Flowershop Boys: Melancholy Marigolds: A Contemporary M/M Romance Page 7

  When he’s grown used to having Devin inside him, Michael sits up cautiously, to rock his hips a little. Braces his hands on the bed frame to get more leverage, until he decides it’s not enough skin, not enough contact, and sets them on Devin’s chest instead, his shoulders. Claws his hands into Devin’s body as he rides him, slowly at first, then harder, until he’s bucking against Devin’s hips like a bronco at a rodeo.

  “Whoa there,” says Devin, laughing, his hands coming up to cover Michael’s, as if to gentle an untamed horse. “Whoa.”

  Michael tears his hands free of Devin’s, twining their fingers together instead, their clasped hands leverage for Michael as he bounces in Devin’s lap. His fingers tighten almost cruelly on Devin’s, the grip vice-like, but Devin lets him have this, lets Michael have control where and when he needs it the most. “Yes,” Michael manages, between soft gasps. “Yes, good.”

  “Then ride me,” Devin encourages. “Ride me.” He loosens a hand and wraps it around Michael’s prick, angry and red and slick, encouraging the buck of Michael’s hips against his. Cuts a breathy cry from Michael short by slipping fingers into his mouth, pushing them past his tongue and deep into his throat, in time with his thrusts, a mirror of what his cock is doing below.

  And when Michael starts trembling, gasping, “Devin—so close—almost there—”, Devin knocks Michael’s arms out from under him, pulling him down for a kiss, hot and wet and hungry. Winds hands into Michael’s hair to deepen it, until his tongue feels like it’s halfway down Michael’s throat, before slinging hands low on Michael’s waist, fingers pressing into his hips, hard. Flattens his palm over where his cock presses into Michael, pushes Michael down, forcing him down further onto his cock as he shoves upward, and buries himself to the hilt, hitting deeper and harder than ever with each thrust, until Michael has to curl arms under Devin’s shoulders, tight, and sink teeth into Devin’s neck to muffle his howls.

  It takes only one more hard, unforgiving dig at his prostate before Michael cries out, nearly sobbing as he comes, because it’s never been so good, and he spills over Devin’s stomach, collapsing into a limp pile while Devin thrusts into him once more, twice, and spills inside him, warm and liquid and wet.

  Michael clenches tight around him, wanting Devin in him. Wanting all of him. Coaxes each drop of him’s essence from him with a greedy, gliding slide that has Devin gritting teeth and digging fingers into Michael’s hips, hard.

  When their breaths have evened out, Devin strokes a hand slowly through Michael’s hair. Traces the curve of Michael’s shoulder to the crook of his elbow, before skittering to the line of his hip, with fingertips feather-light and fond.

  “I don’t know about you, but I could use a bath,” Devin says. He presses tiny, nibbling kisses to Michael’s nose. The corners of his mouth. Tugs just the slightest bit with teeth, when he gets to the fullest part of Michael’s lower lip. As if he’d start there, if Michael was a dessert and Devin could eat him up.

  Michael concedes the point about the bath; they’re both sticky and soaked with sweat, and there’s also the potential for bath sex, which he decides comes third only after birthday sex and makeup sex. “Okay,” he mumbles into Devin’s neck. “Bath.”

  With a weary grunt, Devin nudges at him to get up but Michael only burrows deeper into his arms like a spoiled cat. “Carry me,” says Michael. In the same imperious way he used to toddle toward Devin and demand Up! with his stubby arms outstretched for a piggyback ride.

  Devin laughs, and after some careful maneuvering, carries him to the bathroom, his forearms hitched under Michael’s knees. Michael loops arms around Devin’s neck, clinging to him like a limpet as they share lazy, open-mouthed kisses, Devin’s cock buried deep inside him all the while. He chuckles when Devin hitches him higher, trying to reach around him to turn the tub faucet.

  “I can’t draw up the bath like this,” Devin says after a moment. He kisses the tip of Michael’s nose in apology.

  Michael grumbles, but lets Devin slip out. Sits inside the tub, knees drawn to his chest as Devin lets the water run, then scuttles over to make room for him. Squeezes a dewdrop’s worth of soap into a bath sponge, lathering it up and sweeping long, steady strokes along his own arms and Devin’s.

  It isn’t long into their cleaning before Michael sits astride Devin again, nudging his rump into Devin’s lap. Enjoys the way Devin’s cock stirs at his touch, with an interested twitch, as it slides against the cleft of his ass. Kisses Devin again and again, in encouragement and daring both.

  “Okay,” says Devin, giving in with a nod. “Okay.” He startles Michael into a yelp by pinching his bottom in the water, playful. Suffers Michael’s scowl and the reproachful swipe at his shoulders with a laugh, before bodily lifting Michael up and pressing him down against his cock.

