16. Wilder
Wilder
One week later, Wilder’s phone pinged with an incoming text message.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, and he swiped the screen to find a message from Merrick, a screen shot of his most recent health panel confirming everything had come back negative.
Heat churned in Wilder’s stomach at the thought of what that meant for them, and he swiped into the app from his doctor’s office and made a copy of his results and fired them off to Merrick in reply.
Merrick answered him with a phone call, which Wilder picked up on the second ring.
“Happy Tuesday to you,” he said.
“Isn’t it? I don’t even have to work today.”
“Lucky boy. What are you doing instead?”
“Drawing,” Merrick answered.
“Not painting?”
“No.”
“Drawing what?” Wilder paused, working his jaw. “I don’t like when you make me ask questions, by the way. I know all the answers are right there, and you’re ready to spill them without being prompted.”
“I’m trying to be better,” Merrick mumbled, and it was true. He had been making an effort to stop censoring himself, and Wilder appreciated it was a hard habit to break. “I’m drawing you, actually.”
Wilder’s eyes went wide. “Me?”
“Yeah. I took a picture of you last weekend when you weren’t looking, and I’ve been using it for reference,” Merrick admitted.
“When did you steal this picture?”
“You were in the kitchen with a glass of wine. Sunday night, I think. I don’t know. I had just walked in, and the sun was going down, but it was still kind of pink outside and the light was shining in through the kitchen window. You weren’t wearing a shirt and it was just…right.”
Wilder remembered the moment in question.
They’d spent a lazy day together, mostly kissing and fucking and touching.
It had been years since Wilder had wasted a day on something so hedonistic, but everything was perfect.
They’d ordered take-out and it had just arrived.
He’d gone into the kitchen to pour them both a glass of wine to enjoy with their meal, and Merrick had followed him in to see if he needed help.
“You looked beautiful in that sunset,” he said softly. “So, I’ve just been working on sketching that out. I’m probably going to paint it later. I learned some good tricks with the grading on that other sunset picture I’d been fighting with, so I think I can attack it pretty easily now.”
The other sunset in question was finally finished, framed and sitting on Wilder’s dresser until he found a place to hang it. Merrick had gifted it to him without Wilder asking for it, and Wilder allowed himself the fantasy of having a house covered in as much art as Merrick’s apartment was.
What would it be like if they lived together?
He’d spent the week thinking about it, a preposterous idea considering they were practically strangers. Just two men who happened to be sexually compatible with each other. It was more than that for him, but that wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have with Merrick yet.
“I can’t wait to see it.”
His phone vibrated in his palm.
“I sent you the work in progress,” Merrick said. “How’s your day going?”
“Anticlimactic.”
Merrick chuckled. “I would hope so, Sir.”
Want flared in the center of his chest, and Wilder patted his sternum, waiting for it to pass. He reminded himself he wasn’t ready for the conversation.
“When do I get to see you again?” he asked.
“You tell me.”
“How about I come over to your place after work?”
“Do you want to stay the night?” Merrick asked.
“I do.”
“Okay. Yes. Please.” Merrick paused. “Do you want me to make dinner?”
“I’d like that very much. I’ve got to go now, though,” Wilder said to Merrick, looking up in time to see his boss approaching his office. “I’ll text when I leave work.”
“See you soon.”
His boss came by with a stack of work that was going to run Wilder straight through to the end of his day and well into the next.
He fought through as much of it as he could, leaving the rest for the morning.
He was eager to get to Merrick’s house, to take off his tie, and enjoy whatever meal Merrick decided to make for them.
The day dragged, but it was finally five and Wilder was out the door.
He went straight for Merrick’s place, finding the door cracked open and the smell of onion and garlic wafting into the hallway.
“Honey, I’m home,” he called out with a fake accent, closing the door behind him.
The apartment was still clean, which had him grinning with a sense of pride for how well Merrick had listened.
Wilder had done a good thing with him, and he was pleased to see the results of it carry through.
He bent over and plucked at the laces of his oxfords, casting them toward the shoe rack before heading into the kitchen.
Merrick was there wearing only a pair of baggy jeans.
He had the top button undone, a dishtowel hanging out of the back pocket, and a look of focused concentration on his face.
He obviously hadn’t even heard Wilder come in.
Wilder didn’t want to startle him, but the light was perfect and he thought he might be in love.
Wilder pulled his phone out of his pocket and snapped a photo of Merrick, saving it just like the other man had done for him. When he got older and looked back on their relationship, this would be a special moment. He knew it.
He knew they would have a future. He knew they would last.
“Merrick,” he said, voice soft and sure.
Merrick heard him then, setting down a wooden spoon and turning toward the sound of his voice. “You startled me.”
“Didn’t mean to.” Wilder crooked his finger, beckoned Merrick closer.
He turned down the heat on the stove and went to Wilder. Wilder wanted Merrick on his knees, much in the same way he had that very first morning when he woke up to find Merrick had made him coffee. But he wanted more than that. He wanted everything.
“Will the food keep for five minutes?” he asked.
Merrick reached him and nodded, and Wilder took Merrick’s face into his hands and slanted their mouths together in a slow and deep kiss.
He was angry he had clothes on, the starched fabric keeping the feel of Merrick’s chest away from him.
