Quentin took off his gloves, then pulled Mac’s head down for a quick kiss. “I love seeing you smile, baby,” he said softly, cupping Mac’s cheeks with his hands. “You’re so stunning when you do.”
“N-n-not as b-beautiful as you,” Mac whispered.
“You think I’m beautiful?”
“You t-t-take my br-br-breath away.”
“On second thought, breakfast can wait,” Quentin said, then dragged his mouth down to claim it.
9
Within seconds, he’d stripped himself out of his jacket and boots, noticing with satisfaction as Mac did the same. God, the man had such an amazing body, those big muscles flexing and rippling. The way he’d worked outside, hauling those heavy beams without breaking a sweat… It would’ve been pure muscle porn had he been shirtless. Quentin could’ve watched him for hours.
Right now, he had far less patience, desperate as he was to get his hands on him again and to feel those rough hands on his body. He stepped in, put his hands on Mac’s chest, and pushed, delighted when Mac let himself be forced with his back against the wall. He had to stand on his toes to kiss him properly. Mac had a couple of inches on him—and he was twice Quentin’s size in mass.
Those big hands found Quentin’s favorite spot—his ass— cupping both his cheeks and pushing their groins together. What was it about this man that was so damn addictive? Maybe it was because he was so hungry, letting Quentin kiss him and kissing back as if he was starving. And the rougher and more dominant Quentin got, the more Mac responded with these intoxicating little whimpers and sighs and those low grunts and groans that shot straight to Quentin’s balls. God, he wanted him in the worst way.
He managed to get his hands under Mac’s thick hoodie, running them over his chest and back, reveling in the powerful muscles that quivered under his touch. “Fuck, baby, I want you. I want to…”
Just then, his stomach let out a loud growl, and Mac’s mouth split into a grin against his. “You w-w-were s-saying?”
Quentin blew out a frustrated sigh. “Dammit.”
Mac kissed him one last time, then released him. “B-b-breakfast first, then. P-p-pancakes or french t-toast?”
Quentin’s mouth watered, his sexual frustration forgotten. “You make french toast with your homemade bread?” he asked hopefully.
Mac’s smile widened as he nodded.
“With scrambled eggs, maybe?”
“Y-y-you really have a b-b-bottomless s-stomach…”
Quentin stepped up and nuzzled Mac’s neck, hugging him once more. “Thank you for cooking for me. It makes me feel special.”
Mac kissed the top of his head. “Y-y-you’re welcome. I l-l-love cooking for you. Makes m-me feel ap-p-preciated.”
Huh, how about that? Maybe cooking for him meant as much to Mac as it did to Quentin. He’d never looked at it that way.
Quentin stepped back and, when Mac half turned, slapped him on his ass. “Get to work then, baby. Take care of your man.”
He said it spontaneously, but his words suddenly hung heavy in the air. Your man. It was a bit much, considering they’d only known each other for, what, two days?
Mac’s smile disappeared, and he let out a deep sigh. “W-w-we need t-t-to talk.”
Yeah, big surprise there. Holy crap, when would he ever learn not to jump into shit with both feet? He had such a great brain—or so everyone kept telling him—so why couldn’t he control his damn impulsivity?
He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Yeah, whatever. Save it. I get the message, okay?”
Mac’s eyes widened. “N-n-no, y-y-you don’t… This is ab-b-bout me, n-not you.”
“Right, so it’s a variation on ‘it’s not you, it’s me’? Yeah, trust me, I’m familiar with it.”
“Oh, Q-quentin…” Mac sighed, and he sounded infinitely sad. “Who h-h-hurt you?”
Asshole, thy name is Justin. But how did he explain that one to Mac without giving it all away? Not that things were looking too peachy now, but he’d hoped for at least a few more days before Mac, too, got tired of him.
“You don’t need to explain anything,” he told Mac. “I get it, okay?”
When he wanted to walk away, Mac grabbed both his shoulders and made Quentin face him. He did, resentment probably painted all over his face. Mac’s tone was kind but firm when he spoke. “S-s-stop. Y-y-you don’t unders-s-stand s-shit. I l-l-like you, and I w-want to b-be with you, but I n-need to t-t-tell you something first. N-n-now sit d-down, and I’ll m-make breakfast. You’re p-p-probably also c-cranky from the h-h-hunger.”
He was, but how had Mac figured that out so quickly? He tended to get short-fused when he was running low on fuel, and after working outside for almost two hours to secure Mac’s shop, he most certainly was depleted. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“’S okay. S-s-sit.”
He was gently pushed into a chair, and within a minute, Mac handed him a glass of freshly made orange juice. “D-d-drink. It w-will help your s-sugar level g-g-go up.”
He drank, suddenly exhausted. For some weird reason, tears were burning in his eyes. “Thank you.”
Mac nodded as he grabbed all kinds of stuff from the fridge and cupboards. Bread was sliced into thick pieces, then coated with a mixture of milk and egg and—Quentin breathed in deeply—cinnamon. Mac heated butter in two pans, then quickly whisked a few eggs, mixing them with herbs and a dollop of cream. Minutes later, the kitchen was filling with delicious aromas, and Quentin’s stomach rumbled again, even louder this time. It earned him another smile from Mac, who’d apparently been able to hear it even over the sizzling french toast.
When Mac put the plate of steaming food in front of him, Quentin almost moaned. God, it smelled so good. Mac put sugar and maple syrup on the table, as well as salt and pepper before he, too, sat down.
The first bite of french toast was a taste explosion in Quentin’s mouth. “So fucking delicious,” he groaned with his mouth full.
They barely spoke, Quentin too focused on shoveling the food into his mouth and Mac apparently content with watching him while enjoying his own breakfast.
“B-b-better?” Mac asked when Quentin had cleared his plate and shoved it back with a contented sigh.
“Yeah. Sorry for being grumpy,” Quentin said sheepishly. He did feel rather stupid now that he had food in his stomach. He’d been overreacting a bit, hadn’t he? He always forgot what being hangry did to him.
“D-d-do you w-want to take a b-bath now?” Mac asked.
He was so fucking sweet. “Only if we take one together.”
“Why d-d-do you t-trust me?”
Quentin had no trouble sensing the emotions behind that loaded question. “I don’t know what’s going on in your life, Mac, that has made you guarded and gruff, and what has happened to make you need to carry a gun, but I do know this. You’re sweet and kind, and you wouldn’t hurt me.”
Mac stared at him for the longest time, emotions flashing across his face. Disbelief. Confusion. And then hope? “Q-q-quentin, w-w-will you hold m-me? P-p-please?”