Counting Fence Posts

By Kelly Jensen

There are over two hundred thousand fence posts between Syracuse and Boston. Henry Auttenberg likes numbers—it’s his job—but he isn’t going to count them all, even if the view outside the rental car is less confounding than the driver, his attractive but oh so obnoxious colleague, Marcus Winnamore. It’s Christmas Eve, and Henry would much rather be home with his family. When the blizzard that grounded their flight forces them off the road, however, he’s stuck with Marc until the storm passes—or a plow digs them out.

As the temperature outside plummets, the atmosphere inside the car slowly heats up. Henry learns the true reason for Marc’s chilly distance—he’s not exactly straight… maybe… and he’s been fantasizing about Henry’s mouth, among other things. Confession laid out, Marc is all for sharing body heat… and more. Henry isn’t interested in being an experiment, but as the night and cold deepen, he could be convinced to balance certain risk against uncertain reward.

Table of Contents

Blurb

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

More from Kelly Jensen

About the Author

By Kelly Jensen

Visit Dreamspinner Press

Copyright Page

Acknowledgments

AS ALWAYS, I’m grateful to everyone who helped me shape this story.

Chapter One

FIELDS OF snow slid past the passenger-side window, the monotony of white broken only by fence posts. Henry had been counting the posts for a while. He had one tally for posts leaning at odd angles, another for missing railings, a third for gates. In approximately twenty-five miles, there had only been two gates.

How many fence posts would mark the miles from Syracuse to Boston?

Henry fiddled with the vent on his side of the dash, directing the feeble draft of heat more toward his knees, and snuck a quick look across the driver’s side of the rental car. He meant to check the other side of the road for fence posts, but found Marc’s profile too distracting. Snowy banks and posts blurred behind the angle of Marc’s strong nose, his lips, chin, and jaw. When Marc’s brow wrinkled, Henry knew it was time to turn away, lest he get caught staring.

Lusting after straight guys wasn’t healthy. Nope. Been there, done that, not doing it again. Counting fence posts was better for his sanity and his heart. Returning his attention to his own window, Henry added the posts he’d missed to his tally and looked toward the next gate. He wondered if all the snow-covered fields on his side of the road belonged to the same property. Somewhere, perhaps beyond the distant line of trees bordering the far edge of the fields, there might be a house. Inside, a family would be cozied up together in the soft glow of a lit Christmas tree, while Henry was stuck in a rental car with Marcus Winnamore.

“Signal lost,” the GPS announced in a bored tone.

Marc smacked the dash-mounted unit. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“It’s probably just a pocket.” Henry gestured vaguely toward the windshield. The blizzard that had diverted their flight from Boston to Syracuse loomed on the horizon; a long, ruminating cloud, stretching endlessly north and south. “Or it could be the storm.”

“We’re still two hundred miles from Boston,” Marc said, smacking the GPS again. “We won’t hit weather for at least another hour.” And from there, they’d plow through, because Marc had never met an obstacle he couldn’t defeat. Over, under, around, or through. He probably had that tattooed somewhere on his body.

Henry lost a moment imagining just where that ink might be and how it might flex across Marc’s pleasantly muscled frame.

He’d been excited by the opportunity to travel with Marc. They weren’t the only Boston University graduates at Beck and Meyer, but they were often mentioned in the same breath because of their interview scores—which were supposed to be private, yet never were. Henry had beaten Marc by one point. He’d known the minute he met Marc that it would be the last time he topped him in anything, however.

They were both tall, both had brown hair. Both had graduated with honors and a position with one of the most prestigious financial consultancy firms in the Northeast. There the similarities ended. Marc was four years older and seemed a decade wiser. He carried his height with confidence and had a set of broad shoulders illustrating he didn’t spend all his hours behind a desk. When Marc smiled, everyone else smiled. When he scowled, cowards looked for cover. The brave were rewarded with hearty backslaps and invitations to Mulligan’s on Thursday afternoons. It was easy to believe he’d charmed his way through college, but he hadn’t. Marc had earned his position at Beck and Meyer, and he’d already advanced to Senior Acquisitions Analyst by the time Henry joined the firm.

This was the first time they’d worked together. At the airport, they’d done the brief introduction thing, even though they had been employed by the same company for over two years. “Call me Marc,” Marc had invited over a firm handshake. Then he pulled out a slim laptop, flipped it open, and proceeded to work until boarding and all through the flight. In Chicago, he’d only spoken to Henry to deliver instructions, and they retired to separate hotel rooms without sharing dinner.

