Page 12 of Bears & Bakeries (Sweet & Stocky #2)

TWELVE

I Want Your Jazz

T omorrow’s the big day , thought Locky, steadying himself on the ladder.

It had been a crazy few weeks since the winter gala, and even with Benedict’s help, the work had seemed never ending, a million snowflakes bunching into a blizzard. What had originally seemed like a perfectly clean store turned out to be anything but, once you really got close and saw the gathered grime from months without regular scrubbing.

Seriously, how did it get that way? The store had been shut tight the whole time, so it should have been pristine. But the marble tables had needed a damn good polishing, and the various bits of chrome buffed to sparkling, and the lighting rig on the stage serviced and a few bulbs replaced, and the ovens given a good scrub, and everywhere there’d been dusting, dusting, so much dusting !

Not that Locky was complaining, it had been a good distraction as the big day creeped closer.

And now, this was finally it, the last touch, replacing the old green glass lampshades with big paper moons—swapping the speakeasy aesthetic for a little jazz-era twinkle.

The full decorations for the New Year’s party would come later today, but these moons would be here for the next few months, a reminder that this was his store now.

His business.

His dream.

Locky grunted as he tried to force the final shade over a misshaped ring. “Oh, come on, you bitch. Just... get... in... there!”

“So many things I could say to that,” sniggered Benedict from the other side of the ladder, using his weight to counterbalance the sway of Locky’s jamming. Before Locky could break the light in two, Benedict joined him on the middle rung, swiveling the shade in small, precise movements until it clicked into place. “Patience isn’t your strong suit, is it?”

Locky leaned over the apex for a kiss. “No. That’s what I have you for.”

The old radio from the kitchen crackled as they got down from the ladder. It was some top-thirty rubbish that Benedict had put on, more as background music than anything else.

It wasn’t that Locky hated modern music, he’d just always gravitated toward songs with mood and melody—that could fill a room and bring life to a lonely space.

However, no sooner had he packed the ladder aside, than a familiar voice wafted through the room, interrupting the songs.

It was himself—higher and reedier, like nails on a chalkboard. “Well, Janice ,” said radio Locky, sounding so smug it made real Locky want to hide under one of the freshly polished tables, “ for a lot of people, the only option on New Year’s is a bar or a nightclub. Which is great for some. But not everyone wants that kind of atmosphere, you know? That was the inspiration for creating Pie Me to the Moon, a late-night bakery with a jazz lounge vibe, to give people who want a different ? — ”

Benedict caught Locky as he tried to sprint for the kitchen, pulling him into a forced hug. “What’s the matter, honey bun? It sounds like a fascinating news report, you know ?”

“Benedict!” sobbed Locky, his arms thrashing about at a full zombie stretch. “I sound like a fucking dork!”

“No, you sound sexy and smoochable,” said Benedict, giving machine-gun kisses against his cheek. “And am I a good interview coach, or what?”

Locky slapped his hands over his ears. “How did you know it would be on now?”

“If I can get you an interview on the city’s top-rated morning show, I can find out when they’re planning on airing it.”

Locky huffed, still blocking the worst of the noise. He knew he should be grateful—and he was, really. He never thought he’d have a store at all, let alone having an almost sold-out opening night. And despite there only being a few dozen tickets left, Benedict had convinced Locky to keep doing media. That way, they might get a crowd gathered outside, even if they couldn’t get in—generating enough buzz to tide them over until the end of the lease.

Muffled breath brushed across Locky’s fingers. “It’s over, Mr. Sorenson.”

Locky lowered his hands and was blessedly met with a song he’d never heard.

Rather than release his bear hug, Benedict shuffled them both toward the wall, like they were trapped in an indecisive wrestling hold.

“What are you doing?” said Locky, confused but still stepping in time.

“Just being cute.”

“Well, you’re succeeding.”

When they finally arrived at the wall, the two of them reached over and clicked the light switch on.

