3. Kit
3
KIT
“I’m just glad I wore the nicer boxers today. I’d’ve been embarrassed for you to see my Costco underwear.”
Skylar laughed, his pretty eyes sparkling with glitter, or whatever it was he wore on his eyelids. “I’m guessing you spent less on a fifteen pack of boxers than I spent on this single pair of panties I’m wearing right now,” he said, pulling down his waistband to reveal a lacy scrap of fabric.
My face heated, but only ’cause I was shocked by how sexy the pale pink lace looked against his tanned skin. Then again, I’d always appreciated pretty lingerie whenever a woman wore it for me.
“I’m gonna take your word on that,” I managed, hoping I sounded normal. “Though . . . I might need help removing these boots.”
“Anything to get you out of your Wranglers, cowboy.”
Sky chuckled, and I suspected he thought it was funny to make the straight guy uncomfortable. I knew he meant nothing by it, though, so I ignored the nerves in my stomach and lowered myself to the bench. Ouch.
Every ounce of humor fled Skylar’s face, which meant I hadn’t done nearly enough to hide how much pain I was in.
“Are you sure I can’t take you to the hospital?” he asked, worry marking his pretty features.
I can call a man pretty, can’t I?
Reed called him pretty, so I think I’m in the clear.
“I don’t have the time,” I said, mildly annoyed by Skylar’s disbelieving expression.
Lots of people thought owning one’s own businesses meant they could take off whenever they wanted to, and I’d grown tired of explaining the many and varied reasons that was not the case.
“Don’t you have an office manager and a land manager who can handle things for you?”
“I would never dump my entire workload onto them.”
He put his hand on his hip, kinda like I’d seen Cynthia do a million times. She never wore her nails quite that long, though.
“I bet Lane and Sadie would be pissed to hear you say that.”
I bit at my upper lip. “You might be right about that.”
“Lost causes, all of you.”
Before I could retort, he slipped out of his towering heels and knelt in front of me, his ambery-smelling cologne lingering between us. He started with my good side—though calling it my good side might be a bit of an overreach. My knee twinged as he slid the well-loved boot off my foot, and I’m pretty sure Sky caught my grimace.
He took what appeared to be a calming breath, then examined the boot. “How do you pronounce this brand? Lou-cheese?”
I laughed, even though it hurt to do so. “Lu-Kay-Zee,” I pronounced.
“Ah. Kess bought Rowdy a pair of Lucchese’s for Christmas,” he said, grabbing hold of my other heel. “They’re nice.”
He pulled on the boot heel, and I genuinely thought I was gonna pass out. I had to clamp down on his shoulder to stop him from trying again. “I’m gonna need a minute.”
Sky let out a cute growl. “If I didn’t think you’d hate me, I’d throw your stubborn ass over my shoulder and take you to the hospital myself,” he said, his voice all pretty and breathy.
I gestured at him. “Like you could pick me up.”
Woody once explained to me that Skylar was one of those twinks—a smaller gay man with girly—er, femme, maybe?—style. I wondered if all twinks painted their toenails this same blush pink color, or if it was just a Skylar thing.
Probably just a Skylar thing.
“Bitch, I go to the gym four times a week,” he said, flexing his arm.
Huh. He had more muscle tone than I’d’ve guessed. And I’m pretty sure bitch was a compliment in gay.
Before I could think through a response, he stood, agitated. “Do you have any liquor?”
“Sure. I’ve got some mezcal in my bar. Are you wanting a drink right now?”
He pointed a perfectly manicured finger in my face. “No, you ornery cuss. I’m gonna have you take a couple of shots. You need something to numb the pain quick, and I’m assuming liquor is the strongest stuff you’ve got.”
Skylar seemed awful concerned for me, which made me feel a twinge of guilt. “Bar’s behind the big couch. If you don’t mind grabbing it from the living room.”
“Not at all, sugar,” he answered softly.
