Chapter 20

Dylan

"God, this is taking forever," Matt whines on Monday morning. It's a quiet whine, though, because the last time Marc heard him complain about how long it was taking, he decided we should remove everything from the living room and start from scratch. I'm pretty sure Marc can still hear him, but at least this way they can both pretend.

It is taking longer than I expected, though. I feel sorry for the poor delivery guys. I swear this is the ninth time Marc's had them move the sofa. He's got a vision, and since we won't let him make it happen with his powers, he's making us all suffer.

"He'll be done soon," I whisper, leaning into his side. "You gotta admit, it looks good." I never had a problem with my random collection of furniture, but even I can see the difference between the broken elephant coffee table and the big, solid, perfect for putting your dinner and/or feet on table that Marc helped me choose. The vast range at the store was daunting, but he steered me toward stuff with clean lines and solid construction that I could be comfortable on—not at all like the furniture I've seen in the background at his house on video calls. The fact that he thought about what I'd like and would suit my life gives me more of those conflicted feelings. I know he's not evil. I do. He's been on our side for years and he's dating Ian. I'm even on Team Make Marc More Relatable. I wanted him in the apartment this weekend.

But twenty years of belief isn't that easy to undo, especially since, even though he's not evil, he is still dangerous.

"I don't have to admit anything," Matt grumbles, breaking into my introspection. "Except that I can still smell that damn cheese."

I roll my eyes. There's no way he can smell the cheese nearly twenty-four hours after we ate it all. Anyway, it didn't smell that strong, even though he bitched about it nonstop.

"I think it needs to go two inches to the right and an inch forward," Marc muses, and Ian sighs.

"Yeah, I think we're done," he announces firmly, giving his demonic boyfriend a look I wouldn't dare to, then turning to the delivery guys with a smile. "Thanks so much, but we can handle it from here."

"It's no trouble," one of them begins, but Matt's already practically leaping forward, wallet in hand to tip them both.

"No, no, you've gone above and beyond," he assures them. "Great service. Ten out of ten, five stars. So sorry for all the fussing."

The guys take their tip, then the taller one looks past Matt to where Ian is lecturing Marc before lowering his voice and saying, "It's really no trouble. We've had way fussier clients than this."

Matt stares at him, unblinking, then adds a twenty to the tip. "I'm so sorry."

I nearly choke trying to hold back my laugh as Matt ushers them out the door, then turns to face down Marc.

"Every time I start to think that maybe you could be half decent, you pull shit like this," he gripes. "We can move the couch a fucking inch ." He stalks over to the offending item of furniture and bumps his hip against the side.

It skids three feet.

We all stare at it.

"Whoa, th-that's lighter than I expected," Matt stutters. There's a wildness to his eyes that worries me. Maybe this weekend has been too much for him. He might be completely healed, but the nightmares are proof that he's got some PTSD from the attack. We should probably have taken it easier. Or maybe Marc missed something when he was healing him? Is smelling cheese the sign of a stroke?

No, that's toast. And also not proven.

Ian goes to the other end of the couch and hip bumps it just like Matt did, but it only moves an inch. "Yeah, I don't think so. You're just ragey because your bestie-in-law is being nitpicky."

"What the hell?"

"I beg your pardon?"

The indignant exclamations from Matt and Marc rise in chorus, and I snicker as they turn to glare at each other.

"Never call me that again," Marc orders Ian with a little shudder.

"I hate to agree with him , but I agree with him. Gross, Ian. Just gross."

Ian shrugs. "I think it fits. What about you, Dyl?" There's a wicked curve to his smile, and I grin.

"Definitely. And hey, that makes you and me besties-in-law too." I cross the room to fist-bump him.

"I hate you both," Matt declares. "Hate, loathe, and despise."

"That's his love language," Ian tells me. "He's got a marshmallow heart, so he hides it with harsh words."

"Yeah." I meet Matt's gaze and smile just for him. I've seen how soft his heart is. "I know." His expression warms and relaxes as he smiles back at me.

"Is anybody going to move the couch?" Marc asks. "Or will I finally be permitted to do it my way?"

Matt growls—actually growls—in a way that's beyond sexy, and I decide it's time for me to take control of this situation so we can have the place to ourselves again.

