What Now?

WHAT NOW?

Will Foster

" D o you want me to go?"

Across the room, Waylon's turned away from me, stepping into black joggers. My gaze reflexively drops when he bends over.

Seeing as the first time we hooked up it was dark and we were drunk off our asses, and then earlier I really only got a look and feel of his front—and fuckkkkk me, it's a good front; no complaints here—I can't help but feel like this might be my only opportunity to gawk.

An all too familiar thread of unease has my chest tightening, and my mouth drying for reasons that have nothing to do with the sexy display in front of me.

A display that has now been sufficiently covered up.

He also hasn't answered my question. Or shown any signs of having even heard me.

Jaw working, I nod to myself. Right…

Cue the freak-out.

It's not like I didn't expect this. Waylon's track record speaks for itself. Hell, this time he all but issued me a disclaimer before we took the plunge.

"I might not know where we go from here, but right now—in this fucking second—I am saying yes. And I don't know if that's enough for you. I know it's not fair to ask…"

I guess I just…thought this time was different.

Because it was, a voice insists.

My mind flashes back to earlier—not just to everything we did, but everything we said. Everything he said…

All the truths and secrets he's kept bottled up inside for years—answers to questions I'd all but given up hope on ever getting or didn't know I needed…and some answers I didn't know I had to dread, ones that make me murderous.

All of it pouring forth like whatever dam was keeping it all contained had finally collapsed.

And then it was all finally, finally, finally as words gave way to pleas that gave way to kisses and moans of pleasure—his body doing the talking instead.

I swallow hard, lowering my gaze to where the rumpled sheets bunch over my groin.

Perhaps if he'd freaked out after that instead of admitting to how much he's missed me too—then laying with me, cuddling with me, talking and teasing and touching me like it was the easiest thing in the world; like we've done this a million times…

Perhaps if that didn't lead to more kissing and touching and him letting me use his hand to jerk the two of us off together…

Hell, perhaps if, earlier, before anything even happened, he didn't make a point to tell me Mason and Shawn are gone all day…

Maybe then, I wouldn't have let my guard down so far.

I think back to the last thing I said to him—

"God, I've missed you. Is that crazy?"

—and how he leaned up, and whispered back, right against my lips—

"I've missed you too."

—and how for several minutes after that, he had his face pressed against my neck and his hand splayed against my thundering heart, and I had my nose buried in his hair, my arm clutching him to me.

And then he had to piss.

And the Waylon who returned from the bathroom wouldn't even look at me.

Now, in the corner of my eye, I see him pulling on a white tee. This time I don't let myself cherish his exposed back—the lean muscles, broad shoulders, the bumps of his spine and the little divot above his ass. All that ink I never got to explore…

I'm not done with you yet.

Biting back the ridiculous words—as if saying something so petulant would actually change anything—I quietly clear my throat, throw off the covers, and stand up. "Okay, then," I murmur near-soundlessly.

Running my hand through my hair as I round the bed, I keep my gaze downcast as I pass him. My clothes still lay in a heap where I left them after my shower, just outside his bathroom.

There's the sound of a drawer being dragged open, and I'm mid-reach for my boxers when a single, quietly uttered word cuts through the room.

"Here."

Straightening to my full height, I turn my head, surprised when I find him looking right at me. Wariness pinches his hazel eyes, but he doesn't look away, so that's something.

I flick my attention to the gray sweats in his outstretched hand, and with a short nod, I take them, murmuring a thanks.

Turning away to slide them on, I swear I feel his eyes running over me, trailing down my back, lower…lingering…

A moment later there's the abrupt snick of a drawer closing, followed rapid-fire by another one opening, then—

"No."

Brows snapping together, I whirl around just as Waylon all but slams the drawer shut, a balled up black t-shirt fisted in his hand.

"No?"

He turns toward me, shoulders slumped, arms hanging at his sides. Eyes hard with some unnamed emotion. "I don't want you to go."

"Oh."

His cheeks flush slightly, and he lowers his gaze to some spot beneath my chin. "I-I mean, unless you don't want—"

"I want," I say quickly. "I want to stay."

His lips part, but otherwise he's completely still.

"But are you sure?" I murmur, not taking my eyes off his face. "I'd understand if you need space to…to process" And I mean it. As difficult as it may be to walk away, I'd get it. It's enough now just to know there's some part of him that wants me here—a big enough part that he actually said the words. I don't want you to go.

That's huge.

He hangs his head and mutters something under his breath.

"What was that?"

His throat bobs, the flush in his face deepening. Peeking up at me through his lashes, he says roughly, "Space is what I'm afraid of."

Then, with a sigh, he straightens and takes two long strides toward me. Shoving the shirt at my chest, he practically growls, "I'm not ready for today to end, okay? Now put this on, because I'm fucking starving."

And with that, he shoulder-checks his way past me, throws his bedroom door open, and disappears into the hall.

I blink at the spot he just occupied, a slow smile creeping up my cheek.

He's not done with me yet either.

Waylon McAllister

"How the fuck do you look like that, when all I've ever seen you eat is junk?"

I set the box of Lucky Charms on the counter, and lift my gaze, tracking Will's approach.

