“Rhys.” Beckett moved, turning almost onto his knees to face Rhys and slide closer. “Did you really spend four hours at my work tonight to then take me back to your place and share a jar of pickles with me?”
He had, even if he hadn’t meant to. That wasn’t what he’d planned the night to be. Rhys had wanted to try and appease Beckett. He wanted to make the other man smile. He wanted at least another kiss. But things hadn’t gone according to plan and he was half naked on the floor, and Beckett looked hungry for something other than food.
“My intent was to take you on a date that cost less than a hundred dollars,” he said.
“You spent a hundred dollars at dinner.”
“So you said. And that wasn’t our date.”
Beckett pulled one of the small gherkins out of the jar and popped the entire thing into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully before adding a slice of gouda, his attention focused on Rhys in a way that had him feeling confused and wanting. Was this what dating was like for normal people? All this apprehension and lack of surety? He hated it.
His whole life, Rhys had always known what people expected from him and what they wanted from him. With Beckett, he couldn’t get a handle on it. Sometimes he thought Beckett’s intent was to humiliate him, and others, string him along. But in this moment, on the floor at midnight with a cheap picnic spread between them, he wasn’t so sure.
“I think this is a terribly sweet gesture,” Beckett said.
“Good. I’m glad.” He swallowed. “I…”
“Hmn?” Beckett arched a brow.
“I wanted to…” He grimaced. “I was going to say impress you, but I know that I don’t.”
“Do you hate that? That all your usual tricks don’t work on me?”
At first, Rhys thought yes, he hated it. But maybe…
“No,” he answered truthfully. “I think I love it.”
Beckett surged forward, closing the distance between them in less than a breath. Their mouths crashed together and Beckett knocked him onto the floor. He landed with a thud on his back, with Beckett on top of him. Without thinking, Rhys bracketed his hands around Beckett’s hips and arched against him. He parted his mouth wider and let Beckett’s tongue explore deeper.
Between their bodies, his cock leaked against his briefs and Beckett’s strained against the fly of his black pants. They rubbed together, the friction delicious and miserable all at the same time. Beckett’s hands moved against him, snaking under the hem of his shirt and up his torso, feeling his way up Rhys’s stomach to his chest. He tweaked one nipple, then the other, and Rhys could feel himself unraveling.
Beckett tore their mouths apart, leaving him panting and wanting, then kissed his way up Rhys’s jaw toward his ear.
“You’re irresistible,” Beckett whispered. “I barely know anything about you, but I know if I can’t make you come tonight, I’ll die.”
“Don’t say things like that,” he panted, reaching between their bodies and pulling at the fly of Beckett’s pants and loosening his shirt.
“It’s true.”
Rhys was barely discerning when it came to the partners he took to bed. He chose well enough, and frequently enough, and he always made sure the people he bedded weren’t a threat. He’d misjudged with Ashley, though, and with Beckett…the man was definitely a threat.Though not to his money or his name,which might have made the whole thing worse.
He didn’t think about that for long because Beckett’s tongue snaked around the shell of his ear and his hand pushed behind the waistband of his underwear, burning hot against his swelling erection. It felt like his bones had turned to jelly and he whimpered, still fighting with Beckett’s clothes.
“Please tell me you hid condoms and lube somewhere in that picnic basket,” Beckett whispered. He shifted and pulled away, leaving Rhys wanting in a desperate and needy way that he couldn’t articulate. Beckett pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it behind him, then finished getting out of his pants.
Rhys scrabbled out of his undershirt, his underwear barely on at that point anyway.
“I didn’t want to presume,” he rasped.
“That’s a shame.” Beckett pulled his wallet out of his pants and produced a condom, which he tore open with his teeth. He rolled it down the length of his cock and reached into the basket, twisting the cap off the olive oil and pouring it over his dick. He fell forward, one hand around his sheathed cock and the other beside Rhys’s ear, holding their bodies just inches apart.
“Please tell me that this is okay,” Beckett murmured, dragging their noses together. Rhys could smell the pickles and cheese on his breath. “Please tell me this is what you had in mind.”
“God, yes.”
Beckett’s slippery fingers teased between his cheeks, pushing at his hole. One slipped inside with ease, the second one taking a little more work. Rhys moaned, his lashes fluttering closed. It had been so long. So damn long since he’d had this. The sounds Beckett made as he worked Rhys open only spurred his arousal, and Rhys writhed against the blanket like a man possessed.
“That’s enough,” he finally grunted, swatting Beckett’s hand away from between his legs.
