the kitchen for this long, but it was still early. Once people got their initial introductions out of the way, they’d spread out.
“Hey, Rick.”
Rick turned to Kurt, intending to say something outrageous. The man didn’t fluster—much—but he did love seeing Davy come to his aid.
Instead, though, he looked at Kurt, and couldn’t speak. It wasn’t hard to imagine Ian’s dark hair and light-blue eyes taking the place of Kurt’s auburn hair and dark-blue eyes. Which sent his mind leaping all over the place, imagining Kurt doing the intimate, exciting things to him that Ian had. He wasn’t nearly as attracted to Kurt as he’d thought at first, and their bodies were shaped differently, but he couldn’t help but feel almost like he’d fucked Kurt, and the sensation was so disconcerting it had stolen his voice.
How in the hell did people actually fuck brothers, either at the same time or serially? Rick was weirded out in a way he never expected.
The looks of concern he got from both Kurt and Davy were impetus enough to push a few words out. “Uh, hi, Kurt.”
Judging by the frown drawing Kurt’s brows together, Rick hadn’t managed to display even a modicum of his usual flair.
A hot, fiery flush lit up his cheeks as he suddenly wondered if Kurt’s dick was built along the same lines as Ian’s. Then he flushed even hotter, because Rick never got embarrassed about sex. Never. He’d mentally undressed Kurt and imagined them fucking every time they’d hung out, although he would never, ever do such a thing in real life. Not to Davy. Not even if Kurt and Davy broke up. His friendships were more important than sex with anyone. But not once, not until he’d gone home with Ian after meeting him at Anaconda, had he ever felt awkward.
Davy nudged his shoulder. “You okay?”
No, he didn’t think so. “I just need a drink. Long day.” Not a lie. This was the one Saturday a month he saw clients and it was always packed from start to finish, with barely time to breathe in between, never mind necessities like eating or pissing. If it had been anyone besides Davy—or perhaps Jon—he would have declined the invitation, because a Saturday client day drained him like few things could. The dead squirrel hadn’t helped either.
Kurt nodded. “Sure thing. We’ve got more of that wine you and Davy polished off a couple of weeks ago. Davy said you were off tequila.”
The blush had started to recede, but Kurt’s words made it return. There was no recrimination in Kurt’s tone, only amusement. But he’d been here drinking that day because of Ian.
“Super. Is it in the fridge? I can get it.” But Kurt blocked him and bent into the fridge to get the bottle. Like a train wreck, Rick couldn’t help but stare at Kurt’s ass, and speculate and compare and….
“Got a glass?”
Rick jumped at the unexpected question. He hadn’t even noticed Kurt standing up and turning around. Nor had he noticed Davy leaving the kitchen.
Kurt stepped closer and leaned into him. Rick pressed back into the counter and peered frantically over Kurt’s shoulder, both praying for and dreading a rescue, but entirely unable to force his muscles to obey a command to escape. Surely Kurt wasn’t…. Davy would never forgive him, never speak to him again.
Rick stared up at Kurt, confused, afraid, and flustered as all hell, when suddenly Kurt smirked and pulled back, presenting Rick with the wine glass he’d retrieved from the shelf above Rick’s head.
Relief flooded him so strongly his knees weakened. Grabbing the glass with his right hand, he used his left to clutch at the counter, keeping himself upright.
He congratulated himself on exhibiting nothing more than a faint tremor that didn’t affect Kurt’s pour one bit.
Like he knew Rick was going to drain the glass dry the second his back was turned, Kurt smiled and set the open wine bottle on the counter next to Rick’s white-knuckled left hand.
Kurt gestured at a dish of
“Hey, Rick.”
Rick turned to Kurt, intending to say something outrageous. The man didn’t fluster—much—but he did love seeing Davy come to his aid.
Instead, though, he looked at Kurt, and couldn’t speak. It wasn’t hard to imagine Ian’s dark hair and light-blue eyes taking the place of Kurt’s auburn hair and dark-blue eyes. Which sent his mind leaping all over the place, imagining Kurt doing the intimate, exciting things to him that Ian had. He wasn’t nearly as attracted to Kurt as he’d thought at first, and their bodies were shaped differently, but he couldn’t help but feel almost like he’d fucked Kurt, and the sensation was so disconcerting it had stolen his voice.
How in the hell did people actually fuck brothers, either at the same time or serially? Rick was weirded out in a way he never expected.
The looks of concern he got from both Kurt and Davy were impetus enough to push a few words out. “Uh, hi, Kurt.”
Judging by the frown drawing Kurt’s brows together, Rick hadn’t managed to display even a modicum of his usual flair.
A hot, fiery flush lit up his cheeks as he suddenly wondered if Kurt’s dick was built along the same lines as Ian’s. Then he flushed even hotter, because Rick never got embarrassed about sex. Never. He’d mentally undressed Kurt and imagined them fucking every time they’d hung out, although he would never, ever do such a thing in real life. Not to Davy. Not even if Kurt and Davy broke up. His friendships were more important than sex with anyone. But not once, not until he’d gone home with Ian after meeting him at Anaconda, had he ever felt awkward.
Davy nudged his shoulder. “You okay?”
No, he didn’t think so. “I just need a drink. Long day.” Not a lie. This was the one Saturday a month he saw clients and it was always packed from start to finish, with barely time to breathe in between, never mind necessities like eating or pissing. If it had been anyone besides Davy—or perhaps Jon—he would have declined the invitation, because a Saturday client day drained him like few things could. The dead squirrel hadn’t helped either.
Kurt nodded. “Sure thing. We’ve got more of that wine you and Davy polished off a couple of weeks ago. Davy said you were off tequila.”
The blush had started to recede, but Kurt’s words made it return. There was no recrimination in Kurt’s tone, only amusement. But he’d been here drinking that day because of Ian.
“Super. Is it in the fridge? I can get it.” But Kurt blocked him and bent into the fridge to get the bottle. Like a train wreck, Rick couldn’t help but stare at Kurt’s ass, and speculate and compare and….
“Got a glass?”
Rick jumped at the unexpected question. He hadn’t even noticed Kurt standing up and turning around. Nor had he noticed Davy leaving the kitchen.
Kurt stepped closer and leaned into him. Rick pressed back into the counter and peered frantically over Kurt’s shoulder, both praying for and dreading a rescue, but entirely unable to force his muscles to obey a command to escape. Surely Kurt wasn’t…. Davy would never forgive him, never speak to him again.
Rick stared up at Kurt, confused, afraid, and flustered as all hell, when suddenly Kurt smirked and pulled back, presenting Rick with the wine glass he’d retrieved from the shelf above Rick’s head.
Relief flooded him so strongly his knees weakened. Grabbing the glass with his right hand, he used his left to clutch at the counter, keeping himself upright.
He congratulated himself on exhibiting nothing more than a faint tremor that didn’t affect Kurt’s pour one bit.
Like he knew Rick was going to drain the glass dry the second his back was turned, Kurt smiled and set the open wine bottle on the counter next to Rick’s white-knuckled left hand.
Kurt gestured at a dish of
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