Mac opened his mouth to tell him that he’d be singing a different tune once he had to shovel a foot of snow but then decided against it. Let the kid enjoy it while it lasted. And he’d better keep thinking of Quentin as a kid because he was way too young for him. Too pretty.
“I n-need to lock up, and then we’ll g-g-go inside,” he said.
He did his usual round around his property, a happy Quentin on his heels, studying his every move, it seemed. Mac made sure to lock the gate with the thick chains, and he checked the individual locks on each of his containers and sheds, especially the one on his shop. He didn’t expect anyone to pull a stunt during a snowstorm, but in this town, you never knew.
“What’s in there?” Quentin asked.
“P-p-personal p-projects.”
“That’s pretty vague, isn’t it? What kind of projects?”
“D-d-don’t you think if I w-w-wanted you t-to know, I would’ve elab-b-borated?”
“Could be a force of habit to keep it vague,” Quentin said, his laughing eyes growing serious. “After all, you’re not used to someone being interested in you, are you?”
Mac swallowed. “N-no. Are you?”
Quentin took a step toward Mac. “Interested in you? Yes.”
Mac was used to struggling to speak, but this was on a whole other level. His coat felt too tight around his throat, and sweat broke out on his back. It was utterly ridiculous. He was a grown man, thirty-eight years old, strong as fuck, and by most standards pretty damn intimidating. So how could this mere boy scare the fuck out of him?
“Why?” he finally managed.
Quentin closed the distance between them, standing only a few inches away, their breaths mingling between the snowflakes. Little specks of snow clung to his long lashes, and Mac’s belly went all weak again. He was so damn beautiful, like something precious and fragile he wanted to cherish for the rest of his life.
The thought sobered him. It wouldn’t be him cherishing Quentin. It couldn’t be. Once he knew the truth, Quentin would run as fast as the others.
“It’s okay, Mac,” Quentin said softly. “Whatever you’re feeling is okay.”
Mac sighed, stepping back. “That’s w-w-where you’re wrong. I haven’t b-been okay in a long time.”
5
Despite Mac’s cryptic remark outside, the atmosphere between them wasn’t tense, Quentin concluded—much to his relief. He would have hated to see Mac get stressed over something he’d said without thinking.
Mac was making dinner, and the house filled with a delicious smell that made Quentin’s stomach rumble loudly. He peeked into the Dutch oven Mac was stirring, but couldn’t determine what he was making.
“What’s for dinner?”
Mac smiled. “You c-c-can’t be hungry again. You just ate h-h-half a bag of c-c-cashews.”
“I told you I’m always hungry. My mom always calls me a garbage can.”
“It’s s-stew. I often m-m-make it in the w-winter because it’s n-nice and warm in your b-belly. But this one is f-f-from the freezer. I m-made it last week.”
“It smells like heaven,” Quentin said, taking another deep sniff.
“It’s got herbs and b-b-beer in it,” Mac said.
“Beer? In stew?”
Mac nodded. “D-dark beer. And I a-a-always add a l-little vinegar. It s-softens up the m-meat.”
Was it Quentin’s imagination, or was Mac starting to talk more to him, making longer sentences? He loved pulling this man out of his protective shell, seeing the tender heart behind the badass exterior.
“Huh. It sounds delicious. When is it ready?”
Mac laughed, a belly laugh that echoed through the room, and made Quentin breathe in deeply to push down the weird flutters in his belly. What a rich sound it was.
“T-t-ten more minutes. I’m m-making mashed p-p-potatoes and c-carrots to go w-with it.”
“I’m usually patient but not when it comes to food,” Quentin admitted with a laugh.
“I w-w-would have n-never guessed,” Mac deadpanned.
Quentin shrugged. “Hey, I warned you I eat a lot.”
He made his way over to the bookcases. The books were neatly organized by genre, thrillers separated from general literature, and authors grouped together. Mac liked John Grisham and David Baldacci, it seemed. He also had a surprisingly big category of young adult fiction.
The nonfiction was shelved by topic. The man had a broad range of interests. Self-help took a few shelves, with a bunch of popular psychology books thrown in as well. He had a whole section on architecture and engineering.
Quentin picked up a book on building sheds, flipped through it, and put it back between the other books on wood crafts. Then there were many books on historical subjects. He followed the spines with his finger. “US presidents, Civil War, Second World War, Vietnam war. You have quite a collection.” Even more than Quentin, and he loved to read pretty much everything he could get his hands on.
“N-not m-much else to d-d-do but read and w-w-watch TV.”
Didn’t he have friends? Other family? A girlfriend?
Quentin trailed back to the kitchen, where he found a spot at the sturdy kitchen table. It was no hardship to watch Mac cook. The guy had a grace to his movements despite his size. And damn, his ass was…perfect. Mac had big muscles, sculpted by doing years of hard manual work, but his ass was wonderfully plump and round. It would bounce and jiggle deliciously when someone fucked him…Quentin got hard even thinking about it.
He could picture it, his long cock sliding in and out of that gorgeous, full ass. He’d put Mac on his stomach first so he could enjoy that ass, watch it ripple as he took him. Then he’d turn him onto his back because he’d want to watch every emotion on the man’s face as he brought him to a climax. Mac’s cock would be rock hard in his hand, straining against his touch, begging for more.
And of course he’d torment him a little. Maybe put some nipple clamps on him or tie his hands to the bed. God, that would be a sight, a man like him writhing underneath him, begging him for mercy…
“Q-q-quentin?”
Quentin’s head shot up.
“A-a-are you okay?”
He swallowed. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
Mac studied him for a second. “You w-were g-groaning. Like you had p-p-pain.”
Oh, god. He’d been doing it again, allowing himself to be sucked into a daydream. “I was thinking of something and must have made a sound. I’m fine, I swear.”
He fought back the urge to cover his crotch, where Mac would be able to spot his hard-on easily. If he didn’t draw attention to it, maybe Mac wouldn’t notice. To his relief, Mac kept his eyes trained on his face before he turned around to the stove again.
Quentin let out an inaudible sigh. Dammit, he needed to stop daydreaming about something that would never, ever happen. As if a man like Mac would ever bottom for a guy like Quentin. Fat chance. He still wasn’t even sure if Mac liked him, since his signals were so mixed. The guy was definitely not straight, considering his reaction when he’d spotted Quentin in his underwear, but he’d also hinted at not being interested in Quentin.
Quentin suspected Mac’s reasons had nothing to do with him and everything with something from his past, but it didn’t matter. Fact was that the man didn’t want him, and even if he did, he would not want him to top. No one ever did. And the thought of him dominating Mac was even more insane.