"Go for it," I tell Marc, and in the blink of an eye, my living room is rearranged… perfectly.

Ian looks around. "Ugh. I hate when you're right."

Nodding smugly, Marc replies, "Sometimes an inch can make a big difference."

Not even Matt can stay mad, and we crack up laughing. Except Marc, who looks at us bemusedly.

"Dude," I tell him, then snort-laugh again. "You totally made a dick joke."

"I…" He blinks, then horror takes over his face. "I really am becoming human."

"It just makes me love you more," Ian consoles. "Besides, think what Connor will say when I tell him you made a dick joke."

Marc's expression makes me want to grab my phone and take a picture.

"Everything looks great," I say hastily. Blood spatter would ruin my new, very expensive furniture. "Thank you for your help. So… we're all agreed that Matt can come back to the compound in another week to start ‘reconditioning'?"

We talked about it yesterday. Matt and Ian want him back in San Diego, where they have more resources—aka fighters—if we need them. Another week will allow time for any "bruises" to have faded, and Matt swears he can pretend to be out of condition and stay on leave while he "rebuilds his fitness." I'll go with him because I'm not ready to let him out of my sight. Plus, we'll need to work out what our long-term living arrangements will be, anyway. It's hard enough that his job needs him to travel so much without us also being based at opposite ends of the state.

"That's the best plan. I miss my bestie." Ian grabs Matt in a headlock, and Matt jabs him in the gut. Brotherly love is a beautiful thing.

Marc clearly disagrees, because he announces, "We're leaving in ten seconds, Ian. Say goodbye." Then he turns to me and lowers his voice to a whisper, though with the way Matt and Ian are yelling, I don't think it would have mattered. "I've warded the apartment. Nobody with ill intent can get in."

I had no idea how stressed I still was about that until it all fell away. "I—" The word gets caught in my throat, and I clear it. "Thank you. I'm sorry if I was?—"

"You weren't. Humans are fragile." His gaze flickers to Ian. "I understand, Dylan."

"Thank you," I repeat. "I didn't even know that was something you could do."

He shrugs, the momentary vulnerability falling away. "It's not widely known among humans."

In other words, keep my mouth shut about it. "Got it. Well, I'm grateful. For this and for Matt's life. You're always welcome in my home."

Ian and Matt go quiet just in time to hear that last part, and Matt groans. "Nooooo. What the hell did you have to go and say that for?"

"On that note…" Marc smirks, and then he and Ian are gone.

Matt blinks, turning in a full circle like a puppy. "I hate when he does that."

"You'll survive. So…" I stroll over to my new couch, sit, and pat the seat beside me. "How do you feel about breaking in the new furniture?"

It takes him a second to get it, and then he whips his shirt off and dives toward me.

But at the last second, he hesitates, twisting to land almost a foot away, then immediately scrambles to his feet. I blink. What…?

"Lube!" he shouts. "We need lube. Be right back."

I stare after him, mouth agape. That was weird. I mean, yeah, we need lube, but that was still weird.

"Matty?"

He reappears from the bedroom, lube held aloft, his smile tentative. "Got it. Maybe, uh, you could ride me," he suggests, coming back to the couch and hovering awkwardly.

I'm not sure what's going through his head, but I don't have a problem with that. "Sure." I stand and pull my shirt over my head, then open my pants… while he watches. "I don't mind giving you a strip show, but for this to work, you need to be wearing less clothes," I tease.

He fumbles the lube, then tosses it on the couch. "Yeah. Of course." It takes him longer to strip off than usual—so long that I'm naked and wondering why he's going so slow.

"Everything okay, babe? We don't have to do this now, you know."

Glancing up as he unbuttons his jeans at a snail's pace, he says, "I'm fine, and yeah, we do. It's been days, and I need you. You… um, you wanna start prepping?"

Prepping? He wants me to prep myself? But… he always wants to prep me. It's a thing, ever since the first time…

I paste on a smile and reach for the lube. "Good plan." This has to be part of his PTSD from the attack. He's been acting a little off lately, and I need to give him space to work through it. If that means he wants me to prep myself for the first time in our relationship, I can do that. It's not like it's a hardship.

