Chapter 52
Especially since Andy was pushing Scooter to overturn his rules, the ones he had good reasons to keep. Andy could endure a few more cases of blue balls and frantically jerking off in the shower, if it made Scooter happier, right?
He took a breath and let it out on a sigh. “Okay. If that’s what you want.” He slanted a look at Scooter from under his lashes. “I hope you realize this makes you even more of a dork, though.”
Scooter stopped and peered at him, like he was practicing his best Kat mind-reading skills, but the slight wobble to his mouth indicated he wasn’t having a lot of success with that. “I want it to be what we want, Andy,” he said. “You’re important to me. I don’t want to…mess it up. But don’t think it’s because I don’t want you. I do. I want you, so bad. It won’t be too long. Can barely keep my hands off you as it is.”
Andy shook his head, grinning. “I’ve never heard someone be so careful about consent to nothave sex,” he teased. He squeezed Scooter’s hand. “Pretty sure you felt just how much I want you, but I…I know you’re reaching out of your comfort zone here. Taking a chance. Be a pretty shitty way to kick things off if I wasn’t willing to meet you halfway, right?”
Scooter breathed out, slow, and drew Andy into a close embrace. He pressed his mouth against Andy’s forehead and then rested his chin on top of Andy’s head; it was nice, how neatly they fit together. Under Scooter’s thin shirt, his heart pounded in time with the rushing surf. “Okay, okay, that’s good then.”
Somewhat to Andy’s surprise, given how desperate he’d been earlier, it wasgood. It didn’t remind him any of the compromises he’d made to keep Nick happy, compromises that had stealthily inched their way into whatever it was Nick wanted. It was clean, like he was doing it for the right reasons—not to keep his lover from being upset or angry, but to help him be more comfortable. Andy really, reallywanted to go to bed with Scooter, but more than that, he really reallywanted Scooter not to regret it. A weight had lifted from his shoulders that he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying. He wrapped his arms tighter around Scooter’s waist and let himself enjoy this, just this. 21
Scooter was an idiot. He stood in the shower, panting, and ran down the whole extensive list of every sort of idiot he was. It didn’t really help.
It had seemed like a good idea last night on the beach. Andy still seemed so unsure of everything, it had been important that they should take some time, ease into this change in their relationship. Fucking on the couch was all well and good (not that he’d ever brought a lover back to his place) but he wanted to make sure Andy was…a hundred percent certain. And Scooter, too. He was breaking rules he’d put in place for a damn good reason, and he wanted it to be a damn good reason. And no matter how much he wanted it, a quick fuck wasn’t a good reason.
And God, he wanted it. He’d have been happy to take what he was being offered, no questions asked, if he hadn’t been keeping those rules. If Andy’s wellbeing wasn’t more important than Scooter’s dick.
That had all seemed rational and reasonable. They’d stopped at Andy’s door and he’d kissed Andy goodnight. For…a while. Trick hadn’t been too thrilled with that idea—or maybe he’d been a little too thrilled—and had gotten up on his hind legs to lick at both of them, which meant Scooter had gotten a mouthful of dog tongue. Not sexy.
And then Andy had gone inside and Scooter had gone back to his own apartment and jerked off. There was no way he was going to sleep without somerelief. Then he’d woken up at three in the damn morning and done it again. And just before dawn, he’d been tormented with images of Andy in his head and empty arms. Christ.He hadn’t wanked off this much since he was a teenager.
Scooter dried himself, toweling his hair vigorously. He needed to get out for a while and get his head on straight, or despite his best intentions he was going to take Andy coffee this morning, instead of coffee.
He poured Andy’s coffee into a travel mug, wrote out a sticky note—Headed up to the ‘burg. Back at lunch—and left them on the rail. He was in his truck with the music cranked before the sun was fully up. He parked at Colonial Williamsburg and was walking down Duke of Gloucester Street by seven, watching the costumed interpreters headed off to their jobs. There was a faint, familiar ache there; his mother hadn’t been a professional historical interpreter, but she’d been a hobbyist reenactor since before he was born. She’d have been pointing out the quality of the cloth, admiring the cut of a particular stomacher or trying to work out the intricacies of a certain hairstyle.