A Taste of You (7 page)

Not hard at all.
His mouth watered, and it had nothing to do with the plate of pasta in front of him.
It’s not the screwing that will be the problem.
But he wanted a taste, damnit, just a taste of Carlo. Later, when the inevitable twitchiness set in, he would ease away gently, back to their normal friendship and let Carlo find someone who was more suitable, more worthy, someone who would stay with him forever.

They finished eating in silence. Garrett was hyper-aware of every move Carlo made, the way his lips closed around his fork, the movement of his throat as he took a sip of wine. He wondered if Carlo felt it, the delicious tension that added weight to the silence and significance to every glance.

He wanted the silence to mean that Carlo was as speechless with desire as he was, but he couldn’t be sure. Their eyes met again, and Carlo, normally so smooth and controlled, fumbled and dropped his fork.

Garrett got up and took his own plate and utensils to the sink. When he turned back around, Carlo was staring at him with a raw intensity. Then he dropped his gaze back down to his plate. His empty plate.

Careful
, Garrett warned himself. Carlo wasn’t just some hook-up. Garrett would need to go slowly, or his friend would bolt. For a minute he almost lost his nerve. Sex had always been easy, an itch easily satisfied before both partners went their own ways. But this was Carlo, who wanted family, permanence, and surely a little romance even in a temporary partner. He deserved respect, a seduction rather than a quick fuck against the counter.

Carlo, he realized, might not want to fuck at all. He might want to make love. And how the hell was Garrett supposed to accomplish that? What did that mean, anyway?

Then he remembered the boyfriend, The Little Shit, who wanted space, who didn’t value Carlo as he deserved to be valued. He could at least do better than that.

Garrett used their bottle of wine as an excuse to move close behind Carlo. As he topped off Carlo’s glass, he rested on hand on Carlo’s shoulder. He heard Carlo’s breath catch as he stroked his thumb along the nape of his neck right along the base of his skull. Garrett set the wine bottle on the counter and let his fingers tangle in Carlo’s silky, black hair. He tugged gently at the strands, so much softer than he had ever imagined, then slid his fingers back down to Carlo’s shoulder. He lowered his head and carefully touched his lips to the spot his thumb had caressed.

And, god, it was hard to pull back from that kiss. He licked his lips, tantalized by the hint of Italian that lingered on them.

“Garrett?” Carlo had gone still, barely breathing.

Garrett gave in to temptation and leaned in close to his ear, let his teeth scrape the lobe, before whispering, “Carlo?”

“What are we doing?”

“I’m seducing you.”

“Why?”

“I want to know how you taste.”

There was a long pause. Garrett waited, a breath away from Carlo.
Don’t push.

“I don’t—”

“Don’t what?”

“We can’t.” It was almost a whisper.

“We can.” Garrett’s tongue traced the curve of Carlo’s ear. “He wants space, Carlo. I want
you
.”

Carlo shuddered, and Garrett thought he had won. But then Carlo shoved back from the counter, almost knocking Garrett over as he got up. They wound up toe to toe, Carlo’s back to the counter, Garrett in front of him, refusing to move away but afraid to touch him.

Carlo stared straight ahead at a spot over Garrett’s shoulder.

“Will you make me one of your men, then?”

Is that what he thought? Garrett reached up and put his hands on either side of Carlo’s face. He exerted pressure until Carlo moved a bit to meet his eyes.

“Never,” he hissed fiercely. “You will never be like anyone else. You will always be my Carlo.”

He leaned forward. He intended a kiss, a gentle meeting of the lips. Just a taste. Instead Carlo’s lips crashed into his, taking the kiss from sweet to searing between one heartbeat and the next. Garrett opened his mouth, their tongues met, and,
god
, he crowded closer, practically climbing on top of Carlo to get more.

Sensations crashed over him in waves, the furnace of Carlo’s skin burning through the thin cotton of his shirt, the urgent tangle of tongues. And the taste. The indescribable taste of Carlo laced with sweet pork, basil, and red wine. No words could ever do it justice. He could never create a flavor as complex, although he thought he might spend the rest of his life trying.

He wanted more.

He wanted to taste everything, the hollow at the base of Carlo’s neck, the soft skin of his belly, the backs of his knees. He wanted to gorge himself on Carlo.

