Playing it safe, p.4
Playing It Safe, page 4
He looked Beck up and down, obviously assessing the unlikelihood of that happening, but his gaze snagged and lingered over every inch of Beck’s body. It wasn’t frank, but it was thorough, the yearning swirling in Donovan’s gaze more potent than anything overtly sexual.
It was the most innocent eye fucking Beck had ever endured, but he felt it everywhere. Filling his chest, tightening his lungs, squeezing his gut. And yeah, wrapping like a fist around his cock. Donovan’s hunger was lying dormant, like a banked fire. What would it take, Beck wondered, to get that flame flickering to life and burning out of control?
Exploding into a fireball?
“I’ll see to Wally,” Donovan said, oblivious to the thoughts sliding seductively through Beck’s hyperactive imagination. “Then I’ll drive you home.”
Beck shook his head. “And miss out on seeing you climb up a tree to save a little old lady’s cat?” He grinned as he opened the door. “Not in a million years.”
Chapter Three
Beck didn’t think there was a gay man alive capable of not checking out Donovan Bane’s ass as he climbed the massive Japanese maple tree that seemed to take up the entire front yard of his neighbour’s property. He sure as shit did. It might have been raining and dark, but Mrs. Connor had handed him a torch and told him to light Donovan’s way, and who was he to disappoint a sweet, little old lady?
Was it his fault that the powerful beam managed to spotlight the climbing man to perfection, allowing him to ogle all that magnificence? It was hard not to, what with the cling of those very wet shorts showcasing glutes that were so round and taut Beck actually salivated at the thought of sinking his teeth into them. And then there was the back view of his thick legs, hamstrings and calves working in beautiful tandem.
Yes, indeed—Donovan was one very big boy.
God knew, Beck was no sapling. At six-foot-two and a hundred kilos, he was broad-chested with well-defined abs. And quads and calves (thanks to cycling) that most would consider big. But compared to Donovan, who probably had him by thirty kilos or so and was just plain thick through the chest and abs and legs, Beck was positively lean.
For a guy built like a tank, he was surprisingly agile, though, his step light as he powered upward toward the cat. If it had been any other tree, Beck might have worried that the branches would break under the strain of supporting such a huge frame, but the big limbs were solid and gnarled with age, barely giving at all beneath Donovan’s weight.
“He’s such a good boy to me,” Mrs. Connor said affectionately, projecting her crackly voice over the noise of the rain.
They were standing under the overhang of the roof that extended out from the front door to form a porch. There was no light, other than the outward beam of the torch, but it kept them relatively dry in the inclement weather. “I’m very lucky to have him as a neighbour.”
Lucky to have that kind of eye candy on call night and day? Hell yes, she was. “Good neighbours are a godsend,” Beck replied, smiling down at the woman, who beamed back, clearly thrilled they were on the same wavelength.
Beck was great with grandmothers. Flirting and grandmothers.
And blowjobs.
Because it was difficult to be getting such a glorious view of Donovan’s back and not think about the front. About how much he’d like to take what he was sure would be a very impressive erection in his mouth and blow both Donovan’s cock and his mind. Had he ever had a blowjob by a man before? Just because he’d never admitted out loud he was gay to a guy before didn’t mean he didn’t have an arrangement with some discrete dude or service, perhaps, for the purpose of sexual release.
Although Beck hoped not. Because he couldn’t deny, the idea of him being Donovan’s first was fast becoming an obsession. Sure, closeted guys were off Beck’s relationship radar, but potentially introducing this guy to the delights of another man’s body was firmly on his sexy-times radar.
Not that such thoughts were exactly respectable, standing next to a woman who’d proudly told him she was eighty-six and a great-grandmother six times over. Beck filed those thoughts under spank bank and ordered the horny little devil that had been riding his shoulder since Monday to shut up.
“He’s nearly there,” Mrs. Connor said.
