Run and Hide Pt. 01

With that, Paul leaned back and started pumping his cock in and out of Ace's clutching hole.

He savored that motion, that insistent, electric movement gaining speed on every pass. Ace could feel every ridge and vein of the invader he welcomed so desperately. And with every thrust, Paul's perfect cock brushed Ace's prostate and sent white sparks bursting behind his closed eyes.

The sound of flesh slapping against flesh seemed to keep time with the thumping beat of the dance floor. Ace would never again be able to hear that song without getting hard.

The only thing that marred the experience was his view - a dirty dark grey wall instead of those hypnotizing eyes.

What he would give to drink in this man's body with his eyes, his hands, his tongue.

This one frenzied fuck in Sparks wasn't going to be enough - not nearly enough. Even as he was stubbornly holding back on this orgasm, Ace was already planning future orgasms, ones he wanted to get started on right now. He wanted to live in this breathless, suspended moment endlessly.

He squeezed down on Paul's cock to bring their flesh even closer together. A pained, hungry groan spilled from Paul's mouth.

"God, you're so hot, so fucking hot," Paul panted, still snapping his hips against Ace's ass. "Don't make me come yet. Want this to last."

"Can't help it," Ace grunted. "Want more. So much more. Come on, fuck me!"

Paul growled low in his throat and sped up his pounding. Ace rode on a wave of pure sensation, so close to the edge of falling over.

"Oh yeahhh, you're gonna come, gonna come while I'm in you, gonna squeeze my cock with your ass, just like that." Paul's rumbling words shot straight to Ace's balls, which rose up tight against his body. He was moments away from coming, so he reached down to take hold of his aching erection.

Paul slapped his hand away and wrapped Ace's cock in his right hand.

"Gonna make you come so hard," he growled. "Gonna pull this load out of you. Want to make you lose your mind."

Ace couldn't speak. He didn't want to break the spell that Paul's low voice was casting over him. He couldn't even talk dirty back to him - hell, he could barely breathe.

Paul tugged roughly on Ace's cock and kept up his relentless fucking.

"Come on, Ace. Do it. Now. With me."

Ace closed his eyes tight and felt everything stop - everything but the thick spurts shooting from his dick all over the wall. He could distantly feel Paul slam into him one final time with a deep grunt and a shudder.

Reality disappeared, Sparks vanished - all he could feel was bliss, mind-erasing bliss. His breath echoed in his ears, his heated blood rushing palpably through his veins.

As his brain rebooted, Ace calmed his breathing and straightened his clothes. God, what was that? I mean, that was crazy hot, but what was that?

The heat from Paul's body was noticeably absent, so Ace went looking for him. He wanted a phone number, a date, something. Didn't want to lose track of this guy.

He made his way back to the bar area, keeping an eye out for Paul.

"What's the matter, doll?" Jimmy teased. "Lose him already?"

"Did he come out this way?" Ace asked, a little breathless.

"Haven't seen him." Jimmy passed a drink to one of the sweaty men crowding around the bar. "Your ride must have turned into a pumpkin. I hear it happens after the ball."

Ace didn't respond. He didn't want to joke about Paul. His heart suddenly felt both tight and empty. Even though he came here to get that persistent itch scratched, now that he'd done so, he felt rubbed raw.

It was official. He just wasn't built for the back room. That had been Cameron's milieu, and God knows it worked for plenty of men. But he clearly wasn't able to come and go in a blink like that. He wanted more - had wanted more from the moment he'd touched that impossibly beautiful man.

And now he was gone, like a half-remembered dream and just as substantial.

Damm.

Chapter 2

Paul McDonnell woke mid-morning on Saturday with the odd sensation that he was still drunk.

Yeah, polishing off that bottle of whiskey at home might have been a mistake, he thought.

The room swayed as his brain struggled to regain its fixed position in his head. It was going to take all day to get rid of this patient, extended hangover.

Well, that was just about the shittiest birthday of his life. Except for that one part, of course. The one part that salvaged the whole night.

It still bothered him that he had to resort to going solo to a bar just so he wouldn't be alone on his damn birthday. It wasn't as if he didn't have friends. Right? It's just that they're all married now, not likely to ditch the wife and kids for a night out with their bachelor friend Paul.