“You’re so goddamn delicious. I’m going put my mouth on every inch of you. I’m going to suck you off. I’m going to eat you out. I want to know what your balls taste like, your ass, your come. I’m going to feast on you.”

Out loud. He had said that out loud. But he didn’t care how crazy he sounded because, at his final words, Carlo made that little moan down deep in his throat. That insanely hot sound of pleasure that made something buried inside Garrett go soft and melty and got his dick as hard as a rock.

****

They hadn’t had dessert, but somehow the scent of sugar and vanilla poured off Garrett in waves.

Sweet
.

And his mouth was even sweeter, the hint of wine only turning it darker, sinful and decadent. Carlo let every doubt about what they were doing slide away into that darkness. He had waited so long. He couldn’t even consider denying himself this night with Garrett.

Garrett continued to whisper against his skin, telling him how hot he was, all the things he wanted to do to him. Trust Garrett to make the whole event sound like the tasting menu at Ransom. It was the weirdest sex talk Carlo had ever heard, and it shouldn’t have worked. But having Garrett talk about him with the same passion he normally reserved for his food was a major turn-on. Especially since, in between the commentary, Garrett was putting his words into action.

Garrett’s mouth moved along Carlo’s chin in tiny nips. Lips closed around his earlobe and sucked gently as though testing the flavor. He felt Garrett’s open mouth against his throat, then the bite of teeth and a long, slow swipe of tongue. Hands were secondary to a seduction by Chef Ransom. Teeth and tongue were everywhere.

Carlo felt desired, treasured…savored.

And hot. So hot. Every touch of lips, swipe of tongue, scrape of teeth lit him up, and, Holy Mother, they had barely started. Fully clothed. They were still fully clothed. How would he survive it?

Garrett’s teeth closed over one nipple, and Carlo sagged back against the counter as his knees gave a little. He heard himself moan, and then Garrett’s hands were at his waist, pushing underneath the T-shirt and finally on his skin.

Garrett’s hands on him, pushing up his shirt. A flare of panic made its way through the haze of arousal. Would Garrett mind the hair, the extra bit of flesh?

Then lips joined the hands, and Garrett didn’t seem to mind at all. The running commentary was contrast and texture and…
Jesus,
this was nothing like anything Carlo had ever experienced. Nothing like anything he had ever imagined.

All his fantasies about sex with Garrett, everything from sweet, languid kisses to sweaty, pounding monkey-sex, and he had never imagined himself being reduced to a mindless puddle of quivering goo before they got to second base, had never imagined Garrett being the one to seduce
him
instead of the other way around.

Garrett’s hands teased around his waistband, flirted with the button of his jeans. Carlo’s dick strained upward, anticipating first contact, a brush of those talented fingers. The haze disappeared, replaced with an all-consuming need to move things along.
Now
.

He grabbed Garrett’s wrists and pushed himself up away from the counter.

Garrett stilled. “Too fast?”

No.

“Bedroom. Now.”

The trip through the apartment was an obstacle course of jumbled limbs, tangled lips, and shedding clothes. He stumbled out of shoes, found himself pulling feverishly at Garrett’s shirt, grappling with his belt, his fly. He wanted to touch, to taste, to immerse himself in sugar and vanilla and warm flesh, to sate some of his own hungers.

He had the height and weight advantage, but Garrett had belts in multiple disciplines of martial arts and seemed determined to continue his culinary exploration. When they finally hit the bed, Carlo found himself on his back, laid out for Garrett’s enjoyment, helpless to do more than thrash and gasp and moan while Garrett made good on his promises.

And when he had been sucked off, eaten out, and Garrett had licked erogenous zones Carlo never knew he had…when Garrett had swallowed his come and told him how sweet his ass tasted…when his world had exploded under Garrett’s touch and it still wasn’t enough….

“Condom. Lube. Please, Carlo.”

Please, Carlo
. Garrett sounded strained. Desperate. As desperate as Carlo felt.

He scrambled for the nightstand, Garrett right behind him. Then his face was in the pillow, and he wanted to tell Garrett to be careful, go easy, it had been a long time. Too late, and it didn’t matter anyway. He was open, ready, beyond prepped.

