Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Troy
The brewery feels different after hours.
It’s too big and quiet in the absence of customers.
Moonlight leaks through the half-closed blinds, painting the room in pale stripes of silver.
The steady hum of the coolers vibrates through the concrete floors, a low, mechanical pulse that does nothing to soothe the tension itching under my skin.
I check my phone for the third time in five minutes. No new messages.
Ashton’s last text is still pulled up on the screen, painfully polite.
Ashton: Sounds good. See you soon.
It’s efficient. Professional. Exactly what I’ve grown to expect from him.
Still, it stings.
I flip the phone face down on the bar and turn back to the cider.
The glass jug is slick with condensation, cold against my palms as I lift it.
Droplets slide lazily down the sides, catching the light.
Inside, the cider glows a soft red beneath the taproom lights, bubbles drifting upward in slow streams.
A minute later, there’s a soft, timid knock at the door.
I take a few deep breaths, giving myself a few seconds to compose myself, then cross the taproom and pull the door open.
Ashton stands there with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders squared. The nearby streetlamps catch damp strands of blond hair curling at his temples, his skin faintly flushed. His gaze flicks to mine, green eyes blinking quickly.
“Hey,” he says, voice rigid and practiced.
“Hey,” I reply, my hand tightening on the doorframe. “Thanks for coming out this late.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t mind. I was working in the orchard all day anyway.”
I nod and step aside. “Well, come in.”
The door clicks shut behind us, sealing us into the quiet. The space feels smaller with him here, the air heavier. Ashton trails behind me, hands tucked into his pockets, boots scuffing softly against the concrete as I lead him toward the bar.
“The trial batch has been conditioning for a couple of weeks now,” I say, tapping the rubber stopper. “Carbonation should be just about perfect. Hopefully.”
Ashton shifts his weight, eyes fixed on the bottle. “I… don’t really know what any of that means.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. “That’s okay. That’s why I’m the brewing master, not you. You’re the cherry expert.”
I grab two small tasting glasses and brace the jug between my forearms, twisting the stopper loose. It resists for a beat before giving way with a soft pop. A quiet grunt slips out of me with the effort.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Ashton’s reaction.
His throat bobs once, slow and shaky, before he smooths his expression into something neutral. He stares a little too hard at the bartop.
I pretend not to notice as I pour the cider.
“Smells like cherries,” he says as I hand him a glass.
For a split second, our fingers brush.
He jerks back like it burns, the vein in his temple jumping. He takes a deliberate step away, gaze fixed on the cider, fingers tight around the glass.
Jesus. He’s acting like a scared puppy. Does he think I’m going to try to kiss him again after he’s made it clear he doesn’t want me? Maybe he was lying about being okay with my bisexuality. Maybe he’s a homophobic prick, like the majority of this town.
I clear my throat, ignoring the sting of it. “Well,” I say, lifting my glass. “Cheers.”
He hesitates, then clinks his glass against mine with a soft, careful tap. We both bring the cider to our mouths. For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other over the rims of our glasses, lips parted.
When the first sip hits my tongue, my stomach drops.
Oh no.
It’s wrong immediately—too dry and bitter in a way that curls at the back of my mouth, with a sour edge that’s almost rancid. There’s no balance, no sweetness to soften it. Just sharp, unforgiving acid.
Across from me, Ashton’s face goes blank. Then his brows knit together. His lips purse.
“Oh—” he starts.
He gags.
Then he lunges forward, spitting the cider straight onto the concrete floor. It sprays in a messy arc, droplets splattering across my ankles and boots.
“Oh my god,” he chokes, coughing into his sleeve. “That’s—Jesus—”
I burst out laughing, the sound ripping through the tension, and a second later I’m spitting my own mouthful onto the floor beside his.
“Yeah,” I wheeze, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “That’s… that’s awful.”
Ashton stares at the puddle between us, then up at me. He starts laughing too—real, helpless laughter, shoulders shaking as he drags a hand down his face. I’ve missed his smile, the way his dimples crease his cheeks, eyes crinkling. It’s a beautiful sight.
I bark another laugh. “Hey, trial batch,” I defend weakly. “That’s what trials are for. Just gotta adjust the formula.”
Ashton’s laughter tapers off. “Shit,” he says, glancing at my wet boots coated in cider. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, still smiling, a little lightheaded from laughing. I take his glass and mine and drop them into the dirty dish bin, the clink of glass echoing softly. “Occupational hazard.”