  And when Michael takes Devin within him again, he giggles as he presses prune-fingers into the dip of Devin’s belly to anchor himself. Relishes the sensation of their slow, easy lovemaking in the warmth of the soapy water, hoping he’ll never have to know life without being connected to Devin somehow.

  When they finally make it back to the bed, when Devin presses into Michael’s back and noses the curls at the nape of his neck, to breathe words of affection, Michael turns in his arms, to kiss first. To say the words first.

  “I love you,” he says softly, touching his lips to Devin’s. It’s not out of desperation or panic, and Devin hasn’t guilted him into this; it’s the warmth and affection that fills his chest at the sight of Devin, with his towel-dried hair spread out against the pillow. The softness of his fluffy, flyaway hair that Michael smoothes a tuft of back behind his ear. “So much.”

  Devin’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, before he tightens his arms around Michael’s waist. “I know,” he says. “I’ve always known.”

  “But I—I haven’t always said,” Michael mumbles, guilty. Cuddles closer into warm, damp skin.

  “I knew anyway,” says Devin. He settles his forehead against Michael’s, his eyes slipping shut.

  It’s then that Michael remembers the dinners he’d keep warm, waiting for Devin to come home. The blankets he’d heap on Devin when he fell asleep in the back room, exhausted. And most recently, the flowers he’s left with breakfasts, hoping Devin would know their meaning, would realize what Michael was trying to say.

  His heart does a funny flip-flop in his chest at that, a little oh of realization—that even when he stopped saying the words, he didn’t stop showing it through his actions. That what they have isn’t always about grand, sweeping gestures, but a love built upon little things; little affections that grow into something bigger, and brighter, and somehow more.

  “Oh,” he says out loud. “Devin?”

  “If you nudge me with either your hips or your butt and ask, ‘Again?’, I will kick you,” Devin grumbles, his eyes fluttering open. “Now go to sleep.”

  Something in Michael’s expression in the muted moonlight must give him away, though, because Devin huffs a soft laugh and brushes their lips together. “Oh, Michael,” he says, as if he’s just realized what Michael’s hoping for. Smiles, fond, as if these are the words he’s wanted to say in return, for so long: “I love you too.”

  * * *

  By the time Michael blinks awake the next day, the sun’s already passed its highest point in the sky, and the light filtering through the curtains has settled into the soft, muted golds of late afternoon.

  He shifts in the bed, trying to snake a hand out to the clock on his night table, just to see how late he’s slept in. It’s then that he realizes he’s trapped; that the bars of his prison are formed by Devin’s arms looped loosely around his waist. Michael scrabbles fingers along the carpet beneath the bed, hoping for a shirt among the mess of jeans and socks and belts, but Devin tugs him back into his arms, like he won’t let Michael escape. Buries his face in Michael’s neck and mumbles something inaudible, his breath a wisp of warm air that sends a delicious shiver down Michael�
��s spine.

  Michael doesn’t mind the compulsory cuddle; he’d take having Devin here beside him over an empty bed any day. In fact, if he had his way, he would never wake without Devin. Would never be without him.

  Just when he decides he’ll surrender to Devin’s insistent embrace, Michael spies a card perched on the edge of the clock. A covered vase beside the card, obscuring the clock’s digital display. He paws at the folded cardstock with the one hand that Devin lets free, and pulls it in to read the handwritten note.

  I’m thinking of you, it says. I can’t live without you. And I love you too.

  It’s unsigned, but the familiar half-fold of the card and the loose, easy scrawl of the words leaves no doubt as to whom they’re from, and a swell of affection blooms bright in Michael’s chest.

  He tips aside the paper covering the vase, surprised to find a clumsy but sweet recreation of the arrangement he was making for Devin. The primroses and salvia are in the exact same positions —only, the centerpiece of red roses has been swapped out for a cluster of crimson ambrosias. For returned love.

  Oh, Michael realizes, and the fondness that’s welled up in his chest swells even higher, like a balloon fit to burst. He slides back under the blankets and nuzzles into Devin’s warmth. Wonders where him found the information on flowers and their meanings, or when he’d found the time to put this arrangement together.

  When Devin lets out a tiny, tired sigh, Michael laughs softly, careful not to wake him; it’s more than likely Devin woke early to fit the flowers together, then snuck back into bed.

  Michael closes his eyes again, trying to fall back asleep, but as much as he’d like to stay in bed, curled in Devin’s arms, there’s an insistent gnaw of hunger in the pit of his stomach. He manages to ignore it for all of a few minutes, before he’s forced to muscle his way out of Devin’s arms in search of food.

  Devin makes a soft, hurt noise in his sleep, as soon as Michael’s broken free.

  “I’ll be back,” Michael whispers, guiltily. He kisses Devin on the brow. Scoops up him’s red plaid shirt, Michael’s favorite, from the floor and throws it on.

  He’s halfway to the kitchen, when his hip clips the corner of Devin’s desk, jostling a pile of order sheets and phoned-in requests.

