Too Stupid to Live(Romancelandia) (20 page)

“Yeah,” Sam whispered. “Kinda.”

Good enough
. He stopped teasing and started lubing Sam up and easing him open, trying not to go too fast, leaving the ring alone for now. By the time he finally pressed his cock against Sam’s asshole, pushing in a fraction of an inch, they were both sweating. Breathing in unison, fast gulps of air. Ian planted his hands on the wall next to Sam’s, caging him in. Sam moaned softly and tilted his hips further out, so Ian took advantage of the offer, fighting Sam’s muscles to slide in farther, until he hit that magical point where they stopped trying to force his dick out and sucked him in instead.

He held still, all the way in, feeling Sam’s butt muscles tense against his pelvis, body hair meshing, until Sam began to shake. Then Ian started the long, slow process of fucking him into the wall.

He learned more about Sam then. He learned Sam’s balls were sensitive as hell, and the new guiche ring was maybe a little more tender than Ian had expected—he might have pushed it a bit at first. He learned that if he fucked Sam with long, quick strokes and then suddenly shoved himself all the way in and held there, Sam would turn into a trembling, squirming mess, begging Ian for more.

He had one arm across Sam’s chest, fingers toying with a hard nipple, and one hand between his legs, gently caressing Sam’s sac. His wrist rubbed accidentally against Sam’s dick. “Don’t move,” he barked when Sam tried to take a hand off the wall. Sam let out a moaning sob, squirming more. Ian took his hand off Sam’s chest and slapped his hip, hard. “I said don’t move,” he growled. He felt Sam’s dick jerk against his wrist, then wetness oozed onto his arm, so he took Sam’s shaft in his free hand to find out his dick was slippery and coated with pre-cum.

That was just too fucking much. “Jesus, Sam,” he groaned, and started the quick strokes again, shoving Sam into the wall and Sam’s dick into his hand. “Gonna ride your ass until you come for me, kiddo.”

Sam groaned loudly and shoved himself back into Ian’s hips, widening his stance. Ian watched his fingers curl against the wall, all the long muscles in his back tense and shaking.

“C’mon,” Ian muttered, dropping his head onto Sam’s neck. That was damn close to begging, but fuck, if Sam didn’t come soon, Ian was going to—

Hot, liquid silk spilled into his hand, and Sam’s body shuddered while he sobbed and groaned. Ian was so relieved that he thrust into Sam too hard, his hand colliding with the wall, but he was coming and just didn’t care. Sam wasn’t complaining. Ian couldn’t move anyway, shoved inside Sam as deep as possible. For the first time in memory, he wished he could feel himself shooting into someone and not just into the damned latex. He gripped Sam’s hip tighter and tried to imagine he was.

Sam sagged into his arms and his hair tangled in Ian’s whiskers. Ian thought about propping him up against the wall, but he held him instead. Waiting until they’d both caught their breath some before he helped Sam the two steps to bed in spite of his own unsteady legs.

When Ian stumbled back from cleaning up in the bathroom, Sam was crashed out on his stomach, spread-eagle across the mattress. It took Ian forever to nudge and prod Sam onto his side, listening to his sleepy, nonsensical murmurs the whole time. It was cute.

Eventually, Ian curled up behind Sam with an arm around his middle. He started to tell himself Sam would like this, being spooned, but he was too tired and sated to deal with his own B.S., so he just hugged Sam tighter and kissed one bony vertebra before drifting off.

When Ian woke up in the morning, he was still wrapped around Sam, just the way he’d been when he’d fallen asleep. The room was full of sunlight. Why did it always shine like that when Sam was here?

Something about lying in bed with all that beautiful skin pressed right up against him made Ian a little drunk. Not his normal self. Sam had the softest skin Ian had ever felt on any guy. It was white, too. Milky.
Milk-fed veal
. He watched the light entwine itself with the almost invisible hairs on the back of Sam’s neck. That neck needed to be kissed, didn’t it?

He had a feeling he should be alarmed that his whiskers raised a mild pink rash when he rubbed his chin into Sam’s neck and shoulders. Instead, he felt some weird emotion he would have called pride in other circumstances. A nice guy would be concerned for Sam’s skin; Ian just wanted to mark all the paleness he could reach. Apparently he wasn’t much of a nice guy.

It wasn’t exactly news to him. Anyway, he was sort of a nice guy. He did his best to kiss it all better after he rubbed the rash in. Sam woke up squirming and giggling, and it was cute as hell. Ian kissed him thoroughly and then went to make him pancakes.

Ian had a waking snuggly episode on Saturday—as opposed to his sleeping ones, which he apparently had no clue about. Even more shocking for Sam, when he got snuggly, he also got chatty. Not just the short flashes of talkative he’d shown before, but chatty—playful and teasing and flirtatious. A little like dinner last night, but with full-body contact.

At first, Sam was concerned that Ian had some previously unmentioned mental health issue, like maybe multiple personality disorder. But by the time Sam had spent an hour lying on the couch, wrapped in Ian’s arms while Ian ruffled his hair and dropped periodic kisses on some sensitive, exposed bit of skin, Sam decided that if Ian’s mental illness was his cross to bear, he’d do it gladly. He would make the sacrifice and be held until he almost overheated, and listen to that intimate voice that went soft and hoarse. The voice that more often than not was speaking directly into Sam’s ear, about anything and everything that popped into Ian’s head. He happily suffered Ian’s kisses behind his jaw and down his neck, the ones that made him shiver but didn’t seem to be designed to turn him on.

It was during the snuggly attack that Sam first allowed himself to think he just might be getting
it
. The romance hero gold standard: a perfect love with his personal prince charming. After a suitable wooing period, of course.