Locky exhaled as the room glowed to life. The new lights had lifted the space in the most beautiful way, adding a dreamy softness and a touch of the night sky. Now, every surface glinted like a moonlight sonata. Like he could almost hear the music and the conversations and the dancing.

Locky could have stared across the dining floor for hours—had his attention not been caught by an unexpected glow over the counter. Because, in place of the old neon sign was a brand new one, all soft amber swirls and familiar words.

Pie Me to the Moon.

Locky slapped Benedict’s chest. “What! How did you do that? How didn’t I notice!?”

“Trade Secrets, Mr Sorenson. Trade Secrets.”

“Benedict!”

“What? I’m sneaky! As soon as you picked the logo for the napkins, I rang a friend. And don’t worry,” he said, before Locky could protest, “it won’t cost you anything. Think of it as my store-warming present.”

Locky gave Benedict a loving kiss. “Thank you for that. For everything. I couldn’t have done this without you, Benedict.”

“Just glad to be of service,” said Benedict, with a waggle of eyebrows and a slight swivel of bulge against bulge. “Speaking of...” At that moment, Benedict’s phone buzzed. “Can you hear something?” he said, placing hot kisses along Locky’s neck. “Because I sure can’t.”

Locky groaned as Benedict’s rapidly hardening cock started sliding against his own. “Okay, I really love where this is going, but that’s probably your party planner.”

“ Fine! ” said Benedict, half releasing his embrace. “Doug, how are things? Ready to start setting up?”

Benedict’s other arm fell away from Locky’s shoulders. It was so sudden, and the absence so sharp, that Locky felt like he’d been thrown in cold water. It was a feeling amplified by the way Benedict’s expression fell, and how he shuffled into the corner, giving increasingly sharp hisses into his hand.

“What is it?” asked Locky, heart pounding, once Benedict hung up.

When Benedict finally turned around—slowly, like he was standing on roller skates—he looked small and sweaty, like he didn’t know where he was.

Like he was about to faint.

Locky rushed to his side, bringing him safely to a seat. Benedict’s movements were stiff, his eyes vacant. “Everything’s fine. I’m here,” said Locky, feeling the pulse pound through his boyfriend’s clammy wrists.

Benedict looked up to him—looked through him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m?—”

“It’s okay, just breathe,” said Locky, doing his best to grasp the fraying shreds of his own calm. He remembered what they’d talked about, what they’d promised each other over these last few weeks—that they’d try and avoid panic spiraling off each other if things went wrong. “Tell me what happened.”

“Some... some big corporate New Year’s gig. Band and barista. Last minute. Getting paid triple. Can’t say no... ”

Locky’s eye twitched.

Oh shit.

They had no band.

No barista.

And it was one day until opening.

It was the worst news they could get right now, but Locky tried to keep a lid on his own panic. Because, yes, this was bad for him. Apocalyptically bad. But it would be even worse for Benedict. Because this was his biggest fear—that he might give bad advice and ruin Locky’s big night, starting a cascade toward total failure.

And just like Benedict had been there for him so many times, now Locky needed to be there for Benedict.

“Have you used these people before?” Locky asked, slow as he could manage.

Benedict looked up from the middle distance, taking a few moments to find Locky’s face. “I... recommended them. I told you they were reliable...”

Locky took Benedict’s cheeks in both hands, his own touch hot against Benedict’s frosty skin. “I know. And I can’t imagine how much that’s hurting you right now. But have they ever done something like this before?”

“No, they’ve... they’ve always been good. But that doesn’t?—”

Locky leaned in, laying a warm kiss against Benedict’s freezing forehead. “Then it’s not your fault, Benedict. You recommended someone you trusted. You couldn’t have known this would happen.”

“But—”

“Benedict,” Locky insisted, using his thumb tips to gently brush away the tears running down Benedict’s cheeks. “Things happen. I don’t blame you. And you shouldn’t blame yourself. Okay?”