I listened, wearing only one boot, as he made his way down the hallway barefoot. Something about the soft sounds of his feet padding down the wood floors felt intimate, like maybe he’d finally gotten comfortable in my home. I heard him opening the liquor cabinet in the living room and then . . . was he fussing around in my kitchen?
“What are you doing in there?” I called out.
I was about to get up when he didn’t answer right away, but he came waltzing in with my favorite mezcal, a shot glass, an orange, and one of my frozen gel packs.
“Where did you find a tray?”
“It was on top of your fridge, hon,” he said as he set the heavy tray on the bed. Grabbing the orange, he handed it to me. “Here, can you peel this? I don’t want to ruin my manicure.”
Shaking my head, I took the orange and peeled it with my comparatively rough hands, then took apart the segments while he poured the mezcal. He winked as he took a segment from me in exchange for a shot glass.
“You know, you didn’t hafta get so fancy with this,” I said, even as the smell of citrus made my mouth water.
“Honey, if you’re gonna do something, do it right.”
“Well, if we’re getting technical, you’re supposed to drink mezcal with worm salt, and I refuse,” I said, sticking out my tongue. Blech .
He held up his segment. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
I touched my shot glass to his fruit, then knocked back the fiery alcohol and followed it up with my own slice of orange.
Skylar slipped the entire piece in his mouth, chewing as he refilled my shot glass. “Drink up.”
I did as he told me to, and the familiar warmth spread out from my neck and chest down into my belly. I didn’t drink much—I had businesses to run after all—so the mezcal hit quickly. I chased the smooth alcohol with another segment, humming as it burst on my tongue.
Skylar reached out and pushed my hair off my face. “Someone’s a cheap drunk.”
“I’m not cheap. Or drunk. I’m relaxed.”
“And your knee?”
“Still sucks, but I care less.”
“Good.” He stroked his chin as he gauged me with a look. “I’m gonna take it real slow and try to slide off this boot without yanking too much. That work for you?”
I bobbed my head, the move loose. “Fine by me.”
He stole more of the orange and ate it slowly, probably to give me a few more moments to allow the mezcal to filter through my bloodstream. Then, ever so gently, he wiggled my stubborn boot off my stubborn foot.
“ Shit ,” I spat out, then held out my shot glass.
Sky was quick to pour me another. “Now, don’t overdo it. If you yak all over yourself or further mangle your knee, I’m gonna be pissed.”
I bit my lips. “I might be a lightweight, but I need at least two more shots of this to worry about that.”
I decided not to mention throwing up in the stables earlier.
“Good man,” he said, pressing the final bit of orange into my mouth. I accepted it from him, accidentally sucking on the tip of his fingernail along the way.
“Oops, sorry.” I sighed, enjoying the sweet citrus. “Wait? Am I supposed to take my pants off now?”
“I’m thinking I should do that for you, cowboy.”
Heh. I kinda liked it when he called me cowboy.
Sky had me stand and hold my bed post as he worked off my belt buckle and lowered my zipper. With a slight push, my jeans fell to my ankles.
“I’ll have you know the last time I removed a man’s pants for him, he bought me that pretty little Porsche out front,” he said as he helped me gently step out of the pooled material.
“Open a dude ranch, they said. It’ll be fun, they said.” I blew out raspberries. “I think you chose the better career path.”
“What? Sugar baby?” Skylar shuddered as he walked me over to the bench. “I don’t know. I’m getting a little tired of it, if I’m being honest.”
I sat again. It hurt. Again. I dragged the bottle of mezcal into my lap.
Worse, though, I could barely concentrate on my knee as I thought over Skylar’s words. We’d never discussed the fact that he was a sugar baby, but I’d overheard Rowdy saying it as a nickname. Hadn’t bothered me at the time, but now I’d gotten to know Sky a little better, it did.
“You shouldn’t do something you don’t wanna do,” I muttered, sipping mezcal to cover how much it unsettled me that Sky might not know he had other choices.
“True.” He bit his lower lip as he grabbed the frozen gel pack from the tray.
