4. The Opposite of Owned
THE OPPOSITE OF OWNED
Torch had decided, somewhere around the second day, that he would never touch Wes unless Wes reached first. It wasn't a hard decision.
He'd spent enough of his life around men who mistook wanting for owning to know the difference mattered more than anything else he could offer.
So instead of reaching, he made himself into something a man could reach for — steady, predictable, in the room but never crowding it — and waited, the way he'd learned to wait on a fire line for wind to decide which way it wanted to run.
The storm rolled in off the mesa a little after nine, fast and mean the way desert storms always were, and took the power grid down with it somewhere around the second lightning strike.
The Roadrunner went dark in stages — jukebox first, then the neon sign out front stuttering and dying, then the last of the overhead lights — until it was just candlelight and the storm drumming the tin roof and the two of them, alone, because Deb had gone to check on Half-Pint's generator and told them both, with a look Wes hadn't yet learned to read and Torch understood perfectly, that she'd be a good while.
"Guess we're closed," Wes said, from behind the bar, lighting the last candle stub with hands that weren't quite steady. The storm made the whole building creak and settle around them like something breathing.
"Guess we are." Torch was at the end of the bar again, same stool, but there was nothing casual left in how he was watching him.
Something had been building since the first night — since the burger and the gravel and the ninety seconds it took Torch to read the whole shape of him.
It had thickened through the flinch and the wrist, through the meatloaf and the raccoon story he'd overheard Half-Pint tell, through every small unclaimed moment Torch had spent standing where Wes could see the exit past him instead of blocking it.
Tonight, with the storm doing its work and the dark making the room feel smaller and warmer than it was, it stopped being something either of them could pretend not to notice.
Wes came around the bar. Stood in front of him. His hands weren't chewing at his thumbnail; they were loose at his sides, and his chin was up, and there wasn't a flinch in him anywhere.
"I keep thinking," Wes said, "about the fact that you've had a hundred chances to touch me and you haven't taken one of them."
"Wasn't mine to take."
"What if I'm handing it to you?"
Torch went very still — the particular stillness of a man holding something precious with both hands and afraid of his own strength. "Then I need you to say it plain, once, so there's no version of tonight where you doubt you did."
Wes reached out first. He put his palm flat on Torch's chest, over a heart going harder than either of them expected, and said, clear, no shake in it at all: "I want you to touch me. I want this. I'm not asking you to save me. I'm asking you to want me."
"I already do." Torch's hand came up to cover his, slow, giving him every second in the world to pull back. Wes didn't. "Say stop, and it stops. Any time. Every time. That doesn't change."
"I know." Wes's breath caught. "It's never — nobody's ever asked me that and meant it."
"I mean it."
Torch's mouth came down on his, slow and testing, like he was memorizing the shape of it.
Wes sighed into the kiss — a little relieved, a little wanting more — and Torch made a sound deep in his chest, something between a growl and a sigh, and kissed him harder.
His beard scraped, his lips were chapped, his tongue slicked into Wes's mouth like he owned the space and Wes was fool enough to let him.
Wes shuddered at the heat of it, at the sheer confident weight settling against him, and reached up to drag Torch closer.
Slow stopped being the plan. Torch's hands landed on Wes's hips — not tentative, not testing, just there like they belonged — and he boosted Wes up onto the edge of the bar with shocking ease.
Wes wrapped his legs around Torch's waist and Torch hissed, low and pleased, and settled in tight.
"Bedroom," Torch said against his mouth, the word rough, urgent.
Wes nodded, already breathless, and Torch kissed him again, quick and claiming, then stepped back to let him down.
They didn't bother with the door to the storeroom, just slipped inside, and Torch kicked it shut behind them, the latch catching with a sound like a gunshot in the dark.
It smelled like old wood and dry goods and Torch — dust and rain and man — and Wes breathed it in like oxygen.
A single candle burned back here too, throwing their shadows up tall on the stacked crates lining the shelves.
The storm was still hammering the tin roof overhead, a steady drumbeat, and the silence between the thunder felt like something living.
Torch backed him up against the shelves, careful, his hands framing Wes's face. "Don't hit anything," he said, voice low, almost a growl.
Wes nodded, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I won't."
Torch kissed him again, long and slow and deep, his big hand sliding down to cradle the back of Wes's skull like he was something precious, something breakable.
