took a step back onto the stair behind him, and Javi bristled with annoyance. Maybe he didn’t want company, but that was his call, not Cloister’s.
“Wait.” He grabbed Cloister’s arm. “You’re here now. You might as well come in.”
It was a begrudged invitation, so Javi didn’t know why he held his breath as he waited to see if Cloister would accept. He supposed it didn’t matter since Cloister nodded after a second’s hesitation.
“Yeah,” he said. “I suppose you’re right.”
Bourneville heaved a sigh as if to say “finally” as she scrambled to her feet and went around Javi into the apartment. It had been a couple of weeks, but it didn’t seem to have left her unsure of her welcome. She padded to the couch, jumped up, turned around in three brisk circles, and flopped down. Her nose went down on her paws, and she started to chew on her toy.
“I did give her a blanket,” Javi muttered as he closed the door behind Cloister.
“Which would you rather sleep on—the couch or a blanket on the ground?” Cloister asked wryly. He snapped his fingers, which made Bourneville’s ears prick up attentively. “Bon—”
“Leave her be,” Javi interrupted. “She’s already shed on it.”
Cloister shrugged and changed his command to “Good girl.”
The dog thumped her tail twice against the cushions in a desultory fashion and went back to gnawing on her rope.
“Drink?” Javi asked as he waved his hand toward the open bottle of whiskey.
Cloister shook his head. “Pain pills,” he reminded Javi. “Bourneville could do with one, though.”
“Help yourself,” Javi said. “You know where the tap is.”
While Cloister filled a monochrome geometric designer soup bowl with water for the dog, Javi took the opportunity to have a good look at him. The T-shirt wasn’t the only thing that was sweaty. Cloister’s short, dusty-blond hair was plastered to his skull in damp, messy curls, and sweat shone on his bare arms. The cast, already grubby and scrawled on, looked soggy at the cuff in addition to being lightly chewed.
“Did you run here?” he blurted out.
Once he said it out loud, it was such a self-evidently ridiculous question that, evidence aside, Javi waited for Cloister to scoff at him.
Instead he just shrugged. The hitch of his T-shirt flashed a slice of Cloister’s stomach—all hard muscle and a hook of ink. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“You’re an idiot,” Javi said. “How can you run with a broken wrist? Didn’t it hurt?”
Cloister lifted his hand to look at the cast as though he’d forgotten about it. “I guess. It always hurts eventually, though,” he said. “You hit the wall where your body wants to stop, and you have to run through it.”
“Why?” It was probably the most personal question Javi had ever asked Cloister. He didn’t know if he should find that sad or scary. “Why do you have to?”
Cloister hesitated as he frowned over that question as though he’d never thought about it before. Then he shrugged and laughed, and the long dimple slashed down his cheek as he said, “I guess, because otherwise you don’t get anywhere. Besides, it’s what made me think of—”
“Can we do anything tonight?” Javi asked roughly as he unbuttoned his shirt with impatient fingers. “What you thought of, will it do Janet any good right now?”
It wasn’t the right time. Javi was frustrated, angry over stuff he couldn’t change now—that he probably never could have—and he’d let Kincaid dip his fingers back into his brain. On the other hand, the first time they kissed had been a bad idea. But it hadn’t stopped Javi then, so why should it be any different now?
“I don’t know.” Cloister swallowed hard as he dragged his eyes from Javi’s bare chest. “I don’t… think so.”
“Good.”
Javi grabbed a handful of Cloister’s shirt—the worn fabric wet and cold with sweat—and dragged him down for a kiss. His lips were wet and sharp with salt, his breath hot against Javi’s whiskey-cool mouth. Cloister cupped his hand around the back of Javi’s neck, his fingers rough where he pressed them against the skin. The scrape crawled down Javi’s spine and into his balls—a twist of pleasure that tugged at his cock.
“I thought you wanted to go to sleep,” Cloister murmured against his mouth.
“I do,” Javi said. He twisted Cloister’s shirt around his fist and pulled him with him toward the bedroom. “Later. Right now I want to fuck you and forget about everything else until morning.”
Tangled around each other, they stumbled into the bedroom. Javi’s hands were under Cloister’s T-shirt—his fingers lost again in the jigsaw of old scar tissue that stretched over Cloister’s ribs—and his shirt was discarded over the doorknob. Cloister fumbled at Javi’s trousers as they veered toward the bed. He was clumsy with only one hand in the game.
Black silk sheets slid under them, cool as water, when they sprawled out on the bed. Javi dragged his mouth along Cloister’s jaw, a slow trail of kisses from the corner his mouth to the vulnerable pulse in his throat.
