He flagged down their waitress and asked her to rustle up a cotton candy. She looked at the two beautiful men sitting together and caught the blush fluttering across Ace’s face. Her grin twinkled at the pair of them, and Paul could tell that she didn’t think this was purely a man date.
Paul leaned over to Ace to let his breath brush over his ear. “I think she figured us out.”
“I don’t think cotton candy is one of the gay signifiers,” Ace said.
“Well, it sure ain’t a straight one,” Paul said in a hick accent.
Their waitress reappeared with a large bag of pink fluff and gave Paul a sweet wink as she left. Yeah, she knows. And he was surprisingly okay with that. He was now up to three people in Kansas City knowing he was gay. Baby steps.
Ace dug into the bag of sugar with a happy grin. His strong tongue darted out to snatch pieces of the fluff, and Paul instantly felt himself harden at the sight.
God, cotton candy does this to me now? At this rate, nothing will be safe.
“Mmmmm,” Ace moaned happily. “I know this is possibly the worst excuse for food in the world, but I just love it.”
That triggered a small memory in Paul’s head. “Didn’t you once say I was your cotton candy?”
Ace paused with his tongue just touching his treat. Understanding washed over his face. “That’s right,” he said, snagging another piece off the paper stick. “Sweet and sinful.” Ace slid his eyes to Paul.
“And bad for you?” Paul frowned.
“Maybe it wasn’t a perfect metaphor,” Ace said. “Except for the sinful part.”
“I don’t want to be bad for you,” Paul said quietly.
Ace held his eyes for a long time; Paul wondered what he was reading in them. Wondered if he could tell how deeply he meant what he had said. Paul had been so practiced at hiding his true feelings for so long, he didn’t know if he could let them rise to the surface on purpose.
“I can safely say you’ve graduated to hot dog, in the hierarchy of food metaphors,” Ace said finally.
Paul raised an eyebrow. “Hot dog, huh? Processed mystery meat on a bun?”
“I was thinking more about the long, juicy piece of beef,” Ace rumbled. “A source of delicious protein, you know. Much better for me than cotton candy.”
“Wow,” Paul said, his words strangled by the sudden bolt of lust that returned sharply. “Good metaphor.”
Ace grinned wickedly and let his tongue tease another piece of cotton candy into his beautiful mouth.
Paul turned his eyes back to the game, trying to force the blood out of his thickening cock.
But Ace caught the bulge before he could force it back. “Yeah, that catcher does have a spectacular ass, doesn’t he?” Ace whispered, leaning close.
That came out of nowhere. “Huh?”
“Baseball players always get to me, too,” Ace said quietly, careful to keep his voice from carrying. “Those tight pants and great arms. Catchers have the best legs.” He let his eyes linger on Paul’s lap. “Or was it the lingering effects of a good metaphor?”
“Oh.” Paul swallowed thickly and leaned over. “It was your tongue.”
It was Ace’s turn to be confused. “My tongue?”
“That’s all it takes for me,” Paul said low. “Your tongue on cotton candy made me hard.”
Ace blinked slowly at him and curled his mouth into a grin. He pulled off another piece of his treat and let it melt on his tongue. Paul’s eyes darkened to nearly black at the sight.
“I’ll file that one away for later, then,” Ace teased.
*****
By the last out of the ninth inning, the Royals were down five to two, which was exactly the ratio of beers consumed by Ace and Paul. The alcohol had made Ace all warm and mellow and a little giggly, as Paul was happy to discover. On the drive back to Lawrence, Ace let his hand idly rest on Paul’s thigh as he told slightly slurred stories about some of his more unreasonable clients.
Paul’s heart filled and tightened with desire not just for this beautiful man’s body this time, but for this moment. For the hum of tires along the road, for the darkness enveloping them outside the car, for the blue glow of his dashboard playing against Ace’s skin.
It was innocuous, an everyday patch of driving at night, with familiar sensory notes. Nothing particularly special about it. But it was everything Paul wanted.
It wasn’t just that he wanted Ace, that he ached for him. It wasn’t just that he wanted to be his boyfriend.
He was in love with him.
And that terrified him. Because if he fucked up again, he would lose everything.
And if there was one thing Paul was good at, it was fucking up his personal life.
Ace had apparently exhausted his supply of stories, and he lazily stared out the passenger window with sleepy, glazed eyes.
Paul didn’t want the night to end, but as he approached the city limits, he reluctantly turned his car toward Ace’s side of town, causing Ace to startle awake.
“No, don’t take me home yet,” he drawled. “I want to see your place.”
Paul fought back a flash of panic as one of his most important rules crumbled before him. He’d never brought a man home before.
“I don’t want to go home yet,” Ace fairly purred.
That purr made him weak. It also reminded him about his new policy of dismantling his long-standing rules.
“Okay, but if I get you within ten feet of my bed, I can’t be held accountable for my subsequent actions.”
Ace made a happy sound and settled back against the seat. “I was worried that might make you flee again,” Ace said sleepily. “You know, being spotted with a man at your place.”
Freaky little mind reader.
“Actually, I’m more worried that you’ll start redecorating my boring condo.” Paul wasn’t entirely kidding. If Ace thought a home was a reflection of your personality, what was he going to think about that drab space?
He steered Ace up the walk and around the low shrubberies to his door. “Here it is,” Paul swept his hand across the room in introduction. “My own little slice of, um, beige.”
Ace’s eyes took in every aspect of the room in a practiced fashion. If he was looking for personal touches, he was going to be looking a long time.
“There’s not much of you here, is there?” Ace finally said.
“Well, I’m not here much,” Paul said.
“It wouldn’t take a lot of work to give this place some personality, you know,” Ace said. He opened the linen closet door to sniff out some blankets and extra pillows.
While he would appreciate the decorating help, Paul didn’t want Ace to get into that right now. He gently took hold of Ace’s hands and led him to the sofa.
“Tell me about Atlanta, Ace,” he said.
Ace blinked at the sudden segue. “What about it? The hot nightlife? The ridiculously long commutes? Coca-Cola? I can tell you all kinds of stories -”
“What happened in Atlanta?” Paul persisted. “Somebody hurt you, and I think I remind you of him.”
Ace swallowed and lowered his eyes. “It’s not that you look like him or anything.” He looked up into Paul’s eyes. “You look like something from a 1940s movie, like you aren’t real. Like you’re somebody people only dream about.”
Paul felt the fire settle low in his belly at Ace’s words. He wanted to pull Ace into his arms and share that fire between them, to spread it over their bodies and melt them together. But he needed to know about Atlanta.
“Come on,” he rumbled, soft and low. “Who was he?”
Ace sighed and looked away. “He was Cameron. I’m surprised you haven’t bumped into him in that deep closet you guys like to hang out in.”