I sat there frozen with a rapidly filling dick, imagining Mikey V. stroking himself under my roof—down the hall from where I was doing the same thing half the time. Even though he’d originally moved into the apartment over my garage, two years into his employment, we’d discovered black mold in the walls. He’d temporarily relocated into one of the guest rooms down the hall from my bedroom and had never left. We’d never talked about it, but it was pretty clear we both preferred being under the same roof. Neither of us enjoyed being alone all that much. It was one of the reasons we encouraged Sam and some of our other friends to stay over whenever they were hanging out with us late at night.
Lately, though, I’d begun to recognize part of the reason we encouraged others to stay over was to keep us from having too much time alone together. Because now that it was just the two of us, I couldn’t stop thinking of crossing the line with him, of touching him, of tasting him, of fucking his sweet ass deep into the mattress in the bedroom or even taking him on his hands and knees right here in front of the blazing fire.
I clenched my teeth together and tried to imagine anything that might kill my erection.
Coach Vining finding out you want to bone his baby boy.
Done.
I stood up and swallowed the last of my lukewarm latte. “Give me five minutes to get dressed and we’ll go.”
8
Mikey
The drive into the little town of Aster Valley was completely different in daylight. The atmosphere was still charming, but this time we could clearly make out the abandoned ski slopes leading straight down to the main part of town. It turned out that our Rockley Lodge had originally been a ski-in/ski-out location perched right on the edge of one of the main runs. The abandoned lift stood silent and still in the clear mountain air, and the sun cast shortening shadows through the fir trees at the edges of the open trails.
“Hell, we could have taken a sled into town,” Tiller muttered as he pulled into a parking space in front of the Mustache Diner. “Who knew how close we were as the crow flies?”
I hauled myself out of the large SUV. “But then we would have had to climb back up with a stomach full of waffles,” I added. “Which basically means you would have had to pull me on the sled.”
When we entered the old-fashioned diner, there wasn’t a hint of recognition on anyone’s faces. Maybe it was the fleece beanie Tiller had on or the scarf wrapped around his neck, but it was surprisingly refreshing.
“Sit anywhere, hon,” a man around fifty with salt-and-pepper hair and scruff said from a nearby booth he was busy wiping down.
We hustled away from the drafty doors and found a red vinyl booth in the back. The old Formica table was in tip-top shape, and it was clear whoever ran the place took good care of it. Laminated menus sat tucked behind the caddy of condiments against the wall at one end of the table. I grabbed two and handed one to Tiller. “You can have a cheat meal if you want. I’ll make up for it at lunch and dinner.”
“Yes, mother,” he murmured under his breath. His lips were curved up in an indulgent smile as he perused the menu, so I didn’t worry too much about it.
“What do you want to do today?” I asked.
Tiller set the menu down and looked up. “You always ask me that when there’s something you want to do.”
He was right. “I want to walk up and down Main Street and check out the shops. One of the reasons this place made my short list is because there’s an actual spice merchant here, if you can believe it. They do a ton of online business, but they have a storefront in Aster Valley, too. It’s called—”
The older man with a giant salt-and-pepper mustache appeared with his little order notepad at the ready. “The Honeyed Lemon. Four doors down and across the street,” he said, pointing his pencil eraser in the direction of the Valley Eater we’d seen the night before. “Best damned smoked paprika you’ll ever taste. Truman makes it himself. People come for miles around for the stuff, and I think I heard it’s the secret ingredient in the BBQ sauce used by the Partridge Pit chain. Definitely swing by and get a sample to take home. Now, where y’all from?”
I blinked at him. “Um, Houston? And you?”
He grinned. “Mobile, Alabama, but I’ve been in Aster Valley for a hundred years now. Name’s Pim. What can I get ya?”
Tiller opened his mouth to order coffee, but I got there first. “He’ll have an ice water and small orange juice. I’ll have a coffee, please.”