Chapter Nine #2
Xander gritted his teeth. “I don’t feel that way, no. Bastian Aquino is an asshole who emotionally manipulates people. Especially his employees. Damon couldn’t do that even if he wanted to. He doesn’t have it in him.”
“His father is Nathan Hess.” Nate’s expression was incredulous. “You clearly know a little of what he’s like. I know Damon doesn’t like him much, but I’d worry, if I were you.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you aren’t,” Xander said. “If I save you some leftovers will you leave me alone to finish this in peace?”
“The truth hurts, sometimes, doesn’t it?”
“You sound like a smarmy Bond villain,” Xander pointed out. “If I give you some ravioli, will that serve as an apology for how I used you terribly?”
Nate chuckled. “It might, if it was a real apology?”
“Just so we’re clear, I’m not apologizing for the kiss. I’m apologizing for . . .” Xander tried to find a reason that made sense that wasn’t about the kiss, and his sluggish brain wouldn’t respond.
“The kiss.” Nate rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I get it. Apology accepted.”
The first thing Damon smelled when he stepped outside was the rich scent of the earth after baking all afternoon in the hot sun.
It was one of his favorite scents, especially when the land he was smelling was his own.
His father might show up and issue threats, but this land was still Damon’s, and as far as he was concerned, it was going to stay his as long as he was in one piece.
He dragged the hose and sprinklers over to the first set of plants. A more professional garden might have in-bed sprinklers, and there were some nights when Damon wished he had them, but he’d also discovered there was a soothing peace to each night’s work, tending his garden in the dusk.
If the restaurant failed, yes, he might have to work another job to pay the property taxes on it—the property taxes Damon’s grandfather had ensured would always be paid by gifting him a trust upon his death.
Grandpa might not be very happy that Damon was spending all that nice, safe property tax money on a restaurant, but he’d also always wanted Damon to fulfill his dreams.
He might be back to construction again, but Damon had made his peace with that possibility. If the worst came to pass, and the Barrel House wasn’t a success, the only thing that worried him was Xander.
Xander was depending on him—and on himself—to carve out a niche for now and for a long time to come. Damon was going to do everything he could to make that dream a reality.
“You haven’t started yet.”
Damon glanced up and Xander was standing there, fists on his hips, dressed in a white tank top and a pair of running shorts.
There was a lot of firm, tanned, muscled skin on display, and Damon swallowed hard.
He knew what he wanted; he just wanted Xander to trust that he wanted it.
To stop questioning whether he’d change his mind.
He wasn’t going to. He’d known embarrassingly early in their high school courtship that he was going to marry Rachel. And he’d known from the first moment they’d met that Xander was going to be important to him.
Damon definitely wasn’t ready for Xander to know just how important yet. Here Xander was, terrified that Damon was going to get cold feet about having a guy for a partner, when in reality, Damon was afraid he was going to move too fast or demonstrate too much commitment.
It was an ironic situation that might have been funnier if it was a little cooler outside and he didn’t want Xander quite so much.
Stop thinking so much, he told himself, and before he could question his own decision, stripped off his worn t-shirt, and couldn’t help but watch as Xander’s eyes grew big.
Damon knew he looked good; he’d started working out in earnest after rehab because he’d always liked to drink in the evenings and if his arms were too tired to even pick up a bottle, then there was a little less temptation.
“Are you okay?” Xander asked carefully.
Instead of answering, Damon turned the hose on him instead of on his carrots.
As the cold water hit him, Xander yelped, throwing his hands up.
“I take it back, I take it back,” Xander said, moving out of the way to try to dodge the spray after that first, frozen moment.
Damon might have been worried, but he was laughing so hard it was hard for him to avoid the stream of water from the hose.
“I thought you were hot,” Damon teased.
Xander slipped on a patch of muddy ground, and nearly lost his balance, but his recovery was excellent. He moved with the grace of an athlete—or a dancer—and Damon never wanted to stop watching.
He only realized too late that Xander wasn’t just trying to move out of the way of the water.
He was actively moving toward where Damon had plugged in one of his sprinklers.
He leaned down for a second, his wet running shorts plastered to his ass like a second skin, and Damon lost track of what it was he was supposed to be avoiding.
That incredible butt, toned and shapely and essentially begging for Damon to do terrible, wonderful things to it?
