Looking for Trouble(67)
He took Dakota out, turned off the lights, and went to their room. Dylan was in bed, his hair wet from the shower, his eyes closed. Clay had wanted to talk, but he looked so peaceful, so damn sweet and innocent and sexy in a pair of underwear and a short tee, riding high, that he couldn’t disturb him.
But something was definitely different because Dylan usually slept in the nude.
Clay quietly took a shower of his own, then climbed into bed with Dylan, pulling him close, smelling that citrus scent he loved, knowing they had things to talk about and work on, but willing to do it, willing to do anything to keep him.
He didn’t know how long it had been when his eyes popped open. It was obviously the middle of the night, but the other side of the bed was empty.
Clay’s pulse jumped, fucking skyrocketed, a moment of fear clinging to him as though Dylan had disappeared.
He told himself to calm down, and got out of bed. Dylan had trouble sleeping sometimes because of his ADHD. Usually, Clay gave him space, but it didn’t feel right that night. They’d had their argument, and things had been strained since their night out, and Clay was ready to put it all on the table.
He pulled on a pair of sweats, Dakota looking up at him as though he’d ruined her sleep before she laid her head back down again. Clay made his way down the hallway. When he hit the corner, he saw Dylan in the dining room with his back to him. He had the ironing board and iron out, likely one of his designs on top of it. His phone was on the counter, softly playing slow songs by Lana Del Rey. He knew Dylan listened to her when he felt down, and he both loved the fact that he knew it, and hated that Dylan felt that way.
He swayed as he ironed, singing quietly along, still wearing the T-shirt that covered half his ass and red underwear.
It made him smile, watching Dylan. He loved that he always danced and sang to the music, that he walked around the house cutely dressed in underwear and T-shirts.
That he’d made them dinner and had cared enough to talk to Scott in the first place.
That for the first time in years, his house felt like a home.
Christ, he just loved his Trouble.
Clay took a step toward him and then another. The floor creaked beneath his feet, and Dylan whipped around, clutching his chest.
“Shit. You scared the crap out of me.”
Clay just smiled.
“I’m sorry if I woke you.”
“You didn’t.” He plucked Dylan’s phone from the counter and turned the music up, then grabbed Dylan’s wrist and gently tugged him closer.
“What are you doing?” Dylan asked with a nervous chuckle.
“Dancing with you.” He pulled Dylan away from what he was doing.
“You’re going to dance with me in the kitchen at one in the morning?”
“Yes, yes, I am.” He didn’t know why he suddenly wanted to dance with Dylan, but he did. “Is that cheesy?”
“No,” Dylan replied softly. “It’s sweet. I’ve never slow danced with a guy before.”
“Me neither,” Clay replied as he slid his arms around Dylan’s slender waist. “But I want to dance with you.”
Dylan twined his arms around Clay’s shoulders. “I wanna dance with you too.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Dylan
Oh God, he could die. His legs could go weak, and his heart could give out, and he could have collapsed and died right there. That moment had to be the best of his life, standing in his underwear, slow dancing in the kitchen with Clay. It was so simple, so simple and silly and sweet, that he fell more in love with Clay with each second that ticked by.
He felt the gentle scrape of Clay’s stubble against his face, the warmth of his body and the rough pads of Clay’s fingers against his skin as his hands slid under Dylan’s shirt, traveling up and down his back.
Each caress sent wonderful sensations shooting through him. It was everything.
Clay moaned and tightened his hold as Dylan threaded his fingers through Clay’s hair. “Mmm. You feel good, Trouble.”
“You feel good too,” Dylan replied. “And I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. I do. And I am. But is it okay if we talk about it in a few minutes? Right now I just want to dance with my boy.”
So that’s what they did. They moved together. Dylan buried his face in Clay’s neck and breathed him in. They weren’t moving to the beat of the music, but it didn’t matter. They played their own tune, and maybe they always had and always would.
Clay’s hand dipped into his underwear and cupped his ass.
“I wanna feel your chest,” Dylan said.
Clay’s hand pulled back, and Dylan’s underwear snapped against his skin. Clay’s hands journeyed up his back again, taking the shirt with them. Dylan lifted his arms, and Clay pulled the tee over his head, dropping it to the floor.
It was somehow the single most erotic moment of his life.
They snapped together again, their bodies like magnets. Dylan rubbed his face in the hair on Clay’s chest, and Clay’s hands somehow felt as if they were touching him everywhere at once—his hair, his neck, his back, his ass, then back up again.
“You are so beautiful, Trouble. I love seeing my mark on your skin.”
Dylan loved having the tattoo there, loved what it meant to him and that Clay had done it.