The second day on-site had passed in much the same way. Henry had learned a lot by watching Marc—from the way he handled clients to the precision with which he approached each aspect of the deal. He’d hoped for a little more one-on-one time, though, and not just because he had secretly fantasized about his colleague for, well, two and a half years. Marc would make an excellent contact within the firm. If Henry could permanently partner with him, he’d go places.

After three days in his company, Henry just wanted to go home.

“Earth to Auttenberg.”

“Huh?”

Marc pointed at the glove compartment. “See if we have a map.”

Henry eyed the compartment with some trepidation before opening it. Used condoms were the least disgusting things he’d found in the nooks and crannies of rental cars.

Marc was stabbing a finger through the air again. “Do you need directions? It’s right there.”

Sighing, Henry flipped open the compartment and braced for untold horrors. Fence posts slid by uncounted as he waited for something to crawl out of the murky depths and bite him. Nothing stirred but a badly folded map. He grabbed the nearest corner and pulled it out.

“We could just head back up to 90.” Henry sorted through the folds until he found Miami. “This is a map of Florida, by the way.”

“Fuck.”

The hair along the back of Henry’s neck bristled. He’d never heard Marc swear. Ever. Guy defined the word irascible, but he usually kept a civil tongue.

“Continue on highlighted route,” the GPS chimed in.

“GPS is back up.”

“So I noticed,” Marc said, kindly not appending doofus to the end of his statement.

“We must be past the hold up on the interstate by now.”

Marc shook his head. “I don’t want to backtrack. I think 20 will take us all the way to 88.”

“I thought we were on 13.”

“And that’s why I’m the organ-grinder and you’re the monkey.”

Cheeks heating, Henry turned his attention back to the map. He opened it all the way out and looked for the original creases before carefully refolding it. When he was done, he had a neat packet with a beach scene across the front. The blue of the sky had faded a little, but the sun looked bright. Glancing up from his slice of paradise, he counted fence posts for a little while, starting a separate tally. Beneath the monotony of the count, he calculated how many posts there were in a mile, then plotted the course between Syracuse and Boston in posts. Over two hundred thousand. Thinking about counting them all made him tired. He wished he was back in Boston already, sprawled across the love-worn furniture at his parents’ house. His sister would be there too with her husband and kids. Would they wait for him before following the Christmas Eve tradition of opening one present each?

“How long have you been with Beck and Meyer now?”

Starting, Henry turned away from wishes and snowy fields. “Uh, two and a half years?”

“You’re not sure?” Marc glanced over, one dark brow quirked over an equally dark eye. He had those brown eyes that could be black. Henry tried not to meet his gaze too often because he feared he’d get lost searching for the line between iris and pupil—and that would mean he’d been staring.

Staring at straight guys like a lost puppy was a good way to get his ass kicked.

“Um, yeah. I mean, sure I’m sure. I started in 2012. August.”

“Right out of BU?’

Henry cleared his throat. “Right.”

“You should watch those tics in your speech, and never turn a statement into a question. Makes you sound unsure.”

“Um, okay.”

“See, that right there is what I’m talking about. Don’t say ‘um,’ ever. Pause if you need a second to put your words together.”

Turning away, Henry leaned toward the passenger-side window, hoping the crisp outside air might magically leach through the glass and cool his cheeks.

“Not talking is only half a solution,” Marc went on. “Knowing when to be quiet and observe is a definite skill, but to make an impression, you have to open your mouth.”

Inhaling quickly, Henry banished all thoughts of opening his mouth in the vicinity of Marc’s… anything. Then he paused, letting an “um” fall by the wayside. “Thanks for the advice.”

Marc gave him a sideways look. Apparently deciding Henry had been sincere, he turned his attention back to the road. “You’re a smart guy. Everyone knows it. Your analysis of the financials for Chicago was really insightful. You caught trends most would miss. That’s why I asked you along this trip.” Marc had asked for him specifically? “But if we’re going to continue to work together, you need to find your tongue.”

Henry loosened his collar. His blush had spread down his neck and across his shoulders. The curse of pale skin often meant that particularly intense emotions lent a flush to approximately 80 percent of his body.

He searched for his tongue and found it. “Is this a performance review?”

“No, I’m just making conversation.”

“We’ve had three days to make conversation. Why now?”

“You don’t want to talk?”

“I appreciate the advice, really. Ah—” Cutting himself off, Henry leaped to the next word “I’m just wondering why you want to talk now, when you basically ignored me for the whole trip.”

