Chapter 8

Angelo never imagined attempting a few seemingly innocuous tasks in the same afternoon would leave him feeling like he'd been punted down eight flights of cement stairs, and then kicked a few more times while he was down. Collecting some clothes and his tablet from the Mulberry house hadn't been too terrible, and Russell had even carried his suitcase to the car for him.

He'd really started feeling his aches and pains and stitches while waiting their turn replacing his phone. And then waiting while all the data transferred from the Cloud or whatever. Angelo hadn't cared about the details, and he signed whatever the salesperson needed him to sign, gave the correct log-ins and passwords.

Finally, he had a phone, and then his torture continued at the police station, where Angelo gave the best statement he could about what he remembered. He'd long ago stopped being embarrassed about forgetting details while drunk—plus, he'd been at a bar until closing time, hello!—and he'd probably over-explained why Nat had been so nice about making sure he didn't drive and agreeing to charge his old, now-obliterated phone. The detective he spoke with strongly suggested the explosion was because of the old boiler and not because of arson or sabotage, so Angelo left feeling a bit better about that.

He much preferred having been part of a freak accident over attempted murder.

Last errand completed, Russell came up with the brilliant idea to bring home dinner. Angelo was just along for the ride, so he closed his eyes, imagined swallowing his next pain pill as soon as possible, and begged off eating with the family. He fucking hurt by the time they'd picked up the takeout and were almost in the driveway. At least Russell took pity on him and drove him to the carriage house's front door.

After limping inside and hunting down his prescriptions in the kitchenette, he swallowed a few from one bottle, chased it down with a swig of soda, and collapsed onto the living room sofa. Then he realized he really needed to piss, and he wasn't going to chase up an empty bottle. It may have taken a full twenty minutes to get up and down the spiral staircase—why the hell had he thought installing this was a good idea?!—but he managed to use the toilet his own damned self.

Helplessness was not a look he wore well.

The problem with going into the bathroom was that it smelled like Bryan. There weren't a lot of toiletries, just shaving cream, deodorant and whatever soap was probably in the shower, but the combined scents were masculine, clean and just…Bryan. Being around that concentrated scent had started to play with his libido a bit, and he'd had a little trouble tucking himself back into his pants.

And he'd be damned if the scent hadn't come downstairs with him. By the time Angelo had resettled on the couch, his pills were kicking in and the screaming in his ribs had calmed to a light shriek. He was also getting an unwanted boner sitting here in Bryan's place, still thinking about the man's deodorant, and why the hell was he stuck on this?

I got blown up, my brain is stupid now.

Good enough argument to justify adjusting himself, but he was quickly losing room in his pants. No harm in undoing the button and pulling down the zipper. Giving his junk a little more room to breathe. And grow. Jerking off would definitely release some much needed endorphins and maybe help him sleep. He wanted to fall asleep and wake up in five days when his stitches didn't ache and itch, and his entire body didn't feel like another boiler about to blow.

He pulled out his new phone and stared at the dark screen, unsure if he wanted to find some porn to help things along. Only he needed the wifi password, and he couldn't remember it. He used variations on the same password at all his houses for simplicity, and Russell had never changed this one, but…crap.

It was on a card in the junk drawer. He'd put it there ages ago, and he'd told Patrick about it when he and Frog moved in last year. Getting up to find it was way too much work, though. So he dumped his phone on the cushion beside him, closed his eyes, and slipped one hand into his underwear. Mood music and a glass of wine would have made the entire thing almost perfect, but his pain was beginning to dull as his brain was distracted by the familiar, gratifying sensations of his hand on his dick. Stroking in a slightly confined space. Just shoving his pants down and off wasn't a great idea, even though he wasn't entirely sure why. And less movement meant the fun would last longer.

Bryan's face appeared in his mind's eye. Not smiling because the man didn't smile much, he just…watched. Intently. He'd watched Angelo last night at the hospital, and again this afternoon in this very house. He'd taken care of Angelo in a tender, compassionate way Angelo hadn't experienced since his own mother died. Sure, Russell had always been there when Angelo had a crisis. He'd nursed him through hangovers, and he'd brought him supplies a few times during nasty colds.

