Melting Point (3 page)

“I saw the guy I pushed away because I don't have it in me to take a chance. I'm not saying this to”—he blew out a breath and enunciated each word like they were fighting the journey from brain to mouth—“I'm not saying it because I think we should be together. I'm saying it to explain why we're not.”

Gage's heart vaporized. Way to rip the rug out from under him, and still he couldn't summon the anger he should feel as his right.

“Brady Fucking Smith, what am I going to do with you?”

“Take advantage of me while I'm loopy on drugs?” He actually sounded hopeful.

Gage laughed, grateful for the momentary release and this brief peek into the mind of the guy who fascinated him like no one else. Bizarro World Brady was a funny guy. “Don't think I won't. Scruples are something I abandoned long ago.”

Brady laughed as well, the sound striking the tile like a sweet guitar riff. They stood grinning at each other while a lump of emotion ballooned in Gage's chest at what might have been if Brady didn't need powerful narcotics to speak what was in his heart.

What-ifs were for losers, though, right? Back to the business at hand.

Gage unsnapped the top button of Brady's jeans and pulled down his straining zipper, then the jeans. He was hard. Everywhere. Thighs, abs, cock still covered up—sweet baby Jesus, he was magnificent. Gage jackknifed to his knees, a position he fantasized about, oh, every second of every day, and peeled off Brady's boots, socks, and jeans.

He looked up, past the thickest bulge he'd ever seen, to find Brady staring at him with his typical supernova intensity. “What?”

“Thanks for being here, Gage.”

Gage ducked to hide his smile. “Consider it your tax dollars at work. If I can help a gray-haired old biddy downstairs so she can do her grocery shopping, I can undress my . . .”
My what?
“. . . my friend so he can take a shower.”

Brady jumped on his stumble. “Your friend?”

Gage stood and met Brady's heated gaze. Nothing friendly about it.

“You need a friend right now?”

“Wouldn't say no to a friendly hand. Or two.” Brady's mouth contorted into a goofy grin. Hallelujah for strong drugs and dropped defenses.

“I do believe you are flirting with me, Chef.”

Brady flattened his hand against Gage's chest and pushed him back an inch. “Don't know how to flirt, Golden.”

Oh yes you do, you gorgeous man.

Brady's use of that nickname he had labeled Gage with not long after they first met conjured a flutter in his stomach and a twitch in his dick. With a slow drag of his teeth along his lower lip—
stop
it!
—Brady opened the shower door and tested the water's temp.

Dat. Ass.

It looked amazing in his black boxer briefs, the tightly loomed fabric cupping those cheeks perfectly. Did the man have any idea how goddamn fuckable he was? Gage barely had time to absorb that splendor before Brady yanked down his boxers with his good hand, kicked them off, and took his completely naked self into the shower.

chapter four

B
RADY WAS 100 PERCENT POSITIVE
he would not have asked Gage to give him a hand—or two—if he wasn't floating on a cloud of Vicodin. But if that's what it took to lower his inhibitions along with his boxers, then so be it.

Had he really just spilled his guts about his billboard stalking? Fuck, that was pitiful, and Gage hadn't even laughed him out of the room like he should have. Add to that a dose of “I'm a big ole scaredy-cat in relationships,” and Brady was officially on the road to Loserville.

The shower spray crashed down on Brady's swollen shoulder. He really should ice it, but right now, he wanted to steam off the road dirt embedded in his skin. As for the down 'n' dirty thoughts in his mind? He would grasp at those, let them be his guide into this world where he wasn't afraid. Where he could indulge every filthy desire and want with this man who turned him on with a simple look.

Provided, of course, that he was still here. He had to be, right? Yet the invitation to join Brady in the shower—because that was about as close to an invite as he could muster—had not yet been RSVP'd.

You fucking
couillon,
Smith. Did you think that's all it would take to turn this around? That Gage wouldn't have already moved on to one of the million guys fawning over him? Did you really th—

Just then the shower door opened and the usually roomy space suddenly became not so roomy. Brady went to turn, but a hand on his shoulder blade arrested his progress.

“Let me take care of your back first,” Gage said in a tone so gritty Brady's dick climbed to his stomach and gave an appreciative tap of
finally, dude
!

Definitely high. Only a high Brady would indulge in conversations with his sentient dick.

Gage grabbed the shower gel and with smooth, circular strokes, washed Brady's back. God, that felt so good. “Keep your arm close to your body,” Gage murmured. “I'll work you from the other side.”

He moved his lathered hand around Brady's torso and drew tight, erotic circles over his chest and uninjured side, with teasing visits to his stomach. So close to his fully erect cock, which strained to reach Gage's hand every time it swooped near. Since his honorable discharge from the Marines, Brady knew he had nothing to offer save a wrecked ruin of a body and a mind stuck in a cage. Touching was problematic because he couldn't control where another man's hands would go or the inevitable shock at the ugliness those hands would find. For six years, furtive couplings in dark alleys and secluded parks had tided him over—or they had, until Gage Simpson swaggered into his restaurant kitchen and blew his world apart.

