Fall Apart (13 page)

“This would be big, Zane.”

“I agree.”

“Is this just a script that they wanted to put out feelers about, or is this thing in actual pre-production, like casting and stuff?”

“Casting,” Zane answered, his eyes unfocused as he considered his options. “It’s a legitimate proposal. They’ve asked me to read the script. Jenny told me that the writer and director have had me in mind from the start.”

“Who’s directing?” Since Mark had been with his Hollywood Heartthrob, he’d received a crash course in the good, the bad, and the ugly in L.A. and elsewhere. He asked the question with his fingers crossed.

“Max Hayama.”

Hallelujah! Yes!

Mark gathered up the script, rolled it and smacked Zane on the leg so hard he yelped. “Get him on the phone! What are you doing sitting around?
Max Hayama...
” he mimicked Zane, his cold-hampered throat rasping as he spoke. “Like it’s no big deal…”

A glimmer of a smile began on Zane’s lips and he yanked the script out of Mark’s hand. “You probably left a welt on my leg just now,” he dodged, pretending that he wasn’t out of his mind excited.

“With Max directing, why didn’t you just say yes right away?”

Zane shrugged guiltily. “Jenny was throwing out names of people and plot descriptions all over the place. I forgot which was which until I was halfway through this one. For a second I thought he was directing the
Unit, Corp, God, Country
project and wondered if he’d fallen on hard times.”

Mark pushed from beneath the covers with his feet against Zane’s hip, nudging him closer and closer to the edge of the couch. “Go. Call. Talk to whoever you gotta talk to.”

Zane resisted, but Mark could see how eager he was and it was a relief. He’d been so restless lately.

“You don’t mind me doing a little business today?”

“
Zane!
Get up off your ass and call Max. Don’t come back in this room until you have the job, or so help me..!”

Zane hightailed it out of the den as Mark lobbed a throw pillow at his retreating back. An hour later, after Mark had chewed off his fingernails, his husband reappeared at the top of the steps leading into the room, leaning casually against the doorjamb. He was dressed in lazy day clothes, but it was the energy sizzling beneath his skin that knocked Mark back on his figurative ass. There were still so many times he found himself thinking how unreal his life was. How blessed he was to call this man his own.

“Did you get it?” he asked roughly, his emotions getting the better of him.

Zane gave a single nod. “It’s mine.”

“Good.” Mark picked up the remote, turned off the TV and pushed the blankets to the floor, revealing his naked body and a throbbing hard-on. “I’m yours, too. So come and fucking get it.”

***

The sheets were crisp and cool against Alarik’s skin, but he kicked them away from his body and pushed the pillows off the bed. He wanted to focus on sensation and lock his mind into the dream of Damon. With excruciatingly slow strokes, he ran his hand from the base of his cock to the tip, sucking in a breath each time.

He was on his knees, his legs wide apart and his back arched like a bow. Alarik fought the urge to speed up by forcing himself to move even slower. In this secret, sinful solitude, he was without guilt, without scruple. He was the sovereign and composer of fantasy, and here, he brought Damon to his knees.

His thoughts jumped like a film on fast-forward and each still shot was more erotic than the next.

Alarik pictured the frosting on Damon’s lip at the wedding reception and transformed the image in his mind. Now Damon was straddled beneath him and that trace of sugar became something else entirely. His mind leapt again and Damon was writhing in pleasure as Alarik forced his mouth open and thrust his tongue in.

Alarik’s quads flexed, lifting him to fight against the intoxicating desire to come. Running his free hand up over his stomach, he felt his undershirt and in one violent movement, yanked it back over his head until it was wound over his shoulders. He looked down over his chest and stomach, watched as his hand stroked up and down. So slow.

As his eyes squeezed shut, he saw Damon’s hand instead. Saw the way it squeezed at the base, burrowed in Alarik’s blond hair, and then slid all the way up the shaft until a pearl of pre-cum dappled the tip.

A low grunt escaped and his upper body fell forward until all his weight rested on one hand and his knees. He didn’t stop stroking, but it was impossible to keep the same languorous pace. The erotic scenes flashed forward again: Damon’s mouth on his cock.

Forward: Damon beneath him, sweat on his back as Alarik drove deep. Forward: Damon roaring as his orgasm shot from his body, hitting the sheets like abstract art.