And Paul wasn't the type to throw himself a big birthday party - particularly not to celebrate turning thirty-six.

There's nothing to celebrate about turning thirty-six. Alone.

But when his brother couldn't even make it out for a drink - thanks to a mandatory dinner with his fiance's parents - Paul refused to sit in his bland condo in Lawrence and watch the rain fall outside. So after staying lingering over dinner in Kansas City, he took himself out for his birthday.

He'd never been to Sparks before, though he of course had heard of it. Even authentically straight guys knew about Sparks. The only thing that had kept him away was its proximity to his home and work. Usually when he needed to release some tension and be himself, he headed out of town for a weekend or a vacation - somewhere he wouldn't run the risk of bumping into a patient or a neighbor or anyone who could recognize him.

Coward, he accused himself. Thirty-six and a coward.

He silenced his inner critic with the facts. It simply wasn't worth it to come out. Why risk the lost clients and the disappointment of his family? He'd never met anyone who could convince him to take that step. If being out meant he could get his itch scratched in Kansas City rather than hundreds of miles away, well, that just wasn't enough of an incentive.

Still, he couldn't be completely sorry that circumstances had led him to Sparks last night. Not after the way it turned out.

Thank God for that delicious blond. Paul felt his cock stir just recalling the feel of those curls in his fingers.

From the moment he spotted him, Paul could tell this man was different from all the other surging bodies around him. His confident gaze, the way he held his eyes - Paul could tell this guy was his equal, his match. Someone strong and solid and willing to match him move for move.

And his scent - fuck, his scent. As a chiropractor, Paul spent every day up close with people's bodies, so he was used to encountering all kinds of odors that linger on the skin. But never before had a man's skin rendered him stupid with hunger. Ace had intoxicated him. He couldn't name the elements that combined to form his scent, but it added up to the perfect aphrodisiac.

Paul shook his head to clear it. It didn't matter what that man smelled like or how addicting his touch was - last night was just like every other sexual encounter he'd had with men. One night only. Get in and get off. Scratch that itch.

But his hands twitched to keep scratching.

For some reason, he felt guilty about leaving without a word once they had both come so explosively. That was new -- usually, he forgot their faces the second his balls had emptied.

Not this time. He remembered everything about Ace -- the taste of his sweaty neck, the delicious shape of his ass, the impossibly tight home his dick had found there.

They hadn't exchange more than first names and orgasms. And Paul wasn't about to start hanging out at Sparks on a regular basis just to look for him. So it was best to stop wishing what if.

Once his lust had been slaked -- if only temporarily - Paul realized with a sickening thunk in his gut that he needed to get out of there. Fucking so close to home was expressly against his own number one rule, and he had broken it almost as soon as he had broken rule number two: don't go to gay bars in Kansas City.

So he took off, no pleasantries, no promises. Not that he could have made - or kept - any promises. It was for the best.

But the whiskey he guzzled back at his condo to make him forget all his broken rules wasn't exactly the best idea. Especially since the whiskey decided to stick around for the morning.

Or what was left of the morning. Paul held still for a moment to let his eyes slowly gain some focus on the clock. Nearly 11. Shit. Steven will be here soon.

For as long as he had memory, Paul and his brother had gone to a baseball game for his birthday, even if it meant ditching school or making travel plans during college. And the Royals were playing at the K this afternoon, which meant an afternoon in the sun watching his beloved team more than likely blow an early lead by the eighth inning.

Nothing's better for a hangover than loud fans, a sunburn and overpriced beer.

Paul surveyed his condo to see if he needed to do anything last-minute cleaning. His drunken birthday binge had only resulted in one spill, though it was a doozy -- right on to his computer keyboard, of course.

Other than that and an empty bag of chips, his home was as it always was - clean and sparse. The big-ass sixty-inch LCD television dominated the living room and was the only thing on his wall. He didn't technically need such a large screen, especially when he and his brother were the only ones around to watch anything. But one test game of Resident Evil 4 on the showroom floor convinced him to lay down two grand.

The walls were beige, the carpet was gray and the TV was black. That was the extent of his home's color palate. This was primarily a place to sleep, to work out and to watch sports and play Wii. Other than that, Paul didn't put a lot of effort into his space. Paul had chosen a condominium because it came with included maintenance and no hassles. He spent most of his time at his office in Lawrence or at Steven's house in south Kansas City, anyway.

