Creative Process Page 7

  Reese was already undressing, his shirt landing on top of Owen’s bag, his shoes left in the kitchen doorway. “That way. There.” Owen panted, hustling Reese toward his bedroom. By the time they stepped through the door, they were both naked. “Hard.”

  “Fuck yes.” Reese tangled the fingers of one hand in Owen’s hair and kissed him deeply, then slipped his other hand between them and cupped Owen’s balls.

  Owen moaned into Reese’s mouth and pressed into his hand. “Second date?” he asked, panting.

  “This counts,” Reese answered.

  Owen stepped away for a second and returned with condoms and lube and tossed them on the bed. “Want you.”

  Reese’s cock leapt, and fire shot down his spine. “Say that again.”

  “I want you,” Owen repeated. “Fuck me.”

  Reese didn’t need a flowery invitation. That would do just fine, thank you. He gave Owen a light push in the direction of the bed and reached for one of the condoms. Owen climbed up on the bed and shamelessly presented his ass.

  Owen’s obvious impatience only made Reese even hotter, and he swore as he smoothed on the rubber and tossed the wrapper aside. He spent a few seconds with the lube, slicking himself and several fingers. “Reese.” Owen’s voice was strained and hoarse.

  “Here,” Reese answered and pushed two slick fingers into Owen’s ass.

  Owen’s sounds were unintelligible and intoxicating and sent shock waves through Reese’s body straight to his cock. He spent another minute trying to help Owen relax and get him slick before he just couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Please tell me you’re ready for me,” Reese said with a growl.

  “So ready. Please.”

  Reese shifted on the bed, gripped Owen’s hips and pushed slowly inside him.

  Owen groaned, long and low. Reese usually attempted some restraint at first, but Owen was already arching and taking him in. “Do it.” Owen’s voice was hoarse.

  With Owen’s command, the last rational part of Reese’s brain utterly shut down. He dug his fingers into Owen’s hips and thrust hard, guiding himself in and out, over and over, with quick, slick strokes. It felt amazing.

  “Yes!” Owen shouted at him.

  Reese hooked his fingers over Owen’s shoulder, pulling himself deeper as he thrust, but he needed more. He needed eyes, expression, something other than Owen’s bare back. He pulled out and roughly pushed Owen over, helping him flip onto his back. Owen got the idea readily enough. “Any way you want me, Reese. Just don’t stop,” he begged, and Reese could see his eyes were a little glazed over.

  Yeah, that’s what he needed. Reese shoved back inside Owen and thrust again as Owen’s knees fell wide open. He watched as Owen’s eyes closed and loved the arch in Owen’s back. He got off on every twist in Owen’s expression. “Let me see it. Come for me.” Reese locked his own climax down tight, trying to wait Owen out. The man didn’t seem far off. Reese kept talking, coaxing. “That’s it. Show me.”

  Owen shuddered, and he shot milky ribbons onto his belly. The blissed-out look on his face was worth every moment Reese had waited for him.

  Feeling Owen ripple and spasm around him, Reese let fly, slamming into Owen over and over until he couldn’t see. Maybe he wasn’t even breathing. His climax hit him hard, and for a moment he was floating, somewhere else, watching himself shudder and babble until he was spent.

  When he came back down, Owen was smiling up at him, a lopsided smug little grin. “You like it a little rough and dirty, don’t you?”

  Reese nodded. Oh fuck yes. He sure did. “And you seem to want it a little rough and dirty, so don’t pretend that was all for me.” Reese slid carefully from Owen and went to dispose of the condom. He washed up quickly and then made his way back into the bedroom, bringing Owen a cloth he’d found on a towel rack.

  “Aw, so thoughtful. Thank you.”

  Reese leaned over and kissed him before climbing back onto Owen’s bed. “Well, that was one hell of a second date.”

  “Yeah.” Owen laughed. “Maybe we could add dinner or something for the third.”

  Reese winced, a little horrified with himself. “Owen, I’m sorry. I didn’t stop in tonight just for—”

  “Kidding, Reese. I begged you, remember?”

  Reese smiled. “Well, there is that.”

