Page 13 of Close Quarter
Rhys had gotten blowjobs before, but they'd never made him so damn...complete. He ran trembling fingers through those black curls. "God, Silas. That was fucking awesome."
"Look around the room." His voice sounded rough but cheerful.
Rhys did. Business as usual. Diners chatting and laughing. Servers moving with wine, drinks, dishes--both full and empty. No one looked their way at all.
"I believe you," Rhys said.
Silas rose and leaned over and kissed him.
"You damn well better. It's not every day I go down on someone." He was breathless, and a flush colored his tan skin.
Rhys tasted his cum in that hot mouth. "But you liked it." He had heard that thrum of pleasure, spied the bliss in Silas's face.
"Very much so." Silas straightened, walked back around the table, and sat. He picked up a napkin and blotted his chin. "As I said before, I do like you."
He didn't know how to answer that. Couldn't sort through his thoughts fast enough.
He was saved by the waitress. "Would you gentlemen care for dessert?" She handed each a menu.
Silas waved his off. "Just a cappuccino for me."
Rhys handed the menu back. "The same, please."
She nodded and left.
Rhys chewed on the inside of his mouth. How could he explain his feelings when he didn't understand them himself? "Silas, I... How much did you read on the Internet?"
Silas folded his hands. "Not much. You are the son of a world-class cellist and an antiques dealer. You're an artist in your own right--a sculptor. Your mother died two weeks ago. You inherited eleven million dollars no one knew she had. That's about it."
Rhys laughed. "I know there's more out there in the media."
"Yes," Silas said. "But I stopped paying attention to that years ago. Ninety-nine percent chaff, one percent wheat. It's not worth the time to sift."
The waitress came back with their coffees and then retreated.
Rhys wrapped his hand around the cup. "My family was perfect for seventeen years. A mother who let me sing and dance, explore the arts until I found what I loved. A father who taught me to throw a baseball and went to every one of my football games." He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice and failed.
"Then?" Silas's voice was soft.
That took Rhys by surprise, but then, so did everything about Silas.
He took a breath and plunged onward. "Dad caught me making out with another guy. Would have thrown me out of the house that day, but I was seventeen. Mom wouldn't let him. For my eighteenth birthday, he bought me boxes and told me to get the hell out. I did. Didn't speak to either of my parents for years."
Silas seemed to absorb all of this. He nodded slowly. "But you reconciled with your mother."
"Yeah. For as much as that's worth now. She and Dad divorced five years after I left. A month after that, she called me and begged me to forgive her." Rhys sipped his coffee. That had been an awkward, painful, and wonderful conversation.
And now--all that honesty and openness for those scant few years--it was all worth shit.
"And your father?"
"Oh, Derrick." Rhys barked a bitter laugh.
"He hates my guts. Blames me for the divorce.
Probably for the cancer too." He paused. "Are you still doing that thing you do?"
"Glamour," Silas said. "You can pretty much assume I am, unless we're alone."