About an hour into his episode, Ian turned his head to look into Sam’s eyes, so close Sam could barely focus on him. “What was it like, coming out to your family?”

Sam blinked. “I never came out to my family.”

Ian pulled away and peered at him more intently. “They don’t know?”

“Of course they know! Sheesh. I mean I never had to
tell
anyone. It was sort of just . . . general knowledge.” Sam thought about it while Ian laid his head back on the pillow they were sharing and nuzzled at his cheek. “Well, I guess I told my grandma.”

“What did she say?” Ian murmured.

“I got to the part where I was telling her, ‘Grandma, I like boys,’ but she interrupted me and said, ‘What kind of fool do you think I am? We had fancy boys back in my day. I know one when I see one.’”

Ian laughed so hard Sam was torn between squirming pleasure at having amused him and indignation at being the subject of his laughter. Squirming pleasure won when Ian wrapped his arm tighter around Sam and squeezed him against his chest, saying into his ear, “You’re so cute.”

Sam was a fool for cute.

Ian suddenly pulled back again and gripped Sam’s chin in his fingers. “Let’s get out of here and go do something.”

Ian’s idea of “getting out of here” was going to the farmers’ market on the riverfront and buying vegetable matter. It was strangely domestic in a way that should have been boring or disappointing but gave Sam a secret thrill instead. Which led to him mostly trying not to overthink what it meant that Ian wanted to shop for food with him.

To think or not to think, that was the question.

Come to think of it, the real problem was just overthinking.

I think
.

Possibly he should stop thinking about it now. He looked down at the shopping bag he was holding. It didn’t offer much in the way of alternative topics for thought.

We’re playing house
.

No you aren’t, he just needed to go shopping
.

Seriously, don’t ruin this for me. Let’s play house
.

He sighed in resignation.

“What are you thinking about?” Ian asked him suddenly. He held apples in his hands—judging the merits of different varieties? Sam didn’t know; he’d been too busy playing house with himself to pay attention.

“Nothing,” he squeaked when Ian stared at him.

“Huh. Looks like you’re so busy thinking about nothing you can’t give me your opinion on apples.”

“The red ones are better,” Sam said hastily.

Ian looked down at the fruit in his hands. “They’re both red.”

“No, that one’s red,” Sam waved his hand at the right apple, “and that one’s green with red splotches.”

Ian grunted curiously, like a caveman who’d just discovered the wheel. He started to put down the red and green apple.

“Wait!” Sam said. “The red and green ones are better. The all-red are too sweet.”

Ian scrunched his brow. “Then why’d you say the red one?”

Dammit, he’d been found out. “I wasn’t paying attention,” he mumbled.

Ian smirked at him. “I knew you were thinking about something else.” He looked Sam up and down slowly, making it clear exactly what he thought Sam had been distracted by.

Dammit. Now Sam was thinking about sex. He frowned at Ian in what he hoped was a quelling manner.

Ian grinned at him and waggled his eyebrows. Sam had always thought waggling eyebrows was sort of lame and dorky, but somehow Ian made even that look like sex. When he couldn’t squelch a tiny grin, Ian seemed satisfied, finally turning back to his apples.

Oh God, how sweet, he’s indulging in unspoken flirtation with me
. As if they had real intimacy and a history. A history longer than a couple of weeks.

Sam was so far gone. This had better turn out all right or his damn heart was going to hemorrhage.
Don’t think about it
. “Why are we doing this again?” he asked quickly.

Ian made a face, digging out his wallet to pay. He handed the fruit to the stand attendant for weighing. “Because I promised myself I’d stay healthy and eat better.”

“That’s three fifty-eight,” the girl running the scale said.

For four apples? Sam was about to ask her if she’d maybe made a mistake on her big, huge calculator with the big, huge buttons when Ian muttered, “Damn organic fruit.”

“Whoa, you’re really trying to eat better.” He almost poked Ian in his nonexistent gut, but he still hadn’t figured out if touching was okay in public and if so, how much.

Ian’s teeth flashed in a quick smile while he dug through his wallet. “Yeah, well don’t do it if you aren’t going to do it right.” From where he stood, Sam could see the corner of his eye crinkling in little laugh lines he’d never noticed before. Oh, and an elusive dimple.

Sheesh, that was sexier than the eyebrow waggling.

At the exotic fruit stand—did they fly it in from some small Hawaiian farm to this little, local farmers’ market? It was messing with his definition of “local”—Sam was looking at pineapples when he felt Ian just behind his shoulder. Ian’s hip nudged Sam’s ass, and his hand landed on Sam’s biceps, then made a slow trip down his arm, his thumb tickling Sam’s palm for a split-second before he whispered throatily in Sam’s ear, “Why don’t you let me carry that bag?”

Apparently, covert touching was okay. Sam heartily supported that.

At the weird knickknacky stand that sold just . . . stuff, Ian cornered him in the back of the stall, behind some kind of concealing sculptural object. He placed a hand on the small of Sam’s back, slipping a couple fingers into his waistband and teasing the skin just above the crack of his ass. “What do you think of that?” he asked Sam in a low voice, breath brushing the nape of his neck.

Sam tried to focus on some strange sculptural thing. “What is it?” It was made out of cut-up plastic soda bottles. Maybe.

“I don’t know,” Ian murmured, leaning in close enough to nip his skin. “Does it matter?”

“No,” Sam whispered, trying not to melt.

Ian chuckled and withdrew his hand, leaving Sam feeling flushed and dizzy.

Guh
. Who knew shopping could be foreplay?