Demming by Avril Ashton

Ten

He didn’t remember ever being as nervous as he was, waiting for Hart to show up. Not even when he’d walked into his place and found the notorious Renzo Vega waiting for him that very first time. Not when he did his first job.

But he was nervous now, leg tapping, heart thumping.

He leaned against the balcony railing, staring out into nothing. Seeing nothing. He wanted to be good for Hart, whatever that meant. He wanted to be worthy of him, in any way he could. He wanted all the things he hadn’t allowed himself to have because he’d been too busy to slow down.

Hart made him want to slow down.

The aroma of the easy meal he’d prepared—asiago chicken pasta with sun-dried tomatoes and spinach paired with a salad—wafted to him and he closed his eyes. There were about a dozen messages waiting for him on his phone, important messages he had to return, as well as a bunch more calls he’d left unanswered as he sat, waiting for Hart.

Night had fallen over Brooklyn and the city lights were on display. He wanted to be here with Hart, share all the moments with him. And was that too soon? What he felt, was it too much, too soon? He didn’t know about that. All he had were his feelings and he really hoped Hart felt the same.

Because it would suck if he didn’t.

He sipped the last of the water in the bottle he held and reentered the condo, heading to the kitchen just as a knock came on the door.

He released a shuddering breath and tossed the empty water bottle into the garbage before making his way to the door, forcing himself to walk when he would have made a mad dash for it. When he pulled the door open, Hart greeted him with a smile, holding up a small platter covered with foil.

“Hey. I brought dessert. My mother made a raspberry mousse cake.”

Demming stepped back and closed the door, motioning for Hart to follow him into the kitchen.

The other man inhaled loudly. “It smells amazing in here.”

In the kitchen, Demming took the cake from him and placed it in the fridge then faced Hart. He was dressed colorfully as usual: red sport coat over a striped black and white t-shirt, white pants with the hem rolled up to above his ankles, and red loafers.

“What did you—”

Demming yanked him into his chest, taking his mouth, effectively swallowing whatever question Hart had been about to ask. He didn’t know if he’d been too rough, and it hadn’t been his intent at all, but he couldn’t wait another second to have Hart in his arms. His taste back on his tongue. His moans in his ear.

Hart opened for him, eagerly, matching his hunger, hands coming up to wrap around Demming’s shoulders, pressing closer.

His taste hit Demming like a sideswipe, almost taking him out, and there was a pronounced tremble in his limbs when he finally lifted his head and smoothed a thumb over Hart’s wet lips. “Hi,” he whispered.

Hart’s eyes were wide and bright. “Hi.”

Demming could stare into his eyes all night, holding him like this, inhaling his cologne, and savoring the press of their bodies. He could and he would. But right now? “Come on, let’s eat.” He led Hart outside where he’d made a spread for them and laid out the food.

They sat opposite each other as they ate.

“Mmm.” Hart nodded, pointing at his plate with his fork. “This is good.”

Demming had never had the urge to preen under praise before. “Thanks,” he said modestly. “Got the recipe from my mother.”

“Well, thank her for me, because this is…” Hart kissed his fingers then dug back in.

Demming watched him. Was it normal to be obsessed with the way someone chewed? The way they swallowed? The curve of their throat and length of their body? Because he was officially obsessed. He’d thought himself past all that; never having experienced it in his younger years, he’d thought maybe he’d dodged a bullet.

But no.

It was hitting him now.

Full force and he couldn’t say he minded it one bit.

He took a sip of his water and sat back with a contented sigh, watching the man he wanted more than anything consume something Demming had made especially for him with hopes of achieving that kind of reaction.

Hart never disappointed.

“You’re staring.”

Demming blinked. “Am I?”

“Yep.” Hart searched his eyes. “What’s up?”

Demming shrugged. “I was thinking.”

“About?” Hart put his fork down and focused on him, giving Demming all his attention, and it felt like the sun washing over his skin, heating him up.

“About how much I like this, watching you.” It didn’t occur to Demming to not give him the truth. And he didn’t think he’d ever been as truthful with anyone as he was with Hart. “I like hearing your sounds of pleasure, whether it’s when I’m kissing you or when you’re eating something I made for you.”

Hart’s lips curved. “You made this for me, huh?”

“I did.”

Hart stared at him for a few seconds then motioned with his chin. “Go on. Tell me what else you like.”

Demming leaned toward him, elbows on the table. “I like the way you dress.” His voice dropped, got deeper, and he didn’t miss the way Hart shifted in his chair. “I like whatever cologne you wear. That shit is…it does things to me.” All of him trembled and he ached to touch Hart, to feel the warmth of him, but he held back. This entire thing was a testament to his self-control. “I like the way you sound on the phone, but even more the way you sound when we’re close like this. I like the way you kiss. I like you.”

Hart’s lips had parted before he finished speaking, flames leaping in the depth of his eyes. He captivated Demming so thoroughly, he recognized at that moment that if he were to never see Hart again, he could never forget him, and he’d spend the rest of his life searching for someone to make him feel half the things Hart made him feel in the short time they’d known each other.

“Sawyer,” he whispered. As if Demming’s name was too much to hold. “You are…” He shook his head, looking more than a little dazed. “I didn’t expect you.”

Then that made two of them.

Maybe he wasn’t supposed to feel this way about the son of the man who’d wrecked his family, but he did. Hart had nothing to do with his father’s actions and Demming wasn’t so much of an idiot that he couldn’t differentiate between the two. Hart was everything his father wasn’t and was doing whatever he could to make things right. He was special.

