Page 63 of Rules to Love By

Eli sat back as Jake arrived carrying plates. He waited until everything was set up and Jake left before he half turned in his seat to stare at Marcus. “I’ve had two kinds of sex in my life,” he said. “The kind that’s completely negotiated out beforehand—”

“And that works for you?” Because Marcus had had that kind of sex too. Maybe not negotiated in the way Eli seemed to mean, but at least “negotiated” in that everyone knew what to expect going in. And no matter how many times Marcus told himself he wasn’t going to say yes this time, he always did.

“It fills a need most guys aren’t interested in when they expect the second kind.”

“Which is?”

“Date sex. The kind that isn’t all arranged beforehand. The kind that happens because maybe two people like the look of each other and go out and socialize and think maybe they have enough in common to take it to the next level.”

Marcus had been smothering his pancakes in butter, hoping it would add enough flavour he could skip the too-sickly-sweet syrup. Now he picked up his knife, sliced off a huge mouthful and speared it. Before he stuffed it into his mouth, he looked at Eli. “And which kind did we have?”

Eli took a breath, opened his mouth like he had a lot to say about that, but then closed it again and frowned.

Marcus had put too much pancake into his mouth to prompt him, so he just chewed, watched, and waited. When he still hadn’t answered once Marcus had swallowed, Marcus set his fork down. “I mean, if there’s only two kinds…” He reached for the bottle of syrup anyway. Might as well go all out ruining breakfast for himself as well as Eli, since it was clear from the miserable look on his lover’s face that Eli maybe wasn’t even going to get to the eating portion of the program.

Eli stopped him before he’d begun to pour, though. “Wait.” He took the bottle away and replaced it with a tiny mason jar of something homemade. “Strawberry-rhubarb compote. Emphasis on the rhubarb. Kreed didn’t want to serve it because it’s too tart, but Tris said you’d love it.”

“You talked to Tris about what I’d want for breakfast.” Marcus put the jar down but spun it in place, rubbing his thumb over the label that was scrawled in Tris’s untidy handwriting.

Eli shrugged. “I had to, didn’t I? I screwed last night up so royally, I had to at least try and make it up to you.”

For a long moment, Marcus gaped at him. “How do you figure?” he asked at last, suddenly unable to get the burn of remembered puke out of his throat.

He waited while Eli opened and closed his mouth a few more times. “The guys who seek me out for sex—the negotiated kind, I mean—aren’t interested in breakfast after, either.”

“So?” Marcus cut off another bite of pancake. “I don’t think anyone has so much as brought me a toaster pop in bed, never mind bothered to find out what I’d like to eat. I’m not sure what that has to do with the question.” He stuffed another huge bite into his mouth. It was easiest to keep from saying anything else pathetic if he was busy chewing.

Eli watched him for a moment, like he was considering. Finally, he picked up the jar of compote and proceeded to extract half of it, which he then piled onto the side of Marcus’s plate. “Last night,” he said as he worked, “morphed from date sex into something I should have talked to you about before it went as far as it did.”

“You think I haven’t bottomed before?” Marcus asked.

“I think when you have”—and at least he wasn’t talking down to Marcus, so that was something—“your partners have taken advantage of…” He paused, mouth in a hard line, brow furrowed.

“Taken advantage of me?” Marcus set his fork down. “Don’t think I don’t know what I’m doing, Eli. I’m a fucking grown-up. As far as sex is concerned, I have been for a long, long time. I stopped fighting the physiological response a decade ago. It just happens. I can’t control it. That doesn’t mean I want to stop doing the parts that actually feel good.”

“Of course not.”

“As for the guys who don’t stick around for the aftermath, why would they? And why would I blame them for not wanting to? I’m a pretty conquest to them. But don’t think I don’t get anything out of it. I do. Even if it’s a few hours of blissful nothingness.”

Eli frowned and placed two fingers over Marcus’s lips.

Despite his irritation, the gesture might as well have been a ball gag for all Marcus could talk around it. Worse, it drew all his focus to the soft pressure and the implied command, and his agitation eddied around it, rested against it, and stilled.

“All those guys who never brought you toaster pops, no matter what the sex was like, were assholes.” He dropped his hand, but Marcus remained trapped by his unwavering gaze. “But maybe it’s okay that they didn’t stick around. If any of them had, maybe I wouldn’t have caught your attention. Who looks twice at the pudgy guy, never mind accepts a dinner invite from him? Not most guys, and definitely not most guys like you, who could have anyone they wanted.”

Marcus couldn’t help but shift his focus to Eli’s body. He wasn’t muscular. He certainly had less fashion sense than Marcus, and that wasn’t saying much. He had rounded edges and soft spots, but Marcus had felt his strength the night before and knew he had hidden power. The padding that disguised it wasn’t a drawback. At least he hadn’t thought so when he’d been snuggled up next to it, watching the movie and feeling… He shuddered.

“What?” Eli reached over to put a hand on his leg. “What’s going on?”

The touch sent the surface twitch deeper, causing a wave of nausea to wash through him. Marcus pushed his plate away. “I have to—”

“Stay.” Eli tightened his grip, curling his fingers and digging them into Marcus’s thigh. “Look at me.”

“Eli—”

“Focus,” Eli said, voice barely above a whisper but rolling through Marcus like thunder anyway. He kneaded the muscle, giving Marcus something other than his heaving stomach to centre on.

“Now tell me what you were just thinking.”

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