  “So—” Owen turned his deep brown eyes on Reese. “Let me guess. You gotta run? Got a thing tomorrow? Need some air?” His tone was impish.

  “Don’t be an ass.” He wasn’t going anywhere tonight. The part of him that ran from everything wanted to, but he firmly told that part to fuck off.

  “Yeah, and how did you like my ass, by the way?”

  “Nice. Hot, tight, I’d give it five stars.” Reese snickered.

  Owen nodded as if that was something he already knew. “Uh-huh. I want a drink. You?”

  Reese concurred. A drink, some more time exploring Owen’s lovely smooth skin, and then, well. They were past the second date, so anything was game. “I’ll take one of your fabulous martinis, please.”

  “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  AFTER AN energetic evening and a couple of martinis, neither of them was in a hurry to go anywhere in the morning. In fact, neither of them even saw morning at all. When Reese first opened his eyes, it was well past noon. He blinked a few times at the odd light coming in the window before he realized they had blown off the morning entirely. He noted with amusement as he stretched and sighed that neither of their “dates” had started before ten o’clock at night. This did not bode well for the man who did his best writing before lunchtime.

  Compromise, he reminded himself. Relationships, even ones that were essentially based on sex, required compromise. A therapist had told him that after his breakup with Paul over a year ago. He let his eyes roam hungrily over Owen’s naked sleeping body and wondered if he shouldn’t give her a call.

  Reese rolled closer to Owen and kissed his bare shoulder, getting absolutely no reaction. He admired Owen’s flawless skin; it was a rich light brown like one of his lattes. Tawny, wasn’t that the word? It stood out in stark contrast to Reese’s own blanket of Irish freckles. Reese tried again, running a hand lightly up Owen’s spine, and yet the musician lay still as stone. Not even a goose bump. Owen really was out. He decided to let the man sleep and slipped out of bed. He needed a shower, and he didn’t think Owen would mind if he made himself at home. He’d wake Owen up afterward; he thought he recalled Owen saying something about a rehearsal this afternoon.

  He padded naked and barefoot into the bathroom and found a tiny closet just inside the door. Bingo, towels. He pulled one out and hung it next to the shower before starting the water. He got in, sighing as the hot water hit his chest. Last night was good. He realized it was possible that he might not get from Owen the slow, romantic lovemaking he sometimes wanted, but Owen was fun in bed, and Jesus, the musician had a way of taking Reese right out of his head. It wasn’t like Reese wasn’t into being aggressive during sex; he enjoyed that—a lot. But he hadn’t slept with anyone who really liked, maybe even needed, to be taken as much as Owen did. All good, Reese was a grown-up. If he really wanted something slower sometime, he’d ask for it. Assuming they saw each other again.

  He loved Owen’s straightforward bedroom talk too. Loved that he wasn’t shy to use words the way he did. Reese was an author after all, and words were his thing. Dialogue was his favorite part of his narratives—hell, it was practically his porn. He loved how committed Owen had been last night. It wasn’t “Hey, you’re hot, wanna make out,” it was “Hey, I’m horny, you have a dick, bring it on.” Sex. Fucking. Maybe Reese didn’t need to get so worked up about screwing up something like this. This he could do.

  He was rinsing off when Owen burst into the bathroom. “Gotta pee and then it’s my turn. I’m supposed to be at rehearsal in forty-five minutes!” Reese’s eyes went wide and he hurried it up, washing the last of the soap out of his hair.

  And
then Owen was in the shower with him. “Scootch!” Owen said, doing a little do-si-do with Reese and getting under the water.

  “I’ll just—”

  “Hand me the shampoo?”

  “Shampoo, right.” Reese handed it to Owen and then slipped out of the shower.

  “Aw, leaving me already?”

  “You don’t have time for what I want to do to you in that shower,” Reese said playfully.

  Owen whined. “Awww. But you’re right. I don’t.”

  “Your shower is too small for the two of us, anyway.” Reese laughed. “You want to shower together, stop by my place sometime.”

  “Ooooh.” Owen laughed. “See you tonight!” It was a few short minutes and then the water shut off. “White towel on the bar by the door,” he said, and Reese finally realized he was asking Reese to get it for him.

