Nights in Sandbridge by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Author:Elizabeth L. Brooks [Townsend, Elizabeth L. Brooks and Lynn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JMS Books LLC
Published: 2018-05-19T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

Scooter was an idiot. He stood in the shower, panting, and ran down the whole extensive list of every sort of idiot he was. It didn’t really help.

It had seemed like a good idea last night on the beach. Andy still seemed so unsure of everything, it had been important that they should take some time, ease into this change in their relationship. Fucking on the couch was all well and good (not that he’d ever brought a lover back to his place) but he wanted to make sure Andy was…a hundred percent certain. And Scooter, too. He was breaking rules he’d put in place for a damn good reason, and he wanted it to be a damn good reason. And no matter how much he wanted it, a quick fuck wasn’t a good reason.

And God, he wanted it. He’d have been happy to take what he was being offered, no questions asked, if he hadn’t been keeping those rules. If Andy’s wellbeing wasn’t more important than Scooter’s dick.

That had all seemed rational and reasonable. They’d stopped at Andy’s door and he’d kissed Andy goodnight. For…a while. Trick hadn’t been too thrilled with that idea—or maybe he’d been a little too thrilled—and had gotten up on his hind legs to lick at both of them, which meant Scooter had gotten a mouthful of dog tongue. Not sexy.

And then Andy had gone inside and Scooter had gone back to his own apartment and jerked off. There was no way he was going to sleep without some relief. Then he’d woken up at three in the damn morning and done it again. And just before dawn, he’d been tormented with images of Andy in his head and empty arms. Christ. He hadn’t wanked off this much since he was a teenager.

Scooter dried himself, toweling his hair vigorously. He needed to get out for a while and get his head on straight, or despite his best intentions he was going to take Andy coffee this morning, instead of coffee.

He poured Andy’s coffee into a travel mug, wrote out a sticky note—Headed up to the ‘burg. Back at lunch—and left them on the rail. He was in his truck with the music cranked before the sun was fully up. He parked at Colonial Williamsburg and was walking down Duke of Gloucester Street by seven, watching the costumed interpreters headed off to their jobs. There was a faint, familiar ache there; his mother hadn’t been a professional historical interpreter, but she’d been a hobbyist reenactor since before he was born. She’d have been pointing out the quality of the cloth, admiring the cut of a particular stomacher or trying to work out the intricacies of a certain hairstyle.

He sweet-talked one of the street vendors into a few squares of fresh, hot gingerbread right out of the oven. He packed half of it away to share and ate the rest.

A gaggle of kids, all staring at their phones, nearly ran him over in their attempts to chase down a rare Pokémon.

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