Her hand fluttered absently near her throat as she watched Donovan inch closer to her very bedraggled cat. Wally’s fur was soaked and clinging to his body like Donovan’s shorts were clinging to his ass. Except beneath the fur the cat was impressively skinny, and beneath those shorts, Donovan was impressively not.
Even through the shroud of pissing rain, the cat was visibly trembling as Donovan reached out his hand. It didn’t move from its spot, however, and Beck watched as Donovan inched a little closer, sliding his arm around the cat’s middle and lifting. Wally, though, was not having any of it as he clung to the branch for grim death, protesting the intervention with hissing and a meow loud enough to be heard over the rain. But Donovan persisted, and eventually, the cat unfurled his claws.
“Oh…he did it!” Mrs. Connor exclaimed, clapping her hands.
Beck smiled. “He did.” And he thanked the universe that he’d been here to witness the Donovan Bane, pro rugby god, in the role of cat rescuer.
Tucking the animal beneath his arm, Donovan shimmied much more cautiously down the tree, which meant Beck got to watch the show all over again—in reverse. And slow motion. He wasn’t sure which one he appreciated more, but for damn sure he’d be turning that conundrum over and over in his head.
Often. At night. In bed.
Bloody hell. Get a grip. He was wearing Lycra for fuck’s sake. When it was dry, that stuff showed every line and bump of his body. When it was wet? The damn thing showed which side he dressed.
About a foot from the ground, Wally obviously decided he was close enough to make a break for it. He squirmed before leaping out of Donovan’s arms and splashing down in the sodden grass that surrounded the base of the tree.
“Wally!” Mrs. Connor bent over and clicked a few times in the cat’s direction. “Here, my darling. You poor thing. Come to Mummy.”
The cat strutted over, tail flicking, like he’d just returned fit and fabulous from a day at the spa, not looking like he’d just cashed in one of his nine lives.
“There, there,” she soothed as she swept Wally into her arms, kissing the wet fur between his eyes several times. “That was so naughty, Wally. Naughty. Naughty. Naughty.” She emphasised each naughty with another kiss.
Beck vaguely heard the cat purring appreciatively, but he only had eyes for Donovan coming toward him through the heavy cloak of rain centred in the beam of the torch. His sodden clothes revealed the full extent of his mass, his T-shirt streaked with grime from the bark like some kind of arboreal skid mark.
A potent rush of desire whammied Beck, kicking up his heartbeat and flooding heat to his groin. He’d been attracted to Donovan from the get-go, but striding toward him like a superhero from the dark, complete with shiny fucking halo over his head?
Christ…he wanted this man.
A fact that was patently obvious now to anyone who bothered to look in the general vicinity of his crotch. Beck thanked his lucky stars for the lack of light as he switched off the torch and used it as a prop to hide his erection.
“Oh, thank you,” Mrs. Connor said, her voice thick with emotion as Donovan joined them under the porch. “I’m terribly sorry about this. You are so good to me.” She looked down at Wally. “Say thank you, Wally.”
Wally eyed his rescuer with disdain but did manage to mutter a tiny meow, which earned him a beaming smile from Mummy. “Why don’t you both come in and get dry? I can make some hot chocolate, and I have some jam drops I made this afternoon looking to make themselves at home in some stomachs.”
“No thanks, Mrs. Connor,” Donovan said with a smile. “We’ll get dry at my place then I need to get Beckett home.”
His announcement rang with finality and maybe desperation. And even though Donovan wasn’t looking at him, Beck was getting the message, loud and clear. He was drawing a line under their night. Signalling this deviation from their journey was over.
Beck suppressed a smile. Donovan needn’t have bothered. As much as Beck would love to stage a seduction, Donovan had probably come far enough for one night. He was going to need to process a bunch of stuff.
They bade goodbye to Mrs. Connor, who picked up Wally’s paw and waved it at them before heading inside. It took a matter of seconds to cross to Donovan’s house, and Beck waited patiently for the door to open. A light snapped on and was temporarily blocked as Donovan stepped through the doorway, taking up nearly all the space. Beck followed him in, shutting the door then leaning his ass against it while he took in the surroundings.