He exhales, shoulders loosening—but then I notice it. The thin dribble of cider slipping from the corner of his mouth, sliding down his chin, catching in the stubble there. It glints under the taproom lights.
Without thinking, I step closer.
“You got a little—” I start, and then I’m already lifting the hem of my T-shirt, swiping it gently across his chin.
Ashton inhales sharply.
His eyes drop to the sliver of my bare stomach, the muscles there tensing. His gaze follows the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath my waistband. I’m acutely aware of the heat of his attention and the fact I’m standing way too close.
“Sorry,” I blurt, dropping my shirt. “I didn’t mean to—”
I start to step back, but his hand clamps around my wrist.
My heart slams against my ribs. For half a second, I’m certain he’s going to shove me away or punch me in the face.
Instead, he tugs me closer.
I search his face, but his expression is unreadable. His jaw is tight, eyes dark, breath shaky.
Maybe Ashton’s restraint isn’t a lack of desire—it’s fear.
“Ash…” I whisper, unable to say anything else.
A small smile curves the corner of his mouth. “You finally called me Ash again.”
I don’t trust myself to speak, so I don’t.
His fingers stay wrapped around my wrist, light but unyielding, his thumb brushing slow, absentminded strokes over my skin and raising goose bumps in its wake.
His gaze holds mine, and I get lost in the green of his eyes—vibrant and lush, like a sunlit meadow.
“You make it really difficult to hold myself back,” he says quietly.
I swallow hard. “Then maybe you should stop trying.”
He looks down at me, jaw tightening, and I can almost see the gears turning in his head. Calculation battles with instinct, his restraint wearing thin. One part of him is trying to pull him into a cage, while the rest claws at the bars, desperate to break free.
In the end, his hunger wins, and his mouth crashes against mine.
He fists my hair and kisses me, a desperate clash of teeth and tongue. I let out a quiet gasp of surprise, but the sound is muffled by his lips. My neck strains as I struggle to reach him, standing up on my tiptoes.
Christ, he’s tall. I fucking love it.
Ashton grabs my hips and shoves me against the bar, his mouth never leaving mine.
My ass presses into the hard wood of the countertop.
His tongue slides against my piercing, giving it an experimental flick.
A quiet whine slips out of him, desperate and fervent, as he laps at the metal like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.
“Ash,” I whisper against his lips.
My palms slide down his stomach, warmth bleeding through the flannel. I love the way he looms over me, how his back curves to meet my height. I love that despite being so much bigger than me, he’s putty in my hands.
His fingers brush the hem of my jeans, his touch cautious. He breaks the kiss and gazes down at me, brow furrowed.
“Can I touch you?” he asks, his voice barely audible over the pounding of my own heart.
I can only nod.
He clumsily unfastens the button of my jeans, his breath hot and heavy, brushing against the top of my head. His hand dips beneath the denim to squeeze my half-hard cock. I groan, and he curses under his breath, fingers tracing along my length, exploring.
He swallows hard, a flicker of hesitation hardening his face. “I’ve never… done this before.”
I plant a reassuring kiss to his chin, gently squeezing the back of his neck. “We don’t have to—”
“I wanna suck you off,” Ashton insists, palming my growing bulge again.
Fuck. Is this really happening? He’s giving me whiplash. First he told me he wanted to keep things professional, and now he’s practically gagging for my cock.
“Are you sure?” I ask, dragging my thumb along his cheek.
He swallows hard. “I’m sure. Can you just… like, tell me what to do?”
I let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. I can walk you through it.” I reach up to tuck a piece of hair behind his ear. My tongue darts out to wet my bottom lip, locking my gaze with his. “Get on your knees, blondie.”
He eagerly drops to the floor, knees hitting the concrete with a soft thud. Then he looks up at me, green eyes wide and shimmering in the low lighting. The sight of him beneath me, waiting for me to tell him what to do, is almost too much for me to handle.
I push my jeans and boxers down to my thighs, letting my semi-hard cock flop out.
I grip the base and give myself a few slow strokes, my other hand playing with his hair, the soft sun-bleached strands slipping between my fingers.
Ashton stares at my dick in a lust-drunk daze, lips parted and eyes glassy.
I know I’m bigger than most people expect from a short guy. I’ve been told by countless lovers, my ex-wife included, that I’m not exactly proportional. But I’ll never grow tired of seeing the look of pleasant surprise on someone’s face when they see my dick for the first time.