Melting Point (7 page)

Brady arched his back with the crystal-sharp awareness of that first contact. Wet. Hot. Pure sensation. The only thing that could make this better would be if he could see what Gage was doing. He twisted his hips, and Gage understood immediately and turned Brady in profile so he had a prime view of Gage thoroughly eating him out. Strong hands splitting his cheeks apart, Gage's hot tongue inside his body, he feasted on Brady like his ass was his last meal. Sensation, both sharp and diffuse, rocketed through every neuron.

“
Mais,
” he groaned. “
Mon Dieu,
please . . .”

Gage left off to grab the lube, murmuring thickly, “I'll take care of you, Brady.”

Brady knew he would. He trusted that this man with the golden smile and sparkling blue eyes would treat him with care and still give it to him hard.

The suspense as Gage uncapped and squeezed and slicked his fingers damn near killed Brady. Every passing second was torture, every pant from Brady begging for fulfillment.

Touch me . . . lick me . . .
fuck me.

Now.

One slippery finger slid in, soon followed by a second.
Merde . . .
He hooked right . . . oh God . . . right where it felt so damn good. Considering Gage's urgency when he arrived, he was surprisingly slow and gentle with getting Brady ready, and with his tongue playing advanced scout, it was so not necessary.

“Hurry. Gage, please—”

“Don't come yet, 'kay?”

“Then don't make me wait. Need you inside me properly. Every fucking inch.”

The next parade of sounds vibrated through Brady's shaking body: The crinkle of the condom wrapper. The grunt as Gage rolled on the rubber. The slick friction as he applied more lube to ease his entry. The gasp as his tip touched Brady's asshole.

One desperate, rasped word: “Brady.”

He watched in the mirror as Gage joined their bodies as one, feeding his swollen shaft slowly inside Brady's ass, his eyes feral, his lips parted with the pleasure of working his way inside. Their unified groan was a beautiful fucking thing.

Several more inches and he had seated himself deep. Every nerve ending sizzled with the invasion, a feeling of fullness so intense that Brady worried he might collapse with the painful pleasure.

Real manly, Smith.

“God, that's—” He had no idea what that was. No words to adequately describe the sensation of his ass being loved and owned like this. He needed to touch himself, but his free hand on the vanity was the only thing stopping him from falling over. Mind-reader Gage was all over that. He reached around and stroked Brady's cock, his lube-slick hands easing that burn inside and turning it to a honeyed sweetness.

“Want more, Gage. Need you . . . to move . . . inside me.” The words came out in staccato bursts. Gage withdrew and slid in again, slowly, this time deeper than Brady would have thought possible.

“Your ass, Brady. So”—he pulled out a couple of inches—“hot”—in with a groan, out with a rasp—“and perfect.” Simultaneously, he fisted Brady's cock, never breaking the rhythm of thrusts and pumps and strokes.

“Harder, Gage. Don't stop.”
Never stop.
Their gazes snagged in the mirror, the contrasts of sun and moon, smooth and scarred, blurring in a haze of pleasure. The perfection of this union. Gage's hips slammed forward, his control absolute, fucking Brady like a god.

“Look at my dick,” Gage rasped. He slowed his pace, admiring where their bodies connected, then dealt a series of quick, hard thrusts that spun Brady's pleasure impossibly higher. “How good it looks sliding inside you.”

Looked good. Felt a million times better.

Overwhelmed by the powerful sensations, Brady could have happily split open and oozed all over the bathroom tile. There was no way he could last more than ten—make that
no
—seconds. It happened so fast that in any other circumstances Brady might have been embarrassed, but this was the best fuck he'd ever had and he refused to be ashamed of feeling this good.

He was done with shame.

“Gonna come, Gage.” All rational thought fled his brain as he expelled in thick, ropy spurts on the vanity and mirror at the same time
his ass freakin' melted
. That was the only way he could describe the sensation of Gage hammering him to the sink and roaring his release as he followed Brady over.

Hell and damn, how do you top that?