Something about Bryan was different. It was…nice. He almost made Angelo feel important. Like Bryan could see the man behind the slick hair and fancy suits and sports car. No one had made that effort in a long damned time, because the surface stuff was too appealing to bother digging deeper. From the first moment they met, Bryan had challenged him.

And that was sexy as all fuck.

He really shouldn't be perving on his tenant, so Angelo tried to pull on a memory of Nat. Sweet, sassy, sexy Nat, who knew what he wanted in bed but not out of life. Sexy Nat soured into Pouty Nat who wanted to date other people, and Angelo groaned softly, annoyed at his own traitorous brain.

Porn, think of porn, not people you know.

Except every well-muscled but lean, brown-haired hottie quickly morphed into Bryan Gillespie making him toast, or Bryan Gillespie helping him wash up this morning. Simple, domestic things that made Angelo yearn for a partner of his own. Yearn for the life Russell had found and Angelo had only recently realized he wanted, too. A life he could pretend to have with Bryan for a little while. There was a reason they could do that…

Pleasure zinged through him from where his hand hadn't stopped stroking, but fatigue was beginning to soften the edges. His head lolled back on the cushion—then a loud creaking sound startled him into his right mind, and he sat up straighter. And a little too fast because his neck gave an unhappy twinge.

He blinked through the gloom at a shape by the front door, astonished he'd somehow managed to conjure up a phantom of Bryan himself, standing only ten feet away and staring right at him. No, wait. Not a phantom.

"You're back," Angelo said dumbly, pausing his manual pleasuring to hold his dick in a loose grip, surprised by the interruption, but oddly not embarrassed at having been caught jerking off in the living room.

"Dinner's over." Bryan stepped deeper inside and shut the door. In the dim light, Angelo couldn't make out his face very well, but he wasn't looking away, hunching his shoulders, or doing anything to indicate he was embarrassed, either. "Couldn't make it up to the bedroom?"

"I made it up. Stairs. Upstairs. To pee. Came back down. Hoped I could relax."

"Can't fault you for that. You take any prescriptions?"

"Yes, Dad."

"What?"

"Dunno."

Bryan strode toward the kitchenette. Angelo listened to things rattling softy behind him, attention fixed on the coffee table in front of him, a touch more self-conscious of still having a hand in his pants, but also insanely curious what might happen next. Bryan was probably used to walking in on dudes doing all kinds of things way worse than jerking off while fully clothed.

"Okay, you took two of the ibuprofen and one of the tramadol," Bryan said. He appeared on Angelo's left, half his face visible in the light from the kitchenette, the other half still in shadow. "Glad it wasn't three of the tramadol, or we wouldn't still be having this conversation with your hand in your pants."

"How do you know?"

"That your hand's in your pants? I have eyes."

"No, which pills I took."

"Because I counted them both. I knew what was in there."

"You counted my meds?" Angelo blinked hard, not understanding. "Why? So I don't abuse them like some kind of junkie?"

"No, so I don't abuse them like some kind of junkie." Bryan settled in the armchair near the couch, knees spread, arms resting on his thighs. With a bit more light on his face, Angelo was better able to decipher his expression: neutral, as usual. "Granted, alcohol was my worst enemy, but I wasn't above popping pills to enhance the high. Keeping count of the pills keeps me accountable."

"You learn that coping mechanism in rehab?"

"Among other places. You ever thought of learning a few coping mechanisms that don't include getting bombed at a bar?"

"It wasn't a bombing, it was a boiler explosion."

Bryan snickered. "I meant you getting drunk at Tim's. And those shots you had here before Tim's, after getting the news about your mentor. Alcohol soothes the hurt for a little while, but it won't solve the underlying issues."

"Thank you, Dr. Phil."

"Okay, that's rude."

"Dr. Scholl's? Dr. Spock? Dr. Freeman?"

"Who?"

"One of my college professors. Freshman math. I hated math, but the guy was always going on about numbers and quantities and blah, blah."

"You own your own business and you hate math?"

Angelo absently stroked his still-hard dick, enjoying both the sensations rolling pleasantly through his abdomen and the gentle banter with Bryan. "That's what accountants are for. And then when you can't afford your accountant, you try using online tools to do it yourself, and that helps you land your ass in the situation of couch-surfing on your own properties and asking your tenant to pose as your boyfriend for six months."