“What’re you smilin’ at?” I asked, unable to dismiss how irritated I was at the prospect of him trading sexual favors for gifts.
That’s none of my never mind, I thought, taking another burning sip to prevent myself from blurting it out loud.
“You look kind of cute in your T-shirt and boxers. Though, gotta say, those socks are atrocious,” he answered while placing the gel pack on my knee.
I flexed my toes, a little embarrassed that my big toe was saying hello while Skylar was dressed to the nines.
“Keep forgetting to order new ones. I only remember when I’m puttin’ ’em on, and by then I’m already in a hurry to get the day started.”
“Sounds like a theme.” He ran a careful hand along my thigh. “You’ve got the wiriest, strongest looking skinny legs I’ve ever seen.”
I shivered from the chill on his fingers. “That’s from all the running around.”
Sky flexed his arm again, pointing to his sleek muscles. “Yeah, well, these are from my raging tyrant of a trainer.”
I snort-laughed and widened my legs, hyperaware that the only thing between me and him was a thin piece of cotton. Thankfully my boxers didn’t have any unintended holes in ’em, though, despite Skylar’s efficient demeanor, his eyes did wander a time or two.
I didn’t hate it.
“This poor, fucking joint.” He clucked his tongue. “It is so swollen.”
I laughed. “That’s what she said.”
The second those words left my mouth, I wanted to die. “Oh my God. I did not just say that to you.”
Skylar waved off my concern. “I promise you, that’s not even the spiciest thing I’ve heard today.”
“Why? Your sugar daddy send you a text or something?”
Ugh. Why did I ask him that?
“Maybe,” he said, pulling his phone from his back pocket. “He sent me a beautiful peignoir. I took a picture in it to torture him, which I’ll be paying for when I get home tonight.”
I didn’t know what the hell a peignoir was, but when he held up the text, my eyes nearly popped out of my head. Jesus . The light blue lingerie was see-through, and if it hadn’t been for some strategic positioning on Sky’s part, I’d have seen a helluva lot more than I was bargaining for.
I set down the bottle, light-headed.
“I don’t think I’ve ever known a man to wear that kind of a thing.”
Why did I sound so breathless?
“Oh?” he said innocently. “Are men not allowed to wear pretty things?”
I gestured at him; the move sloppy. “Clearly not. Look at what you’re wearing. That’s like . . . A lady’s blouse, isn’t it?”
“I bought it from the ladies’ section, though . . . Since I’m a man and I’m wearing it, it looks like a man’s blouse to me.”
“Are you?” I asked, struggling to follow a line of thought. “Are you a man? Or did I get your pronouns wrong?”
Shit, can I ask a question like that? It’d been my first attempt at asking for pronouns, but Jaxon—Sadie’s son—enjoyed talking about what he’d learned in Rowdy’s after-school classes, and I enjoyed listening to him. Apparently, you’re not supposed to assume.
Either way, I felt like an asshole.
“No, honey, you’ve got it exactly right. I am a man, he/him/his pronouns. I just happen to be a man who is very much in touch with my feminine side.”
“Is that why you like sparkly makeup and those pretty nails?”
“Yep.”
“My ex said she always hated wearing makeup, and only ever got her nails done because I like long nails so much,” I admitted. I grabbed bottle of mezcal again and took another sip, not sure why I was runnin’ at the mouth like this. “Isn’t that something? She loved me so much that even though she didn’t enjoy sleeping with me, she was still willing to put on the makeup and the nails—and the lace, too—because I liked it?”
A fact that still confused me.
“It takes a long time for women to overcome the indoctrination that a man’s pleasure comes before her needs, especially if that was reinforced in her family dynamic.”
My lip curled when I thought of Cynthia’s family dynamic . Sky’d mentioned his tyrant of a personal trainer, but he’d clearly never met someone like Cyn’s father. He’d been more upset that she’d decided to go to college than the fact that she’d gotten pregnant—and married—so young.
“ Reinforced is a nicer word than I’d use,” I finally said.
