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Until everything disappeared.
Scotland pulled away, grasping his hands back as he withdrew. He was panting, his mouth parted and his lips dark and glistening. “Clint.”
Clint couldn’t look away. Those lips were mesmerizing. How could I miss this? It hadn’t felt like that when Scotland had fucked him raw in the kitchen, or when he’d teased his skin with a flickering flame. But now his body was attuned, his cock pulsing to the beat of his pounding heart.
“Clint. We can be friends, love. We don’t have to be more.”
What the hell was Scotland saying? Clint blinked, shaking his head as the fog started to clear. There was more than one set of eyes on him, but in moments his freedom and joy had withered.
Ross. His chest went tight as he stepped away from the freezer, letting the door bang shut. That kiss, it had almost felt like… He gripped his hand into a fist, pushing his thoughts away.
“I changed my mind,” said Clint. “Let’s get marshmallows. We can see who can fit the most in their mouth. Spoiler alert—I’m going to win. And we’ll get whipping cream for our coffee. It’s just like regular cream, only kinky.”
I’m flirting. He knew it, but he couldn’t stop himself. It had only been a few days since he’d broken down at the firepit but something had shifted. Something had changed with Scotland’s arms around him.
He couldn’t smile as he shuffled away from the freezers, adjusting himself to hide his reaction to the kiss. Scotland was right. Friends were better. Friends were easy. He had hundreds of them, but one more might just fill his broken heart.
Chapter Fourteen
Clint
“What are you doing?” Clint stretched out on the lounge chair that was quickly becoming his favorite piece of furniture on the property. With the midafternoon sun beating down on them, the weather was almost summerish again. The chill was sure to set in at night, though, lining the windows with threatened frost.
“We’re gonna make s’mores,” said Scotland. He was kneeling next to the fire pit again, a metal poker stick in one hand, and a lighter in the other. Instead of the metal flick lighter, though, this one was in the shape of some kind of fish, the flame shooting from its mouth when Scotland clicked it.
“The hell you are.” Clint jerked upright, his sandals slipping from his feet as he scrambled to grab the lighter and jerk it from Scotland’s grip. “We haven’t had rain in over a week. All this grass could go up with a single spark.” He shook his head, his hands trembling as he looked at the gaudy plastic he’d grabbed.
Why would someone make something like this? Fire wasn’t a novelty. It was dangerous.
“I’ve got a bucket of water right there,” said Scotland, pointing off to the pail he’d lugged across the lawn. The water was nearly at the brim, but there was no way it could cover the whole lawn.
Rolling his eyes, Clint tucked the lighter into his waistband. There were probably about three buttons on it that he’d have to push to actually light the thing, but it still settled against his skin uncomfortably. “Sometimes water just makes it worse.”
A shiver flowed under his skin. And sometimes water did nothing. He could still remember flickers of the deluge coming from fire hoses aimed at what used to be his home. The flames had simply roared higher, consuming so quickly that even the steam seemed to disappear into the night.
“That’s why I’ve got a fire extinguisher inside the door.” Scotland motioned toward the house. Clint had checked the thing out himself when he’d slept in the main house for the night, making sure it wasn’t expired. People always seemed to forget about that.
“I don’t want to push you, Clint,” said Scotland, leaning back on his heels. He was in short sleeves again, his tattoos tracing up his arms. At some point overnight he’d dyed the tips of his hair a different color. Orange suited him much better than blue or purple—not that Clint noticed or anything.
Motioning to the small pile of kindling in the fire pit, then back to the split stack a ways away, Scotland frowned. “I hate to see you afraid. Every day you sit here or at the fire pit behind the cabin and stare at the ashes for hours like you’re trying to tell me something. I’m just trying to listen.”
When did he get so damn stubborn? He’d been different since they’d returned from grocery shopping a few days earlier, keeping more to himself and leaving Clint to listen to the silence of the forest alone. It hurt and twisted something inside his chest.
“And I’m just trying to be practical.” Clint pulled his lip between his teeth. “There is no reason to start a fire right now.”
“There’s no reason not to.” Scotland raised one brow, pulling a second lighter from his pocket.
“Well, now you’re just being an insensitive prick,” growled Clint, grabbing for the lighter and tossing it back at Scotland. “I almost died in a fire, asshole. My husband did die in one.”
“I know,” said Scotland softly, catching the lighter with ease. “And you haven’t trusted yourself since.”
“That’s…” It’s not true.
A flame burst from the mouth of the lighter as Scotland clicked the button, lowering it to the paper he’d packed loosely between the kindling days before. Clint’s breath cut off, his heart rate jacking as it caught, spreading across the black ink like a rising tide.
The smell hit him first, the cinders, the decay, and something that had always made his mouth water and his cock hard. His chest was in a vise at the same time he felt himself firm between his legs, springing to attention as the first piece of wood charred and caught fire.
It was mesmerizing. The slow dance and the way it licked at the wood the same way he remembered it flickering over his skin after Ross restrained him. The heat of it was nothing to how it was against him—on him.