  “Oh. Right.” Reese wrapped his own towel around his middle and then reached for Owen’s, handing it past the shower curtain. He literally didn’t have to move his feet to reach anything in this bathroom. He thought Owen really would enjoy his shower. “Do you have a gig tonight?”

  “No.” The shower curtain opened and Owen stepped out. Reese opted to remove himself from the bathroom entirely and hung out in the doorway to give Owen room. “Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.”

  “Oh, great. So… how about I cook you dinner and then maybe—”

  “Maybe we can check out your shower?”

  Reese laughed. He was actually thinking that but decided it sounded crass. Apparently he was wrong. “Yes, then I can show you around my shower.”

  “Show me around? How big is this thing?”

  Sometimes it really was good being successful. “Big.”

  “God.” Owen stuck a toothbrush in his mouth.

  Ten minutes later they were both dressed and out the door. Reese bought Owen a coffee at the bodega on the corner, stuck one of his business cards in Owen’s pocket, and then they kissed and parted ways.

  Chapter VIII

  HARRIS SAT alone at the bar. It was a dive, he knew, but it was off the beaten path and nowhere near the precinct. This is where he came when he wanted to be alone, when he didn’t want to talk. When he didn’t want prying eyes to see him get quietly and completely hammered.

  “Cab tonight, Greg?”

  Harris nodded to the bartender. “Thanks, Jack.”

  “You got it. Just give me a wave and I’ll give them a call.” Jack had been looking after him on nights like this for fifteen years. In all that time, Greg had never once had an issue getting home, no matter what state he’d gotten himself into. He didn’t need to do this often, but when he did, he had no limit.

  Reese took a moment to crack his knuckles, wiggle his fingers, and clarify his train of thought. He snorted and let himself be distracted by the image of Jack throwing Harris over the bar and having his way with him. Maybe his next novel should be smutty. He certainly seemed inspired. He regretted having to take Greg and Benjamin’s tryst out of the manuscript, but he’d kept the scene in a file on his desktop for consideration at a later date. Benjamin didn’t interest him as much as he used to anyway now that he had Owen to fantasize about.

  The media had dubbed his subject the Kodak Killer, which was unfortunate as there was nothing a psychopathic narcissist liked better than media coverage. But despite the promise of airtime, the subject had gone silent since the night he and Detective Turner had found Penny Hart murdered in his driveway. To say that was disconcerting would be a titanic understatement. Harris was dreading whatever the subject was working up to next—partly because he was sure it would be bloody, and partly because he was honestly worried it might involve him. The subject was trying to keep Harris feeling uneasy, throw him off his game, and it was working. There might not be enough whiskey in the bar for him tonight.

  When his cell phone rang, he pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the display reluctantly. It was a number he didn’t recognize. His heart started pounding as he answered it, already guessing what he was in for.

  “Good evening, Detective.” A deep voice came over the line. Harris was pretty sure it was being altered.

  Reese’s cell phone started ringing. He ignored it.

  “Who is this?” As if he didn’t know.

  “Oh, I’m hurt.”

  It was still ringing. “Not now,” Reese hissed. Bad timing. He’d really prefer to turn off his phone when he was writing, but just think of all the promotional events he’d miss if—“Oh, shit.” He dove for the phone and answered it. “What am I late for?”

  “Reese?”

  Reese blinked, confused—too many headspaces in too little time. “Yes?” It wasn’t Chad.

  “Hey, it’s William.”

  “Oh. Hello, William, how are you?” He tried not to sound distracted. It didn’t work.

  “Did I interrupt? I’m sorry.”

  “No, no, that’s okay. I was writing, yes, but honestly that could be happening any time of day. There’s no way to know with me.” Reese took the opportunity to get up and refill his coffee.

  “Well, that’s true enough. How’s the book coming?”

  “Oh, it’s gruesome.”

  “So, going well, then?”

  Reese laughed. “Yes, going well.” William was an old friend, and also a quiet but enthusiastic fan. Their friendship had come first; they were from the same hometown and later were roommates back when Reese was ghostwriting blog posts and writing articles for webzines to pay his rent while working on his first novel.

