Page 86 of The Leaving Kind

“Not sure what it is, and speak for yourself, old man.”

“You’re not even three years younger. Two and a half.”

Grinning, now, Cam reduced the space between them or tried to. His unlaced boot chose that moment to flop off his foot and he stumbled. Victor caught his arm, and they swayed together, torsos brushing, and then their hands and mouths were fused, Cam’s all-day stubble scraping over Victor’s jaw, their noses butting together, hands already plucking at shirts, hips grinding.

“You always taste so good,” Cam said into his mouth.

“You always feel so good.” Hard and soft, but mostly hard. Especially now. Victor palmed the erection pushing at Cam’s zipper. “Want you.”

Cam kissed the words away, his hands at Victor’s shoulders now and turning him, backing him up to the truck. He started working the button of Victor’s jeans, then slid down Victor’s body with them, dropping to his knees as he pushed the denim down, lips seeking the exposed skin of Victor’s hips.

Before Cam could take him into his mouth, Victor pushed at his shoulders. Gently. “Is this what you want?” It was a stupid question to ask with his cock caressing Cam’s cheek. Victor knew what he wanted. But Cam had started the conversation in a different place. One they were about to forget.

Cam smiled up at him, apparently comfortable on his knees in the gravel, outdoors, under a late-afternoon sky. Thank Christ the driveway curved up a hill.

He kissed Victor’s bobbing dick. Licked the side. Then drew away, leaving Victor to hiss and whine.

“This is what I want right now,” Cam said, his breath warm against Victor’s thighs. “Then I’m taking you out to eat. I’ve got a change of clothes in the back of the truck.”

Victor’s knees almost gave way. Cam had had a plan. He’d packed clothes.

This man.

Caressing Cam’s cheek, Victor smiled and curled his fingers under that stubbly chin and nudged his mouth a little to the left. “Then we’d better get started.”

Cam stopped in the middle of the kitchen with a tray of sweet potato wedges held out in front of him. “Shit.”

He’d been on autopilot most of the afternoon. Cleaning and tidying the house, sweeping the patio, and plucking stray weeds from the beds. He’d been about to chop wood for the firepit when Jorge had pointed out that he had enough wood stacked behind the garage to see him through forty years of winter.

When Cam had (not) wailed that he needed to mow the lawn, Jorge had pushed him inside with one word: “Chill.”

Now Jorge was mowing and Cam was putting together what food he could before his guests arrived. And he’d just realized that he and Victor had forgotten to define their relationship. How was he supposed to introduce him to everyone else?

As Victor Ness, dummy.

Huh.

Cam slid the tray into the oven. A grin edged across his mouth as he set the timer. Nick would be proud. He’d scheduled the oven to switch on at five, meaning the potatoes should be ready by six. Or so. Now he had to remember to slide the mac and cheese casserole back in there at some point. Or should he microwave that?

Cam leaned out of the back door and waved Jorge down. The mower stopped. “How should I reheat the mac and cheese?” It was Jorge’s baby, after all. He’d made it last night.

“Twenty minutes at three-seventy-five.”

He’d set the oven for four-twenty-five for his potatoes. So, what, ten minutes?

Ten minutes.

The front doorbell rang, and Cam waved Jorge back to work before going to answer it. Emma stood there, looking so damn adult, Cam could cry. He pulled her into his arms. “What is it with this family and ringing the goddamned doorbell? This is your house.”

“Yeah, but you live here,” Emma said into his neck.

He released her from his embrace but continued to hold her upper arms. “Let me look at you.” He eyed her up and down. “You had your hair cut.” Now it was shoulder-length and framing her face instead of tied into a long braid. “And you might be taller.”

She kicked out one foot. “Heels.”

As always, she was dressed as though she had somewhere to go, in slacks and a blouse. He didn’t think he’d ever seen his niece in jeans. The blue and green flowers on her blouse were pretty, though, and suited her. She still looked like Emma.

“Come on in,” he said.