Benedict searched his face, as if willing Locky to scold him. Clearly wanting the confirmation that he was wrong. That he’d failed. That he was a fuck-up. Because that would confirm every dark and terrible thing that Benedict believed about himself. Because Locky knew better than anyone, sometimes it felt better to confirm your failures than accept forgiveness.

But Locky wasn’t going to do that. He wouldn’t let Benedict believe that about himself.

Not now.

Not ever .

Eventually, weakly, Benedict nodded.

“Okay,” said Locky breathing out the top layer of his own terror. “What the hell do we do now?”

* * *

Benedict rubbed his temples, feeling better—though far from perfect—after a brisk walk through Union Square. “How is every band in the city booked?”

“I can’t imagine,” said Locky, kicking a rock down the footpath, almost skipping over a railing and bouncing into the nearby ice rink, full of carefree sounds.

The three-story Christmas tree hadn’t been taken down yet, showering festive warmth over a scene of holiday revelry. A warmth that Benedict really wasn’t feeling.

Their situation was hopeless. Absolutely hopeless. He’d rung all his usual contacts who’d, of course, been booked up months ago. They’d gone top to bottom through the local directories with similar results. Even when they’d dropped their expectations from a jazz band to any band, to any breathing person who could halfway carry a tune, they’d still had zero luck. Even begging bands playing in public places had got them nowhere.

Usually, he’d have told Locky to just play CDs in the background and make the best of it, but they’d made such a big deal about the live music during their promotions—hammering home that the only thing missing from this party was the alcohol.

Which was another fuck-up on his part.

Overpromising and underdelivering.

Just like he always did.

Benedict tried to push that frustration away, even if he was about ten minutes from asking someone’s Aunt Lola to bust out a few verses of “Do the Funky Chicken.”

“What about a fancy hotel lobby?” said Locky, after they’d wandered around aimlessly for another half hour. “They sometimes have bands or string quartets playing around the holidays?”

Benedict sighed—it was better than any other option they had right now. “Might be worth a shot? I think there’s a Hilton around here somewhere? If we cut through this street, we should?—”

Benedict froze at the entrance to a narrower lane, lined with shops.

Lined... with familiar shops.

Locky walked ahead a few paces before turning back, giving him a look of concern.

But Benedict didn’t hear his questions. Because the street ahead was fading into a singular tunnel, like a whirlpool sucking everything into its vortex. And all Benedict could see was the entrance to a distant bar, tucked into the slope of the street.

Over the doorway was an illuminated sign reading Hops and Honey .

It was the brewery and bar he’d helped Dan the football coach create. A store he hadn’t seen in six years.

Frost stabbed into every part of him, distant and sudden and close and slow, everywhere and nowhere all at once. The feeling of pressure, of icy water crashing over him, flooded his eyes and nose and mouth, wrapping tight around his chest. Unable to breathe. Unable to speak.

He felt like he was withdrawing from his body, from this moment. The world whistled in the distance as he floated back, wrenched back.

Because it couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be now . He couldn’t be face to face with a client’s store after so long, after being so careful.

It just... it just couldn’t be happening...

A million questions hooked in Benedict’s throat, threatening to drag him deeper into the swirling water. Was the bar doing okay? Did Dan achieve everything he wanted? Had he made those three different beers for his three little girls?

Did I give good advice?

Did I do a good job?

Was I worthy of your trust?

Are you mad that I disappeared without warning?

Do you blame me?

The surrounding howl told Benedict that he didn’t want the answer to those questions—that he couldn’t handle the answers to those questions. Because of course things had gone wrong! Of course he’d fucked up. That the only reason the bar was still standing was because Dan had probably remortgaged his house. Or spent his daughters’ college funds. Or sold the bar to someone else, just to try and pay of all the debt that he’d?—

Breath, sudden and sharp, returned to his lungs. A guiding light against the cold. A beacon against the bitter dark.

