Chapter Five
Ever since Bayne had opened his eyes this morning, Clint had been fighting a losing battle with his thirst. At home was bad enough, but at the clinic?
Professional disaster. Every time Bayne’s arm brushed his while reaching for something, or when he caught that wild, earthy scent, Clint’s focus shattered.
He’d never fallen this hard, this fast. Last night he’d been a vet trying to save a massive wolf.
Today he was finding excuses to reorganize supplies just to keep his hands occupied because, otherwise, they might wander somewhere unprofessional.
Like across those broad shoulders or down that firm chest.
The struggle was real.
Twice he’d caught himself staring, mouth slightly open, while explaining something to a client. His patients were the only ones in the room with an excuse to pant.
Halfway to Hash it Out, smoke billowed from under the hood of a silver sedan blocking the intersection. Traffic backed up in both directions, while the driver—a woman in her sixties wearing a floral dress—stood beside the car looking ready to cry.
“Pull over,” Clint said without thinking. Old habits from growing up in a small town where everyone helped everyone. “Give me a second.”
Before Bayne could respond, Clint was out of the truck and jogging toward the woman. Acrid smoke stung his nostrils, mixing with the smell of burnt rubber and hot metal.
“Mrs. Kowalski?” Of course it was one of his clients. The universe had that kind of humor. “You okay?”
“Oh, Dr. Clint!” Her hands fluttered like nervous birds. “It just started smoking and making this terrible noise—”
Behind them, Bayne appeared with a fire extinguisher he’d grabbed from somewhere. Without a word, he popped the hood and sprayed down the engine block. White foam covered everything, killing the smoke instantly.
“Radiator hose,” Bayne said, poking around inside the mess. “Split right down the middle.”
Mrs. Kowalski’s eyes went wide. “Is it expensive?”
“Not if you know someone who can install it.” Bayne wiped his hands on his jeans, leaving streaks of grease. “Tow truck’s gonna take forever with this traffic.”
Clint already knew where this was heading. His stomach had been growling for the past hour, and now lunch was evaporating like the steam from Mrs. Kowalski's engine.
“My nephew runs a shop two blocks over,” Mrs. Kowalski said hopefully.
Twenty minutes later, after helping push the car to the curb and waiting for the nephew to arrive with a tow strap, Clint’s hunger had evolved into something closer to homicidal irritation.
Hash it Out would be packed by now. The lunch rush would mean at least a forty-minute wait, and he had appointments starting at one-thirty.
“My place is closer,” he said once they were back in the truck. “I’ve got leftovers. Maybe some actual food if we’re lucky.”
Back home, Mabel greeted them with her usual disdain, though she did wind around Bayne’s ankles twice before stalking off. Clint headed straight for the kitchen, desperate for something to do with his hands that didn’t involve touching his houseguest.
Refrigerator archaeology revealed pasta from two nights ago that still looked edible, half a block of cheese that hadn’t gone green, and bread that bent without breaking. Gourmet it wasn't, but it would keep them from starving.
“Grilled cheese and leftover spaghetti,” Clint announced, already heating a pan. “Living the bachelor dream.”
Bayne leaned against the doorframe, taking up all the space without trying. “Better than whatever Hash it Out would’ve served.”
“Liar. Their burgers are legendary.” Butter sizzled as Clint assembled sandwiches, trying to ignore how domestic this felt.
Making lunch for the wolf he’d saved.
Who was wearing his clothes.
In his kitchen.
While looking like sex on legs.
Professional. You’re a professional, so act like it.
Ten minutes later they sat across from each other at his small kitchen table, plates between them like a buffer zone.
Bayne ate with focus, cleaning his plate before Clint had managed half his sandwich.
Watching Bayne lick marinara sauce off his thumb should not have been a religious experience, but here Clint was, having revelations.
“Good?” he managed, voice only slightly strangled.
“Better than good.” Bayne pushed his empty plate aside, leaning back in the chair. The position pulled his shirt tight across his chest, outlining everything Clint had been trying not to think about.
Silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but charged. Clint became hyperaware of small sounds—the hum of the refrigerator, Mabel’s distant purring, his own breathing, which had gone shallow.
Bayne stood, chair scraping against linoleum. Instead of heading to the sink with his plate like a normal person, he moved around the table. Closer. Close enough that Clint had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact.
“Thanks for lunch,” Bayne said, but his honey-colored eyes weren’t saying thank you. They were saying something else entirely, something that made Clint’s pulse hammer against his throat.
Then Bayne’s hand was in Clint’s hair, fingers threading through the strands, and his mouth was on Clint’s, and every coherent thought evaporated.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. Bayne’s tongue swept into Clint’s mouth, tasting, claiming, making declarations that didn’t need words. Clint’s hands came up automatically, gripping Bayne’s arms, feeling muscle bunch under his palms.
When they broke apart, Clint couldn’t focus. His mouth felt swollen. His entire body hummed like a struck tuning fork.
“I—” he started, but Bayne was already pulling him up from the chair, backing him against the counter.
“Been wanting to do that all morning,” Bayne said against his jaw, teeth grazing skin before he sucked up a bruise on Clint’s neck. “Every time you bent over to look at something. Every time you laughed at those ridiculous animals.”