"Sex," I deadpan. I smirk and pat my flat stomach. "Lots and lots of sex."

He snorts and leans against the island, facing me. "I'm serious."

I widen my eyes in a mock show of sincerity. "So am I."

His blue eyes swim with amusement, and it takes all my willpower not to ogle him. He doesn't make it easy with the way he crosses his arms, shoulders and biceps bulging, straining my thin, well-worn black Soundgarden tee.

Clearing my throat, I turn and busy myself with setting out a couple bowls and spoons. But when I go to grab the cereal box, it's suddenly plucked from the counter.

I whirl around. "What the fuck, man?" My heart pounds. I didn't even hear him move.

Paying no mind to my outrage, he says, "What's gonna happen one day when that metabolism of yours quits and all this sugar catches up to you?"

I blink. Is he serious? "I'll get fat. Lose my teeth. Probably get the diabetes. Die alone."

He arches an amused brow.

"But at least I'll be happy." I pause. "Now, give me back my Lucky Charms," I practically growl as I go to rip it from his hands.

But the asshole just laughs and plants a hand on my chest, keeping me back. "Sounds like you've got it all figured out," he goes on casually, putting the cereal back in the cabinet.

I track his movements as he grabs the eggs, milk, and a half-stick of butter. Setting everything on the counter, he doesn't look at me when he asks where we keep our frying pans.

"Uh, to the right of the stove." I think…

He crouches, metal clanging as he rustles through the pots and pans until he finds what he's looking for. "How do you like your eggs?"

It takes me a long moment to respond. "Scrambled."

He sets the pan on the burner. "Toast?"

Eyes burning, throat embarrassingly thick, I nod, only to remember he can't see me. It's almost as if he's going out of his way to make this not a big deal…

Because he knows it is.

"Sure," I mumble.

Ducking my head, I blink rapidly and make my way toward the coffee pot, if only to distract myself as Will goes about making us breakfast.

"This, grilled cheese, and mac ‘n cheese—the blue box kind—is about all I can cook," he eventually says. Butter sizzles, and I hear the distinct sound of an egg cracking over metal. "Unless frozen dinners count."

Tapping my fingers on the counter as I watch the coffee pot slowly fill, I say roughly, "I can make spaghetti."

"Nice."

I don't bother telling him I hate pasta now. It's pretty much all I ate as a teenager, after my dad decided I was old enough to fend for myself. As if I hadn't been doing that for years…

Will and I scarf down our eggs in a mostly comfortable silence. If it's awkward, it's only because I don't really know what to do with all this. I just know I want to make the best of today. Hoping that somehow it…heals me enough, or whatever, so that come later when I'm alone—or tomorrow when I wake up—I don't regress to the ugly, cowardly person I've been and push him away.

He's given me enough chances as it is. If I fuck this up again, there will be no going back. Not now after everything.

I think that's what terrifies me most.

Because I know I'm gonna fuck it up. I always do when it comes to him. When it comes to anything, really.

After breakfast, we migrate to the couch where we spend the next few hours watching Black Mirror. I've only seen the first season, and Will insists I need to catch up before the new one comes out soon.

While he had no problem forcing me to sit right up next to him, he didn't take it beyond that. Like maybe he's testing me—seeing if I'll make the next move.

I get as far as resting my head on his shoulder. For that, I'm rewarded with a hand clasping my thigh.

Late afternoon, we abandon Netflix for the Eagles game when I catch him checking the scores on his phone. Football's not really my thing, but it's very much his thing—I saw as much downstairs last night. Not to mention what I overheard him telling Mason—how he hasn't missed an Eagles game since he was ten.

So when he tries to object, insisting he doesn't mind—that he could just watch the highlights later—I promptly tell him to shut up, go grab a book from my room, and when I return, sprawl out across the couch with my head on this thigh to read.

This time, I'm rewarded with his fingers in my hair, and a hand on my stomach. And that's how we stay for the rest of the first half.

Do I actually absorb any of the words I read?

No.

While this is not at all what I was expecting when I asked him to stay—or rather, told him not to go, something that took more balls to get out than anything else I revealed today—I find that this is…nice. More than nice.

After all, I have a rule about Sundays. Just so happens on this particular Sunday, I'm not rotting away on my couch alone. I get to rot with Will.

Will, who's now sliding his hand under my shirt, making my insides feel all pathetically tingly.

Not for the first time, I'm reminded that his dick is right there . If I was braver, I'd roll over, tug his pants down, and initiate things myself. Maybe even take him into my mouth; return the favor from earlier.

Am I ready for that?

I don't know, but the longer we stay like this, the more restless I feel.

"Fucking come on !" he suddenly shouts at the television. His body jerks forward with his outburst as if he's going to jump up. Which would be fucking fine and dandy if, you know, it weren't for the whole head-in-lap and fingers-in-hair thing.

My paperback tumbles to the floor as I slap an arm against the wall that is his chest, shoving him back into the cushions.

A glance at the TV shows the Cowboys just scored another touchdown with only seconds left of the third quarter—putting them back in the lead.