Locky had taken his hand. His grip was strong enough to drag him from the vortex. Warm enough to vaporize the freezing swell.

Locky looked up at him with a certainty that Benedict knew he didn’t deserve. An expression that said more than words ever could.

Because Locky knew. Benedict had never told him about this place. About Dan or this bar or any of it. But somehow, Locky just knew.

“I’m not going to make you go into a bar, Locky,” said Benedict, each syllable feeling like a speech.

The squeeze Locky gave him brought a tear down Benedict’s cheeks. A wordless promise burned into his flesh.

You aren’t alone, Benedict.

You’re never alone when you’re with me.

“We don’t have to go inside,” said Locky, bringing Benedict’s hand to his lips and laying a kiss so soft it might have been from an angel. “But we can still walk by? If you want?”

Time seemed to stand deathly still, cold as the winter breeze. There was no one else on this street, in this entire city.

Only them and this moment.

Only them and this decision.

Benedict knew that he could turn around. Forget this ever happened. Go another way and feel this terrible pressure unravel, just like he had so many times before.

He felt the familiar twitch in his feet, like pins and needles. The well-known swivel of heel. The moment of flight. The relief of running away from all of this .

It was inviting him. It was calling him.

And it would be so fucking easy.

Locky’s hand felt so heavy in his, undeserved. Because Locky was brave—so much braver than Benedict. Because he hadn’t cowered in his moment, had he? When the decision between the familiar and the terrifying had finally caught up with Locky, he’d taken the brave path. He’d been through so much more than Benedict, so much worse and so much more brutal. But he’d still found a way to fight through it. Because he was better! Because he was stronger! Because he was?—

It came like a ringing bell, a single, clear strike, echoing sweet and bright through the still street.

The chains around Benedict’s chest unraveled.

The flood through his throat subsided.

And the words, sweet words, glowed through him.

I couldn’t have done any of this without you, Benedict...

Because it was true that Locky was brave and strong and amazing. That would always be true. But Locky hadn’t managed to overcome his fears alone—he’d told Benedict as much. He’d needed someone to help pull him through. To give him the strength and the confidence to take that final, terrifying step.

He’d needed Benedict.

And maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so bad if Benedict needed Locky as well?

Every fiber of Benedict’s being begged for him to turn around, but Locky stood firm beside him.

His anchor.

His light.

His warmth.

There for him. No matter how this went.

And in this beautiful, terrible moment, that was enough.

Benedict stepped forward.

It wasn’t a good step—no confident bound into the unknown. It was hesitant and strange, like his body didn’t understand what it was doing. Why it was walking toward the danger, not away from it.

Locky kept his pace, neither dragging Benedict forward nor leaving him to walk on alone. He stayed steadfast beside him. Fixed. Two ships against the storm. Two lights among the raging dark.

As the store grew closer, his soul screamed for him not to do this. To stay safe. To get out while he still could.

Quickly.

Now!

And if it hadn’t been for Locky, Benedict was sure he would have turned back.

But he didn’t.

Because Locky was with him.

As they drew parallel with the storefront, Benedict didn’t have the heart to stare directly through the window, to see how busy it was or catch a glimpse of the owner—the man he’d abandoned.

But he still walked by.

And like the rain passing into sun, the store was soon behind him.

And he’d survived.

He’d survived .

He just he’d gone past a client’s store for the first time in almost a decade. Something so many people would think of as tiny, but something he hadn’t dared to do, hadn’t imagined himself doing.

And he’d just done it. He’d done it! Something huge and important and impossible.

Benedict sped up, not in his eagerness to get away, but because there was suddenly too much inside him to walk slowly. Too much excitement. Too much relief. Too much... everything !

By the time Benedict got to the end of the lane he was floating through starlight, skipping like a little kid and pulling Locky into passionate kisses and dancing them both in wild circles like they’d just won the lottery.

In fact, Benedict was so swept up in the hugs and the kisses and the words of congratulations, he almost tripped into someone on the corner of the street.

