Loose Cannon Page 22

  “What do I do?”

  Tobias considered that for a minute. “You give him time. You said it yourself—his head’s a mess. Give him time to figure it out. Who knows? Maybe he’ll be the one to make a move.”

  “Optimist,” Church said, but some of his antsy misery about the whole thing had vanished, so it didn’t come out like the insult he’d meant it as.

  “One of us deserves to get what he wants,” Tobias said lightly. He cleared his throat. “I should go. You’re working and I need to study. Uh, let me know if he calls? I mean, I know he won’t, but just in case?”

  “Of course.” Church tugged him into a hug. “It could happen. Like you said, who knows? The only predictable thing about Ghost is that he’s unpredictable.”

  * * *

  Later, after Shelby pronounced Miller useless and left, he worked on assorted odds and ends while he waited for the other guy to take off too. He was half-tempted to stick his head out and ask if Church was coming back inside, but reminded himself that Church was here as a favor and Miller probably shouldn’t be a dick.

  Still, there was a lot of work around the place that Miller couldn’t do because it required two people. He needed Church. More than the other guy—Trevor or whatever it was—needed Church anyway. Trevor had really loose hands too. He touched Church every thirty seconds. It was very inappropriate.

  Miller tried to focus on the...uh, the thing he was working on. Where the hell did he put the...thing? He shook his head.

  The next time he looked out the window, they were hugging.

  They were fucking hugging.

  A minute later, Church was swinging back inside, his lips lifted in a warm, relaxed smile and Miller was moving before he could think, and he was so...he didn’t even know the word, it was so foreign, this feeling that was close to anger but also very different at the same time. He didn’t feel like himself at all, didn’t remember what it was like to have everything in order, and his hands closed on Church’s jacket. He wanted to shake Church, wanted to tell him to leave Miller in peace, to let him go back to being normal, to being who he was supposed to be.

  Church stumbled under his grip. “Miller, what the hell?”

  Miller could smell him, sunshine and clean sweat and skin, and he couldn’t let go, not when Church was against him like this. The air between them had been weird for a while now, and Miller had missed being close to Church, hadn’t realized how much he missed it, and Church said, “Easy, easy, talk to me—”

  That couldn’t—that was too—

  And then they were—kissing.

  It was a horrible kiss, too hard and awkward, and Church struggled against him until Miller was forced to let go.

  “Wait,” Church snapped. His lip was bleeding, and he licked it, and Miller glanced down without meaning to. “You should think about—”

  “I’m not a child,” Miller snapped right back, and Church’s eyes darkened. His hands fisted in Miller’s shirt, and he spun them, shoving Miller up against the wall. Miller’s breath exploded out of him at the force.

  “No,” Church gritted out, and something cracked open inside Miller. His hands started to loosen of their own accord, but Church was going on. “We’re not doing it like this. I’m not hurting you like this. So either say no, or let me do this right.”

  He waited for Miller’s answer, and Miller stood there vibrating, his throat closed. He shoved a little, testing Church’s hold, trying to break loose maybe, but maybe not, and Church was—God, it was electrifyingly awful to think it, but Church was stronger than he was, or at least he was better at working leverage than Miller, because he couldn’t get free. He was tempted to do something violent, anything to prove to Church that this was...it was so out of control, but then Church kissed him again and everything...stopped.

  It was sweet.

  Church’s grip was impossibly tight, his shoulders unyielding, the pressure of his body against Miller’s downright painful, but his mouth was sweet. Tender. Coaxing.

  Miller’s head went light and empty; his whole body went tense as rebar. He clenched his fingers on Church’s shirt without meaning to. He couldn’t stop the raw, naked sound that he made as his mouth opened helplessly beneath Church’s. Church’s tongue dipped inside, gentle but deep and relentless, his soft, approving hum at Miller’s surrender turning all of the bones in Miller’s body liquid.