At the last second, I toss my T-shirt on the seat of the brand-new couch to protect the upholstery, then half recline against the back and the armrest, knees bent, legs open, giving him a show as I tease myself with my lube-slicked fingers.

He swallows hard, briefs still on, his cock forming a rock-solid tent. Mine, which only needs thoughts of Matt to be ready for action, stiffens the rest of the way at the sight of his mostly naked self.

"Someone offered me a ride," I remind him breathlessly. I've never needed much prep—good muscle control from years of training—and I'm more than ready for him now. I need us to reconnect in this way now that I know my apartment is safe for him.

His underwear comes off much faster than the rest of his clothes, and then he sprawls onto the couch, swears, gets up to grab his shirt, and throws it onto the cushion like I did. Even as revved up as I am, I can't help smiling at his consideration. Sure, this couch is going to see a lot of our jizz over the coming years, but staining it on the first day is probably not a good thing.

When he's lying back, shoulders propped against the armrest, cock standing at attention, I slide my fingers out of my ass and crawl toward him. It takes only a tiny bit of maneuvering for me to get into position, straddling his thighs, and I gaze down at his torso in all its glory before me.

Love rushes up to compete with lust. How can it not, when Matt's expression is so full of his adoration for me? "I love you," I whisper, rising onto my knees and shifting so the head of his dick slides between my cheeks.

He makes a choking noise when it catches on the rim of my hole. "Love you, Dyl. So, so much."

I lower myself slowly onto him, savoring every millimeter, every second… so much, it's not until I'm fully seated that I realize he's not touching me.

Oh, he's inside me, filling me almost to the point of discomfort, my inner thighs pressed to his hips. But… he's got his hands clasped behind his neck. And judging by the tension in his arms, he's making a considerable effort to keep them there.

For a moment, I stay frozen, not understanding. This… this isn't my Matt. Matt's affectionate. Matt's passionate. Matt can't keep his hands off me. Sex with Matt is active and sweaty, and bossy . He moves me around, he touches me . His hands are constantly sliding over my skin, squeezing my ass, gripping my hips. Matt's tactile.

Matt doesn't lie there like he'd rather be anywhere else.

You're imagining it. I swallow down my sudden fear even as my cock flags a little. This is probably just stress—for both of us. We've had sex since the attack, but things have gotten a little fraught since then, with more time passing and no answers. Maybe he's not really in the mood… mentally, not physically, since I can more than feel how ready his dick is.

"Hey." My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. "Um, if you're not… If you don't want to do this, we can just?—"

"Are you kidding?" He sucks in a shaky breath. "Dylan, I'm dying. If you want to stop, I'll stop, but god, believe me—there's nothing I want more right now than you. This." The sincerity in his voice and face are impossible to ignore, so I push aside the voice that tells me something's still not right. Matt wants me. I want him. We've been together like this a million times. Of course it's right.

I lean down, making us both gasp as the movement draws me off him, and kiss his beautiful mouth. He kisses me back eagerly, but still his hands don't move from behind his head. They don't come around to cradle my face or delve into my hair. To grasp my hips and push me back onto his cock.

That's okay, though. If he wants hands-free sex, that's totally his call.

I straighten and begin fucking myself on his shaft, rising and falling in a steady rhythm, slowly increasing the pace until we're both whining with need, then slowing, bringing things down a notch.

Still, Matt doesn't touch me.

Suddenly, it feels wrong. This isn't how we are—not how it's supposed to be. It doesn't matter that I can see the need and love on his face, hear it in the words he mutters… this lack of real contact between us makes me feel like I'm fucking a stranger, not the man I want to spend my life with.

I pick up speed again, just wanting this over. Maybe we're both tired. The weekend was a lot, and we've got plenty on our minds. This wasn't the time.

Reaching behind me, I stroke Matt's sac, brushing my fingers against the sensitive skin even as I fuck myself hard onto his cock. It takes only a few thrusts like that to send him over the edge, and while he's coming, I jerk myself off. I don't really want to anymore, but he'll feel bad if I don't come, and I just want this to end.

Before Matt can see how bruised my heart is.