Page 64 of The Leaving Kind

“We really shouldn’t,” Cam replied.

“I’m so not ...”

“Not what?”

Thunder shook the house. The lights flickered. Dexter howled.

Cam’s hand found the side of Victor’s face, then his lips were close again. His breath washing across Victor’s skin.

Don’t lift your chin.

He shouldn’t, but he did.

Victor tasted of summer, like kisses stolen out of time. Creek water and sunshine, sudden storms, wind and rain. He trembled against Cam, as though holding his body back just enough to resist the crush, the collide that would end this delicate moment. Rocket them from kissing to touching to grinding to release.

Experience taught it wouldn’t be long. They couldn’t stop the oncoming crash. They could control it, though. Cam didn’t want to do this standing up in a laundry. He was too old to frot in front of a washing machine.

He ended the kiss, caught another whiff of cologne and sunshine, and traced his lips along Victor’s jaw. He’d shaved that afternoon.

For me.

Lips pressed to Victor’s ear, he murmured, “Bedroom.”

Victor jerked backward. Reflexively, Cam tightened his grip on Victor’s shoulders. Then made his fingers let go, one by one. If Vic didn’t want this—

“Are you sure?” Victor asked.

His eyes were searching, his lips reddened and slightly parted. The muscles beneath Cam’s fingertips still quaking softly. When was the last time he’d been with someone this responsive? This sensitive? If they didn’t put some space between them—fast—Cam was going to come in his jeans. Already, he was so hard, he ached.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Victor started to edge out of the laundry. Before their bodies lost contact, he ducked back in. “We need towels. The floors ... Slippery when wet.” He grinned.

Cam laughed.

Victor bent to yank open the dryer door, and Cam eyeballed the curve of his ass. Would they fuck or would Victor make him wait? He had a sense Victor might like to tease. There he was, bent over the dryer. Knowing Cam had to be checking out his ass.

Cam tucked two fingers inside the denim at Victor’s hip.

Victor gasped and Cam closed in on him, pressing his restrained cock to that reciprocal curve.

“Oh.” Victor shuddered and straightened. He pushed a warm towel into Cam’s hands. “Leave your boots and jeans here.”

And so began the comedy routine of two viciously aroused men attempting to peel wet denim down their thighs in the confined space of Victor’s laundry.

“If I bang my elbow on the washer one more time, I’m going to break something,” Victor growled.

“I’m wondering why that damn shelf sticks out so far.” Cam rubbed his temple. “You have, what, five acres here? And a corridor for a laundry.”

“We could be in the garage. That’s where I had the machines when we first moved up here. Before we built this extension.”

Finally succeeding in tugging his jeans all the way off, Cam let them drop into a wet puddle and reached for Victor. He pulled him into another kiss, reveling in the feel of their thighs finally brushing together, the tickle of hair and the firmness of the musculature beneath. Two straining cocks. Cam smoothed a hand over Victor’s hip and down his leg. When he wrapped his fingers around the back of Victor’s thigh, Vic lifted that leg to curl it around Cam’s calf, then knee.

Oh, yes. This was going to be amazing.

Then the lights went out. Bizarrely, the thunder shook the house after the loss of power, as though mocking them.

“Oh, the fun of living in the Poconos,” Victor said.