Paul made quick work of the small mess, then showered and regained the use of some of his brain cells thanks to that restoring spray. He didn't want Steven to catch of whiff of his hangover. Didn't need anybody knowing what he had resorted to last night.

His hair still a little damp, Paul came downstairs just in time to hear the pounding at the door.

"Open up, old man!" His younger brother never let him forget the four years that separated them in age. "Gotta watch our boys bite it again!"

Paul shook his head and smiled. One of the few consolations of rooting for a perpetually lousy team was the ability to mock it, lovingly, mercilessly.

Paul opened the door to his brother's grinning face. Steven McDonnell was a less stocky version of Paul - lighter hair, thinner, smooth shaved, but those same eyes and almost exactly the same height. They were a striking pair who always turned heads when they were out together.

Not many people found a best friend in their brother, and Paul knew how lucky he was.

"So, think our boys can put together a win for your birthday present?" Steven asked.

"The world of sports is full of all kinds of miracles," Paul said. "Besides, they've done it before, just for me."

"In this decade?" Steven scoffed.

"Historically, May is not their month," Paul defended.

"Historically, summer is not their season," Steven countered. "But we love them anyway. Such masochists, I tell you what."

"My car or yours?" Paul asked.

Steven looked longingly at Paul's sleek black Acura, then sighed. "Mine. It pains me, but mine. I'm all gassed up."

"You know, I should have met you at your house," Paul said as they pulled on to K-10. "It's ridiculous for you to drive forty-five minutes out of your way just to pick me up."

"Yeah, but I felt bad about ditching you last night," Steven said. "The least I can do is chauffeur."

"Does that mean you're going to skip the beer during the game?" Paul teased.

Steven twisted his mouth. "That doesn't qualify as the absolute least I could do, bro. I'll be good, but not that good."

Translation: Your drunk ass will be sleeping on my couch. Sounds about right.

"You won't believe the tickets I scored for us," Steven said. "One of the parents in Holly's class has season tickets in the Diamond Club section and a parking pass that gives us a space practically next to the building."

"Wow. Remind me to be nicer to Holly."

"You're always nice to Holly."

"I'm scared to be otherwise," Paul said. "She can be - what's the word I'm looking for? Fierce."

"In all the best ways," Steven sighed happily.

"Agreed." Paul really did like his future sister-in-law. Holly Shipley was exactly the kind of woman his brother needed. Someone who could give him some direction and make him smile like an idiot. In fact, if Paul went for girls, he'd pick her.

But try as he might, he gravitated toward men. Men with solid muscles and strong hands and lickable skin and blond hair that was starting to curl at the ends -

Paul shook his head to clear it of thoughts from last night. The last thing he needed was to pitch a tent in the car next to his brother.

Steven wasn't kidding about those tickets -- or that parking pass. Paul had never gotten into his seat quicker or with less hassle. Hell, their seats even came with waitresses to bring them beer. This is how you celebrate a birthday, he thought. He could feel his hangover lessen with the familiar rhythms of a ballgame getting ready to begin.

"So, when is the house going on the market?" Paul asked as they settled in to seats that were about fifteen rows right behind home plate. "You said something about waiting until spring got warmer, and I'm here to tell you, it has come to pass."

"Signed all the papers with a realtor this week," Steven said. "He did a walk-through and gave me this whole damn list of things I need to do."

"Sucks being a homeowner."

"Says the guy who doesn't even have to mow his own lawn," Steven scoffed. He flagged down a waitress, who brought them the necessary beer and hot dogs and popcorn.

"What's on that honey-do list, then?"

"Well, he's setting me up with a home stager, whatever the hell that is," Steven said.

"That would be someone to tell you how useless your furniture arrangement is, kiddo."

"Thank you, Dr. McDonnell."

"Who is he sending?"

"Some chick named Acelin. Never heard of a name like that before. Or maybe it was Allison. I didn't read it that closely."

"Of course not," Paul said under his breath.

"Doesn't really matter who's doing it," Steven said. "David said my house needs to be staged, and this was the stager he uses."

"Clearly, your realtor could tell you desperately need a feminine touch," Paul said dryly.