Hands worked at Clint’s scrubs, efficient and determined. The drawstring came loose, fabric sliding down his hips. Cool air hit overheated skin for about two seconds before Bayne’s hand wrapped around his cock, and Clint’s knees nearly buckled.
“Fuck,” he breathed, hips jerking forward into that tight grip.
Bayne’s thumb swept over the head, spreading precum, while his other hand held Clint steady against the counter. “That’s it. Let me see you.”
Every stroke was perfectly calibrated to drive him insane. Slow pulls that had him gasping, quick twists that made his vision blur. Bayne watched his face the entire time, honey-colored eyes taking in every reaction like he was memorizing them.
Clint’s hands scrambled for purchase on the counter behind him, knocking over the salt shaker. His thighs trembled with the effort of staying upright while Bayne took him apart with methodical precision.
“Look at you,” Bayne murmured, voice rough. “Coming undone just from my touch.”
The observation should have been embarrassing. Instead, it pushed Clint closer to the edge, heat coiling tighter in his belly. His hips moved without permission, fucking up into Bayne’s fist with increasing desperation.
When he came, it hit him like a sledgehammer. His head went back, throat exposed, body shaking through waves that seemed to go on forever. Bayne worked him through it, grip gentling but not stopping until Clint was gasping and oversensitive.
Knees hit linoleum before his brain caught up. Looking up at Bayne from this angle should’ve felt vulnerable. Instead, it felt right. Necessary. His hands were already working at Bayne’s sweatpants, pulling them down to free what he’d been trying not to stare at all morning.
“Clint—” Bayne started, but Clint was already leaning in, tongue running along the length of his cock.
Salt and musk filled his senses. Bayne’s hand landed in his hair again, not pushing, just holding. Clint took him deeper, jaw stretching to accommodate his girth, eyes watering slightly from the effort.
“Fuck…your mouth,” Bayne growled, hips moving in small, controlled thrusts.
Clint hollowed his cheeks, sucking harder. Let his teeth drag just slightly on the pull back, enough to make Bayne’s hips stutter forward. Found a rhythm that had Bayne’s breathing going harsh and uneven.
“Not gonna last,” Bayne warned, fingers tightening in Clint’s hair.
Good. Clint wanted Bayne wrecked, wanted him as destroyed as he felt. He swallowed around him, throat working, and that was it. Bayne came with a sound that was barely human, hips stuttering forward as he spilled down Clint’s throat.
They stayed frozen like that for a moment, Clint on his knees, Bayne’s hand still tangled in his hair, both of them breathing like they’d run a marathon.
Strong hands pulled him up, and then Bayne was kissing him again, tasting himself on Clint’s tongue. Messy and uncoordinated, both of them still shaking from release.
“We need to get back,” Clint said when they broke apart, though every cell in his body voted for staying right here.
“Yeah.” Bayne tucked himself away, movements still slightly uncoordinated. “Janet’s probably timing us.”
“We look like we just—”
“We did,” Bayne interrupted, smoothing down Clint’s hair with surprising gentleness. “And I’m not sorry.”
Neither was Clint, which was probably a problem. But that was future-Clint’s issue. Present-Clint had to figure out how to walk back into the clinic looking thoroughly debauched and pretend everything was normal.
“We should—” Clint glanced at the clock. “Shit. Twenty minutes.”
“Then we better clean up.” Bayne’s grin was pure satisfaction, like a wolf that had caught exactly what it was hunting.
In the bathroom, Clint glanced at himself in the mirror. Hair completely wrecked, lips swollen and red, a vivid mark blooming on his throat where Bayne had used teeth. He looked thoroughly debauched.
“Janet’s going to know.” He touched the mark, watching it darken under pressure.
“Good.” Bayne appeared behind him, arms wrapping around his waist.
The way the guy stared at him? Liquid oxygen.
“Ready?” Bayne asked, hand on the small of Clint’s back.
No. Not even close. But Clint nodded anyway, Bayne guiding him out into the afternoon heat, his legs still unsteady and mouth still tasting like sin.
The drive back to the clinic felt like a walk of shame crossed with a victory lap. Every mile reminded him of what they’d just done, muscles protesting in the best way. Beside him, Bayne looked like his usual confident self, but Clint caught him adjusting himself twice.
Good. Mutual destruction.
Janet’s expression when they walked in told him everything he needed to know about how obvious they were being. Her blue eyes went from Clint’s wrecked appearance to Bayne’s satisfied smirk and back again.
“Mrs. Kowalski’s car broke down,” Clint said, going for casual and failing. “Had to help her.”
“Uh-huh.” Janet’s tone said she knew what had happened afterward. “Mrs. Peterson is in room three with her iguana.”
Right. Back to work. Back to pretending he hadn’t just had his world rearranged in his own kitchen. Back to being professional while his body still hummed with aftershocks.
Clint grabbed his lab coat, hoping it would hide the worst of the wrinkles. In the hallway mirror, he caught sight of himself—flushed, glassy-eyed, looking exactly like someone who’d just been thoroughly handled.
Perfect. His reputation as the responsible, boring vet was officially deceased.
Behind him, Bayne appeared in the mirror’s reflection, and the look he gave Clint promised this was far from over.