"You said you might only need me for four months."

"I mean, if it's fun enough, we can negotiate for an extension. The minimum is just to prove we're serious enough for the lawyer."

"Right." Bryan's gaze seemed to shift. Down?

Angelo spread his legs wider and stroked more obviously, emboldened by the way Bryan's lips parted slightly. "Watching another guy jerk off doesn't weird you out, Gillespie?"

"Do you know how many nights I listened to my cellmate jerking off? Or saw it in the showers? Or anyplace a guard couldn't see? I've seen and heard a lot worse inside."

The cold way Bryan made his final statement penetrated the pleasant fog around Angelo's brain—and it forced words past his already-barely-existent self-censor. "How much worse?"

"Worse." Bryan met his gaze again, expression back to that annoying, perfectly neutral. Probably did wonders for him in prison. "And before you start imagining scenarios, I wasn't involved in anything except a few fist fights. My first week inside? I picked out a big guy, someone with some influence, and I beat the shit out of him in the yard."

Angelo choked on spit. "You what? Fuck, man. What happened?"

"Got twenty days in Ad Seg and when I got back to my block, anyone who might've made a move on me didn't."

Bryan had been put into solitary? Damn. "And the other guy?"

"Busted ribs and a couple of scars on his face once the cuts healed. Believe it or not, we ended up cordial acquaintances my last year. Mutual respect." He shrugged. "Look, Angelo, I'm not proud of the fact that I beat up a guy to save myself getting beat. I might like dick on occasion, but I wasn't about to get turned out for protection from someone else. It was survival."

"Hey, I give mad respect for you doing what you needed to do to survive in that place. You hear the stories and see the TV shows, and…" Angelo wasn't sure how to complete that sentence and probably didn't need to. "I'm glad you got out of there."

"Me too. More than you know." Bryan tilted his head a few degrees to the left, and his lips twitched. It wasn't a smile but the expression was definitely less bland. "At least now I can appreciate it when a hot guy is jerking off in front of me. And if I do openly appreciate the sight, I'm not gonna pay for it later."

"So you appreciate me now, huh?" The redirect from serious to flirtatious reminded Angelo he'd yet to remove his hand from his pants. It also reminded him that he was still hard and in need of that endorphin release. Maybe they'd both sleep better tonight. He gave his dick a single, long stroke, root to tip, as best he could inside his briefs. "Prison make you a voyeur, Gillespie?"

"Nah, I was always a bit of a voyeur. As long as I know the person or people I'm watching are aware and into it."

"People? Fan of threesomes?"

"Can't say I'd call myself a fan, but I've participated in a few. Well, mostly from the sidelines, so participation points may vary. You?"

Angelo kept shorter, steady strokes while he held Bryan's dark gaze, curious how far the generally-reserved guy less than six feet away would want to take this. "I guess you could say I'm more of an exhibitionist, especially in my younger years. Dancing in college? I wanted all the eyes on me, all the guys to want to dance with me. Grinding on me. Grabbing my ass and wanting me in their bed."

So many beer-soaked memories of frat parties, off-campus parties, and fake-ID entry into bars ghosted through Angelo's brain, leaving him warm and soft. All the best times before the hard work of interning and establishing himself shortened his partying hours. But it hadn't shortened his easy ability to find a bed partner when he wanted one. So many nameless, faceless guys that they'd become a blur.

Until Angelo had started to feel truly lonely and long for a partner. Someone to share his bed every night, not just once and done. But that sort of white-picket-fence, settled-down fantasy wasn't compatible with his current nomadic lifestyle. Which was why he needed his inheritance, and Bryan could help him get it.

Bryan's right hand strayed off his knee and closer to his own inner thigh. "So you like being objectified, Voltini? Being watched turns you on?"

"Yes."

"Does me watching you turn you on?"

"Fuck yes."

"Have you had anything to drink tonight?"

Angelo blinked twice. "Soda with my pills, why?"

"Just making sure you didn't combine that drug with liquor. You're probably a little loose right now, but I don't like making it with people who are high. Did that too many times during my horribly misspent youth, and I regret not remembering a lotta things. If anything goes further with us tonight, I wanna know you'll remember it in the morning."