Several seconds passed. Gage slid out gently, holding the condom tightly before disposing of it. He wrapped his arms around Brady's waist and gathered him close, laying soft kisses of gratitude on his neck.

After a few moments of catching their breath, Brady asked, not quite believing the words came from him, “You need to talk?”

Gage shut his eyes, waited a long beat. “Just need you. Only you,” and then a moment later, “Let me stay.” Part order, part plea.

Brady knew Gage would have to eventually leave his body, his loft, his life—this fantasy was like a fever dream Brady would eventually wake from—but the heat of the present kept the cold future at bay.

He nodded to Gage's reflection because if he had spoken, he would have said something dumb like,
Stay forever.

chapter eight

G
AGE STRODE TOWARD THE KITCHEN
at Smith & Jones, a man on a mission. He'd recruited Javier for spy duty, and the sous chef had just texted to say Brady was currently brandishing both a knife and the chutzpah to think he could work the line tonight. Gage was here to play enforcer.

Close to six in the evening, and the place was already hopping with a mix of fat-walleted professionals, guys with artistic facial hair, and the wanna-be-seen crowd. Before Gage reached his destination, someone called his name.

He turned and got a load of a sharp suit and an even sharper set of blue eyes.
Well, hello there, Your Hotness.
Eli Cooper, Chicago's reigning king, sat at a booth with an iPad, a sheaf of paperwork, and a lowball glass of what looked like scotch. Gage walked over, punctuating the short journey with a mock bow.

“Mr. Mayor. Looking as sex-
ay
as ever.”

Eli sighed. “Dial it down, Simpson, and have a seat.”

Fact: flirting was embedded in Gage's DNA. Related fact: Eli was a mighty fine property. All dark-haired, suspenders-wearing, powerfully built metrosexual with a jawline that could rip through tin cans. Gage slid into the booth, picked up the mayor's scotch, and took a sip.

Eli rolled his eyes as if it was a bit they did and Gage laughed. He didn't even like scotch.

“How's Alexandra?” the mayor asked. “Destroyed any luxury vehicles lately?”

In-ter-esting.
Kinsey had mentioned that Eli and Alex had sparked off each other enough to ignite infernos at city hall. Looked like that smoke was backed up with plenty of fire.

“She's lining up her next victim. What kind of car do you drive?”

“Something very expensive and armor plated. Though I doubt even that would stop a menace like your sister.” All traces of humor gone, he fixed Gage with those dangerous baby blues. “So, tell me how you're not going to fuck things up with Brady this time.”

Indignation pitched Gage's voice in a growl. “And the fault of how it all went south before wouldn't have anything to do with your pal being a teensy weensy bit impossible?”

“He is quite stubborn,” Eli acknowledged.

“Closed off.”

“A pain in the ass.”

“A
royal
pain in the ass.”

Eli grinned and Gage returned it. The guy was an asshole, but Gage guessed you needed to be to run a city like Chicago.

“It's actually going good.”

“Is he sleeping okay?”

No. Brady wasn't sleeping well, at least not while Gage was there. With his arm wrapped around all those hard muscles, Gage hadn't slept better in years, but anytime he woke, Brady's body was stiff, on high alert. Like he was on night watch back in the Marines.

He suspected he knew the answer—to be honest, he wasn't sure he could handle the answer—but he asked anyway. “Why doesn't he sleep?”

Eli's smile faded. “What do you know about what happened to him in Afghanistan?”

“Just what I read online during your last election.” Yeah, it was embarrassing. All Gage knew about Brady's problems was from the brief news reports during Eli's first election campaign. Eli, Brady, and two other Marines had been held and tortured for almost a week before they escaped. One of the team didn't make it.

Eli Cooper had spun it into political gold. Brady had spun it into an excuse to keep everyone—including Gage—at a distance.

The mayor blew out a breath that covered a couple of charged beats. His expression turned raw, a rare behind-the-curtain moment the likes of which he never risked showing his public.