"S'ry," Will mumbles distractedly, loosening his grip to give my head a little pat.

I cough a laugh. "No, you're not."

Tipping my head back, I squint up at his strong jaw. It's gotten a lot darker—the afternoon giving way to evening—but even still, there's no missing the fierce tension lining his face and neck. Or the way he's got his attention deadlocked on the game.

Such a fucking jock, I think wryly.

Distantly, I'm aware of the announcers calling the field goal good, before cutting to a commercial break. Then and only then does Will finally look down at me.

He opens his mouth to say something, but whatever it is dies in his throat. Instead he just sort of slumps, brings his thumb to my cheek, and strokes my dimple. "Fuck," he whispers.

Pretty sure my heart's about to fly out of my chest as I find myself nuzzling his hand.

He groans and then bends down at the same time he clutches my jaw, drawing our lips together in a searing kiss.

Finally.

My chest seizes with a trapped breath, my eyes fluttering shut. Reaching up blindly, I grip his bicep, anchoring him to me. I know the game's not over yet, but I want him. Fuck, do I want him.

And he must want me too, because rather than break the kiss, he only deepens it. Curling his tongue with mine. Owning my mouth.

Fuck, that's so hot. I writhe into the cushions, my dick thickening so fast, you'd think it's been weeks since I came. Not hours.

He must be experiencing a similar rush of need, because one second we're on the couch, and the next we're tumbling to the floor in a tangle of limbs and messy kisses, once again swept up in a current neither one of us seems to be able to break free from.

Whereas earlier, we took our time, now we all but ravage each other, practically ripping our clothes off in our need to feel one another skin to skin.

Rolling us over so I'm on top, he grips my waist, and rumbles against my lips, "You feel so good like this. Grind against my dick. Get us there."

I bury my face in his shoulder, gritting out a moan as I dry hump the fuck out of him.

"That's it. Ride me."

Oh fuck.

"Will," I moan into his hot, sweaty skin. Hands clamp down on my ass, squeezing as he meets me thrust for thrust.

So close…

And then I feel it. Just the slightest graze of a finger down my crack.

And I fucking shatter, shooting my release all over us.

Not even a second later, Will joins me, doubling our mess.

When I finally manage to roll off him, we lay there for several moments on our backs, breathless and sticky, staring up at the ceiling with the TV still playing on in the background.

A hand finds mine, giving it a squeeze, and we both turn our heads toward each other at the same time, eyes hooded, chests heaving.

"This floor is a lot cleaner than the one downstairs. Softer too."

A raspy chuckle leaves me.

Rolling onto his side, he reaches over, pushing my hair back. Neither of us say anything for a long while, content to just stare at each other.

The sun has fallen completely now, leaving the flickering blue light of the television as our only light source. It won't be much longer now before Shawn texts me. He assured me as much this morning while Mason was finishing up his shower. Otherwise I don't think I would've been able to relax, much less get naked on the living room floor with another dude.

"It's getting late," Will murmurs.

I nod. It is…

"What now?" I find myself asking.

"We should probably clean up."

"That's not what I meant."

Running a thumb over my lips, he searches my face with an unreadable expression. "Up to you."

Right…

I turn my cheek into his palm, pressing a kiss to the heel of his hand. Into his skin, I tell him, "Ask me tomorrow." Knowing I'll have to get through tonight and tomorrow morning first. Alone.

Despite the sadness etched in his face, his eyes hold nothing but understanding. "Okay. I'll do that."

"Okay then."

"We should probably clean up," he suggests again, smiling thinly.

Throat thick, I nod. "Yeah."

And it's a good thing we do, because just as soon as we've wiped ourselves down with wet paper towel, my phone goes off. Time's up.

"We'll go slow, okay?" Will says when he returns from my room a minute later wearing his clothes from last night. "We'll take it day by day if we have to. Just…don't shut me out, okay? Talk to me. You don't have to struggle with all this alone."

"I'll try," I whisper, hating that I can't give him more than that.

And then we're standing by the front door, and Will's hands are cradling my face. He holds me like I'm something precious, and I know I should hate it. Hate this weakness inside me that just wants to sink into his touch.

But with his eyes locked on mine, it's all too easy to banish the doubts that scratch along the edges of my mind. All too easy to forget why this scared me in the first place. All too easy to forget the guys will be home any minute.

Because who cares? Who fucking cares?

"We were always going to end up here, weren't we?" My voice is barely above a whisper.

He shrugs. "Where there's a will, there's a way, right?" He smirks knowingly. "Kind of inevitable, wouldn't you say?"

I huff through my nose and look down. "More like doomed."

He flicks my nose. "Buzz kill."

I grip the back of his skull, and pull him toward me, pressing my forehead to his. "Cheesy."

He smiles against my lips. "Grumpy."

"Hopeless," I breathe into a soft kiss.

More.

All I want is more, more, more.

A moment later, I'm watching the door click shut behind him, lips tingling, heart thumping heavily.

And into the empty room, I whisper, "Please don't let me fuck this up."

Will and Waylon's complete duet is available in KU, as part of the interconnected Lost Boys series, which revolves around three aspiring musicians and their hard-fought HEAs.