He was a stocky man, his camping chair taking up most of the sidewalk. His beard was copper and streaked with a few flecks of silver, a little darker than the curls that poked from his beanie. He was wearing a blue flannel jacket, teamed with well-scuffed jeans and a pair of Timberland boots that looked like they’d climbed through every mountain in the country.

Benedict immediately recognized him, even though they hadn’t had a chance to talk.

It was the musician from the Thanksgiving dinner.

But that wasn’t what had caused Benedict to stop, as unexpected as this encounter was.

What made Benedict stop was the song. It was soft and light and surprisingly gentle against the sounds of the street. It was pretty, yes, but more than that, it was fitting . The notes that shimmered through the air felt like they belonged to this place, to this season. Like they were being pulled from the air and woven into song.

The stardust over Benedict was still sparkling so bright that he found himself blurting out. “How are you with jazz?!”

The notes drifted to a stop as the man looked up, taking Benedict in with more curiosity than annoyance. “Yeah, I’m a fan,” he said, in a voice of honey and campfire smoke. “Although I usually like to know the guy first.” To Benedict’s furrow-browed he added, “Oh, jazz . Sorry. I thought you said something else.”

Locky cleared his throat and introduced the two of them—and their Thanksgiving connection—not attempting to hide the desperation of their situation.

The man—Artair was his name—scratched his chin. “Innnteresting. I’ll be honest, I’ve never tried a jazzy, big band vibe. But I’ve got some synth equipment in storage. I could swing by later and test it out?” He chuckled to himself at that. “Get it. Swing by? Swing by? ’Cause swing music? No, nothing?”

Benedict exhaled hugely, the biggest part of their hunt now over. “Thank fucking God. Musician down. Now we just need to find a barista.”

To his surprise, Artair chimed in. “I don’t want to be all forward and stuff, but this might be your lucky day?”

* * *

“Okay, now slide the steam wand into the jug at a thirty-degree angle. Then you ease the pressure up until it’s rolling around and you can hear a rumble.”

Locky blinked at the instructions from Artair’s husband, Luca, the raven-haired waiter-slash-journalist they’d also seen at the Thanksgiving dinner. The one who’d been making—now understandable—goo-goo eyes at Artair all evening long.

He had piercing brown eyes, inquisitive and ever so slightly judgmental, staring out at Locky from messy waves. And Locky had the strangest feeling that he’d seen this man before—not just at the Thanksgiving dinner, but somewhere long before that.

Artair sniggered as he shuffled by, lugging some kind of speaker. “Lol, slide in the wand .”

“Maybe later, babe,” said Luca, voice softening as he leaned over the counter. “If you’re lucky.”

Artair made a deviation on his journey and stole a passing kiss. “I’m always lucky with you,” he said, as the snigger grew louder. “Lucky? Locky? Luca? There’s a song in there somewhere.”

Locky didn’t have time to absorb their cuteness, because he was too busy staring at the intimidating machine. He liked his coffee as much as the next person, but he’d always been happy with a communal pot of drip. He’d never got into espresso , and didn’t have the first clue how the levers and dials worked.

They were interrupted by a teeth-chattering roar of electronica from the back corner. The sound was long and high and slightly distressing, like someone jumping on a lamb with a pogo stick. “Sorry! That’s definitely not the vibe,” yelled Artair, as the noise morphed into something even more unpleasant. “Can you turn the amp down, Benny Boy? I still have it set from the last concert I did, but I don’t think they need to hear us from across the Bay.”

“How do I do that?” roared Benedict, over the din.

“That little twizzly knob thing. No, the other one. Third from the left. My left.”

Locky’s eye twitched as the sound jagged even louder, before finally settling to a more reasonable level.

“You’re doing great, babe!” said Luca, halfway between exasperation and adoration. “Sorry, about that. The steam wand?”