Under Gage's healing hands, years of pain and loneliness sloughed away with the soapy water down the drain. For these few stolen moments, Brady would luxuriate in the sensual comfort of another man's touch. Not just any man. This perfect man.

But he needed more. He didn't have the words to describe what, exactly, and maybe they weren't necessary because he had
the
word. The only word that mattered.

“Gage.”

Craving an anchor, a closer connection, he reached behind for Gage's hip and encountered . . . fabric. He was still wearing his boxer briefs.

“Wh—why aren't you naked?”

Gage's growl reverberated against his ear. “This sliver of wet cotton is the only thing stopping me from drilling that gorgeous ass of yours, Brady.”

Oh, God. On a chest-filling groan, Brady stepped back, seeking Gage's cock. Found it. Said
hello, there
with a humping grind into all that rock-hard, cotton-covered magnificence.

“Fuck,” Gage gasped, pausing his hand on Brady's chest midscrub.

Both of them stilled as the sensual landscape was rearranged. Brady held his breath. Had he gone too far? Expected too much? Was Gage really here to get Brady clean?

All questions were answered when their bodies restarted as one in a slow, erotic grind. Brady's ass cuddled against Gage's hard-on felt so good, the barrier of the wet cotton a delicious friction as Gage's cock stroked between Brady's ass cheeks. The steamy cocoon added to that spaced-out feeling that they were lost in a carnal world made for two.

“First time I saw you was from the back,” Gage husked out. “First thing I saw was this neck tattoo.” The slightest brush of Gage's lips across the smoke curl tattooed at the base of his skull made Brady shiver, even in the misty heat.

“I wanted to kiss it, map it with my tongue, know all its secrets.” He pressed his mouth to Brady's neck more insistently, as if he could draw some deeper knowledge with that simple touch. There was something almost pure about it, an innocent contrast to the dirty friction below their waists.

“Tell me about it.”

“What?”

“This tat. Why smoke?” Grasping Brady's hips, he halted the motion of Brady's ass rubbing against all that amazing hardness. Brady tried to move, to get back to grinding on Gage, but the bastard held him firm. The change-up was sheer torture. Was he seriously demanding a conversation in payment for every second of pleasure?

“Tell me,” Gage ground out when Brady still hadn't given up the goods. He sounded like he was in pain. Brady took some small comfort that he wasn't alone.

“It's—it's more common for people to get fire tattoos. Symbols of passion, transformation, change. But I wanted smoke because it's what remains. After the fire, after everything is destroyed, you're left with smoke and ash. You've gotta make somethin' out of it.”

“And have you? Made something out if it?” Gage dug his fingers into Brady's hip, almost imploring.

“I'm tryin'. It's slow goin', one step forward, two steps back, but I'm tryin'.” Even if it took being high on pain meds to get him into that headspace.

“Trying's good. Trying's sexy,” Gage murmured against Brady's ear. “Now try telling me what you need.”

How could he even question it? But on some deeper level, Brady understood. Gage's tone carried a touch of temper, frustration at Brady blowing hot and cold. Leading him on, putting him off.

He took Gage's hand where it still rested on his pec and moved it down over his abdomen to his saluting cock. To make sure there was no misunderstanding, he told him, “Jack me, Gage.”

Brady felt the curve of Gage's lips against his neck. “Thought you'd never ask, Chef.”

At six two, Gage had a couple of inches on Brady and he took advantage, resting his chin on Brady's shoulder so he could watch as his hand completed one long, obscene stroke from base to tip.

Brady groaned. No touch had ever felt so necessary to his very existence.

“That's a beautiful cock you got there, Brady. Been holding out on me.”

Gage fisted Brady and jerked him along his length, drawing pleasure toward every nerve ending, using his thumb to rub the head in a way that scrambled Brady's brain. Every sensation was heightened: Gage's breath hot against his ear, the hand-to-cock friction that turned rougher on each return, the safety in ceding control with a man this strong at his back. Watching how his dick was swallowed in that pumping grasp was the hottest thing Brady had ever seen. What would it be like to watch that thick slide of his dick, not in Gage's hand, but into his ass?
Oh, God.
The idea of burying himself in Gage, the grip of those tight muscles squeezing every last drop, spiraled Brady's desire higher. His balls flooded, drew tight. So close.

Gently, Gage turned him around and locked Brady in the tractor beam of that sparkly blue gaze.
Shit, no.
His scars were now front and center, this ugly reminder of everything that was wrong with him. Gage continued to jerk him off and within seconds, fear-destroying pleasure won out. Batted the panic away. Through eyes blurred with his impending orgasm, Brady feasted on Gage's sculpted chest, the happy trail, the muscular thighs. His wet briefs clung low on his hips, outlining every single ridge in a way that was hotter than if he'd been naked.

