Open Cover Before Striking, page 5
Davis flattened himself against the tiled back wall of the tub. His lips parted. Would you look at that? Stunned speechless. Cristián took a moment to enjoy the sight. He had a definite feeling it wasn't often spotted in nature.
He must have been smiling without realizing it. The shower water had plastered Davis's hair to his skull, and he looked even more pitiful than before. Down but not out. And his lips might---very soon, actually---say hell no, but his body had other ideas. Visible ideas. Cristián glanced down. As nice as he remembered. He never forgot a friendly face, and it'd been harder to forget a cock shaped to fit his hand.
Davis scowled. "Something funny?"
"Not at all. I'm still trying to figure you out." Interesting. That made him press his lips together in a thin line. Those lips shouldn't be made to suffer the indignity. Cristián pushed his thumb against them until they bloomed open in the kissable moue nature gifted him with.
Cristián tried an easy smile that invited Davis to share the humor. He traced designs down the line of the man's neck, pleased to see Davis couldn't help but follow the movement, from line to finger, from finger to hand, from hand to wrist, and wrist to man. His soft noise of pleasure echoed against the tile. "See something you like?"
Spiky and stubborn as ever, Davis didn't yield an inch or lay down his sword or shield. "We've done this dance before."
"I remember," Cristián said, two words laden with a multiplicity of meanings. Reassurance, encouragement, daring. None of which Davis could call him on. He hummed and drew the tip of his tongue over his lips.
Kill 'em with kindness, and enjoy the dance while it lasts.
Davis fidgeted, as if he itched beneath his skin. "What are you staring at?" On second thought, let's try kindness---and honesty. He'd bet it was a rare day when someone hit Davis with that particular one-two punch. Cristián tickled the underside of Davis's jaw, tipping his head up to coax him into eye contact. "You look as if you've lost something and don't know where to start searching."
Davis mumbled something Cristián didn't quite catch save for a word or two about "hocus-pocus." Ah. So that'd be the angle he'd take in his article. Well. Not something Cristián hadn't faced before and wouldn't again, and so far, he was still here.
"Quiet." He tapped the side of Davis's head. "Here. Put your hands on the pipe where it comes from the wall." In case Davis decided to be stubborn---which was, to be fair, a foregone conclusion---Cristián helped him on his way, taking Davis's delicate wrists in hand and stretching the man's arms above his head. Cristián nudged Davis until Davis gripped the pipe. Good, Cristián thought. He'd judged the height right. Davis couldn't have stretched an inch farther, but this much Davis could manage.
"This was not supposed to happen again," Davis grumbled. "Metal and hot water. They don't mix."
Cristián pressed his mouth to Davis's chest and flicked his tongue against the skin.
Davis hissed in reaction, leg muscles contracting. "What are you doing?" "Hold on. You owe me one."
"Do I really, now?"
"House rules. My house, my rules. And if this wasn't supposed to happen again, why do you think the game of life brought you here, hmm?" Davis growled. However, he didn't let go of the pipe. Therefore, Cristián pretended he didn't hear the grouching. Quid pro quo, wasn't it?
Not that being ignored stopped the fiery little man. "Your house rules do not follow the rules of logic. I'm pinned like a moth to a corkboard. Shower, wet skin, wet naked skin, the idea's usually to---"
Cristián looked up, catching droplets of water on his tongue. "I don't feel like the usual."
Davis rolled his eyes toward the heavens. "No, really?" He huffed. "I've met you twice, and I already know: when do you ever?" Cristián laughed. "It's almost like we're getting to know each other." Davis scowled at him. "There it is again. That weird laughter during sex." "I'm trying to get you to join in. You have a good laugh." Cristián shrugged. He kept on the move, licking a path down Davis's chest, light and teasing. Davis's cock bobbed out, hungry, straining toward him. Cristián ignored it. For the moment. "I can't help it if you make me want more."
"Right. And manhandling me while I dangle is the way to tickle my funny bone." "It's working so far. Or are you saying you want to touch me?" Davis started to let go of the pipe. Frustration built over his head, as thick as the steam from the heat of the water against cool tile. "I'm saying I'm horny and I'm not used to---"
"Ah-ah-ah." Cristián stood straight and squeezed Davis's hands back in place. "Keep them there." He smoothed his palms down Davis's chest. Such a pretty chest. He even had nice nipples, pale tan honey, drawn into knots. Was Davis sensitive there? Cristián tested his theory with a nip that nearly got him kneed in a spot he would consider oversensitive on himself.