"I will. Definitely not high. Haven't had a drop of alcohol since last night. It's just…" Angelo's guard was down enough that he decided what the hell? And went with honesty. "I've had a pretty fucking shitty forty-eight-hours, and I really need to feel good. Sex and alcohol are my drugs of choice, and since I know there's no alcohol in here because you don't drink, I was gonna settle for sex with my left hand."

When Angelo purposely left his comment hanging there, Bryan took the bait. "Now that you aren't alone, are you still gonna settle for your left hand?"

"Depends on you."

Bryan didn't get up and leave. In fact, he leaned forward several inches, real intent burning in his eyes now, and that sent delightful shivers down Angelo's spine. "What've you got in mind?"

"Well, the E.R. doc warned me off strenuous physical activity for at least ten days, so the kind of wall-banging sex I prefer is off the table for now." He loved the way Bryan's nostrils flared, and he went all-in. "Since I'm the wounded warrior at the moment, how about you help me get my pants and underwear down so I can jerk off more comfortably? Feel free to stay for the show."

They maintained eye contact for so long that sweat broke out across Angelo's neck and shoulders. No one had ever seen him like that before, and he wanted to squirm under the intensity of Bryan's scrutiny. He didn't, unwilling to blink first.

"If we play a little tonight," Bryan finally said, "this is not me saying yes to any sort of dating arrangement for your inheritance. It's getting you off so you can sleep."

"Agreed. And if you, you know, want to get off, too…?"

Bryan smirked, then stood and toed off his sneakers. "We'll see." He stepped around and sat on the coffee table opposite Angelo, posture relaxed while his face was a constant study of intensity. "Feet. One at a time."

The order didn't make sense at first, not until Angelo raised his right foot a few inches off the floor. Bryan gently lifted it high enough to support his calf and untie and remove the shoe. Same with the left foot, leaving Angelo in his socks.

"Belt."

Angelo's heart skipped once and he did as told, unbuckling his belt and pulling it free from his trouser loops. He put it on the cushion beside him and waited, dick straining, his breath coming in shallower pants. Bryan leaned forward, his face mere feet from Angelo's, the faintest scent of something spicy on his breath. Thumbs slipped into Angelo's waist, the nails pressing into his skin, the only two places they were actually touching, even though he felt Bryan all around him like static electricity.

"Hips."

The single-word orders turned his crank harder than a mouth on his dick. Angelo raised his hips as high as he could manage, and Bryan worked his slacks and underwear down his hips, over his butt, to around mid-thigh. Angelo guessed based solely on feel because he couldn't fucking break eye contact. He was bewitched, fully under Bryan's spell, and was pretty sure if Bryan ordered him to turn around and brace himself against the back of the couch, Angelo would do so and take the fucking with gratitude.

Angelo had no idea what to do with his hands, so he let them rest on his bare upper thighs, unsure if he was allowed to start jerking off. Bryan's gaze seemed to dance across his face, taking things in, studying him. He leaned closer, his mouth mere inches from Angelo's, and Angelo parted his lips, absolutely down with kissing this man. Bryan ghosted those enticing lips across Angelo's cheek toward his ear. Goose flesh pebbled Angelo's chest and upper thighs, and his dick strained for attention.

"Give me a show, Voltini," he whispered.

And then Bryan, the sadistic bastard, returned to his chair, leaving Angelo alone on the couch, mouth open, slightly stunned. Bryan squeezed his own crotch through his jeans, attention wholly focused on Angelo's dick now, and that unstuck Angelo's gears. He spat on his palm and fisted his cock in a sure, practiced grip. Jerking off was the easy part, something he'd done since he was a kid and figured out what happened when his penis got hard and he rubbed it long enough. Before that adolescent period of his life where masturbating was a mortal sin and anything that felt good was, according to Aunt Rita and Father Natale, an express ticket to Hell.

He chased those old guilt trips away and focused on the present, where he was cock-in-hand and being watched—hell, being urged on and goaded—by a gorgeous guy with a sexy stare and an even sexier, commanding voice. A voice Angelo wanted to listen to, even though he didn't fully understand why. And in that moment, it didn't matter why. Only his inevitable orgasm mattered.