“Now imagine not fitting into one of the two very specific boxes.” He gestured at me. “You? In your Wranglers, Lucchese’s, and that Stetson you’re always wearing? You fit so perfectly into the man box, and you don’t even have to try all that hard.”
“Hey, I take care of my appearance.”
“You do, honey. You have a sense of style; I’ll give you that. But I’m guessing this isn’t cosplay. You probably enjoy what you wear and feel more like yourself in it.”
“I do.”
“But your wife didn’t fit into her box very well at all, did she?”
I shook my head and . . . shit.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said as I tried—unsuccessfully—to surreptitiously wipe a tear from my eyes.
“You didn’t,” I sniffled. “I got orange juice in my eye.”
“You must’ve really loved her.”
“Yeah, and it was hell findin’ out she’d been faking it all along.”
Skylar rubbed my arm, his expression empathetic. “I’ve heard you talk about your ex-wife before. She’s good people. She was just living in the same heteronormative soup you live in. She was doing the best she could, and I doubt very seriously that she faked her affection for you.”
“ Affection ,” I sneered, as he pulled back the gel pack to examine my knee.
“Looky there. The swelling’s gone down a little.”
Skylar gave me an assessing look, then opened his light blue medical bag—I was sensing a theme—and took out a balm along with some black disposable gloves. “Now, this isn’t exactly legal, but you’re not officially a patient of mine and Woody’s friend makes a powerful THC rub that’ll help.”
Normally I’d protest—I ain’t ever even smoked pot—but the mezcal had barely touched the pain.
“At this point, I’ll try anything.”
“Then let’s work on those muscles, sugar,” he said, taking the bottle from my lax hands. Smart .
Sky got after it, careful of the joint. With a few minutes under his talented hands, the large muscles eased up their pull on my knee.
“You are so good at making my muscles stand down,” I said, barely holding back a moan.
Most of ’em, anyway.
“Thanks, honey. I enjoy helping people feel better. And it’s a good thing I do, because I’m probably pretty close to done with the other stuff.” He looked at the sticky balm on his gloves. “Guess I’ll have to figure out how to make a real living out of this.”
I shifted my hips. “If’n you were willin’ to make house calls, you could probably take care of all the cowboys out here who refuse to go to the doctor.”
“I don’t know,” he said with a razor-sharp grin. “I can only handle one stubborn cuss at a time.”
“Oh, I bet you’ve handled more than that.”
Skylar barked out a laugh, and I realized—belatedly—how that sounded.
“Shit, Sky. I swear, I didn’t mean it like that.”
He laughed again, then went silent as he worked my calves and back up to my thighs. First the outer thighs—my T-band is trash , apparently—then the tops of my thighs, then the inner thighs. I couldn’t figure out why people thought massage was so dang relaxing. I had to take calming breaths to get through these little torture sessions, and I can’t believe I never thought to numb the pain with alcohol.
I reached for the bottle and took another drink.
As the liquor wound its way into my veins, my brain loosened up, allowing me to enjoy his hands on my body. I had to admit that having Skylar on his knees for me, working me over like that, was one helluva visual. Then again, I always enjoyed having a pretty thing between my legs. Hell, if he looked this good therapizing my shitty knee, I bet he looked extra hot doin’ whatever he did to care for his sugar daddy.
Just gonna let that thought float on by . . .
“Sorry to make you smell like the bathroom at a punk concert,” he joked.
“I don’t mind so much.” I set the bottle aside to run my fingers through his hair. The silken slide sent currents up my arms. “You really are very pretty for a man.”
He smirked at me. “Maybe we need to slow down on the mezcal, cowboy,” he said, moving the bottle out of reach.
“I’m fine,” I said, grazing his fine cheekbones. “I thought you were pretty before the mezcal.”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but I could only focus on the way his pouty mouth fell open, so luscious. What man had lips like that? Fuck, I bet he tasted fantastic.
God, I wanted to taste him.