  He broke the kiss enough to whisper against Miller’s mouth. “What do you want? Tell me what you want.”

  Miller couldn’t talk. He shook his head. He was shaking all over, actually, but when Church started to frown, started to pull away, Miller gripped his shirt all the more tightly.

  “Okay,” Church murmured. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

  Church was shaking too, Miller realized, shaking and out of breath and watching Miller like he was a dangerous creature that might flee or attack at any moment. That was—that hurt for some reason, but suddenly they were kissing again and he couldn’t think anymore.

  Church was rough as he tore open Miller’s jeans, drove his hand inside, and started jerking Miller’s cock. Miller couldn’t make sense of the two—the coarse, dry hand job and the impossibly tender kiss that was at once the filthiest and most chaste of Miller’s life.

  And Miller was kissing him back. Numbly at first, then obediently, and then with a growing demand. He couldn’t get enough of Church’s mouth, couldn’t find the will to be embarrassed at his need as he clung to Church, as he offered more of himself, desperate for Church to take.

  Church did.

  Maybe it went on for ages. Maybe it was only a heartbeat.

  Abruptly Church was gone...no, not gone, kneeling. He yanked Miller’s jeans down to his ankles, shoved at Miller’s legs so he’d step more widely, and took Miller into his mouth.

  It wasn’t like he’d imagined it at all. That dim fantasy could never compare to the reality, to the tangible sensations of Church, wide and strong against him, his hand big and sure, the scrape of his stubble on Miller’s thigh. That fantasy was nothing compared to the heat and wetness and suction of his mouth.

  All thought vanished. Miller turned into this...this eager, desperate thing, a candle lit not by a match but a bonfire, he was burning up, he was melting, and Church was practically choking himself on Miller’s cock, he was making these wild, muffled noises that had Miller falling apart, and it felt so good, so incredibly good, and Miller looked down to where Church’s mouth was red and stretched wide around him. Church was watching him with eyes gone hot and intent, like he was memorizing Miller’s reactions. Church’s cheeks were flushed, one hand cupping Miller’s buttock, the other working Miller’s cock at the base, not that there was much room because he must be halfway into Church’s throat for fuck’s sake, and God, it was fast, it’d barely been a minute and Miller was getting close.

  He didn’t mean to thrust, but he couldn’t help it.

  Church made a strangled noise, and his hands clamped down, but Miller was sweating and trembling and in the process, Church’s fingers skidded across his ass, accidentally falling toward the crease, close to... Miller had never been touched there before, never even thought about being touched there, and he couldn’t make sense of it, but his body knew exactly how it felt about the situation.

  He let out a sound that could only be called a whine, and his hips jerked again.

  For a second Church froze. He pulled back and Miller heard himself say, “C’mon, please,” even as he drove his fingers into that short dark hair, not quite daring to pull, unable to let go. Church said, “Easy, give me a second,” and his voice was wrecked, hoarse like he’d been swallowing seawater or rocks. Bewildered, Miller watched Church slurp on two fingers of his right hand, licking them so that they were shiny and almost dripping. Church’s mouth returned, sucking him deep, and the pleasure overtook him again, sinki
ng into his belly and thighs. He hadn’t lost much momentum. A few long draws of Church’s lips and tongue on his skin and Miller was already back to feeling the distant coil of orgasm tightening within him.

  A light touch brushed behind him, delving back between his buttocks. Miller wanted to protest, wanted it faster, wanted...hell, he didn’t know what he wanted, and he yanked at Church’s hair without intending to, then yanked Church closer, also without intending to. Church didn’t hesitate, like maybe he was expecting the mixed signals. He only sucked harder, stealing Miller’s will to fight, and the finger circled that hidden, private flesh, wet and warm and not remotely tentative.

  No, Miller thought, but didn’t say. He almost moved away, almost pushed Church back, but he didn’t. He didn’t know why, but all he could do was tighten his hands in Church’s hair. He had plenty of time to stop this, but his words were all locked up inside him, trapped behind the burning heat in his gut, behind the hot tightness of Church’s mouth, and the way Miller’s lips still tingled from Church’s kiss.