Luca moved Locky’s wrist under a long metal straw. With an effortless click-whack-swoosh of levers, the cold milk started to swirl in the jug. Still gripping tight, Luca yanked Locky’s hand up and down in slight motions, letting small hisses of steam break the milk’s surface. “Okay, now on your own.”

Locky panicked as Luca removed his grip, accidentally dropping the jug a full two inches. A great jet of steam hissed across the milk’s surface. Locky desperately reached for the lever, only to flick it in the wrong direction, making the geyser grow bigger, spitting lukewarm milk all over the place, like a bubbling white volcano.

Without any great haste, Luca reached up and clicked the lever off, bringing the steam to a halt. “Well, that went badly,” he said, wiping some stray milk splats from his beard. “And the screaming isn’t strictly necessary to make a good latte.”

Locky put the jug down on the bench like it was a grenade with the pin pulled. “If I pay you, can you make sure I never have to touch this thing again?”

“ Never? Probably not. But I can keep it away from you for the winter. After that we’re heading up north to rebuild a cabin in the mountains.”

“I... have way too many questions,” said Locky, overwhelmed by this manic day and struggling to process new pieces of information—like how someone could be a waiter, and a journalist, and a wilderness carpenter?

“That’s the usual response, yes,” said Luca, before glancing down at the empty cocktail bar by his knees. “Are you planning on using those?”

Locky raised an eyebrow. “This is an alcohol-free place. Sort of a big part of the identity.”

“Yes, sweetie, I gathered. But mocktails also exist.”

Locky considered that. Pie Me to the Moon was already a huge departure from what most people would think a “bakery” was. Adding mocktails would only make the store stranger and harder to describe. “Do you think we need them?”

“Need? No. But they could help people stay longer. There’s only so much coffee you can drink. Particularly at one in the morning. And I can take care of setting it up. It’s just a few juices and garnishes, given you already have the equipment and the ice machine. It’s literally a hundred bucks and a trip to the grocery store.”

There was another wall of sound from the back corner, but this time the electronic harshness had softened to something strangely fitting. It wasn’t jazz—lacking the big band sound you only got from brass instruments—but it still somehow carried the warmth of the place, the moonlight sparkle and the fireplace crackle.

Benedict was dancing a little jig to the music with no idea— no care —that he was being watched. He’d been like that ever since they’d walked by Hops and Honey. Like he was drifting on a cloud.

Locky turned back to Luca, who was eyeing him, keen and inquisitive and clearly waiting for a decision.

Mocktails weren’t something Locky had considered, and they definitely weren’t something he’d planned for.

But then again, had any of this been?

He was standing in a store he never would have created, with a boyfriend he never would have met, if not for scary and unfamiliar suggestions.

Suggestions that had turned out pretty damn okay.

“Sure,” said Locky. “Let’s give it a go.”

No sooner had he said it than Benedict was unexpectedly at the counter, his phone in hand. “Doug messaged!” he said, panting. “He says we can have the decorations. He can’t help us set up, but he’ll give us the materials at no charge.”

“Oh, shit. I completely forgot about the decorations.”

“Yeah, and I know you still haven’t told everyone in your life about the big opening. But I think this might be an all-hands-on-deck situation?”

Locky sighed. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Let’s gather the troops.”

* * *

Pie Me to the Moon was a hive of activity.

Kai and Evelyn were standing ten feet apart, on ladders of very different heights, bickering about where to hang these complex brown paper banners with intricate cutouts and built in orange lights, which gave an effect like firelight dancing though the window of a log cabin.

Tris and Benedict were assembling upside-down fishbowl things for each table, with twinkly golden lights on fishing line, giving the effect, when dark, of fireflies moving under glass. The two of them were laughing together, relaxed and comfortable, with Tris clearly delighted and so damn proud after Benedict told her of his success today—finally breaking the curse that had plagued him for so long.

