Chapter One #2
“You rescued me from the crowd. What a mob scene,” Ryan said. He was a terrible actor, like he wasn’t even trying. There was a conspiratorial glimmer in his dark eyes, and Wyatt wanted to just swallow the lame story and take him up on everything he was offering.
What would be the danger in that? Wyatt swallowed hard.
“At least,” Ryan continued, “you could be a gentleman and offer to take me home. Especially after I followed you out here.” He arched an eyebrow, and Wyatt wanted to be pinned underneath him, skin to skin, muscles clenched, the next time he did that.
“I could do that.” Wyatt didn’t even recognize the sound of his own voice.
It wasn’t like he didn’t hook up occasionally.
There was a decent gay community in Napa, and San Francisco was only a few hours away if he wanted something even more anonymous.
But he’d never hooked up with anyone famous or anyone he’d helplessly stared at from across the bar for three hours.
“I brought my bike,” Wyatt added. “I hope that’s okay.”
Ryan grinned. He’d smiled more in the last two minutes than Wyatt remembered from the last three hours. That couldn’t have something to do with him, could it? “You wanna take me for a ride . . .” Ryan hesitated.
“Wyatt,” he said, flushing, embarrassed that he hadn’t introduced himself earlier. “I’m Wyatt.” Flustered, he extended his hand, reminding him of the last job interview he’d gone on. Which was stupid, because this wasn’t anything like that.
But Ryan took it anyway. His hand was big and ridged with callouses—similar to Wyatt’s own knife-scarred digits, but just different enough to be exciting. Electricity flowed, making his fingers tingle, and he gripped Ryan’s hand harder. Ryan’s eyes crinkled with amusement.
“I’m Ryan.”
“I know,” Wyatt said stupidly. They weren’t even shaking hands anymore, but holding them, and Wyatt wanted to hold more. He wanted to hold it all.
He wanted to know what those callouses felt like, deep inside him. He wanted to know if Ryan laughed in bed. He wanted to know if that tan went everywhere, or if there was paler, softer skin in places that the public didn’t see.
Wyatt ignored the voice that said he couldn’t have those things, and gripped Ryan’s hand harder. He could be a different person, at least for tonight.
“Take me home,” Ryan said quietly, earnestly, and Wyatt knew he was asking for something else completely.
He fully intended to take Ryan up on every single damn thing he was offering.
His motorcycle was around the corner, and when Wyatt tugged Ryan the right direction, to his surprise, Ryan held onto his hand. Refused to let go.
Wyatt told his ramshackle closet to fuck off, and they held hands the handful of blocks to where his bike was parked.
His hand was damp with nerves and the sharp pings of excitement flooding through his veins.
His mind was swamped with a hundred fantasies, a thousand things he was dying to do with Ryan.
But Wyatt knew he was only going to get a few hours.
Maybe. If he was really fucking lucky. So he settled for the one that kept pushing itself to the forefront, and let out a shaky breath as Ryan settled behind him on his bike and wrapped his arms around Wyatt’s waist.
His grip was tight, and Wyatt let his own hand drift down, fingertips grazing the muscular forearm resting against his t-shirt. He swore he felt goose bumps, and told himself to focus, before he killed them both.
Ryan hadn’t told him where he lived, and that was fine by Wyatt, because he had no intention of taking him home just yet.
He’d grown up in the LA area, before going to culinary school in New York, and the first thing he’d done when coming back to the west coast was re-acquaint himself with all the best biking roads around Mulholland and the Santa Monica mountains.
He took them now, opening up the throttle, feeling the wind rush through his hair, Ryan’s arms a steady, exhilarating pressure, never letting Wyatt forget what was at the end of this drive.
Well, not quite the end of the drive.
He took them to his favorite lookout, the one he’d come to as a teenager on his old shitty Indian, when he’d needed to get away from his brothers.
He wasn’t running away from his brothers now, and he had a split second of nerves as he pulled into the dirt turnoff.
Ryan’s hands tensed around him, and then relaxed again.
Wyatt parked his bike, and twisted in the seat, still ready to offer an apology, when calloused palms reached up, cradled his cheeks, his chin.
Then Ryan’s mouth was on his, and it was scorching with determination and purpose, tongue almost immediately in Wyatt’s mouth, and he could only think, I’ve got to feel those lips and that tongue on my dick before the night is out.