Without another thought in my head, I leaned in and captured his mouth with mine. Lowering my hand to his jaw, I pulled him in a bit more, deepening the kiss even as I registered his stubble against my palm. I delved my tongue into his mouth, encouraged by his soft moan.
I’d been right. Skylar tasted like every man’s dream. Had I been missing out? Did all men taste this wonderful? His hand went to my chest, sending heat and need down to my groin.
He’s on his knees for you.
Would he be willing to suck me?
Before I could even imagine how good it would feel, Sky pressed against my chest, pushing me away from him. I chased after his lips, needing them like my next breath.
“Kit, stop ,” Skylar said, his shaken words bursting whatever bubble I’d been in.
Shit.
Oh, shit .
What had I just done?
His eyes flicked to my boxers, and I followed them, horrified. I was hard as a rock, millimeters away from the soft cotton fly giving up the goods, all from the mere thought of what his mouth would feel like on me. Shame wound its way through my guts, hot and uncomfortable.
“Jesus, Sky,” I said, the words rushing from my lips as I fumbled to adjust myself. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what the hell that was about.”
“No worries, honey.” He ran his hand over his velvety bottom lip. “You’re not the first guy to get a little heteroflexible while under the influence.”
“Hetero—what?” I asked, embarrassed and unable to tear my eyes away from his perfect mouth. “And I only had two shots.”
He pointed to the exiled bottle of mezcal, and . . . shit. I’d put a damned solid dent in it.
“Oh.”
Even in my shame, my fractured mind pulled up the image of him in that peignoir business.
What was happening to me? Why couldn’t I control my own mind?
I pulled away from my wandering thoughts and refocused—with some difficulty—on the man in front of me. The shock on his face was a brutal reality check.
Get it together, Baker.
“I . . . wow. Sorry,” I whispered, my voiced cracking as I tried to look anywhere but at him.
“No need to be sorry, Kit. These things happen.” He patted my shoulder. “And if it means anything at all, you are a fantastic kisser.”
My face went hot, and I brought my hands to my eyes, covering them. As if that would hide me from my own idiocy.
“Oh, come on, Kit. I like you way too much to hold this against you.”
My eyes flashed to his. “You like me?”
“Of course, honey. You’re a likable guy.”
“No, I mean, you’re attracted to me?” I asked, wondering why I was pursuing this line of thought.
Did I really just kiss Skylar?
“Of course I’m attracted to you. You’re gorgeous and you look hot in a pair of Wranglers. On top of which, you’re a good man. A very tempting package.” His smile was at once encouraging and . . . fragile, maybe? He looked down. “I know what people think of me. I may be a sugar baby, but I’m a very loyal person, and don’t like it when people assume otherwise.”
I swore under my breath. I had really fucked up. Not just kissing a man—what the hell—kissing a taken man. Something I would never do.
“Again, I am so, so sorry.”
“No offense taken.” He shivered. “My current sugar daddy would love it if I shared. It’s not for me, though.”
I reached out and grabbed his arm, suddenly aware of the fragile nature of his situation. “He’s not forcin’ you to do anything, is he?”
Sky shook his head. “Rich likes to test out the boundaries, but he’ll respect a no,” he said with a wink. His expression shifted to a bit more serious. “More importantly, I’m here in a therapeutic capacity,” he said, holding up his gloved hands. “I know that might seem laughable to you, but even though you’re not officially my patient, I take it seriously. So, we’re gonna get you into that knee brace, and I’ll leave you to it.”
My cheeks flushed, either from the alcohol or from embarrassing myself. I couldn’t tell.
“Sorry, Sky.”
He brightened, giving me his most winning smile. “Nothing to worry about, cowboy. Just guarding my purity, you understand.”
I chuckled, grateful for the out. “Of course. I’d hate to besmirch your good name.”
He grinned as he took off his gloves. After tossing them in the trash bin by my bed, he set about putting me in the brace as gently—and quickly—as he could. Minutes later, he was directing me to bed, slipping on his sexy heels, and practically running out the door.
As I sat in bed, staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t account for kissing him the way I did.
What the hell was that about?