He yanked the tails of his shirt out of his pants and fought the buttons undone until he was able to get their stomachs aligned.
Merrick moved his hands without asking and without being told, loosening the knot on Wilder’s tie and undoing the top two buttons that would give both of them access. Merrick shoved Wilder’s shirt off his shoulders, pushing Wilder into the wall for how hard they were kissing.
“Get on your knees,” Wilder demanded. “I need your mouth.”
In their days together, their understanding of what Merrick wanted when he asked for free use had changed more than once.
At first, of course, it had been focused on penetrative sex, but that wasn’t sustainable in the long term.
They’d talked and agreed Merrick’s mouth and his hands were as much a part of the deal as his cock, and so he was available for use whenever Wilder wanted him that way.
Which was often.
Merrick went to his knees, already practiced, and Wilder undid his pants. They moved as one and before he knew it, his cock was tucked into the wet heat of Merrick’s throat.
“Hands behind your head.”
Another adaptation they’d made because, for as much as Wilder loved when Merrick took some form of control over the blow jobs, that eliminated the use aspect to some degree.
Wilder’s man wanted to be objectified, so objectified he would be.
Wilder braced himself with both hands against the top of Merrick’s head and he made quick work of chasing an orgasm in the back of Merrick’s throat.
He focused on the suction and the hot press of Merrick’s tongue, and then his back bowed forward as he came in Merrick’s mouth.
He wanted to help Merrick up, to kiss him and taste himself there, but that was also not an every time thing.
It was his job to meet Merrick’s needs, and this was sometimes one of them.
Wilder eased himself out of Merrick’s mouth and tucked himself back into his pants, using his fingers to untangle Merrick’s from the back of his head.
“Good boy.” He patted Merrick’s cheek. “You can finish dinner now.”
When Merrick stood, Wilder looked at his erection. He’d been right earlier that Merrick was only wearing jeans. The top of his pubic hair was visible above the zipper as was the thick base of his swelling cock. Wilder loved when Merrick was hard. It was so fun.
“It’s just about done,” Merrick told him, voice hoarse. “Was just giving the sauce one last stir.”
Wilder looked at the wooden spoon, an idea already cooking in the back of his head for later. He had to be up early for work in the morning, but it would be worth it.
“Are we eating in the living room?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
Wilder left Merrick to finish the meal. Left his submissive to do what he needed to do.
Ten minutes later, Merrick met him in the living room, two plates balanced on one arm and two bottles of water in the other. Merrick set it all down, pulled silverware and napkins out of his back pocket and put those down too.
“Is water okay?”
“Water is ideal,” Wilder said.
Merrick had made some sort of chicken and pasta in a cream sauce, and it smelled divine. It wasn’t ideal for end-of-night activities, but they had plenty of options available that didn’t need to involve Wilder taking Merrick’s delightful cock up his ass.
“This smells amazing,” he said, and Merrick sank down onto the floor beside him with an adorable smile on his face that Wilder also wanted a picture of for posterity’s sake.
“Thank you.”
Merrick didn’t have a dining room table, so they ate on the floor, backs against the couch and legs stretched out in front of them.
For the first time, Merrick didn’t need to be told to talk, he didn’t wait to be asked.
As soon as Wilder cut into his chicken breast, Merrick started talking.
Between bites, and sometimes in the middle of them, Merrick talked about the next tattoo he wanted to get, about how much he really enjoyed painting the sky once he’d gotten the hang of it.
“Have you ever thought of having an art show?” Wilder interrupted.
“I mean, we’ve had them at the shop before.”
“I mean just for you,” he said. “Separate of the shop.”
Merrick scrunched his nose like the idea was impossible.
“You should think about it,” Wilder suggested.
Merrick launched back into conversation, starting with all the reasons a solo show was a horrible idea, but for the first time, Wilder didn’t listen.
He vehemently disagreed with Merrick’s assumptions about not being talented or well-known enough to carry a show on his own.
Wilder twirled the last of his pasta around his fork, chewed, swallowed, and set everything down on the plate.
“Are you finished?” he asked after Merrick had paused to take a breath.
“Eating?”
“Talking.”
Merrick snapped his mouth closed, looking wounded. “I can be.”
“You will be,” Wilder corrected, “until you’re done slandering the capabilities of a person I’ve come to care for very much.”
“It’s not—”
“Stop,” he said, and that was their word, and so Merrick did.
He’d taken Merrick’s ball gag back to his house so his options were limited, but Wilder was a creative man and he intended to make do with the tools he had at his disposal.
He reached back onto the couch for his tie, then he hauled Merrick to his feet and wrapped the patterned satin through Merrick’s mouth and around the back of his head.
He tied a tight knot, not caring if it hurt Merrick’s lips to be stretched so tight.
“Clean up the plates, wash the dishes, and meet me in the bedroom. Understand?”
Merrick’s eyes were enormous, but he nodded his understanding.
His consent.
Wilder stalked into the kitchen and yanked open drawers until he found the kitchen utensils, until he found a slotted wooden spatula that matched the spoon Merrick had used to cook the best dinner Wilder had eaten all year.
He passed Merrick on his way to the bedroom, and when Merrick’s stare drifted down to the spatula, his steps faltered.
“Don’t dawdle,” Wilder warned, then he went into the bedroom to wait.