  The finger worked its way inside him, unyielding if not unduly rough, and Miller’s hips bucked again. It hurt and it felt alien and intrusive and he was shaking apart. He couldn’t find his anger, couldn’t think because it was wrong, it was so wrong, but he was pushing back onto Church’s finger anyway, searching for more.

  His face was on fire, and his breath puffed in steam-engine pants, and it hurt, it all hurt so good, and he had two of Church’s fingers inside him now, shockingly large and impossible to resist, and Jesus, it was the strangest kind of pain, the kind of pain that didn’t hurt at all but it was tearing him open anyway, irresistible and overpowering. He was thrusting even though he knew it was unforgivably rude, but Church made these short, approving groans when he could, staring upward with such intensity that Miller couldn’t hold his gaze. Church took Miller deeper, sucked harder, and his fingers didn’t move in and out so much as searched inside him, driving Miller insane, until they brushed against something deep, something that sent sparks up his spine, and he was coming, coming hard, shouting, bending over until his sweaty forehead dropped to Church’s back. Church grunted under his weight, but Miller couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

  Church shoved him back upright, and Miller slumped against the wall, barely on his feet, and he could only watch, dazed and dry-mouthed as Church rose, opened his jeans and started jerking himself. His eyes ran over Miller’s face, dropped to where Miller’s jeans were still open, and returned to Miller’s mouth. His expression was—well, it was greedy—and in about a dozen strokes, Church was groaning.

  He caught his come in his cupped hand and stood there gasping, propped up against the wall with a straight arm, watching Miller warily as his breath slowed.

  “Did you swallow?” Miller asked eventually.

  “That’s—” Church pulled back. There could be grinding gears in his throat, that was how low and cracked his voice sounded, and it sent a shiver down Miller’s spine. “That’s what you’re thinking about? Whether I swallowed your come?”

  “... Yes.”

  Stupid, maybe, but it was what Miller was thinking. He’d tasted his own come once, back when he was a teenager, embarrassed and curious, and he’d gotten uncomfortable about the whole enterprise. He didn’t know why Church would’ve swallowed it. Miller wouldn’t have. Miller wouldn’t have done any of this. Not if he’d had his head right.

  They hadn’t used a condom. Miller was clean, but Church didn’t know that.

  “Yeah, I swallowed,” Church snapped, and stormed off to the bathroom.

  Miller stayed where he was. He’d never had sex without a condom before. He’d never forgotten or gotten too swept up or impatient. He’d never had trouble saying, Well, we can wait and do it some other time.

  The idea of protection hadn’t even occurred to him. There’d only been the rush of Church against him, under his skin, in his blood.

  He looked down at his cock, shiny with Church’s spit and not fully soft yet. His jeans were around his ankles. He felt ridiculous. He pulled them up, fingers fumbling, and tucked himself back in. He was zipping his fly, the first threads of panic starting to riot in his veins, when Church returned. He was drying his hands on a paper towel, and Miller wound up staring at those hands. At Church’s right hand in particular. The hand with the fingers that’d been inside him.

  What a bizarre thing to think.

  What a bizarre thing to let Church do in the first place.

  Miller shifted his weight. The nerves of his ass were hypersensitive. He wasn’t in pain exactly, but it felt weird anyway. Like maybe he was swollen. Or like he’d be sore later. The jump in his belly was starting, and Church was watching him like he was a bomb about to explode.

  “I maybe handled that badly,” Church said quietly.

  “I’m maybe handling my life badly these days,” Miller said, and it came out too loud and a little too fast. “I used to be normal. You believe me, right?”

  “You still are normal.” Church sounded irritated.