Marc glanced over again, dark eyes sparkling over a dangerous smile. “Your panties in a bunch, Auttenberg?”

“My name is Henry, and I don’t wear panties.”

That black gaze dropped to Henry’s lap. “Going commando under your suit pants? Isn’t the wool itchy? You don’t want to end up with a rash.”

“It’s a good thing I’ve got a couple days to recover, then.”

“You’re not taking off the week between Christmas and New Year’s?”

“Are you?”

“No, but all our client offices will be closed. It’s going to be pretty quiet.”

Relieved to have moved the conversation away from underwear choices, Henry said, “I figured it would be a good time to start checking the data on Hiddenger.”

Marc’s brows shot up. “Hiddenger is going to be my client.”

“I know.”

A smile eased across Marc’s mouth. “Still waters run deep.”

“Is dropping clichés part of your prescription for being more talkative and memorable?”

Rather than take offense, Marc chuckled. Then he cast another significant glance at Henry’s crotch. “Tell me you’re not really going pants-less.”

“Why are you so interested in my underwear?”

Interestingly enough, Marc blushed. At least, Henry thought he did. His darker complexion hid most of it. “Just making conversation,” he muttered.

Henry let a few more fence posts pass by uncounted before adding a batch load to his tally. Then he said, “Boxers.”

“Huh?”

“I’m wearing boxers under my suit pants.”

Marc tipped a nod toward the steering wheel, and the next mile rolled by in something like companionable silence—Henry quietly satisfied with his end of the conversation, weird as it had been. He’d almost held his own—or had at least shown himself to be less of a doormat than Marc might have assumed.

“Signal lost,” the GPS reported.

Remembering he still held the map, Henry shoved it back into the open glove compartment and sealed the hatch. Then he pulled out his phone. “No bars.”

Marc shifted in his seat and reached into a pocket. He produced a phone and handed it across to Henry. “See if you can get anything with mine.”

The device was warm, and cradling it in his palm, Henry allowed his thoughts to wander toward the hip it had been nestled against. He checked the network status. No signal. “Nothing.”

“Dammit.” Marc tapped the GPS again.

Flakes of snow drifting toward the windshield distracted Henry from a pointless daydream involving Marc’s long, tanned fingers. “It’s snowing.”

Despite the white fields and brooding clouds covering the horizon, those first few flakes embodied a moment of wonder. Even at the age of twenty-four, he marveled at the quiet efficiency of snow. He appreciated the way a fresh blanket covered murk and slush, washing the world with soft brilliance.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t amount to much. The storm should be moving away from us.”

It should be, but as the swirl of snow across the windshield increased, the horizon became less distinct. Then the fence posts lining the side of the rural highway began to disappear.

Chapter Two

THE WINDSHIELD wipers groaned beneath the weight of the snow. Marc twiddled the control, and the wipers shuddered toward the middle of the windshield, catching against a streak of ice.

“Can you see anything?” Henry asked. He’d been sitting on the question for a while, but being a passenger in a sightless vehicle was taking its toll on his nerves. Counting the swipes of the struggling wipers only made him more anxious.

“No.” Marc fiddled with the control again, and one of the wipers froze in place. The other retreated downward and failed to rise again. Snow quickly covered the small arc of clear glass. Marc kept driving for a full sixty seconds—each counted beneath Henry’s breath—before nudging the vehicle toward the unseen side of the invisible road. “Going to pull over for a few.”

Henry searched for something to mark where the road ended and the fields began, but as the car coasted to a halt, he saw nothing but white. Heard nothing but the crunch of snow wedging up beneath the wheel arches. The car groaned and shuddered.

“I think you went too far off the side,” he said.

Marc gripped the wheel and looked straight ahead, as if he sought solace in the snow piling up over the windshield. He let go of the wheel and gripped his thighs instead. “Yeah.” Glancing over at Henry, he offered a half smile, the slant of his lips somewhat self-deprecatory. “Sorry.”

Wow, that was new. And that smile. Where had that coy little smile come from?

“We’ll just have to wait for a plow,” Henry said.

“Once this front passes, we’ll dig out, plow or no plow.”

Now that was more like the Marc he knew and… knew. Henry leaned forward to peer through the accumulating gloom. “If it passes.”

“The storm is still a hundred miles away. This is just a leading edge or something.”

“It’s looking pretty set.” Henry wasn’t an argumentative guy, but he’d lived in the Northeast long enough to know that fat, heavy flakes blowing sideways with the intent of burying everything in sight was more than a passing thing.