“Fuck!” Alarik gasped. “Jesus…”

His toes dug into the mattress and as his muscles charged with power, Alarik roughly stroked himself. Once. Twice more.

With another gasp, as though the air was escaping never to return, he came, catching it in his hand as his body went rigid. The orgasm pulsated and his arm gave out. He pressed his cheek against the mattresses, utterly wrung out and his heart galloping.
Ladies and Gentlemen, that is how you bloody do it.

“You’re a right filthy bastard, you are,” he whispered breathlessly, then moaned as he flopped over onto his side, still holding his hand close so he didn’t leave a mess.

As the halo of sexual fantasy faded, Alarik sank back into his skin with gentle ease. The chill in the room found every drop of sweat on his body and quickly leeched away his warmth, but he didn’t want to move.

Eventually, he pushed off the bed and because no one was there to see his graceless state, he stumbled to the shower like a drunken student at university. Under the stream of water he began to chuckle. The chuckle became a laugh and soon he had both weakened arms planted against the tiled walls, as hilarity took over.

“Mr. Wright,” he murmured as he laughed. “We’ll do
those
things and more…”

***

A scalding morning tea soothed the last bit of nerves that the exertions of the night before hadn’t taken care of, and Alarik, reluctantly clad in trainers and running gear, was ten minutes from
Wright Sports.
He feared that the mandate of “comfortable shoes” also meant “suitable for dipping in mud or being urinated on by wildlife,” but he’d braced himself for the worst.

He was concerned that in his current outfit, and from particular angles, he looked rather more like he was built for chain smoking than for athletic exertion. Alarik didn’t appreciate how insistent his knees were on being knobby. At least,
he
felt like they were knobby. Taking his eyes from the road for a moment, he glanced down and sighed.

“Never fear, Damon. Knobby knees are a sign of virility,” he mumbled aloud.

Alarik was wiry, good for long runs on even greens and the occasional sparring match, but not as well equipped to say, hang from a cliff’s edge by his fingertips or do pull-ups with tires hanging from his neck. There was an ever-increasing worry that Damon might be expecting something like that.

When he pulled into the strip mall parking lot, Damon was waiting, leaning against the side of his truck and typing on his phone. Alarik parked a few spaces away from him and Damon glanced up distractedly. The smile he gave made up for the shoes Alarik was being forced to wear, and several images from the night before flashed through his mind. If Damon only knew what he’d been up to last night in Alarik’s fantasy.

Damon slipped his phone into the pocket of his hoodie and Alarik tried not to wonder who he’d been texting. He was already growing so attached; how very silly of him. He should at least wait until their third date for that.

“You’re right on time,” Damon greeted him, crossing his arms over his chest and keeping his distance. Alarik matched him by standing beside the opened door of his car and playing it nonchalant.

“Did you have a nice evening? All’s well on the home front?”

“Sure,” Damon nodded. “All drama, all the time. Todd came by and got my mom drunk, and Jess accidentally called him a cocksucker in front of my nephew. So, you know, it was probably just like a Sunday night at your aunt and uncle’s place in London.”

“Absolutely. Aunt Shannon uses the word ‘fuck’ better than anyone I know. Especially on Sundays. My uncle curses in Finnish as well. We’re all about diversity.”

Damon cracked a smile, still content to stay where he was, which was too far away.

“Andrew called me about midnight. Left a message.”

That little bitch, Andrew thought, keeping his expression clear. “Saint Andrew? Was he looking for me? Did you send him my love?”

“He asked if you’re my boyfriend.” The amusement faded on Damon’s face and Alarik didn’t like the pensive turn he saw coming on.

“Let me guess how he said it,” Alarik answered, pretending thoughtfulness. Switching to an over-the-top American accent, he cocked his hip the same way Andrew had at the bar. “Jeepers, Damon. Who was that guy anyway? Don’t sleep with him, he only wants a green card.”

“Word for word,” Damon gasped in mock surprise. “I didn’t think you’d get the ‘jeepers’ bit, but you did.”

“Andrew and I are actually quite close. He’d give me his balls if they still existed.”

The odd moment of tension passed and Alarik felt like he’d dodged a bullet. This courtship was so fragile; he didn’t want to inadvertently screw himself by leading Damon into territory he wasn’t ready to visit. Since the wedding, he’d been in an arm-swinging, body-twitching state, simply trying to keep his balance.

