Looking for Trouble(4)

“No,” Sad Eyes replied, and Dylan knew he only denied Dylan because he’d asked.

“Feisty.”

“I think that’s you. Are you going to show me that ass of yours we talked about?” He had a voice that was confident, passionate, but somehow it sounded as if he was going through the motions too. He definitely wanted to fuck Dylan. He could see that. But he still seemed…sad, lonely, and Dylan wanted nothing more than to make that go away.

“Only if you’re bad.” With a grin, Dylan shimmied down Sad Eyes’ body. “Do you have chest hair? Please tell me you have chest hair.” Dylan shoved his hands under Sad Eyes’ shirt, pulled it up, and whimpered. “Oh my God. Thank you, baby Jesus.”

Sad Eyes chuckled, working open the buttons on his flannel, and Dylan rubbed his cheek against the man’s chest. He loved the contrast of rough hair against his soft skin. He kept his face, chest, and ass clean-shaven and his pubes nicely trimmed, of course.

“You’re trouble,” Sad Eyes replied.

“I’m fun…and maybe a little trouble. Be glad you only have to deal with me for a couple of hours. I’m kind of a handful.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Would you like to see my ass now?” Dylan asked teasingly.

“I’ve been waiting.”

“It’ll be worth it.” His dick ached, he was so hard. With eager fingers he unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans. Sad Eyes backed away, giving Dylan space for his show. He wiggled his hips, turned around, then slid the jeans past his ass. He glanced over his shoulder, hand against his mouth, and said, “Oops.”

Sad Eyes growled in response. It was a hungry, horny sort of growl that Dylan fucking loved.

The jock was one of his own designs. There were always some nerves when someone saw them for the first time. Getting naked in front of someone he didn’t know didn’t bother him in the least, but someone seeing one of his styles? That was scary as fuck, which was exactly why he never told anyone they were his.

“Get the jeans the rest of the way off,” Sad Eyes told him.

Dylan bent over, ass in the air as he pulled his pants off. “Impressive, isn’t it?” he asked as he stood there in nothing but a jock, his ass toward Sad Eyes.

“You’re a cocky little shit, aren’t you?”

“I might have heard that a time or two.” Which was a facade, of course. Well, maybe. He wasn’t confident about most things, and he sure as shit fucked up a lot, but he was confident when it came to sex. That he knew he was good at.

Sad Eyes stepped toward him. He wrapped his arms around Dylan from behind and rubbed his jeans-covered cock against Dylan’s ass. “See? No problems getting it up,” Sad Eyes said as he ground his dick against him.

Dylan’s eyes rolled back. “I never doubted you—Oh!” Sad Eyes spun him around, lifted him. Calloused fingers dug into the bare skin of Dylan’s ass, ran down his crease, and slipped between his cheeks.

Then they were kissing again, Dylan’s legs around his waist, hands in his hair. God, he tasted fucking good, felt so good. He’d needed this—touching, sex, contact.

“Fuck me,” Dylan said against his mouth, and Sad Eyes tossed him to the bed.

“I’m getting there, Feisty.”

“Aww. You have a pet name for me.”

Sad Eyes shook his head, but Dylan could see the amusement there. Then…then he fucking dropped to his knees, leaned in…and froze. “Why the fuck do you have an envelope with my name on it?”

“What? I don’t have a…” Realization slammed into him. Dylan’s whole world shifted on its axis, fucking exploded or imploded or something like that. No. No, no, no, no. It couldn’t be. Clayton’s a fairly common name. There was no way it could be the same person. That was too big a coincidence.

Dad’s Clayton would be forty-five…

“Why the fuck do you have an envelope with my goddamned name on it?” Sad Eyes—no, Clayton—shoved to his feet.

“It’s not you.” Dylan sat up, his chest tight, struggling to breathe. “It can’t be you.” It was impossible. He couldn’t have fucked up that majorly.

“It’s a pretty big fucking coincidence.”

“It’s…” Dylan shook his head, trying to make sense of what was happening. “It’s for a man named Clayton Turner.”

Clayton’s brown eyes went hard, and Dylan knew, fucking knew, that was Sad Eyes’ last name too. “I…” He ran his hand through his hair, trying to figure out what happened, how this could be happening. Maybe it’s not him. How many Clayton Turners have to be out there?

“It’s…it’s a letter. For my dad’s old best friend from growing up. He…” Pain sliced through his chest. “My dad passed away from cancer a few months back, and he asked me to deliver this—the letter—to Clayton. His name, his name was Mike…Mike Sutton.”

Clayton’s hands balled into fists. His chest rose and fell in quick, deep, angry breaths. “What the fuck are you playing at?”

It was him. Holy fucking shit, it was him. What had Dylan done? He tried to stand, but Clayton’s hard stare pinned him in place. “Nothing. Oh shit. How can this be happening? I didn’t know it was you.”