Page 70 of Hush
“Bring it over. I want to wear it Friday night to the game.”
They were an insufferable pair all day Thursday.
Mike showed up with a glow, the bags under his eyes gone, his stubble shaved away, his suit fresh and pressed to perfection. He looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine ad, sandy hair swept back in a soft pompadour, blue eyes sparkling when he looked at Tom. Tom had a spring to his step, and Peggy twice asked him what had happened that made him smile so widely all day long. Danny, his law clerk, seemed suspicious and kept looking skeptically at him.
He kept his office door open, and every time Mike passed by, they shared a face-splitting smile. Tom’s stomach somersaulted at the sight of Mike, and his ass squeezed, a dull ache at the base of his spine. That was Mike, physical proof of Mike inside his body, hard evidence of what they had become. Him and Mike, together. Unbelievable.
They slipped out for lunch, going to a Vietnamese place farther away than where most of the judicial plaza employees traveled. There, they sat side by side in a corner booth, sharing food and holding hands under the table like they were fourteen-years-old. They kissed in the bathroom after, and almost went a whole lot further, but got spooked when it sounded like they were about to be interrupted.
“Tonight,” Mike breathed into his ear.
“Every night,” Tom whispered back, kissing him slowly.
They took the Metro to Tom’s place together, sitting apart until the transfer at Metro Center. Then, they sat side by side, touching from their shoulders to their ankles as they talked over the roar and grind of the subway. Mike had a duffel between his feet and a garment bag in his lap, filled with suits. Tom felt struck by lightning, like he was gripping the electric rail of the subway and somehow surviving.
At home, Etta Mae was overjoyed to see them both, and Mike took her outside while Tom carried Mike’s duffel and garment bag to his bedroom. He hung Mike’s suits in his closet and dumped one of his dresser drawers, mixing his socks and his undershirts together to create an empty drawer for Mike. He debated, but left the drawer pulled out and Mike’s duffel beneath it. Mike could decide if he wanted to use the drawer or not, but the offer was open. Was it too much, too soon? Hell, he’d invited Mike over for the rest of the weekend, four days and five nights, if the multiple suits in the garment bag meant anything. One for Friday and one for Monday, at the least. And Mike had been the one to reiterate, that morning, that he was in this for the long haul. That he wanted everything.
Tom could hear Mike and Etta Mae in the backyard and see them through the window, Mike laughing and play growling at her as he played chase and keep away. Etta Mae bounded after him, her long ears flopping, barking as she tried to nip at his shoelaces. She would slobber his wingtips and they’d have to clean them later, but Mike didn’t seem to mind.
Quickly, Tom changed, throwing on shorts and t-shirt—a tight t-shirt; he still wanted to look good for Mike, entice him—and thundered downstairs and out to the yard. Etta Mae ran for him, leaping up, both front paws reaching for his belly. Her eyes were bright and her tongue hung out, and he imagined he heard her thoughts.You brought me a playmate! Can I keep him? Can I? Can I?
Mike kissed him on the deck before he headed inside to change. Tom said nothing about the drawer. Mike would see it, and he would choose to use it or not. While Mike was upstairs, Tom started dinner, a simple chicken and vegetables dish. He lit the candles on the table, though, and used his nicer dishes. Everything was ready when Mike padded downstairs, a warm smile on his face.
“Thank you.” Mike wrapped his arms around Tom’s waist and kissed the back of his neck as Tom set down glasses of iced tea beside their plates. “I unpacked.”
“I’m glad.”
Mike pulled out Tom’s chair for him.
They held hands during dinner, sharing their day and smiling. There was still so much they had to learn about each other: did Mike hang up his towels or throw them on the floor? Did he like to make the bed, or leave his toothpaste cap off? Did he talk during movies? What was his favorite color? When was his birthday? What was his family like? Where did he see himself in five, ten, twenty years? They’d get there, but for right now, this was enough.
Mike wanted to do the dishes, but Tom banished him, and instead, Mike sat on the kitchen floor and played with Etta Mae, leaning back against the pantry while Tom washed his pots and pans and loaded the dishwasher. After, it was time for Etta Mae’s evening walk.
They took her on a long, long circuit, winding into Georgetown and down through Foggy Bottom, getting home just as the sun slipped beneath the horizon. She was exhausted, and she drank like a camel before crawling onto the couch and passing out.
Tom took Mike’s hand and led him upstairs.
This night was slower, more relaxed. They explored each other, spent time lingering on bodies with lips and soft breaths. Mike kissed Tom’s tattoo and traced the arch of the rainbow with his tongue. Tom squirmed, and then squirmed some more when Mike dipped lower. Tom pressed a condom and their lube against his arm, urging him on as he arched beneath Mike’s touch.
Mike started on top, rolling into Tom, but then Tom straddled his lap and rode Mike with slow, deep strokes. Mike sat up, wrapping his arms around Tom, and they held each other close until Mike tipped Tom back and sped up his thrusts. He held Tom’s ankles wide, and Tom gasped, panted, and moaned as his back arched and his eyes closed and his orgasm ripped through him. He shouted, shaking all around Mike. Mike thrust, cursed, and curled over Tom, wrapping his arms around Tom’s shoulders, grabbing his biceps, the back of his neck.
They cuddled, Tom again lying on Mike’s chest as Mike stroked his back. They talked about everything and nothing. Tom’s favorite food, his favorite color. Mike’s blond hair and last name—“My great-grandparents were northern Italian, and Lucciano men have always loved blonds. Except me.”—and how he liked DC. Tom had lived in the DC area for his entire life, but Mike had only been there for the past four years. Mike was a foodie, and liked to explore out of the way restaurants. He’d hit up the major museums, but not all of them. Tom said he’d take Mike to Dumbarton Oaks in Georgetown and the National Museum of Health, where the bullet that killed President Lincoln was on display, together with his skull and other macabre oddities. Mike wanted to take Tom to the Spy Museum and wander with him and Etta Mae on Teddy Roosevelt Island. “This weekend. Let’s go. Start checking things off our list.”
“You think we’re getting out of bed this weekend.” Tom grinned. “Cute.”
Mike rolled him over, pressed him into the mattress, and kissed him until his toes curled.
It seemed like a crime to get up and go to the gym when Mike was in his bed, so Tom scooted down and woke Mike the fun way. Mike shivered awake, his hands sliding into Tom’s hair.
Tom smiled up at him. “Forget the gym today. Let’s cross-train.”
“Cross-train. Yeah.” Mike blinked, his hands still buried in Tom’s dark hair. “Anything you say.”
They showered on jelly legs, smiling ear to ear. Mike washed Tom’s hair and back, kissing his shoulder after the soap was washed away, and Tom reciprocated. Mike had his toothbrush, razor, and deodorant already out on Tom’s counter by the second sink, and the sight—along with Mike tying his tie beside him in the mirror—made his heart swell until his chest ached.
They rode together on the Metro the whole way to Judicial Station, not separating. Mike bought them both coffee and ducked into Tom’s chamber to give him a quick kiss before scooting down to Winters’s office for the morning brief.
Friday rolled along, a slow end to a slow week at the courthouse. Next week was trial again—civil, not criminal—for Tom, and a three-day high-risk trial with Chief Judge Fink for Mike. But that was all days away, and Friday afternoon, just after four, they both skated out of the courthouse.