It would be okay—he could be fine with only hooking up with Ryan for one night. He had to be. Because he couldn’t imagine Ryan meant anything else. He was a broke line chef, not even a sous, who was still hiding from his grandmother.
There wasn’t a lot that Wyatt could be proud of, but Ryan wanted him, and he intended to make good on it. Ryan climbed off the bike and Wyatt swung his legs around, leaning back against it, cradling Ryan between his legs.
His hands searched under Ryan’s t-shirt, encountering tight, warm skin, only the tiniest bit chilled from their ride, and all those muscles he’d imagined he would find.
Rippling abs, a pec that fit flawlessly into his hand.
A tiny pebbled nipple that made Ryan groan into his mouth when Wyatt flicked it experimentally.
As far as Wyatt was concerned, Ryan went for his belt buckle too soon.
Yeah, he was definitely hard, and he imagined Ryan would be too, if he followed the soft trail of hair down his chest, through the cut muscles of his abdomen.
But he didn’t want it to end so fast. He wanted more than just a quick, blazingly hot hand job.
Even if they were on his bike and the road was just over there and anyone could drive by.
There was only a dim streetlight a few hundred yards away, but Wyatt could still see the dark intensity of Ryan’s gaze as he pulled back. “You don’t want to?” Ryan questioned, and there was definite disappointment in his voice.
Wyatt’s voice was rough. “I’ve spent the whole night imagining this. Of course I want to.”
“Then how do you want it?” Ryan gave Wyatt an experimental stroke through his jeans and his boxers, and he groaned.
Yeah, he wanted those graceful and calloused hands all over his dick, but he also wanted his swollen lips wrapped around his cock.
He wanted Ryan to bend him over the leather seat and open him wide to the cool night air, his thumbs brushing the inside of his cheeks and the furl of his hole.
He wanted to fuck Ryan until they were both crying with it.
He wanted too much, and he’d experienced enough of life to know you never got everything you wanted. It was always better to temper your expectations. The problem was Wyatt couldn’t do that tonight.
Not with Ryan.
He was still a stranger, but it didn’t matter. Every time Ryan touched him, he went out of his mind. Every time Ryan smiled, it was the sweetest, most satisfying moment Wyatt had experienced in months. Maybe even in years.
But Wyatt knew he couldn’t say any of that to Ryan. Not when he was clearly just looking for a quick hookup, so he kissed him instead. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe that a kiss could make Ryan understand, but without the words, it was all he had.
He couldn’t whisper it, and he couldn’t scream it from the top of the tallest building in LA. His mouth, his hands, his body. That’s what he had left.
Wyatt knew Ryan couldn’t understand, but it was easy to imagine he had, because the kiss morphed from a solid wall of heat to something softer, something less driving and more meandering. A kiss that meant that they could take their time, even if they were on the side of the road.
Ryan followed Wyatt’s lead and his fingers drifted up his abs, to his chest, touching everything under his t-shirt that he could reach.
Between kisses, Ryan murmured, “Are you sure you aren’t a pro athlete?” He paused. “You’re built like a fucking wall.”
Wyatt took that as the compliment it was. “I’m actually a chef,” he admitted.
Ryan laughed a little into the corner of Wyatt’s mouth.
His lips felt two sizes too big, and achingly sensitive, but he couldn’t stop kissing Ryan.
Couldn’t get enough of the wondrous drugging feeling that took him over whenever their lips touched.
Like everything, even if it all felt like it was going to shit, would be okay.
His dick was a solid, throbbing reminder that he was horny as hell, and just groping every inch of Ryan he could wasn’t going to be enough. Or vice versa.
Finally, before Wyatt could say, maybe I’ve finally had enough, Ryan exhaled with a sharp, ragged breath and begged.
“Can I, please?” he murmured into a particularly sensitive spot just behind Wyatt’s ear.
And because Wyatt didn’t give a shit what Ryan wanted to do—he wanted whatever Ryan wanted—he simply nodded.
Ryan’s hands went back to his jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping them, gently and carefully so that they didn’t send the bike toppling over.
Not for the first time, Wyatt wondered if maybe he should have let the fantasy go, but then Ryan gestured for Wyatt to prop himself up against the bike, and lowered his mouth to the wet patch on his boxers.
His fingers dug into the leather seat, trying to steady himself, to control himself, as Ryan flicked out his tongue, tasting the wet of his pre-come on the cotton. When Ryan groaned, Wyatt had to echo him. It was so damn good already, and he’d barely touched him.