40. FORTY
FORTY
It was the day before Rory’s surf competition.
Rory had caught the early waves, dawn patrol, up before the sun, back home by nine. Now he was in the driveway, waxing his surfboard, moving the bar of wax in slow, methodical circles across the deck.
Kieran pulled into the driveway, Hank and Mabel panting in the back. They’d walked the San Elijo Lagoon trail with Vera, all the way out to the beach and back. His legs ached in that good, tired way.
He waved. Rory looked up, nodded, went back to waxing.
Kieran got the dogs out, herded them into the house. He filled their water bowls, then headed back outside.
Rory was still at it. The board propped up on the sawhorse, his hands working the wax with more force than necessary.
Kieran recognized the tension. Nerves.
“You okay?” Kieran asked, coming to stand beside him.
“Fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
Rory paused, exhaling through his nose. “I’m competing in the 30-39 bracket.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“I’m thirty-eight.”
“Also aware.”
“Basically forty.”
Kieran raised an eyebrow. “Are you having an existential crisis about your age right now?”
“No. I’m having a realistic assessment of my chances.” Rory went back to waxing, harder now. “I’d have a much better shot if I was in the next bracket up. 40-49. I’d be at the bottom of the age range instead of the top.”
“So you’re saying you wish you were older?”
“I’m saying the competition’s going to be brutal and I’m already at a disadvantage.”
Kieran watched him, then stepped closer, draping himself over Rory’s shoulders from behind, chin resting on his shoulder.
Rory stiffened. Then inhaled. Then inhaled again. “You stink,” he said, but he didn’t pull away.
Kieran blinked. “Do I?”
He lifted his arm, sniffed. Couldn’t tell. Sweat, maybe. Salt air. Dog.
“You don’t seem that upset about it,” Kieran said.
Rory’s hand came up to grip Kieran’s forearm, keeping him in place. “I’m suffering.”
“You’re smelling me like a golden retriever.”
“Shut up.”
“Have you taken a shower yet?” Kieran asked, turning his head to look at Rory’s profile. “Gotten the ocean off your skin?”
“No.”
“So we both stink.”
Rory’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “I guess.”
Kieran pressed a kiss to the side of Rory’s neck. “We should fix that.”
“I need to finish this.”
“The board’s not going anywhere.” Kieran’s hands slid down Rory’s arms, finding his wrists. “Come on. Take a break. Shower with me.”
Rory hesitated. “Kieran…”
“You’re wound up. You need to clear your head.” Kieran’s voice dropped lower. “Let me help.”
Rory set the wax down. Turned his head, meeting Kieran’s eyes. “That’s not subtle.”
“I’m not trying to be subtle.”
Rory looked at him. His eyes were already giving in before his mouth caught up. “Fine.”
“Good.”
Kieran grabbed his hand and pulled him toward Rory’s house. He started the shower, adjusting the temperature while Rory waited, arms crossed, watching.
“You’re doing this,” Rory said.
“Yep.”
“In the middle of the day?”
“It’s almost noon. Perfectly respectable.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Kieran pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. “Are you going to keep talking or are you going to get naked?”
Rory’s eyes tracked over him. Down. Then back up. He was already reaching for his waistband.
Kieran grinned. He kicked off his shoes, shoved his shorts and boxers down in one motion. Didn’t bother folding or organizing, clothes in a pile on the floor. When he looked up, Rory was peeling off his board shorts, still damp from the morning session.
Steam was already filling the bathroom by the time they stepped into the shower.
The water hit hot and perfect. Kieran tilted his head back, letting it run over his face, his shoulders. When he opened his eyes, Rory was watching him.
“What?” Kieran asked.
“Nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
Rory stepped closer, his hand coming up to trace the line of Kieran’s collarbone, then pressing flat against his chest. His fingers were trembling slightly.
“You said you wanted to help me relax,” Rory said, his voice dropping an octave, losing that stiff driveway posture entirely.
“I did.”
“Then stop talking,” Rory muttered, leaning in until their foreheads touched, his breath hot against Kieran’s mouth. “And actually do it.”
Kieran didn’t need to be told twice.
He pushed Rory back against the tile wall, the water cascading over both of them now. Kissed him hard, all teeth and urgency, hands already moving down Rory’s sides, gripping his hips.
They broke apart, breathing heavy. Kieran dropped to his knees.
“Jesus,” Rory muttered, head falling back against the tile.
Kieran looked up at him. Water streaming down, plastering Rory’s hair to his forehead. His chest rising and falling. Already half-hard.
“Let go,” Kieran said.
Then he leaned in.
Rory’s reaction was immediate. A sharp inhale. His hand flying to Kieran’s shoulder, gripping hard.