“Those al-Qaeda fucks worked him over, Gage. It was bad for the rest of us, but he was our CO, and they did shit to him that he still won't talk about. Sliced him to ribbons, poured acid on his body, scarred him inside and out.”

Gage's heart stopped working, and as he listened to Eli recounting shit he could never have imagined, he wasn't sure he ever wanted it to beat again. He'd had his unfair share of torture as a kid with his crazy mom, but he'd emerged strong. With Sean Dempsey's help. With the love of his family. And if sometimes he woke up feeling like an elephant was sitting on his chest, he took a few deep breaths and snapped the fuck out of it.

“You okay there?” Eli nudged his scotch closer to Gage.

No, he was not. The details were bad enough, but now he felt like he was part of some grand plan set in motion by Eli Cooper. “What exactly did you think was going to happen here, Cooper? One good screw and Brady would suddenly be fixed? That's not how it works.”

Brows slammed together, Eli looked over to the kitchen and back at Gage. “I'm a good judge of character, and the night I introduced you to Brady, I saw something in you. That smile-and-bang-anything-that-moves act of yours is cute, but I think there's more there.”

Gage sighed. “You introduced us because like all heteros, you assume every gay guy wants to do every other gay guy.”

“Spare me the righteous indignation. I thought you might be good for him, and the fact that you haven't given up yet says something.”

Meet Gage Simpson, the patron saint of lost causes.

“So why haven't you?”

“Why haven't I what?”

Eli considered him, deathly serious. “Given up?”

Good question. He could get great sex anywhere. Having a five-star chef on hand was a plus, though Gage was actually doing more of the cooking at the moment, so yeah, useless. He could blame it on his inability to give up on anything because he was a fixer and an optimist to his core. Always had been. But he had to wonder who was getting fixed here.

A week ago, Brady had answered the phone when Gage needed to hear a friendly voice. That same night, he had offered his body for Gage to pour his pain into. He barely spoke, laughed, or cracked a smile, yet his arms were made to hold Gage tight.

“People tend to have certain expectations of me.” Even his own family. Gage the jester, the life and soul, the guy who bangs anything that moves. “He doesn't. I like that. I like him.”

The mayor leaned back in the booth and stared at Gage like he was one of the media who were always asking him dumb-as-dirt questions in those press conferences.

“Well, this is unexpected.”

What was? That Gage might like Brady, might care about him? Might actually be . . .
you have
got
to be kidding.
Unfamiliar sensation prickled the back of Gage's neck and spread like a rash over his skin.

He was blushing.

An inordinately attractive dimple that Gage would usually be very appreciative of popped in Eli's cheek. “I underestimated you, Mr. Simpson. You have surprised me and I am very hard to surprise. As you appear to, uh,
like
Brady—”

“Fuck off.”

“I hope that extends to doing anything to fix him,” Eli continued without missing a beat. “Such as calling him on his shit and letting him know that when he crashes, because he will, you're going to be there when he lands.”

Gage shifted in his seat, this newfound revelation of the depth of his feelings for Brady still pulsing through him. He wanted to deny. Run away, like that moment a week ago when he heard Emmaline might have remembered who he was and how unworthy he was to be her son.

“My job description might read ‘saves people for a living' in all caps, Mr. Mayor, but souls are not included.”

“If you say so.” Eli served up one of those potent grins that got his primary demo of women and the pink citizenry all hot and bothered. For once it had no impact on Gage.

He wanted it to have an impact. He wanted to go back to before when a dimple and a wink from any hot guy was enough to spark his interest. Was he destined to want to fuck only one person now for the rest of his life? If this was what being in love was like, then he had to say he was not impressed.

He was in love with Brady Smith.

As Gage stood, Eli picked up a menu. “I see the chef has already switched over to the fall dishes. The Gage Grilled Cheese. Now that sounds
very
tasty.”

No shit, Brady had put that sandwich on the menu and named it after him?
And here we go again
 . . . The blush that had been subsiding doubled back for a replay.