Demming gave in to his need to touch Hart, cupping his face, stroking a thumb over his jaw. “I didn’t expect you either,” he admitted roughly. “But I’m glad.” He pecked Hart’s nose then murmured against his lips, “I’m glad.”

Hart’s fingers sifted through his hair then slid backward, cupping his nape. They held that position for a bit, foreheads pressed together until Demming pulled back reluctantly.

“You want dessert? I’m ready to taste that cake you brought.”

He retrieved it from the fridge along with two forks and then he was the one moaning because that cake was the most decadent thing he’d ever put in his mouth.

“Damn. I think I want an entire one of these for myself.”

Hart laughed. “Yeah, it’s so good. My mom doesn’t do much in the kitchen but she can bake a mean cake. They’re all good, but this one is my favorite.” He licked chocolate off the fork. “When I was eighteen, I think, maybe nineteen, I came home from college one weekend and she’d just baked one of these. She’d only taken one slice out of it and I took the entire thing, brought it up to my room, and spent the night eating it. The next day I was so fucking sick.” He chuckled. “She felt so bad for me she didn’t even punish me.”

Demming sipped his water then pushed his chair back and stood. “I have something for you.”

Hart stared up at him. “Okay.”

Demming hurried inside to where he’d stashed the painting. After retrieving it and returning to Hart, he held it behind his back. Hart regarded him with narrowed eyes as Demming walked over then held it out.

“What’s—Oh, my God!” Hart glanced from the painting to Demming’s face with a gasp. “When did—How?” Realization dawned in his eyes. “This is what you were doing when you went out of town?”

Demming nodded.

Hart’s mouth opened and closed and his eyes got a little shiny. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“No, but I wanted to.”

“Sawyer.” Hart got to his feet, taking Demming’s face in both hands. “Thank you.” He shook his head. “I—I can’t believe you did this.”

His expression was what Demming wanted to see and he had to bite his tongue to keep from demanding Hart give him a list of all the things he ever wanted, just so Demming could see that look, always.

“I want to make you happy.” For some reason, it was imperative Hart heard those words, that he understood. Demming brushed his knuckles down the other man’s cheek. “I want to see you like this all the time.”

Hart turned his face into Demming’s hand, kissing his palm. “Keep this up and you’ll get your wish.” His gaze was tender when it met Demming’s. “Thank you for being amazing.”

Demming didn’t feel amazing, he just felt like a man who wanted to ensure Hart was happy. Fulfilled.

Hart kissed him, soft at first. Demming fisted the front of his t-shirt and held him close, angling his head, opening for Hart to take him over. He did that so well, so beautifully, sweeping him off his trembling legs. Turning the kiss into something hot and heavy and urgent. Demming felt him, hard against his thigh, his own cock pulsing with the need for something…

More.

Something he’d never had before, but something he found himself missing, aching for. Hart’s hands dropped to his ass, kneading, squeezing, then he shifted and Demming found himself leaning back against the table they’d been sitting at, dishes dropping around them, Hart between his thighs, insistent and persistent and on a mission.

Demming leaned back for him, positioning a knee between Hart’s thighs, pressing against that part of him that had to be needing the way Demming was needing.

Hart shuddered into the kiss, both hands clutching Demming’s face. “S-Sawyer.” He angled his hips so Demming could feel him even more. His eyes spoke of a yearning Demming reciprocated, a want he couldn’t voice through his fucked-up throat.

But he nodded and pushed against Hart just enough for the other man to release him and step back, then Demming straightened, getting to his feet once more. He picked up the painting and reached for Hart with his free hand, linking their fingers, leading him into the condo.

He stopped just to place the painting in a safe place then he led Hart to his bedroom, kissing him again to wipe away any lingering questions in the other man’s eyes. He took both of Hart’s hands and brought them to the hem of his t-shirt, and Hart—once again—didn’t disappoint. He grasped the hem and drew the t-shirt up and over Demming’s head then returned to undo his jeans and shove them down his hips.

Demming kissed his ear, his neck, pushing Hart’s jacket off then yanking on his t-shirt until he stood there with his upper half bare, making Demming’s mouth water and cock harden even more. He was beautiful. The smoothness of his skin, the hair on his chest, his rounded belly. He fumbled when it came to undoing Hart’s pants—only because he couldn’t figure out how the contraption worked—but Hart took over with a strained chuckle and Demming left him to it while he stepped out of his own underwear.

Hart was as naked as he was when he lifted his gaze.

And they were in each other’s arms again.

Demming’s heart thudded in his chest, a little from apprehension but mostly from the arousal that consumed him so thoroughly. He untangled his limbs from Hart’s long enough to retrieve condoms and lube that he tossed onto the bed then he took Hart’s hand again, leading them to the bed.

Hart’s hand swept down his spine, drawing a needy moan from him. “I want to feel you,” he whispered in Hart’s ear. “Can I feel you?”

Hart tipped his head back, meeting Demming’s eyes, his own darkened by arousal. “Sawyer, are you sure?”

He was scared out of his mind, stepping into unknown territory, but Hart was the only remedy for the fever eating him from the inside out. He was the only one capable of filling the emptiness inside. “Yes.”

Trembling fingers dug into the underside of his jaw as Hart swallowed. “Whatever you want.”