  Michael mutters a curse and rubs his sore hip. Starts straightening out the papers, ordering them by date, when he spots the faded spine of a little handbook.

  It’s half-hidden in the sea of papers on Devin’s desk, but Michael tugs the book out anyway. Touches fingers, light, to the cover. Finds that it’s a beginner’s guide to flowers and their meanings, called The Language of Flowers.

  The book’s been dog-eared within an inch of its life, and Michael thumbs his way through the bookmarked pages, chuckling at the mess of highlighting. Leafs through other pages marred with post-it notes written in Devin’s hand, like:

  Windflowers ≠ daisies !!! IMPORTANT !!!

  Michael’s favorite??? by a photo of some lovely purple water lilies.

  And carnations ≠ roses [starburst pattern vs. concentric circles in petals], something he’s been trying to get Devin to remember for the longest time.

  Michael sets the book down when he’s finished flipping through it, and piles some papers over it, like there had been before. Peeks in on Devin, wanting to wake him up and pelt him with kisses —because Devin’s been putting real effort into making the shop work, to share in Michael’s dream—before thinking better of it, letting him sleep for just a while longer.

  He pads downstairs to grab the pizza where they’d left it on the counter, and throws a few slices in the microwave. Eats one and brings in two slices, covered, to leave on Devin’s night table, along with a freshly cut flower. Then he slips into bed again, cuddling into Devin’s side, smiling to himself when Devin’s arms close around him once more. He spends the next minute listening to the rhythm of Devin’s breathing, slowing his own to match until they’re drawing the same breath. Watches the way Devin’s eyelashes fan against his cheeks with each breath, for another.

  A whole hour passes this way until Michael decides Devin’s slept more than is good for him, and wakes him up with tiny feather-light kisses. Marks a trail from his brow to his cheeks, then another from his nose to his neck.

  Devin wakes when Michael has marked a path of kisses all the way to his shoulder.

  “What time is it?” Devin yawns, his eyes still half-lidded with sleep. He trails fingers along the curve of Michael’s backside, warm, before folding arms around Michael’s waist again. Twines his legs, snug, over Michael’s calves and nuzzles into Michael’s neck. It’s a unique embrace that Michael has secretly termed The Starfish Cuddle.

  One day, he’ll tell Devin that of all the ways him likes to hold him, he enjoys this one the most, for the closeness and intimacy it allows them. For the safety he feels when Devin’s draped around him like a cozy security blanket.

  Today is not that day.

  “Time for you to get up,” says Michael, letting his arms settle around Devin’s neck. “To eat something. And,” he adds, feeling a flush rise to the tips of his ears, “time to give us a kiss.”

  Devin hums and obliges, pressing small, closed-mouthed kisses to Michael’s lips.

  Michael tries to open his mouth against Devin’s, urging him to slip his tongue in, and upon finding Devin won’t, tries to nudge his way into Devin’s.

  “Wait, wait,” mumbles Devin, drawing away, though he keeps his arms tight around Michael’s hips. “I need to wash up first before we do that. Morning breath, remember?”

  “Nuh,” Michael protests, tugging him back into the sheets.

  Devin laughs. “At least let me brush my teeth.” He swings his legs over the side of the bed, and Michael can see the moment Devin finds the flower on the night table, sees the token of Michael’s love, because he goes absolutely still.

  “Devin?” Michael asks, worried. His nails blanch as he clutches the sheets, too tight. Maybe this is too overt, but he’s always trusted Devin in this, has to believe that Devin won’t see it as too much.

  Alternatively, Devin might not even know what the flower means. At least there’s that.

  Michael watches him twist the stem of the white flower, its petals imperfect, uneven, but beautiful all the same, in his fingers. Rolls it back and forth, thoughtful. Then he looks at Michael, his smile warm and broad and real. “Forever, then?” he asks, hopeful.

  Michael grins back, pleased at how quickly Devin’s grasped the meaning this time. “Forever,” he nods, a promise, as he touches their lips together and cups his hands around Devin’s.

  Around the white rose known for eternal love.

  Also by Emilia Loft

  Flowershop Boys: Delicious Dandelion

  ‘“Thanks,” says Locke distractedly, rustling around behind the counter. “I can help you in just a second.”

  Matthew turns around to find Locke has put the bouquet down behind the counter, fussing over the paper with a length of red ribbon. He has his back to Matthew.

  It’s a nice back. Broad shoulders, trim, narrow waist. Tight little—’

  ***

  Matthew is a retired veteran turned security officer/errand to a big wig corporation. He has poured his time and energy into obscuring his notorious military past. He is content to be on his own, until a last errand buying flowers from a little corner shop downtown. He finds his world turned upside down when he comes face to face with the breathtaking, hardworking owner, Silas.

  Sometimes, passion is a recipe that involves some bad timing turned good, some pretty plants and a little everyday magic. For Matthew and Silas, it’s all that and more.

 

 

 
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