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Andy nudged Quinn’s face, and Quinn covered his mouth, kissed him. A moist, heated kiss that deepened. Andy groaned, opened to Quinn, needing more. Yearning for more. Tenderness. Passion. He longed for it all. His tongue thrust against Quinn’s, and Quinn responded with a hunger that startled—and then reassured—Andy. Their tongues fenced, met, parted, then found each other again.

Quinn’s hand slipped lower, fingertips lightly raking the sensitive skin between hip and thigh, sliding down to cradle the tight sac of Andy’s balls, tracing with his fingernails. Yep, he’d learned a trick or two in the interim. Andy panted into Quinn’s mouth, sharing hot, heavy breaths, all the while trembling onthe edge of losing it. This was probably…insane. But he wanted itsomuch.

“Go on…” Andy clutched Quinn’s hand, guiding it to his cock, desperate with the need for relief, for an answer to that aching, inarticulate question.

“Whatever you want,” Quinn whispered. “Whatever you need…”

It sounded like the lyrics to a Beatles song, and again Andy wanted to laugh, but he also felt like crying because it had been years since anyone had cared about what he wanted, what he needed.

Quinn’s hand wrapped around him, working their heavy, hot cocks together, that rolling suede friction. His mouth covered Andy’s, wet and hungry. A fierce, restless excitement blazed inside Andy.

“I want this.” Andy wasn’t sure if he was encouraging Quinn or confessing, but yes, he did really want this, and good thing because it was happening. All that strain and tension and anxiety coming to a boil. And then he was coming in hard, almost painful jolts of sticky release, as if something inside him was still afraid to let go but couldn’t stop the flood. Surge after surge of shuddering relief that left him blinking and blank as if newborn.

Quinn was chasing after him, his hips rocking against Andy’s in strong, smooth rolls—and what the hell would it feel like to have Quinn’s cock inside him? Or his inside Quinn? The very idea made Andy’s softened penis tingle with startled interest. Quinn continued to punch out those thrusts. Fast. Fierce. The mattress springs squeaked in encouragement.

Quinn’s hands clenched on Andy’s ass, he groaned, and Andy pushed back against that jabbing stiffness, kissed Quinn’s ear, the curve of his neck, the dip between his pecs, anywhere hecould reach, savoring the taste, the smell of him, strange and yet somehow familiar in the way dreams are.

But this was no dream. It felt better than any dream. And there were liable to be consequences dreams did not have. But Andy couldn’t think about that now because Quinn was coming on a deep, heartfelt, “Oh fuuuck…”

Which made Andy smile even as his eyes prickled because that was what Quinn had said the very first time they’d done this all those years ago. He could still hear the echo of that slightly astonished boyish note in Quinn’s deep voice as he arched, spilling silvery stickiness over them both, sex creating its own kind of superglue.

The world slowly settled back onto its plinth, glowing like a well-satisfied moon after a long night of showing the way to the lost and lonely. From somewhere downstairs, a clock was chiming.

One.

Two.

Andy waited, but the third chime didn’t come.

Quinn stroked Andy’s face, lightly, gently. “Was that okay?”

He understood that Quinn was not asking for a performance review. He turned his face, kissed Quinn’s fingers. “That was lovely. Really lovely.”

He could just make out the glimmer of Quinn’s smile.

Andy smiled in answer and closed his eyes.

Chapter Seventeen

Andy woke to an empty bed and the smell of coffee.

For a moment or two he lay blinking up at the dark ceiling beams, trying to decide how he felt about the night before.

And… He felt fine about it. All of it. No regrets. The sexual release had been welcome. Even…essential. The questions that had haunted him for sixteen years were answered, the old ghosts dispelled, and his heart felt lighter than it had in a very long time.

Not that there weren’t plenty of other things to worry about, but for these few minutes he felt at peace, bundled in this warm, comfortable bed in a room full of dazzling light, the brightness that came with sunshine after snowfall.

He could hear Quinn moving around downstairs. Heard the kick of the old plumbing, heard the kitchen back door squeak open and a few seconds later bang shut.

It occurred to him that it was Monday morning and the world would keep turning with or without his participation. He threw back the blankets and quilt, found his phone in his jeans pocket. He was startled to see it was nearly nine o’clock. He checked for messages. To his relief, there were none.

In fairness, he had Marcus blocked, so it was possible Marcus was still autoredialing 1-800-I-HATE-U. But there were no phone messages from Clark and Fleur or the hospital or Safehaven PD, and no news was good news.

He shaved and then took a quick shower in the pleasantly humid stone cavern within the master bathroom. His bruises had faded into a psychedelic swirl of lavender and ocher, but the swelling was pretty much gone, so he would no longer frighten away prospective customers if he reopened Time in a Bottle, which he was considering. Missing out on the holiday season trade was not going to help Uncle C.’s financial situation any.

He donned jeans and a flannel shirt and went downstairs.

Quinn was in the kitchen, flipping pancakes with the practice of a short-order cook—or possibly the practice of a spy who had worked undercover as a short-order cook? In another skillet on the Monogram Dual Fuel Range, sausage links sizzled enticingly, their aroma mingling with the percolating coffee.