Usually, they would swim after dinner. It was like taking a stroll; it let them stretch their muscles at the end of the day, and the water…it just felt good on the skin.
But so did sitting here, with Jay’s warm weight against him. Pete put his arms around him and gave a squeeze. Jay made a hmm sound and pressed close, before wriggling away. Snagging Pete’s ereader from the coffee table, he handed it to him, and then stretched out, laying his head on Pete’s thigh.
“What’s Kilty McMuscles up to lately?”
Pete thumbed the screen to life. “Kellan McMurtry,” he said automatically.
“Lairrrrrrd of the Heatherrrrrr!” Jay intoned, rolling the Rs ridiculously.
“Shut up.”
“Read me a wee bit, laddie.”
“No way.”
“Come on—”
“No. I get enough shit at work.”
Jay settled, and Pete found where he’d left off the night before. He’d read this one already, had reread all of them—more times than he’d even admit to Jay. Some of the stories were far-fetched, but he wasn’t into them for realism. On days when the world felt wonky, something about the historical setting and strong, honorable characters let him escape for a while. The hot sex didn’t hurt either, but it was the endings he liked most. Always a happy one for the heroes, with a hint of forever. Some days he needed the endings more than anything else.
Just when he’d gotten back into the flow of the story, when Jay said, “You’d look good in a kilt. Maybe I’ll make you one.”
Pete stopped reading and looked down at him.
“I’m serious. You’ve got the coloring. It’d be cool.”
Pete turned to the cover of his book. The dude on the cover had long hair that blew in the wind and biceps on his biceps. Pete was fit, but he was no romance cover model.
Jay caught him studying the picture. “Don’t compare yourself to that guy. He’s not real.”
“He’s somebody. It’s not a painting.”
“He’s an ideal, though.”
Pete poked him in the ribs. “You saying I’m not?”
Jay caught his fingers in his hand. “No. Just…that’s to sell books.”
“It worked,” he said, waving the ereader.
Jay frowned but only for a second. “Don’t compare. Because you don’t compare.”
Warmth stole through Pete’s middle. “Really,” he said as casually as he could.
“Really,” Jay said. “Obviously.” Rolling onto his side to face the room, he wrapped a hand over Pete’s knee. “Incomparable.” He sighed contentedly and settled in. “You’re my bestest.”
Pete looked at Jay’s hair, dark against his jeans. Slipping his fingers into it, he let it shush through them and tickle his skin. Jay hummed like a purring cat, pressing into his thigh. Sliding his hand down, Pete trailed his fingers behind Jay’s ear and along the side of his neck until they tingled. Then he slowly closed them around Jay’s throat.
Jay snorted and played at struggling, eventually pulling Pete’s hand down and holding it with both of his. Their pulses spoke to each other for a few seconds before merging into a single heartbeat.
Pete lifted his book with his free hand and found the page where he’d left off.
He and Jay had each other like this, which was almost as good as whatever he sometimes imagined. He should be grateful; most people had nothing like it. At least he could touch Jay here, in some small way.
He just had to remember not to do so when the camera started rolling the next day.