Eli laughed as though Gage had just taken a spectacular pratfall into a large banana cream pie.

So not voting for you in February, you fucker.

“Y
OU MAY AS WELL
have dragged me out of my kitchen by my ear, Mom,” Brady muttered to Gage's back as they took the stairs up to his loft. “It takes years to instill respect with my crew and you've wiped it away in the blink of an eye.”

Feigning embarrassment that Gage had marched into his kitchen and insisted he leave—much to the delight of Javier and the rest of the jeering Dominicans—was a lot easier than acknowledging the warmth Gage's concern had ignited in Brady's chest.

Gage turned at the top of the stairs. “If that's all it takes to lose the respect of your minions, then you have bigger problems. Besides, you know the score. Until the sling comes off, no kitchen duty.”

“Hasn't stopped you from putting me on blow job duty,” Brady grumbled.

In the last week, the fucker had practically moved in; he'd even brought over his own sheets
(t
his delicate skin does not do three-hundred-thread-count, Brady!).
Such a princess.
As Brady's shoulder rendered him useless in the Smith & Jones kitchen, he spent his mornings doing one-handed paperwork at the restaurant, afternoons and evenings sleeping when Gage was at the firehouse or the bar. Getting a few hours of shut-eye when Gage wasn't around was the best way he knew to protect him, because the hell of him not being in Brady's bed was worse.

Only when he reached the top of the stairs did he realize that Gage had already gone inside, using a key that Brady had not given him. How the hell had that happened?

The question died on the tip of his tongue because the surprises, they just kept on comin'. At the door, Brady had to grab the frame with his good hand, the shock from the sight before him practically cutting him off at the knees. The dimly lit loft smelled deliciously spicy. In the center of the room was a set table with a white tablecloth, a single red rose in a bud vase. Gage was lighting a candle, and it took several seconds of slo-mo in Brady's brain for him to fully process the scene.

This was a date.

“You cooked?”

“Yep. Darcy lent me your spare key.” He walked back toward Brady, who had not yet managed to step across the threshold, and pulled him inside. “And you are not to even think about setting foot in that kitchen. I've got it all under control.”

In a daze, Brady let himself be led to the table—where had this table even come from?—and soon he was sitting with a glass of Malbec and a slice of olive rosemary loaf from Red Hen Bread while Gage pottered about in the kitchen. Brady craned his neck to see what was going on, and for once Gage's fine ass was not the focus (or, not 100 percent). This man was
here,
cooking for him, looking after him, and Brady had never felt more cared for.

Gage left the kitchen, wearing an apron with a drawing of a charcoal grill and the slogan, “Once you put my meat in your mouth, you're going to want to swallow.” He served two bowls of soup. Carrot-ginger, Brady guessed from the color and aromatic scent.

“Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Simpson?”

“Not trying.” Gage gentled his jaw and kissed him softly. “Totally succeeding.”

At that and a whole lot more.

Over dinner—Gage had the nerve to serve a Louisiana native jambalaya and the even bigger nerve to make it one of the best dishes Brady had ever tasted—they talked more than usual, the one glass of wine combined with the drugs making Brady a complete lightweight and chatty with it. Gage had stories about crazy callouts on the job, his foster father, Sean, and growing up Dempsey. Brady talked about the bayou, a little about his difficult relationship with his family, more about his love for cooking.

An hour later, Brady was stuffed and patting his stomach. “That was great, Gage.”

“I know,” he said with a cocky smile. “This talent is as much a curse as a blessing. No one else can compete at the firehouse, so I'm always on kitchen duty.” He shrugged off his oh-so-heavy burden. “Anyway, I like looking after the troops.”

Course he did. He was here because taking care of people came second nature to him. The foster family he adored, Jacob and his V-card, Brady and his shoulder.

Gage hadn't just seduced Brady. He had won him, heart and soul.

“Don't know where you put it all,” he said as Gage tucked away a third helping of jambalaya.

“Figure I should take advantage now while my metabolism is high. Once I hit thirty, my body will turn to mush.”