Wes made a sound and surged up into it, and Torch groaned, deeper this time, and bit down on his lower lip hard enough to sting.
When he pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
"Tell me what you want." His eyes in the candlelight were black and endless, intent. "You set the pace. You get to decide."
Wes looked at him a long moment, at the careful stillness of him, at the brutal restraint in the set of his shoulders, and something hot and fierce unspooled behind his ribs. It wasn't gratitude, not this time. It was something raw and possessive, something that wanted to leave marks.
"Everything," he said, and his voice didn't shake. "Don't be careful with me."
For a minute, Torch didn't move. Then he made a sound of approval, low in his chest, and his hand fisted in the front of Wes's shirt. He didn't yank him in close, not this time. He walked him back against the shelves, step by slow step, until Wes felt the rough wood at his back.
"I'll be as careful as I want," Torch said, something hotter than anger roughening his voice. "That's the deal. You good with that?"
"Yeah." Wes's throat was dry, but he sounded sure. He felt sure, the ache in his ribs a dull throb, ignored.
Torch nodded, once, like that was the answer he wanted, and his hands dropped to the hem of Wes's shirt.
He peeled it off, slow, like he was unwrapping something that might break, and let it drop to the floor.
He didn't say anything about the fading bruise on Wes's ribs.
He just bent, slow and deliberate, and pressed a kiss to the center of it, his beard scraping sensitive skin.
Wes shivered, but he didn't pull away. He let himself be looked at, let himself be seen.
"Christ, you're a good-lookin' bastard." Torch's hands dropped to Wes's belt. "Make a hell of a lot more sense if you were ugly."
He undid the buckle, the snap, the zipper, his eyes never leaving Wes's, and shoved jeans and briefs down in one rough pull, kneeling as he went.
Wes stepped out of them, kicking them aside, and Torch stayed down for a second, his face level with Wes's hips.
He didn't say anything, didn't do anything, just looked.
Then he surged up, fast and hungry, and slammed his mouth down over Wes's again.
Wes moaned, long and low, and Torch swallowed the sound, his hands raking down Wes's back like he wanted to climb inside his skin.
"Bed." He said it against Wes's mouth. "Tell me where it is."
"Back room," Wes said, the words thick. "There's a cot."
Torch kissed him again, quick and hungry, then stepped back.
He yanked his own shirt off, tossed it aside, and reached for his belt.
He was still wearing his cut, the leather strained across his shoulders, and he didn't take it off.
Wes watched, his mouth dry, as Torch shucked jeans and briefs, his cock jutting thick and hard against his stomach.
He was big all over — thick wrists, thick thighs, thick neck.
Wes's own cock, already hard, jerked at the sight.
"C'mere." It wasn't a request.
Wes went, and Torch boosted him up again, knees spread, and sat him down on the edge of the narrow cot. It groaned under their combined weight. Torch followed him down, one hand planted by his head, and kissed him again, hard, almost vicious. Wes gasped, surging up, and Torch swore into his mouth.
"Yeah." His voice had dropped to gravel. "Like that."
He reached down between them, wrapped a hand around both their cocks, and started stroking, slow and merciless. Wes's vision whited at the edges.
"Tell me if it's too much." He meant the grip, the pace, all of him at once.
"More." Wes's voice sounded thin, like something stretched too tight.
Torch growled against his jaw and sped up, his calloused palm rough on sensitive skin. Wes whimpered, hips bucking up, and Torch kissed him again, swallowing the sound.
"Gimme your leg," he said, and Wes obeyed, instinctively hooking his ankle over Torch's hip.
Torch groaned, approving, and surged down against him, their cocks grinding together, slick and perfect.
Wes couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only feel the hot weight of him, the reality of being pinned like this, taken like this, and wanted more of it.
Torch reached blind to the shelf above the cot, found the bottle he'd stashed there days ago telling himself he wasn't hoping, and slicked his fingers.
He worked Wes open slow, one finger then two, patient even now, until Wes was rocking down onto his hand and swearing at him to hurry.
Only then did Torch line himself up and press in, careful against the stretch, sinking deep in one long, controlled stroke.
Wes cried out, his nails digging into Torch's shoulders, at the shock of it, the perfect, filthy sting.