“Look at me,” Gage said, his hand maintaining that rhythmic, brain-destroying stroke.

“I—I am.” Brady's eyes could barely process the glory before them.

Gage chuckled. “Up here, Brady.”

He lifted his gaze to find his golden god smiling, not that billboard grin for the masses, but one custom-made for Brady. And that was all it took. A groan tore from Brady's throat, followed by an orgasm ripping loose in a series of jerky spurts all over the gilded tautness of Gage's washboard abs. On and on and on.

Brady slumped against the tile, hauling deep, wracking breaths. He had never felt more wrung out. More sated. His cum dripped down Gage's body and fuck, was it sexy to see his mark on that golden skin.

When Gage didn't step under the spray to steam it off, Brady reached for a washcloth.

“No,” Gage said softly. “Not finished.”

Right. It had been so long that Brady had forgotten he needed to reciprocate.
Social contract fail.
Before he could get his shit together, Gage balled his fist at the tile to the right of Brady's cheek.

“Now you watch.”

Watch?

He moved his other hand past the border of his soaking briefs and tugged them down just enough to spring his cock free. As perfect as the man himself, it was slightly longer than Brady's but not as thick. Briefs half on, half off, Gage's dishevelment was gloriously sleazy and shot another round of lead into Brady's dick. But to be only allowed to watch? Was this a dose of revenge for not giving Gage free rein of Brady's body weeks ago?

“Mais!” he urged, the language of his Cajun ancestors necessary to express his frustration. “Let me.”

Gage shook his head and rubbed his palm in the cum still coating his abs, Brady's cum, and—
fucking hell
—he palmed his cock. Smeared it with Brady's mark. Never breaking eye contact, he stroked, each motion dragging his eyelids to half-mast with pleasure and sucking moans from his throat. Getting harder at the sight and the X-rated soundtrack, Brady could only watch as that perfect specimen of male got himself off using Brady's cum as lubricant.

“Gage.
Mais,
please.” Just when Brady thought he couldn't take anymore and he'd have to take matters into his own grasping hands, Gage dove in for a deep kiss. Gage's mouth was a genetic miracle, soft lips surrounded by rough stubble. And this kiss . . . he kissed Brady like the world might end tomorrow.

On a lusty moan, Gage broke away, the flush flagging his cheeks the sign he was about to come. He held his straining cock away from Brady's body.

No. That would
not
happen.

“On me, Gage. Come on
me
!” He didn't care that he sounded desperate. He would have given anything in that moment to have Gage shoot all over him.

“Brady.” A ragged whisper. Gage closed his eyes and pumped all over Brady's torso, all over those ugly scars. One glorious mess on Brady's hot mess of a body.

It was the cleanest Brady had felt in years.

B
RADY CHECKED HIS PHONE AGAIN:
1:45 p.m. Time for another dose of Vicodin, but he knew what he'd rather have: a big old rush of sex-induced endorphins. No need to make nice with his left hand, either—now his only working hand—because his preferred method of euphoria delivery was currently in his bed. Gage was still here.

After the shower, Gage had rubbed a towel gently over Brady's sensitive skin, swiped at his own, and announced, “Need to crash.” That was four and a half hours ago.

It was the first time Brady had ever had a man in his bed. After Gage had gone out of his way to pick him up, bring him home, and take care of him—in every way possible—Brady couldn't very well quote the rule book.
You came, now you go.
The rules kept him sane but they'd also thrown up obstacles to any real shot he had at living a normal life.

For a poor kid from a backwater eight klicks outside Baton Rouge, Brady liked to think he was comfortable with who he was. More so than his parents, who had turned their backs on him when he came out at sixteen, then renewed their subscription to his fan club when he'd made hero status after escaping a terrorist dungeon in Afghanistan. And they'd practically seen the Almighty himself when they found out Eli Cooper, soon-to-be mayor of big city Chicago, was a Marine brother and a pal.

The money he sent them monthly sure didn't hurt, either.

A strict upbringing in the bayou followed by a stint in the Marines had taught Brady the virtue of keeping his business to himself. Not ashamed of it, but certainly not shouting it from the rooftops. Sex had never been a problem before his world upended in the desert, and after . . . well, he'd figured out ways to find release, unsatisfactory as those ways might have been.

No guy wanted to fuck Brady with the lights on, but he hadn't reckoned on Gage, a man so gorgeous he didn't have to follow any rules. He could bang every guy in the room, gay, straight, hot as hell, ugly as sin. If he wanted to screw the entire Bears offensive line, he could likely justify it with, “Hey, I'm Gage Simpson. I'm sexy, hung, save lives for a living, and model on billboards in my spare time. Jay Cutler, bend over and show me your lily-white ass.”