"Get back to those later," Davis said. It might have been something close to an apology. Maybe. "So you're allowed to touch and I'm not? That's how it works?"
"Now you're getting it." Satisfied Davis would stay put, Cristián slowly eased himself to his knees. The tub was big enough for that even with the length of his legs; lanky but strong, the muscles moved smoothly beneath his skin and controlled his descent. The hands on Davis's hips were for fun. And show.
The metaphorical lightbulb came on over Davis's head. Cristián couldn't tell if he was impressed, alarmed, turned on, or a mix of all of the above. His knuckles went white around the pipe. "If this breaks," he said, largely breathless, "I'm not paying for it."
"Collateral damage is worth it sometimes. Besides, you're not that strong. I installed the pipe myself. Now shh."
"If you don't stop shushing me, I swear to--- Oh God..."
Touchdown.
Cristián nuzzled deep into the crease and points of Davis's hip bones and the slight concave dip of his stomach above his cock; he breathed a warm/cool stream of air over Davis's balls and ghosted his lips there.
Davis tried to kick at him. "Stop teasing."
"Ah-ah-ah." Cristián poked him in the side. He might just be ticklish. Good to know. "What're the magic words?"
"Stop teasing, or I won't miss next time."
"Nice try, but no cigar."
Davis growled. Less kitten, more full-grown lion. Cristián couldn't say it didn't have an effect on him. He ached, needing the friction of touch. But Davis wasn't the only one who could be stubborn. And as a visual aid and an incentive, Cristián could think of worse than the sight Davis had to look down at. Though not sure about Davis, Cristián and his body were both keenly aware he hadn't been with anyone since that night. He was in as much need as Davis.
Davis hissed between his teeth. "Suck me." Cristián watched, amused, the fight to say the next word. Davis spit it out like a nail from a gun. "Please."
"Was that so hard?"
"Yes. It is. And if you'd---"
Cristián chuckled around his mouthful of cock. He'd rather have moaned. Davis tasted of his shampoo, his soap. Him.
He remembered what Davis liked. Warm breath, with a hint of tongue cradling him. A faint scrape of teeth. The touch of fingertips light and teasing on his balls. Holding him hard and steady with the weight of his body.
He had to stop for the sake of not doing Davis physical harm. Or himself. One of Davis's knees landed a glancing blow to his forehead. Not enough to stun or stop, but he'd feel the mark. Cristián shook his head, laughing quietly to himself. A blowjob tailored to Davis's specific whims and preferences, and still the man bitched. At top volume.
"---you have seriously overestimated your handyman skills. I can hear the pipe creaking, and the water has changed direction." He buckled. Cristián caught him. "Fuck. Come on, fuck, fuck. Do it right or don't do it at all."
"Do it right? Like this?" Cristián nosed back down and took Davis into his mouth, as much of him as Cristián could fit. God, oh yes. That did the trick. Davis looked good enough to eat strung out and strung up, breathing loudly, pipe creaking, legs shaking, Cristián holding him up. A man so close couldn't keep up with all the stimuli.
A little more? Yes, I think. Just a touch. Cristián pinned Davis's hips to the wall and wound his arm through Davis's legs to keep the man balanced. He kept up the suction on Davis's cock, nursing him, tip of his tongue stiffened into a point that drew up and up and up and---Davis came hard, shoulder blades slamming back. Did he break the dispenser? Never mind; it didn't matter. Cristián, begging to differ on Davis's opinion of his handyman skills, would fix it later. Or Reilly would slip on a puddle of spilled soap, and Davis would get an earful of what true ranting really meant.
"You are insane," Davis said at last, gasping. He fumbled, reaching for Cristián, attempting to pull him to his feet. No doubt he could see how hard Cristián had grown---and Cristián would vouch for it rating an eleven on a scale of one to ten. And don't get him wrong; Cristián thought it great progress for Davis to offer, however incoherently, but...