He was standing in a large, open floorplan with four distinct zones. A living area dominated by a huge wall-mounted television to his left. Behind that, a dining area, with a solid wooden table. Along the back wall to the right ran a modern kitchen with white marble benchtops, gleaming fixtures, and a long breakfast bar that housed the sink and sectioned off the last zone to Beck’s immediate right, which had several bookshelves, a low couch with plump, comfy cushions, two colourful bean bags, and a desk with a computer.
A hallway ran off an open doorway between the kitchen and dining areas, where Beck presumed the bedrooms and bathroom could be found. The high raked ceilings were dominated by large wooden beams, the furnishings and fixtures were excellent quality, the tiles underfoot were glossy, and the colour scheme had the subtle classiness that came with an expensive interior decorator.
Clearly what the house lacked in panache on the outside, it made up for in quality on the inside, yet it was also unexpected. Beck figured there’d be more overt signs of masculinity. Framed football jerseys on the walls. Impossibly heavy weights strewn on the floor. Sporting trophies cluttering shelves.
There were a couple of trophies in the bookshelves, but both seemed to be for swimming with a female figure on top of each one. There were also several medals hanging over the edge of one shelf, their neck ribbons anchored around the base of a pink-and-blue unicorn statue.
Donovan’s daughter’s, Beck presumed.
The house was impressively clean and neat. No dishes cluttered the sink, no discarded pizza boxes or beer cans littered the living areas, and there was no pile up of mail or other paraphernalia on either the dining table or the breakfast bar. Was he a slob who employed a cleaning service? Or was he a neat freak?
Beck’s gaze drifted over to Donovan, who was dumping his keys on the breakfast bar and toeing off his wet shoes at the same time. He contemplated asking him to not stop at the shoes but didn’t. “My hero,” he said instead, smiling a little as Donovan’s frame stiffened.
Slowly, the man turned to face him. “Beckett.”
Beckett. Man, even with the warning in his voice, Beck liked the way Donovan called him by his full name. When only two other people in the entire world called him that, it imbued the name with an intimacy that he really, really liked.
It sure a shit wasn’t helping the state of his dick.
“Yes, Donovan?” Beck grinned with an expression of faux innocence. He liked the way that name rolled off his tongue.
Donovan liked it, too, if the flare of his nostrils was any indication. He opened his mouth then shut it again, their gazes locking for long moments before Donovan broke the contact. But he didn’t look away. Oh no. He looked down. His gaze dropped to travel over Beck’s body with breath-snatching intensity.
Beck forgot about how soaked he was and the water running off him into a puddle on Donovan’s floor as his flesh lit up, long licks of flame evaporating every water droplet in its path. His neck, his chest, his abs, his thighs all touched by the heat. The taut sling of muscle stretching from one hip bone to the other and, between, the hard line of his cock.
It was impossible to hide the erection, so Beck didn’t even try. In fact, he shoved his hands on his hips, framing his arousal, and lifted his chin as the other man looked his fill. He refused to be ashamed of a perfectly normal bodily function. And maybe, if Donovan could see how comfortable Beck was about the situation, he’d start to open himself up to possibilities.
After long, excruciating moments, Donovan dragged his gaze back to Beck’s face, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “Beckett.”
Beck shut his eyes briefly as he dropped his hands to his side. God…this guy. The husky ache in his voice was so damn raw it hurt Beck’s throat. The clash of emotions in his eyes was just as painful to witness. The desire was plain, but so was the hesitancy. The anxiety. And maybe even a little fear.
Of the unknown? Of stepping into something new. Of what he wanted?
Of how much he wanted it?
Beck wouldn’t have thought it possible to see such a big, vital guy so damn motionless. Torn between what he wanted and what he wouldn’t allow himself to have, the limitations that held him in precarious check stretching thinner and thinner with each passing second making him cling even harder.
The competing forces played out in his tormented gaze, and hell if Beck didn’t want to cross the damn room and launch himself at Donovan. Make the first move. Take that big hand and shove it down his Lycra bike pants, wrap those big fingers around his throbbing erection while he kissed Donovan within an inch of his life.