It was nice to be so scared for once. It was nice to really want more than a hot body. It was nice to want anything at all.

Damon was watching him and Alarik suddenly realized that the other man was wearing the same type of frayed cargo shorts they’d chatted about at lunch yesterday. His calf muscles were like rocks.

Outside
magazine, he thought. Too right.

Reaching back into the car, he grabbed his camera and lifted it to his eye. Damon smirked but didn’t try to stop him.

“Yes, Mr. Wright,” he directed. “That’s it. Work that sneer.”

Damon pushed off of the truck and ambled forward, holding out his hand expectantly. Alarik hesitated. This camera was like his very own little baby with ten fingers and ten toes and talent the likes of which the world had never seen. It was also worth thousands of dollars. He was careful with it the same way a violinist treated a Stradivarius and he never let others go bumbling about with it and deleting his pictures.

Damon waggled his fingers impatiently. “I’ll be gentle,” he murmured, his voice low and velvety. “I promise.”

Alarik handed it over much too quickly at the sound of that voice, like the words were magic. Damon looked the camera over from all angles and finally brought it up to his eye.

“Damn, this thing could probably do my taxes,” he observed. He used it to look around the parking lot and then twisted back around until it was focused on Alarik. “Do I need to do anything special with it, or do I just push the button?”

Alarik jumped to protest that he absolutely didn’t want his picture taken when Damon snapped the shot.

“Oh God,” Alarik groaned. “That’ll be lovely, I’m sure. I’ll look like a scarecrow.”

Damon pulled back, laughing. “Nah. Send me a copy of that.”

“Highly unlikely.”

“Consider it a part of your payback,” Damon shrugged.

“Payback? Are you serious?” Alarik retrieved his camera and huffed in disbelief. “These shoes are payback and so is this secret morning that you’ve planned for us. For a copy of that picture, I deserve to squeeze your ass or get a kiss with tongue at least.” He shook his head and went back to the car to grab his bag. “Payback,” he mocked “Nonsense.”

When he turned back around, Damon was directly in front of him and without a word, he pulled Alarik into his arms and lowered his head. His lips parted and the heat as his tongue licked over Alarik’s bottom lip brought an automatic and animalistic response. Damon pushed him roughly against the side of the car, pinning him, and his mouth went to work. His tongue was soft and demanding, his lips masculine and powerful.

Alarik couldn’t keep a grip on himself as he practically climbed Damon, clinging and fighting for a hold with all that sweatshirt between them. He pulled back just enough to curse and suck in a breath, and then Damon’s mouth was on his again. Alarik felt a hand at the small of his back and another in his hair, restraining him, and he was well aware of his growing erection.
Up with the Union Jack!

He was bloody
quivering
.

Damon made one final attack with his tongue, delving in deeply and tightening his hold on Alarik’s hair, before retreating with a sweet nip to his bottom lip. As quickly as the kiss began, it was over, and Damon backed away, swiping a hand over his mouth.

Alarik caught himself on the side mirror and barely avoided ripping the thing off. His breath came fast and uneven, and as he raised his eyes to Damon’s, his usual composure was shattered. He was weak and twitchy while his auburn-haired devil was impenetrable.

“I want that picture,” Damon said, a little breathless himself. “That makes us even.”

Alarik sucked in another breath. “It’s yours, Damon…”

“Up there?” Alarik asked for the third time and Damon turned away to hide his smile. “Seriously? All the way?” Lifting his hands like he was at a loss, Alarik paced away and back again. “To the top?”

Damon looked in the direction Alarik was squinting and forced himself not to snicker, or use this as an opportunity to mock the man he’d already managed to unhinge from his usual tranquility once this morning. That had been as much a surprise to him as it was to Alarik. God damn, that kiss. It was a bigger and better step than yesterday. An idea that could escalate into an explosive life form all its own.

Damon had been
powerful
. It was his arms that became vices, holding Alarik up off the ground and hard against him. He’d felt his own muscles surge—his shoulders and abdominals thickening as blood rushed through his body. Damon heard Alarik’s groan; he heard his curse. He’d owned Alarik in that split second of total awareness, like he had the capacity to crush him but would never do so.