Page 19 of Midnight Mate
Silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but charged. Clint became hyperaware of small sounds—the hum of the refrigerator, Mabel’s distant purring, his own breathing, which had gone shallow.
Bayne stood, chair scraping against linoleum. Instead of heading to the sink with his plate like a normal person, he moved around the table. Closer. Close enough that Clint had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact.
“Thanks for lunch,” Bayne said, but his honey-colored eyes weren’t saying thank you. They were saying something else entirely, something that made Clint’s pulse hammer against his throat.
Then Bayne’s hand was in Clint’s hair, fingers threading through the strands, and his mouth was on Clint’s, and every coherent thought evaporated.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. Bayne’s tongue swept into Clint’s mouth, tasting, claiming, making declarations that didn’t need words. Clint’s hands came up automatically, gripping Bayne’s arms, feeling muscle bunch under his palms.
When they broke apart, Clint couldn’t focus. His mouth felt swollen. His entire body hummed like a struck tuning fork.
“I—” he started, but Bayne was already pulling him up from the chair, backing him against the counter.
“Been wanting to do that all morning,” Bayne said against his jaw, teeth grazing skin before he sucked up a bruise on Clint’s neck. “Every time you bent over to look at something. Every time you laughed at those ridiculous animals.”
Hands worked at Clint’s scrubs, efficient and determined. The drawstring came loose, fabric sliding down his hips. Cool air hit overheated skin for about two seconds before Bayne’s hand wrapped around his cock, and Clint’s knees nearly buckled.
“Fuck,” he breathed, hips jerking forward into that tight grip.
Bayne’s thumb swept over the head, spreading precum, while his other hand held Clint steady against the counter. “That’s it. Let me see you.”
Every stroke was perfectly calibrated to drive him insane. Slow pulls that had him gasping, quick twists that made his vision blur. Bayne watched his face the entire time, honey-colored eyes taking in every reaction like he was memorizing them.
Clint’s hands scrambled for purchase on the counter behind him, knocking over the salt shaker. His thighs trembled with the effort of staying upright while Bayne took him apart with methodical precision.
“Look at you,” Bayne murmured, voice rough. “Coming undone just from my touch.”
The observation should have been embarrassing. Instead, it pushed Clint closer to the edge, heat coiling tighter in his belly. His hips moved without permission, fucking up into Bayne’s fist with increasing desperation.
When he came, it hit him like a sledgehammer. His head went back, throat exposed, body shaking through waves that seemed to go on forever. Bayne worked him through it, grip gentling but not stopping until Clint was gasping and oversensitive.
Knees hit linoleum before his brain caught up. Looking up at Bayne from this angle should’ve felt vulnerable. Instead, it felt right. Necessary. His hands were already working at Bayne’s sweatpants, pulling them down to free what he’d been trying not to stare at all morning.
“Clint—” Bayne started, but Clint was already leaning in, tongue running along the length of his cock.
Salt and musk filled his senses. Bayne’s hand landed in his hair again, not pushing, just holding. Clint took him deeper, jaw stretching to accommodate his girth, eyes watering slightly from the effort.
“Fuck…your mouth,” Bayne growled, hips moving in small, controlled thrusts.
Clint hollowed his cheeks, sucking harder. Let his teeth drag just slightly on the pull back, enough to make Bayne’s hips stutter forward. Found a rhythm that had Bayne’s breathing going harsh and uneven.
“Not gonna last,” Bayne warned, fingers tightening in Clint’s hair.
Good. Clint wanted Bayne wrecked, wanted him as destroyed as he felt. He swallowed around him, throat working, and that was it. Bayne came with a sound that was barely human, hips stuttering forward as he spilled down Clint’s throat.
They stayed frozen like that for a moment, Clint on his knees, Bayne’s hand still tangled in his hair, both of them breathing like they’d run a marathon.
Strong hands pulled him up, and then Bayne was kissing him again, tasting himself on Clint’s tongue. Messy and uncoordinated, both of them still shaking from release.
“We need to get back,” Clint said when they broke apart, though every cell in his body voted for staying right here.
“Yeah.” Bayne tucked himself away, movements still slightly uncoordinated. “Janet’s probably timing us.”
“We look like we just—”
“We did,” Bayne interrupted, smoothing down Clint’s hair with surprising gentleness. “And I’m not sorry.”
Neither was Clint, which was probably a problem. But that was future-Clint’s issue. Present-Clint had to figure out how to walk back into the clinic looking thoroughly debauched and pretend everything was normal.