Kieran took his time. Started slow. Teasing the tip, his tongue working in small circles, savoring the familiar taste of him.
Rory’s hips shifted forward. Impatient.
Kieran pulled back. “Easy.”
“Kieran…”
“I said let me do it.”
He took him deeper this time. One hand braced on Rory’s thigh, the other wrapping around the base, stroking in rhythm with his mouth.
Rory groaned, low and rough. The sound echoed off the tile.
Kieran sucked harder. Rory’s hand moved from his shoulder to his hair, fingers threading through.
“Fuck,” Rory breathed.
Kieran picked up the pace. Found the rhythm Rory liked, firm and consistent. Rory’s thigh muscles went taut under his hand.
“Kieran, I’m—” He pulled back from Kieran’s mouth.
“What?”
“I need…” Rory paused, his forehead resting against the wet tile as his breath hitched. “Give me a few minutes. Go wait on the bed.”
Kieran studied the tight line of Rory’s jaw for a second, seeing the deliberate shift in his eyes. Then he nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Take your time.”
Kieran pressed a quick, hot kiss to his shoulder, then stepped out of the shower. He grabbed a towel, dried off with quick, careless strokes, and padded into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him to trap the warmth.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, then lay back, listening to the distant, rhythmic hum of the pipes. He figured Rory was maybe settling his mind after getting wound up about his age in the driveway.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door clicked open.
Rory stood in the frame, a towel slung low and loose on his hips.
Water still dripped from the ends of his hair, running down his chest in slow rivulets.
He didn’t come into the room right away.
He looked down at Kieran on the sheets, his eyes dark and totally focused.
“Kieran,” he finally said, his voice flat and gritty.
Kieran propped himself up on his elbows. “Yeah?”
“Screw relaxing. Please fuck me. Right now.”
Kieran blinked, his brain completely stalling out. “...What?”
“You heard me,” Rory muttered, finally moving out of the doorway. He crossed the bedroom in three heavy, deliberate steps until he was standing right at the edge of the mattress, looking down at him. “You said you wanted to help. So do it. Get inside me and make me stop thinking.”
Kieran stood up so fast his towel hit the floorboards before he even realized he’d dropped it.
For a heartbeat, he stared. This man who spent every hour of his life being the anchor, the boss, the protector, standing by the bed entirely stripped of his armor, ordering Kieran to take him apart.
Kieran closed the distance between them, his hands coming up to grip the sides of Rory’s neck, and slammed their mouths together. The kiss was deep and frantic with a fierce kind of weight—all the adrenaline from the driveway instantly turning into pure want.
Without breaking the connection, he guided Rory backward, pressing him down toward the mattress.
Rory unhooked the towel from his waist and blind-tossed it over his shoulder toward the bathroom tile.
Kieran let out a soft, breathless laugh against his lips. “God forbid a wet towel touch the bed.”
“Shut up,” Rory muttered against his mouth, his fingers already digging hard into Kieran’s shoulders as he rolled over and let himself be pinned face-first into the sheets.
Kieran’s hands moved over Rory’s back. Down his spine. Over the curve of his ass. Taking his time.
He grabbed Rory’s hips, pulled him up onto his knees, arching his back.
“God,” Kieran murmured, running his fingers down Rory’s crack, feeling the soft hair against his fingertips. “Your ass is so hairy.”
Rory braced himself. “I know.”
“It’s fucking perfect,” Kieran said, dragging his thumb back up through it. “You’re fucking perfect.”
Rory exhaled, settling back into Kieran’s hands.
Kieran leaned down and breathed in. Rory smelled clean. Soap and skin and nothing else. Then he spread him open and put his mouth on him.
Rory’s face pressed into the mattress, hands fisting in the sheets.
Kieran started slow. Gentle circles with his tongue. Learning what made Rory flinch, what made him open up into it. He was trying to worship. His tongue flattened, licking broad strokes, then pointed, pushing in, testing.
Rory groaned. Raw and broken.
Kieran reached lower, sliding his hand deep between Rory’s thighs.
He hooked his pointer and middle finger tightly around the base of Rory’s balls, scissoring them to anchor him and pulled the skin taut.
With his thumb perfectly positioned right beneath his fingers, he pressed hard into Rory’s taint, massaging the firm, sensitive ridge in slow, heavy circles while his mouth kept working.
Rory’s whole body went stiff for a fraction of a second before a raw, shuddering gasp punched out of him. His hips twitched violently, instinctively rolling back into the heavy, dual pressure of Kieran’s hand.
Kieran kept going, tongue and thumb working in a synchronized rhythm, building Rory up patiently. There was no rush. No performance.
Rory was making sounds now. Small gasps. Half-formed words. Kieran’s name, repeated like a prayer.