Steven snorted. "Clearly, I get touched by something feminine a hell of a lot more often than you do."

Paul cleared his throat and acknowledged the truth of that, though not the whole truth.

"Speaking of," Steven continued, "any prospects for your arm candy at my wedding?"

Paul grimaced. "That's a pretty thankless job, being the date of the best man. I'm going to be a little busy that night, what with the inappropriate toasting, the drinking to excess, the embarrassing words I'll need to spray in shaving cream on your getaway car."

"What about that secretary of yours?" Steven was undeterred. "She's healthy looking. And - what's the word I'm looking for? Avid?"

"That's a word, yes. Avid." Paul took a drink to rid his mouth of the unpleasant taste that had popped up. "She's really and officially not my type. Plus, you know better than to date an employee, come on."

"Okay, fine. Not the avid secretary. But you gotta find somebody."

"Oh, I gotta, little brother?"

"You're 36 now, big brother," Steven persisted. "Gotta make a decision sooner rather than later."

Paul shrugged. "Well, I figure your wedding spares me a couple more years of mom's nagging. Even more if you and Holly start squeezing out grandbabies."

"Yeah, you totally owe me."

"Amen."

"So, help me with the home stager chick," Steven reasoned. "I need backup in case she wants to put pink flowers everywhere or something."

"You think it will take two big, strong men to stop one woman from forcing you to live in a girly dollhouse?"

Steven blew out a big breath. "Yes."

"Fine," Paul sighed. "I'll protect my widdle bwutha one more time."

"Excellent." Steven finished his second beer. "And who knows? Maybe she'll be cute and you can bring her to my wedding."

"Jesus, you're worse than Mom. Are you sure pink flowers aren't your thing?"

Steven threw peanuts at his head.

Steven wasn't wrong. Paul knew he couldn't keep up the bachelor façade forever. And inside, he knew his calculations were off -- once Steven was married, there would be nothing to distract his mother from resuming her relentless push for him to settle down with a nice girl.

But it was more than that. How long could he realistically live with random encounters and vague answers to pointed questions? Paul had been living his life in limbo for two decades now, sort of hovering over the path he wanted to be on.

It's time to find your yellow brick road, buddy.

Chapter 3

All day Saturday, Ace activated his go-to defense mechanism to distract him from his brain: He cleaned.

If there had been even one errant renovation task he could have performed, he would have played that card. He did this every time. Whenever Ace's love life -- or, in this case, his fuck life -- threw him for a loop, he threw himself into his house.

In the last nine months, he had stripped floors and walls, painted every room -- then repainted when the color didn't work -- learned plumbing, drywalled, insulated, tiled, spackled, de-molded, re-moldinged, caulked, rewired. Every project gave him something to cuss about other than his love life.

And now, he was done. Finished. Project-less. Distraction-free.

If something didn't happen in the long term, he was going to have to move. Find another house to remake from scratch.

In the short term, though, he decided to clean the living hell out of his house.

Every piece of funky college student artwork got dusted, every stray cobweb got evicted, every curtain got laundered, every piece of furniture got steam cleaned.

All that work bought him about seven hours of distraction.

Then came Sunday. More than any typical date night, Sundays reminded Ace of the best of times with Cameron -- the long, sun-soaked afternoons under the sheets, the naps in each other's arms, the blissful domesticity that he craved.

So, of course, without those teasingly perfect days, Ace had filled his Sundays with distractions, assisted by his best friend, Erik Wallace. Together, they rebuilt this broken house and tore down their exes in the process.

Facing an empty Sunday -- and, now, a clean house -- Ace called Erik and Olive and Vince for an impromptu housewarming party on Sunday afternoon. Ace hadn't seen Olive and Vince for months, which was a little unforgivable considering his old friends from Baltimore were the reason he landed in Kansas in the first place.

He'd been staying with them when he first moved to town, and there at this end of their block was this breathtaking mess of a house.

He shouldn't have bought this house - or any house, for that matter. He should be living in an ecru and probably temporary apartment next door to stressed-out grad students.

Good bones - that's what realtors and remodelers say. This house had good, out-of-place, out-of-time, Victorian, sharp bones. Lawrence boasted some schizophrenic streets where consistency was clearly considered to be the hobgoblin of little minds. But even among such neighbors, Ace's house had stood out.