But…not tonight.
Donovan needed some time and space now. Nothing much might have happened on the surface, but underneath it all, it had been a big night for the big guy. The conflict in his gaze said it all, and Beck didn’t want to be that guy. The one who took advantage of a situation to fulfill his own selfish needs.
He had no doubt he could show Donovan Bane a damn good time. Hell, the mere thought of initiating him into the delights of guy-on-guy was keeping his erection fully loaded. But their coming together would be so much better when Donovan came to him of his own volition.
If Donovan came to him of his own volition.
Clearing his throat, Beck said, “Is the bathroom”—he pointed at the door leading to the hallway—“through there?”
The enquiry snapped Donovan out of his inertia, and he straightened, leaning against the bench as he blew out a steady breath. “Second door on the right. Laundry is third on the right for the clean clothes.”
Beck nodded as he toed off his sodden shoes. “Thanks.” And he headed for the open doorway, conscious of Donovan’s gaze like a laser burning right between his shoulder blades.
…
Donovan had been pacing the floor near the front door for five minutes, the car keys in his pocket jingling with each footfall. He’d waited until he’d heard the bathroom door close and had bolted to his bedroom and the attached en suite to dry off and change his clothes. All while trying not to think about Beckett.
About how he’d asked the question tonight without asking the question—gently and without judgment. About his teasing and his flirting and how good he’d been with Mrs. Connor. And about that fucking erection. About the way he’d put his hands on his hips, emphasising its existence and daring Donovan to keep looking.
Jesus. How could he not when presented with the blatant evidence of the other man’s arousal? Even torn between the urge to walk right over, sink to his knees, pull down those flimsy, wet shorts, and suck that cock deep into his mouth and blind panic, he couldn’t drag his gaze away.
Knowing Beckett was in that state because of him had been terrifying and dizzying all at once. Especially given he’d not done or said anything remotely sexy. He hadn’t gotten close enough to touch, and he’d barely said a word to him since Mrs. Connor’s phone call.
Donovan had lived long enough to know that arousal didn’t need any overt provocation, but really, he’d been…whatever the opposite of a turn-on was? A bucket of cold water? Not to mention supremely fucking awkward.
Which meant Beckett must just plain desire him.
Sure, he’d been aware of the vibe between them from the start, had sensed the other man’s interest from the get-go. God knew he’d had quite a few Beckett-induced erections himself. But surely someone getting it as often as Beckett must be wasn’t in the kind of hair-trigger state that was all too familiar to Donovan.
Surely he had better control?
Okay, yeah, scrap that bullshit. Donovan shook his head free of the preposterous thought. Since when, if ever, had Donovan’s dick obeyed him? That fucker had a mind of its own. Penises weren’t known for their controllability, and where Beckett was concerned, Donovan’s had gone totally rogue.
Which was why he was driving the dude home then avoiding him like the plague.
“What washing powder do you use in your machine? Your clothes are soft as down, and they smell like strawberries and sweet, warm milk.”
Donovan startled a little. He’d been so deep in thought he hadn’t heard Beckett pad into the room with his bare feet. Glancing at him as he approached, whatever the other man had said stopped computing. Donovan was not prepared for the sight of Beckett in his clothes. He looked fucking hot in the plain navy T-shirt and a pair of drawstring basketball shorts that always sat just above his knee, but on Beckett, they came to just under.
Unlike his bike clothes, these were definitely on the baggy side—thankfully hiding any residual hard-on—but a swell of possession stormed Donovan’s defences. The kind of sensation he usually only got when he’d plucked the ball from the air just before it got to an opponent’s fingers and ran it down to the try line with the crowd screaming his name.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
It roared through his ears and filled his chest, rising like helium, lodging in his throat.
“Donovan?” The question was low and silky, Beckett’s eyebrow quirked, a small, playful smile on his mouth. “Your laundry detergent?” he prompted.