"What do you think about when you jerk off?" Bryan asked. "Do you watch porn? Picture yourself in those scenarios? A pretty little twink sucking you off?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes I'm the twink."

"A big guy like you?"

"Size doesn't always matter." He tugged on his balls with his right hand while he kept up a steady, firm stroke with his left. His nerves were already singing, the skin on his balls pulling tight. He didn't want to come yet, but damn, this was all too much—talking and asking questions like this was a perfectly normal conversation to have with your tenant. "Wants and needs change."

"They do. You like being submissive with the right person?"

"Yes. Sometimes I need to turn off my mind. Stop thinking."

"With guys you trust?"

"Not always. Danger adds to the thrill."

"Does it?"

"It can."

"Do you trust me?"

Angelo hesitated, unsure if this was part of their game or a genuine question. For this little submissive game they were playing, yes, he'd trust Bryan. As a person he still didn't know very well and who had a past Angelo found a touch unsettling, he did not fully trust Bryan. He was trying, though. Really trying.

"I want to trust you," Angelo replied.

"I appreciate your honesty. Your bluntness is one of your most charming traits."

"Hah. Usually it makes people accuse me of being an asshole."

"Sometimes being an asshole is justified. I promise not to be an asshole to you tonight if you trust me enough to close your eyes. If you get uncomfortable, open them. But try?"

"Okay."

Angelo did as asked and leaned his head back. It took some strain off his neck and shoulders, and he continued stroking himself in a lazy grip, curious and aroused and eager to discover where this might go. An hour ago, he never would have imagined doing any kind of scene with Bryan, and now?

"Don't try to anticipate," Bryan said, "just relax."

Easy for him to say. Angelo was the wounded one here, and even if he'd been at his best, Bryan had just told him about kicking a bigger guy's ass in prison. He obviously had moves. But from everything Angelo had observed thus far, especially the way Bryan interacted with Frog, Bryan was not typically an aggressor. Prison had been a fluke.

Bryan was a protector.

So Angelo did his best to relax and experience this. He jerked off with a bit more vigor, savoring the sensations rolling through his abdomen and up his spine. The pleasant warmth of sex, even solo sex with an audience. The exhibitionist side of his brain urged him to put on more of a show for Bryan, to really give him his "money's worth." The side of him that wanted to stop thinking told that part to shut up and enjoy.

The floor creaked. Anticipation wiggled in his belly. Fabric rustled. He hoped for the familiar jangle of a belt buckle or the snick of a zipper, but all he heard was another creak. Closer. And then a blast of hot, moist air blew across his cock, and Angelo gasped. The steady stream of breaths created a new tangle of sensations on Angelo's cock, from warm to chilly to warm again, depending on his hand and those puffs of air. Knowing how close Bryan's face must be to his crotch, how easy it would be for Bryan to make contact with his mouth or tongue, sizzled through Angelo's gut, and his cock got impossibly harder. The skin hotter, tighter.

"Fuck, so close," he gasped.

The breaths increased, each exhalation louder, its effect more intense. A cruel, beautiful tease that pushed him closer and closer to the edge without tipping him over.

"You can touch me," Angelo said.

"I know."

He could hear the damned smirk in those two simple words, and Angelo growled softly. Jerked himself harder, tugged on his balls, and imagined Bryan crouched in front of him, mouth open, about to swallow his length. That these teasing puffs of air were just precursors to the most spectacular blow job of his life, which was a prelude to the best sex of his life, on the first flat surface they could find.

The new, vivid mental image slammed through his brain: Bryan looming over him, while Angelo was on his back, ankles resting on Bryan's shoulders. Those steaming breaths were Bryan's hand while he prepared to push deep inside Angelo's willing hole. Just beyond the fantasy, Angelo slid a finger to rub his own taint, and that did it. He couldn't censor his groan as he came, and in his mind's eye, his release splashed across Bryan's cheeks and chin. It dripped from his nose onto his bare chest, already sparkling with sweat. In the fantasy, he leaned down so Angelo could lick the come off Bryan's face and?—

A sharp twinge in his ribs snapped Angelo back into the real world. He jerked upright and opened his eyes. Reality overtook his fantasy. Bryan was sitting on the armchair as if he'd never moved, right hand still resting on his crotch. The only real difference was the expression on Bryan's face.

He was smiling.