  “Well, good. Listen, Sam and I were thinking we might have a few people over tonight, kind of an impromptu thing. The usual group, depending on who is available.” One of the strange and wonderful things about being surrounded by artists of various kinds was that no one kept a nine-to-five sort of lifestyle. A Tuesday night was as good as a Saturday for a party.

  “Well, I kind of have a… thing. Plans.”

  “A thing? And what is this thing’s name, my friend?” William practically sang into the phone.

  There was really no point in hedging. “His name is Owen.”

  “Bring him.”

  “Well we were going to—”

  “Bring. Him. We’ll see you at seven. Come as you are.” The line went dead.

  Reese stared at his phone. There were several things wrong with what William had just done. First, his friend had forced Reese to look at the evening as a date and not a booty call. Deep down Reese knew it was probably better defined as a date—he had planned to cook Owen dinner after all—but it was easier on him right now to look at it as a no-strings thing. Second, William had said, “Come as you are,” which was typically misleading and “as you are” really meant “look hot.” That meant Reese would have to call Owen and warn him. Third, and perhaps the very worst of all, he was going to have to introduce Owen to his circle of friends, and that was going to be awkward for them both, as they’d spent most of their time fucking and not a lot of time getting to know each other.

  Reese sighed. Maybe he should call back and say he had food poisoning. Montezuma’s revenge. The plague. Something.

  Right. And how obvious would that be?

  No, he was well and truly trapped. He scrolled through his contacts and called Owen.

  THERE WAS a buzz at the door.

  Harris’s knees had simply given out this time. No, there was no getting used to any of this. Not this horror, this kind of depravity. He stayed on his knees where he’d fallen, his eyes locked on the three lifeless bodies before him.

  See no evil.

  Hear no evil.

  Speak no evil.

  But apparently it wasn’t anathema to do evil.

  The door buzzed again. Yes, it was the door, he was sure. Shit. He ignored it. They’d go away.

  Turner was suddenly at his back. “Maybe it’s time, Greg. Turn this one over to someone else. Get out of town for a while.”

  Harris cleared his throat and wiped his eyes angrily as he stood
up.

  “No way.”

  “Greg. Look what it’s doing to you.”

  Harris understood that Detective Turner was sincere, but the guy just didn’t get it. “Fuck that!” Harris shouted. “Let the bastard come for me. Let him come! I’m going to make him—”

  Fuck! That fucking buzzer! They were not going away. Reese stood and shoved his chair back angrily, caught up in the emotion of the scene he was writing. He didn’t even try to shake it as he answered the door.

  “What is it?” he snapped.

  Owen recoiled, his eyes wide. “What the fuck?”

  He blinked. Owen. Owen was at his door. He searched his mind and finally recalled something about dinner and…. “Oh shit. Shit. I’m so sorry, Owen.” He rubbed at his forehead and squinted. “I just… what time is it?” He was coming back slowly. Dinner at William’s. Seven o’clock. Fuck.

  “It’s six thirty. You said to come by and we’d… go together?” Owen didn’t look at all sure about coming in. Oh, but he looked so good in his chambray oxford and slim-fit khakis. He had the most amazing hair too—long, black, and curly, and it was looking perfect. Owen’s aftershave had a woodsy, musky scent, something Reese didn’t recognize, but that made Reese want to get his hands all over him.

  That reality grounded Reese a bit. He stepped back, inviting Owen in. Judging by the look on Owen’s face, however, it was quite possible he wouldn’t get the man past his front door.

  “Sorry, I’m… I’m sorry. It’s just….” Reese ran his fingers through his hair anxiously. “Look, please come in and let me explain it you.”

  Owen hesitated another moment but then brushed gently past Reese and into his apartment.

  “You’re not dressed.”

  “Oh.” He looked down at his sweatpants, the only article of clothing he had put on that day. “Yeah, I just need to jump in the shower and….” He knew he sounded distracted. He was.

  “Are you all right, Reese?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Just let me take a quick shower and then I’ll explain everything, I promise.”