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I tore into the bread, ripping the thick coarse slice in two as Marcus stared at the bottles of oil and balsamic vinegar in silence.
“This isn’t a date,” Marcus finally said, his sight locked on the table settings.
“Dude, I know,” I replied around a mouthful of hearty rye bread. His eyes lifted from the breadbasket to my face and I struggled to decipher what I was seeing in his dark gaze. “Why would this be a date?”
“I just…” His jaw worked slightly. A log cracked in the hearth, sending sparks flying up the flue like a thousand winged underlings of Thotsakan, the Thai king of demons. I chewed as he struggled to say whatever was eating at him. “I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression or develop feelings for me that—”
“Okay, just whoa.” I lowered the other half of my bread, ready to shred his massive ego, when Jasha flitted back to the table, two glass bottles of cold water, twin water glasses, and a couple of small bowls of salad on a tray. Once he delivered the salads and poured the water, he moved back into the kitchen. Songs filled with tambourines and lutes floated past. “Trust me, I am not going to develop feelings for you.” I poked my fork at him before stabbing a small chunk of cucumber doused with sour cream and olive oil. “Man, you have the biggest head ever.”
“No, I mean…I just didn’t want you to think I asked you to dinner because I wanted to get into your pants or anything.” He stared at me, his hands on the table, fingertips pulling at his napkin.
“Seriously, that was the last thing I thought. I mean, two guys on opposing teams can eat a meal without it being more than camaraderie.” I shoved the cuke into my mouth as he heaved a huge sigh of relief.
“Exactly. Fuck, I’m glad you’re with me on things. Like, not that I wouldn’t ask you out if you weren’t my arch nemesis,” he tossed out with a snort. I stopped chewing. He’d ask me out? Huh? “You’re really cute. And that hair of yours is begging to be fisted, but we’re not able to do anything like that.” Wait. Fisting my hair? Holy shit. I had to attempt to swallow my cucumber twice while my dick got all kinds of chubby in my pants. “It’s fine to be two acquaintances having dinner and not get into anything after the meal.”
Lust swirled around inside my brain. Fisting my hair while I sucked his cock was now all I could think about and man was the image in my head flammable.
“Not like we’re touching dicks after the food,” I mumbled. His eyes flared.
“Touching dicks? No, no, no, of course not. I mean, we’re just guys with a thing in common.” His sight grabbed mine. The tambourine tempo increased while the fire grew hotter suddenly. “Touching dicks would imply all kinds of things that we are not.”
“Totally.” I laid my fork down beside my bowl of romaine, tomatoes, olives, and cukes. “Not that someone couldn’t touch dicks after a meal and things not get emotional. I’ve touched dicks with guys, and it never went past dick touching.”
His lips parted. The urge to lean over the bottles of balsamic and imported olive oil and lick into his mouth made my head swim. So, for some asinine reason, I did it. I pushed up, leaned over the breadcrumbs on the tablecloth, and put my mouth on his. I had no clue why. Maybe those old demons that my grandfather told all us kids about had taken control of my common sense. Something sure as hell had a grip on my cock, and it wasn’t Marcus. Which was a shame, but maybe we could fix that after this incredible kiss. There was a brief power struggle as his mouth met mine. Both of us wanting to be the top dog but also needing more, so someone had to give in first. It should have been him, but it was me, licking at the seam of his juicy lips until he lapped into my mouth. Something on the table fell over. Not sure what. His hands came up to capture my face, long strong fingers cradling my jaw. He tasted of sweet olive oil—a dash of pineapple and mushroom, a mix that should not have been as delicious as it was—as his tongue swept over mine.
A crash in the kitchen took place. Jasha cursed in his native tongue. I pulled back as if I had just French kissed an electric fence to see Marcus, one knee on the table—ah that was what had sent the oil and vinegar to its side—pupils blown, lips slick, staring at me like I was some alien life form.
“Is okay! Just empty pot. Food coming soon!” Jasha bellowed as we both fell back into our seats, panting, stunned into stilted silence. God but he had tasted good.
“What was that?” Marcus breathlessly asked, hurrying to right the vinegar and oil that were seeping onto the tablecloth.
“It was…” I ran my tongue over my lower lip to get a bit more of his taste. He moaned. The sound went directly to my balls. “We, uhm…yeah, so yeah. I’m seriously confused.”
“Are you turned on?” he enquired in a whisper. I nodded vigorously, my cock throbbing with want. “Okay, yeah, me too. I guess…when you said…did you mean that you’d be down with touching dicks after we paid the bill?” His voice was ragged and breathy.
“Just as friends who love hockey. Not anything more than that.”
“Right. Friends who touch dicks.”
“Yep, friends who touch dicks. No anal or anything. Maybe lips.”
He shifted in his seat. My cock was so stiff now I feared the table would start to list upward and spill more salad dressing/bread dips to the table.
“Lips. Lips on dicks,” he replied on an exhale that rushed over the table to tickle my flushed face.
Lips. Lips. Lips on dicks. Fuck yeah. I would love to part his lips with the head of my—
“Two chickens in dill sauce,” Jasha announced as he exploded from the food prep area. I jumped a foot and sat back, not realizing that I’d leaned into the table, closer to Marcus, as our conversation had taken a fucked as hell left turn. “Oh, sorry for the interrupting of moment.” Jasha winked at us knowingly, placed our meals before us, and left us alone to be so awkward it hurt.
Neither of us dared to look at the other. I cut into the boneless chicken breast, uncaring this was not the surf and turf I’d been so set on. Other things were now taking up space in my head. Like dick touching and lips on cocks and…shit. I wanted Marcus Newley. Bad.
Five minutes of the worst, mentally stifling, painful quiet passed while we chewed and drank and looked everywhere but at each other.
“Someone said you were Sauron,” Marcus finally said. The comment was so insanely out in left field I gawked at him for ten solid seconds. “Truth. Some guy said we were arch nemesis which made me think of Sauron. Did you know Frodo went to the Undying Lands instead of back to the Shire like Sam did?”
“No, I, uhm…” I dabbed at my mouth with my napkin. Flutes and tiny finger symbols drifted around us as I gaped at my dinner date. No not a date. Just a new friend. That I wanted to touch dicks with. As one does with someone they’ve hated for years, then recently made up with. Yep, dick touching happened all the time in that scenario.
Marcus opened his mouth, closed it, and then breathed out through his nostrils. “How obvious was that dip into LOTR lore to avoid a really uncomfortable conversation?”
