Looking for Trouble(30)
“Hey.” Clay reached for him.
“I don’t want to talk about it right now. I want to enjoy this hike and nature. It’s weird…knowing my dad used to walk these same paths with you.”
“You’re telling me.” Clay chuckled humorlessly. “It makes me feel old as shit.”
“Stop caring about age. I certainly don’t.”
“Says the twenty-five-year-old. I’m pretty sure I didn’t care about it at your age either.”
“Well, who’s acting like a child now? All worried about who’s older and who isn’t. You’re forty-five, Sad Eyes. That’s not old. Plus, you’re fit and gorgeous as hell. I almost came in my pants the first time I saw you.”
Clay stumbled, nearly fell but caught himself, making Dylan laugh. Obviously, someone was affected by what Dylan had said.
“Oh, maybe you’re older than I thought. Having trouble staying on your feet?”
“Quiet, you little shit.”
“Why don’t you make me, old man? Think you can catch me?” Dylan started to run. He was treated to a surprise when Clay did the same, chasing after him along the tree-lined path through the dense woods.
He laughed as he ran, laughed so hard his chest ached. And then Clay’s arms were around him, the two of them tumbling to the ground. Clay somehow turned them so he landed first, Dylan on top of him, fitting quite perfectly between Clay’s thighs, if he did say so himself.
“Maybe I’m not so old,” Clay said before loud, boisterous laughter fell from his mouth. It vibrated his chest, radiating into Dylan’s and making him shake. God, he loved the sound of Clay’s laughter. It mesmerized him, made a giddy feeling dance beneath his skin. The sound was contagious, an ailment Dylan wanted to catch, because it was so damn happy.
Their bodies began to vibrate together as Dylan laughed too. It was as if they were feeding off each other, laughing and lying there body against body. When Dylan moved, he was reminded of that fact, focusing on the larger frame beneath him, the firm muscles and warm skin.
Of course that lured his dick in, making it plump beneath his jeans, as he felt Clay’s breath against his cheek.
The laughter suddenly cut off, just the rise and fall of Clay’s chest against his as they stared at each other. Then Clay’s calloused hands were at his waist, holding him, pushing up under his shirt. Dylan picked a leaf out of Clay’s hair, let his finger draw a path down Clay’s temple, cheekbone, to his lips.
“Clay,” he whispered, his voice husky and hungry, before their lips were on each other’s. Dylan didn’t know who initiated the kiss, if he’d lowered his head or Clay had raised his, or hell, if they met each other halfway. He just knew that suddenly he felt Clay’s scruff rub against his face. He moved in, turned his head slightly, wanting more of the burn. Clay’s lips were soft, such a contrast to the roughness of his facial hair and the strength of his fingers digging into Dylan’s waist.
Clay moaned into his mouth, and Dylan wanted to swallow up all the sounds. Clay’s tongue massaged, expertly swept his mouth, searching, controlling in a way that made Dylan’s head spin and his dick harden. God, he loved to be kissed like he was being owned, and Clay did just that.
“Clay,” Dylan whispered against Clay’s lips. The second he did, he regretted it, wanted to snatch the action back because he knew it snapped Clay out of whatever lust-filled void he’d tumbled into. His grip loosened, his kisses stopped. Dylan cupped his face, kissed the corner of his mouth again. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. You feel so good.”
Jesus, he wanted Clay. He’d wanted him from the first night he laid eyes on him, though then it had been strictly physical. Now, he liked how Clay made him feel, the way he treated him, his kindness, and yeah, okay, he was still plain hot.
“We can’t, Trouble.” Clay pushed Dylan’s hair off his forehead, melancholy in his voice.
“We actually can. We’re both adults.”
“I…can’t. I want to, but I can’t, and that’s not easy for me to admit.” He cupped Dylan’s face, rubbed his thumbs over his cheekbones, and it was so damn sweet, Dylan nearly melted into him. He saw it in Clay’s eyes, the regret. Not regret over the kiss, but of stopping it, of whatever war he was fighting. No one had ever looked at Dylan like that before.
If he’d learned anything, if he were responsible and made the right decisions, he would have been the one to stop them, would have agreed with Clay, but the truth was, Dylan would likely have let Clay take him right there if he’d wanted to, consequences be damned. He wanted more of what Clay made him feel.
He playfully poked out his bottom lip. “I’m pouting, you know. You got me all hot and bothered but won’t put out the flames.”
Clay chuckled, stroking his thumb against Dylan’s bottom lip. “Why am I not surprised you’re pouting?”
“Because you know me?” Dylan asked. “So I guess what you’re saying is, I have to get off you?”
“It’s for the best.”
“I don’t care what’s best.”
“Yeah, Trouble, you do.”
That small bit of faith in Dylan made his heart thud and swell. Because he did care, even if he didn’t always do a good job of showing it. And why did he love the nickname so much? “Ugh. Fine.”