"Okay?" He didn't sound like he expected an answer, not really. He sounded like he was telling Wes he'd stop if he asked, nothing more.
"Yeah." Wes's voice was shaky. He hitched his legs higher, wrapping Torch in tight. "Yeah, c'mon."
Torch kissed him, quick and biting, and then he started moving, slow and deep and sure.
Wes groaned, long and low, at the perfect stretch, at the overwhelming fact of being filled like this.
Torch felt huge inside him, impossibly thick, and Wes rocked down, wanting more of it, all of it.
Torch swore under his breath and picked up his pace, snapping his hips, thrusting hard.
Wes's head fell back, his vision swimming, and Torch kissed his throat, open-mouthed and wet.
"Like that?" It came out almost a growl.
"Yeah." Wes's voice had gone thin, desperate. He sounded wrecked already, and they'd barely started. "More. Right there."
Torch groaned, approving, and shifted his angle, hitting the spot that made Wes see white with every rough thrust. Wes cried out, his head falling back, his nails digging into Torch's shoulders.
Torch kissed him again, biting, almost vicious, and Wes kissed him back, same way.
It was messy and wet and perfect, teeth clicking, tongues slicking.
Torch wrapped a hand around Wes's cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, and Wes's whole body drew tight.
"Gonna feel you come apart." There was wonder buried under the gravel of his voice now. "Gonna feel you lose it. You gonna give it to me?"
"Yeah." It came out almost a sob. He was close, so close, his balls drawn up tight. He rocked down, meeting Torch thrust for thrust.
Torch growled into his mouth and sped up, thrusting harder, deeper. Wes cried out, loud and desperate, at the perfect, aching stretch. It felt like too much, like he was going to split open, and he never wanted it to stop. Torch kissed him again, wet and deep, swallowing his sounds.
"Now." Rough, urgent. "Gimme it now."
Wes came with a shout, spunk spurting hot between them, his head falling back.
It was too much, almost painful, and he never wanted it to stop.
Torch followed him a second later, thrusting deep, grinding hard.
Wes felt him swell, felt him pulse, and then he was coming inside him in long, wet spasms. It was raw and perfect, and Wes groaned, long and low, wrung out by the whole staggering weight of it.
Torch groaned too, the sound torn out of him. "Wes." His voice had gone almost reverent. "Fuck, Wes." He sounded wrecked, satisfied, like he'd just found something he didn't know he was looking for.
Afterward, they stayed like that for a long moment, Torch's forehead pressed to his, both of them breathing hard.
Wes could feel Torch softening inside him, slipping out, and he shivered at the slick warmth of it.
Torch kissed him again, slow and unhurried, and Wes kissed him back, same way.
It was wet and messy and perfect, no finesse, just need.
Torch finally pulled back, his hand coming up to cup Wes's face. "Mine," he said, testing the word. He was watching Wes's face, his eyes dark and intent, like he expected him to flinch.
Wes didn't. He turned his head, slow and deliberate, and kissed Torch's palm. "Yours," he said, and his voice was sure. It didn't feel like a cage. It felt like a door unlocking, like something clicking into place.
Torch made a low sound of approval and kissed him again, long and slow, like he wanted to climb inside Wes's skin. They traded kisses like that for a while, unhurried now, the urgency spent, until Torch finally pulled back.
"C'mere." It wasn't a request.
He shifted them, settling them in the center of the narrow cot, and Wes went willingly, crawling into his lap. Torch wrapped around him, his arms like iron bars, and Wes tucked his face against his throat, breathing him in. He smelled like sweat and man, like dust and rain and home.
The storm was gentling outside, the rain settling into a steady drizzle against the tin roof.
Wes could hear it, a soft counterpoint to Torch's breathing, to the frantic hammer of his own heart.
He felt wrecked, wrung out, like every tense muscle had finally gone slack.
Torch shifted, adjusting his hold, and Wes made a sound of protest. Torch chuckled, low and rough, and didn't let go.
"You're not running anymore," Torch said. Not a question.
Wes was quiet a long moment, his head still tucked against Torch's throat. When he spoke, his voice had gone very small. "He always finds what's his."
"So do I," Torch said, and felt Wes go still, and then, slowly, felt him relax into it instead of away — the first time, Torch understood, that Wes had ever heard those words and had them mean something other than a threat.
---