A cold spray of water to the face from the hose Xander had unhooked from the sprinkler had him gasping, but his thoughts hadn’t gotten any cleaner.
“You’re playing dirty,” Damon gasped through another burst of water to the face. He wasn’t going to tell Xander this, but it felt damn good after sweating all day.
Xander’s eyes narrowed, a bright smile blooming across his handsome face. “You love it,” he shot back.
He really did, and he never wanted Xander to stop. He loved every sneaky part of him, every achingly blunt part of his personality. Damon wanted it all, if only Xander would let him.
Damon turned the hose on himself, water cascading over his head. “I love this,” he teased. “But you could lean over again. Could use another firsthand bit of evidence to prove how much I love it.”
Following suit with his own, Xander turned his hose on himself, drenching every inch in water. His tank clung to every lean, muscular curve of his body, and Damon wanted to drop to his knees in the mud and beg.
I want to prove myself but I want to prove it to you first. Please let me touch you.
“Yeah,” Damon ground out, voice gruff and low, his erection growing despite the cold water he was pouring over himself, “yeah, I love that.”
Xander’s eyes sparkled with impudence as he sidled closer, letting Damon get a good look. He placed a cool palm on Damon’s bare chest, right where his heart beat hard and fast. “I love it too,” he said.
The hose dropped to the ground as Damon reached out and gripped Xander by his hips, dragging him those last few inches until they were plastered together.
“Is this what you want?” Damon demanded. “Tell me if it’s not because I can’t . . . I can’t. I’m not going to change my mind. I promise.”
Xander stared at him, mouth open, for a long moment. He must have felt Damon’s hard-on through his paper-thin shorts and Damon’s jeans—completely soaked and plastered to his thighs.
“You promise,” Xander stuttered back.
“I promise I’m not going to change my mind,” Damon vowed. “Because I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling pretty damn gay right now.”
Laughing, Xander ran his hands down Damon’s chest, tracing the trail of dark hair that led to his fly. “You know what? Me too.”
Damon decided that was all the agreement he needed, and bent his head down, kissing Xander fiercely.
Refusing to hold back anymore, he kissed him with all the desire that had been building inside him without a single outlet.
He hadn’t wanted to scare him away with all he was feeling, but the time for that had passed.
Xander had claimed he wanted honesty, so Damon was going to give him all the honesty he could handle.
Breaking the kiss, Xander panted into Damon’s neck, his breath hot against his skin. “Do you mean to tell me that we could have been doing that this whole time?”
Damon shrugged, feeling a little bashful about how much he wanted Xander—but not ashamed. He’d gotten over that in high school. He knew what he’d like, even if he’d never indulged in it before.
“I feel stupid,” Xander said, cradling his palms across Damon’s cheeks, stroking his beard, his neck, his ears, each pass of his fingers a graceful arc. His hands finally curled around Damon’s neck, thumbs rubbing the top of his spine.
Damon thought he looked like he wanted to say more, and decided that while they certainly hadn’t finished talking things through—not by a long shot—he was done talking for the night.
“Come on,” he said gruffly, reaching up and curling his hand around Xander’s bicep, tugging his hands away. “Let’s go inside.”
It felt like déjà vu, walking to the back door of the house, soaking wet, clumsily untying his boots while balancing against the doorjamb. But before, he hadn’t done it with a throbbing erection and he hadn’t dreamed about putting his hands all over the man next to him. Yet.
If he’d been thinking straight a year ago, he might have pushed Xander impatiently against the washing machine, but he fixed that mistake by doing exactly what he’d been dreaming of. Xander laughed brightly in between hot, unrelenting kisses, as he tried to shed his soaked tank top.
Then suddenly they were pressed together, damp skin to damp skin, nothing separating them, not even an excuse for why they should stop.
Damon half-expected Xander to produce one, but instead, his fingers trailed downwards, pausing at the top of his fly. He sucked in a hard breath, and Xander tucked in a fingertip, just stroking the skin of his lower abs.
“Please,” Damon whispered, as he touched his forehead briefly to Xander’s.
He flipped them, forcing Damon against the washing machine with a show of strength that somehow made him even harder. Xander opened the button with a flick of his fingers, and trailed them down his fly, fingers teasing and stroking along his hard length.