Artair and Luca, who’d graciously offered to help, had taken on the daunting task of constructing a big, crescent moon seat, which could be used by guests to get memorable photos, hopefully posted to social media to keep the buzz train going.

And Locky was being yelled at.

“How could you not tell us you were opening a store, Boss Man!?” said Adriana, her anger somewhat softened by her need to take deep breaths between blowing up balloons. “This whole time I thought you were applying for accounting jobs!”

“Yeah,” said Jared, from one of the booths, weaving fairy lights into a wire template for the moon seat, which would—eventually—say the name of the store. “We could have helped out with this months ago.”

“I know, and I’m really sorry about that,” said Locky, trying to figure out the best position for a guest book—another thing that Benedict had recommended, making each visit feel extra special, and giving an opportunity for any VIPs to leave a lasting mark. “But I didn’t want anyone to feel obligated.”

“ Obligated? ” Adriana groaned. “Seriously, you’ve done so much for so many people. This isn’t obligation. We care about you. We want you to succeed. And you’ve earned everyone’s support.”

Locky waved a dismissive hand, the praise making him feel embarrassed. “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. We’re almost sold out.”

“Yeah, and everyone from work will have their own parties to go to. But they’ll still want to be here when you open. Even if just for a few minutes.”

“I don’t want people to stand out in the cold when they can’t even come in!”

Adriana bounced the balloon off his head. “Just let me ask them!”

Locky looked around the room, at all the people helping out on his store, his project. Every instinct told him to feel guilty about that. And yet, among the laughs and good nature, no one seemed like they were being forced. No one seemed like they were feeling obligated .

“Okay, fine,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You can ask. But I’m not expecting anyone to say yes.”

* * *

Locky collapsed on one side of a booth, lying flat on the length of leather. Benedict followed on the other side, landing with a loud floomph .

This day—draining and dramatic—was finally over. Artair and Luca would be coming in tomorrow for opening night, and the decorations were all sorted, meaning the disasters had been averted as quickly as they’d come.

“Please tell me that’s the last thing that can go wrong,” said Benedict, flopping an arm under the table. From down here, it looked like the two of them were in some kind of secret table cave, away from the rest of the world.

“Not sure I can make that promise,” said Locky swinging his hand between marble and tile. “And you did really well today. Facing your fears like that.”

Benedict smiled back, soft and tired. “Only because of you. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

“Hey, that’s my line,” said Locky, flicking Benedict’s fingertips with his own.

“I’m pretty sure it’s both of our line,” said Benedict, returning the gesture.

With an exaggerated groan, Locky forced himself back to standing. Benedict followed, collapsing onto Locky’s shoulder dramatically. Both of them were clearly ready for food and snuggles.

Unexpectedly, Benedict turned around so his thick ass was rubbing against Locky’s lap. The bigger man let out a soft groan. “You know, in all this commotion I didn’t tell you that my regular tests came back clean.”

Locky perked up in more ways than one. Despite how badly they both wanted it, Locky hadn’t got around to sliding his cock into Benedict’s willing ass yet, with both of them collapsing into an exhausted puddle these last few weeks.

But now, everything was ready with the store.

And there was nothing holding them back.

This might not have been how Locky thought this night would end. But he certainly wasn’t complaining.

“Oh really ?” said Locky, rubbing his bulge against Benedict’s cheeks, up and down over the big bubble curves. That feeling made him shudder, reminding him of how long it had been since he’d last done this.

“Maybe it’s my reward for breaking the curse?” said Benedict. “You taking me home and fucking a load into me?”

Locky’s cock throbbed hard at that. Suddenly, all thoughts of sleep were gone. All he could think about was doing that—sliding his bare cock into his boyfriend’s beautiful ass. Making him moan and shudder as he emptied his full, neglected balls into his tight hole.

A sly grin brought dimples to Locky’s cheeks. “You know... this might be the last time the store is empty for a while?”

Benedict looked over his shoulder, grinning wickedly. “You really are full of surprises, Mr. Sorenson.”