Cristián sighed. This would be the least fun part of the evening's entertainment, but. When it came to keeping Davis off balance and open to possibility, he'd make the sacrifice.
He pushed Davis's hand away from him. "Not now, honey. You gave me a headache."
OH NO HE didn't. Davis gawked at Cristián. "Say again?" "I'll see you downstairs." Cristián slapped his hip lightly and got to his feet. He nudged Davis aside for a share of the hot water to sluice down with, as if he hadn't a care in the world or a stiff erection in desperate need of attention.
Davis let go of the pipe. He winced, his hands aching. "What are you playing at now?"
Cristián winked at him.
Bastard.
Davis hung back as Cristián washed himself with the efficiency of a man who knew he didn't have much hot water left, kissed Davis on the forehead---again, what the fuck?---and tweaked his nose before stepping out of the shower as nimbly as he'd stepped in.
Davis's mental red pen parsed that last stream of consciousness and scrawled a giant red F across the page. Points for feeling. None for grammar.
"Careful you don't slip on the soap you dropped," Cristián said. Apparently he did plan to stroll back into the real world hard and wanting. Does not compute. "But take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere."
"Yeah, I just bet you're not." Davis shook his head in baffled confusion and watched Cristián do exactly as predicted, leading cock-first. "I'm still not here as your friend. Remember that."
Cristián laughed, rumbling-soft, somehow still audible beneath water hitting tile. "That seemed pretty friendly to me, but all right. You're the enemy. Ave Imperator. I'll be downstairs when you're ready."
"And stop thinking I'm funny or cute or adorable! I'm a bitter, sadistic son of a bitch and proud of it!" Davis yelled after him.
Cristián's rich laughter, drifting down the hall, was his only answer.
Clearly a reconsideration of the circumstances was not only necessary but essential. Something about Cristián undid Davis's best intentions. A state of affairs that could not continue. Absolutely not.
Nope.
Davis thumped his head quietly against the shower wall.
* * * *
Cristián's towels were fluffy, freshly laundered, and smelled of passion fruit dryer sheets. They would, wouldn't they? Davis scrubbed one over his head, wishing---not for the first time---he'd put in the extra man power to bring his suitcase inside even if he did have a reservation at the local inn. Cristián's old sweatpants needed the cuffs rolled three times and the waist twice for them to have a prayer of staying on.
He noticed on his way downstairs that the towels sported marching ducks. Fluffy yellow ducks in a tiny border. That crossed a line.
Davis rolled the not-so-innocent terry cloth into a ball and whipped it at Cristián as he entered the kitchen. Cristián dodged and kept rolling, chattering a mile a minute on an ancient landline with an honest-to-God rotary dial and kinked cord several feet long.
Davis wondered how much shit Cristián would dish him if he asked for aspirin. Probably none at all. Out loud. But there'd be knowing grins, an excuse to ruffle the back of his hair not quite firmly enough, and no, no, thank you.
Not that he had to wonder long. Still rambling, Cristián reached above the sink to fish down a mug, poured a cup of coffee, and deposited it in front of a chair near Davis without breaking stride. He'd unpacked Davis's tablet computer for him and set it up.
Davis pinched the bridge of his nose but didn't say no to the chair or the coffee. He was thirsty, all right? Sue him. He sniffed the mug and took a small sip.
His tongue curled up in horror. Whatever this was, it was not coffee. Yet a glance at the open bag and still-bubbling coffeepot said different. He'd worked in the media for a while now, and he'd been through college. He was familiar with all the levels of hell one could encounter in a bad cup of coffee.
Cristián might just have outdone the lot of them.
Davis took small but mostly satisfying payback by listening in. Not that awful of him. He seemed to be the subject of the conversation, after all."...I know it's not technically ours, Reilly, but come on. Anyone who turns in the front drive's going to take a header. I thought you were going to fix the thing. A year ago. It's ancient, and it's only getting worse," Cristián said.
Davis snorted. Cristián was a fine one to talk. That phone had to be older than Davis himself. "Yes, it did. I've got a visitor here who can vouch for me. A sheet of plywood?" Cristián wrinkled his nose at the caller's suggestion. "Reilly. Let's work on getting his car unstuck first. Then we'll talk temporary fixes."