  But Miller didn’t feel normal. He felt like he was under a microscope, like there were a million eyes on him, comparing him to what he should be and finding him lacking, like it was only a matter of time until the people who could never know would find out.

  “Where does it come from?” Church asked. “This sense that it’s wrong? You say you don’t care that I’m gay. You say there’s nothing wrong with it—”

  “There isn’t,” Miller insisted, and he meant it. In his brain and in his heart, when it came to Church, he knew there was nothing wrong.

  The feelings didn’t warp slantwise until he looked at himself.

  “Then why do you still feel like you’re doing something unforgivable? Is this because your dad was so religious? Because I thought you didn’t go to church anymore.”

  “I don’t.”

  “It’s tragic, but they’ll burn.”

  And the way his father used to look at Shelby... Jesus.

  “So what is it?” Church asked.

  “I don’t know,” Miller managed.

  “Can we—”

  Abruptly it was too much. The panic burst in his chest, and he stammered, “I’m sorry, Church, but I can’t do this right now, I can’t—talk—”

  He didn’t run out this time, at least.

  He walked.

  Chapter Sixteen

  So they were back to the not-touching. But this time they were also with the not-talking.

  Well, okay, they talked.

  About the workshop. And the bakery. And what to have for dinner. And hockey. And the kidney medicine the vet had prescribed for Francis Bacon.

  But they didn’t talk about anything that mattered. There was this knife buried in Church’s chest, and it was made up of all the words they didn’t say. Church’s would’ve been: Do you want me? Were you using me? Do you hate yourself for touching me?

  He’d say I’m sorry, too.

  He had no idea what Miller’s words would be.

  Worse, Church kept catching Miller watching him, and half the time Miller didn’t even realize he was busted until a few seconds had gone by, and by that time Church was halfway to hard and most of the way to pissed off about it.

  He just wanted. All the fucking time.

  And whenever Miller blinked and cleared his throat and glanced away, cheeks red, eyes downturned like he was ashamed, it made the knife in Church’s chest twist a little bit more.

  Something had to give. One of them was going to break. Probably him. Church wasn’t sure how long he could do this, live with Miller right beside him but still not here. Church was strung so tight that he almost wanted to get the next confrontation over with. He would, if he thought it’d make things better instead of worse.

  The only thing that could dis
tract him for more than a minute at a time was the thought of apologizing to George Kontakte, the man Church had hurt that horrible night five years ago, and it wasn’t like that was an improvement.

  He talked to Chelsey about it during his next week’s parole meeting.

  Rather, he argued about it with Chelsey during his next parole meeting.

  He didn’t mention the truck or the window, only that he wanted to apologize, so her reluctance to contact Kontakte made perfect sense. For ten minutes, she was like a parrot repeating the same thing over and over: leave the man in peace.

  Church managed to wear her down eventually, although she snuck in a last good one just when he thought he’d won.

  “He’s not the only one who could be negatively affected by this, Church,” she said. “Have you thought about how you’ll feel if the meeting goes badly? How it might affect your anger and your success?”

  “I’ve thought about that a lot,” he replied honestly.

  She sat back in her chair to study him. “Okay. I’m inclined to say yes, but before I do, I want you to think about it some more. If you’re still adamant, I’ll set it up. Be sure, Church, because you’re going to be stuck with the consequences.”

  Church wouldn’t be sure at all except that someone wrote motherfucker into Miller’s lawn in black spray paint in the middle of that very night. It took a couple hours the next morning to dig up enough of the grass that the word was gone, leaving a long ugly stretch of rucked-up dirt marring the yard. Miller seemed annoyed and perplexed in equal measure, wondering aloud about who would do such a thing.

  It was either Vasily or George Kontakte, Church figured, but he didn’t say anything.

  Add that to the list of things they weren’t talking about.

  * * *

  Miller was basically a roman candle these days. His skin hummed. His belly was tight all the time with that hungry, low-grade burn, and during the week after Church had sucked him in the workshop, he kept noticing things.