But Garrett surprised him again by taking his time despite the urgent tone. Carlo moaned as a slick finger pressed into him then a second, stretching him out.

Garrett whispered into his ear, telling him how hot he was, how his come was a salty treat he couldn’t get enough of.

Then the finger was gone, and it was Garrett,
holyfuckGarrettGarrettGarrett,
who slid inside him and started to move, just a little too carefully.

It felt good, so good. And it was Garrett, who didn’t take instruction well, so Carlo held back while the tension built and built. And. Slowly. Built.

And then it slipped out.

“Jesus Christ, Garrett. Fuck me already.”

Garrett muttered something. It might have been, “Oh, thank god.” But it got lost in the feel of his hands tightening on Carlo’s hips, in the pounding of flesh against flesh, in the sweat and burn and ecstasy.

And when he was there...almost…almost there. Garrett’s arms went around him, his mouth found the meat of Carlo’s shoulder, and….

“Now, Carlo. Now.”

Teeth sank into Carlo’s flesh, a sharp, shocking sting that spread outward into something deeper, a system-wide surge of sensation that propelled every nerve ending into overdrive. He exploded. He came in hot, jetting streams, anchored to Garrett top and bottom.

They fell over onto their sides together, breathing heavily. Carlo wondered if he should say something, but in the hazy post-coital aftermath, the etiquette eluded him.

He could figure it out in the morning. Maybe his brain would be functioning again by then.

Garrett didn’t seem in any hurry to move either. Instead of shifting away, he kept his arms wrapped snug around Carlo and nuzzled soft kisses against the bite on his shoulder.

The tenderness was an unexpected gift.

Sweet
.

It was the last thought Carlo had before he drifted away in Garrett’s arms.

Chapter Six

Carlo cracked open one eye. Sunlight streamed into his bedroom, highlighting the spectacularly empty half of the bed nearest the window. No warm body to snuggle next to this morning. The bathroom door yawned open. No delightful sound of shower hitting bare skin.

He gave his morning wood a half-hearted stroke, then rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom to pee and assess damages. The mirror revealed a clear set of teeth marks on his shoulder, but no broken skin. He rolled his shoulder experimentally. The burn the movement produced went straight to his dick as his body remembered Garrett’s teeth sinking into his shoulder while they climaxed almost simultaneously.

The little shit had bitten him. Carlo grinned into the mirror. He felt remarkably good for a guy who had been bitten, fucked, and abandoned. He wanted to be pissed, but however Garrett had meant it, the angry red mark felt like an act of possession. And, yeah, Carlo wanted to be possessed by Garrett. The trick would be making it mutual.

He pulled on a pair of running shorts and wandered into the living room then the kitchen.

Nope. No Garrett. You spend a night in bed with a world-famous chef you’d think you would get breakfast in the morning at least.

No note either. Wow. Good thing he wasn’t the sensitive, overly analytical type. This kind of leave-taking could really put a dent in a guy’s ego. He should be offended, or at least a little worried about where they stood this morning, but so far he couldn’t work up the energy for angst.

He chugged some orange juice out of the carton in the fridge and dumped coffee beans into the grinder. One benefit of Garrett’s intimacy issues—he could make himself his morning espresso and not worry about producing a perfect cappuccino, complete with foam art, for Garrett. Also, no awkward morning-after chatter.

He snagged his tablet off the bar as he headed out onto the balcony with his coffee. He normally went for a run before the coffee, but he felt remarkably lazy today. He thought maybe Garrett was the one running.

He propped his feet up and watched his neighbors come and go on the sidewalk for a few minutes while he sipped his coffee. Then he powered on the tablet. Time to see what Garrett was up to.

He checked his texts first. Andi had sent him the numbers from the night before. Nothing from Garrett. What a surprise.

Before he could open his email, he got a ping from Facebook. Chef Garrett Ransom had tagged him in a picture.

Carlo’s eyebrows went up in surprise. From his public page?

Turkish oregano for Giancarlo Rotolo’s garden because I keep pinching his herbs.

Hardly the same as updating his relationship status, and Garrett probably didn’t equate it with sending flowers either. But, hey, it worked for them.