Davis could just barely make out griping protests on the other end. Reilly, Cristián's brother? He sounded like the sort of charmer the evidence to date indicated likely.
"You might want to leave work early," Cristián said. "All we've had yet is ordinary rain, but I can smell a real snow squall coming. There's a good seven or eight inches on its way." He sighed in response to a slower-paced, gibing retort. "Seven or eight inches of snow, smart-ass. I'd rather you stayed safe. Indulge me." Pause. Cristián rolled his eyes at Davis, inviting him to share the joke. "Yes, I know, I'm a mother hen. Up yours too, Reilly. Bring food, would you? Something stick-to-your-ribs."
Cristián thunked the phone cheerfully home in its receiver cradle. "Go on, have a seat. I won't bite you, and neither will my chairs. We can get started anytime you want."
"Started?"
"On your interview," Cristián said, eyebrow rising toward his hairline. "Unless you've changed your mind?" The hell he said. "Show me where my laptop case is, and I'm game if you are." Cristián cast another curious, lingering gaze over Davis. Something about the look made Davis shiver despite the pinkness of skin still warmed through from his shower, and made him glad of the concealing length of T-shirt he wore.
"Sure," Cristián said, all his focus on Davis. "I think we're both ready to get started."
Chapter Four
"So what brings you here to prove I'm a fraud?" Cristián made himself as comfortable as if they were discussing the shitty weather. "Why you? Did I match up a friend or a coworker of yours with someone who didn't work out?"
Davis's pride prickled. "I chose this." He might have known Cristián would nail a lie to the wall. "They sent you on a fluff assignment."
"No, they didn't."
"Uh-huh." Cristián propped his chin on his hand, looking more amused than usual. "Who did you piss off?"
"Who's interviewing who, here?" Davis demanded.
Cristián raised one eyebrow. "Okay, then. Let's say you have a thing against matchmakers, which brings me back to my original question."
"How do you do it?"
"Interviews first. Then research. I do depend on intuition, but I back it up with facts. Here." He pushed a Rolodex at Davis. "These are mock-ups, because I don't let anyone look at confidential notes, but I have my own set, and I make good use of them."
"Index cards," Davis said. "Research."
Cristián conveyed the equivalent of tugging Davis's ear. "And an app I designed." "An app you designed?"
"I'm more than just a pretty face. You know, I can see what you're dying to ask, and no, it's not a Magic Eight Ball." Cristián settled himself more comfortably, sweater riding up at his waist to display a strip of summer-browned warm skin and a ridge of muscle.
Davis swallowed coffee. Perhaps a little too quickly.
"I also have a fillable database that generates, for lack of a better term, points of capability." He waggled his hand from side to side. "Though it's more tailored to my needs than that."
"Uh-huh." They were zeroing in now. Davis clicked on his tablet and took notes. "That's not what I heard."
The corner of Cristián's lips quirked. "No? What did you hear?"
He already knew. Of course he did. Davis would bet his last cent on it. "People say you're uncanny. That you have a knack for this. Almost a gift, capital G, something beyond mortal ken. Which is absolute bullshit."
"Don't hold back," Cristián murmured. "Tell me what you really think." Davis jabbed a finger at him. "I think if you poke fun at me one more time, this is ending up somewhere tender."
He resisted the urge to cover his face when Cristián produced an impressively...tempting...gleam in his eye. "Is that a promise?" Davis gave in and laid his head on the table. Just for a moment. "Answer the question. Wait, I know, I know. I didn't ask one." He sat up. "People say you have a gift. I say you're taking advantage with claims of psychic woo-woo crap." He would, of course, polish the Q & A for Tatterdemalion, but so help him, Cristián brought out his rougher side and lavished it with sandpaper. "So which is it?"
"I did ask," Cristián said. He sighed. "I doubt you'd be surprised how many people ask me that. There's no way to answer the question in a way you're going to like."
"Probably not, but try me." "Okay." Cristián spread his hands wide in a gesture of unadorned honesty. "I know when two people are right for each other. I don't have a clue how I know. I just do. I feel it in here," he said, tapping his chest and then his head, "and in here. And I don't make mistakes."