“Signal lost,” the GPS added.

“Of course it is.” Marc smacked the steering wheel.

The engine hiccupped and stalled. Instantly the temperature of the air blowing from the vents dropped by ten degrees. Henry counted off another minute. Snow nearly obscured all the windows by the time he’d breathed his last Mississippi, and if anything, the wind had picked up, pushing against the car in an uneven rhythm. They wouldn’t be digging out anytime soon.

Rather than say that, he chose another tack and spoke quietly, wary of inciting another attack on the steering wheel, or the GPS. “If you’ve got warmer clothes in your suitcase, we should probably get it now, before the snow gets too deep.” They both had overcoats in the backseat, but they were more a part of their corporate wardrobe than practical cold weather gear.

“It’s going to blow over,” Marc said.

“But just in case it doesn’t….” Henry unfastened his seat belt and pulled at the door handle. Discovering the door was locked, he located the latch and thumbed it.

Marc was looking at him, dark eyes intense in the muted light. “You seriously want to get your stuff.”

“Yeah, can you pop the trunk?”

“You’re wasting your time. It’s not like we’re stranded in Siberia. A plow will be along soon.”

Swallowing rising frustration, Henry tried for a reasonable tone. “We’re on, what, a secondary or tertiary road?” Because you didn’t want to backtrack. “A plow might be right behind us, or it could be ahead of us. Or it could be halfway to the nearest urban center because already this winter is the worst on record and everyone is scrambling to keep ahead of the snow. I’m not interested in freezing to death while we wait to find out.”

Henry pushed his door open and wet snow blew inside the car, stinging his cheeks and bringing tears to his eyes. The door stopped halfway, caught on a low drift. He angled his way through the gap, thankful (for once) for his lean build. Fat flakes stole down the back of his shirt collar and inside his ears. Hunching his shoulders against the cold, he climbed through ankle-deep powder to the back of the car. The wind pushed and pulled at him, apparently undecided on a direction. He slid once, catching himself on a buried fence post. By the time he got up to the road, snow stuck to every inch of him, head to toe. His jaw already ached from clenching against the cold.

Marc hadn’t opened the trunk. Henry banged on it a few times before he felt the click of the release. He levered the lid up, spilling the snow already piled across the top, and reached inside for his carry-on. If they were going to be trapped inside the car for hours, or possibly the night—God no—he wanted the whole case.

Marc appeared beside him and reached in for his case. Leaving him to it, Henry made his way back around the side of the car to his open door, wind pulling at every part of him, snow stinging and burning his exposed face. He leaned in to scoop snow off his seat, then piled in with his case on his lap and pulled the door closed. Marc scrambled back into the driver’s side a few seconds later, shutting his door with a slam. The following silence wedged into Henry’s ears like a pair of thumbs. He existed in the moment for a while, grateful to be out of the wind and driving snow. Then his ass informed him it was cold, and possibly wet. Henry unzipped his case and sorted through the couple of folded stacks until he found his sweatpants and a hoodie.

“Are you going to get changed right there?” Marc was giving him an odd look.

“No, I’m just going to put this over top. Like layers.”

“You’re going to look ridiculous.”

Henry shrugged. “At this point, nothing we do is going to detract from the fact we’re stranded on the side of a country highway, where we ended up in defiance of a travel advisory. I don’t think me being stuffed into two or three layers of clothing is going to make a difference.”

“It’s Christmas Eve. Like anyone was going to stay put. And Boston is only—”

“Two hundred miles away. I know.” Henry kneaded the space between his brows before glancing sideways at Marc. “Are you always this stubborn?”

Marc’s jaw set, his chin lifting slightly, and a muscle flickered somewhere toward his ear. He looked mad, bad, and dangerous to know—and despite being half-numb, Henry’s cock twitched in interest. Dammit.

“You’re pretty stubborn yourself, Auttenberg. And I prefer determined.”

“I prefer Henry.”

Huffing out a sigh, Marc turned his attention back to the carry-on wedged between his torso and the steering wheel. Henry watched him peripherally and laid odds on when Marc’d give in and open the case. He had nothing to count but the agitated beat of his heart, so weighing the statistics gave him a spot of calm.

Henry pushed his sweats down beside his seat and zipped his case closed. By the time he’d leaned around to put it on the backseat, Marc had both hands on the lid of his case, thumbs pressed against the line of the zip. Henry was facing away when he heard the zip open. He indulged in a quick smile, exchanging it for a more sober expression before turning back to the front of the vehicle to begin the process of pulling on his second layer. He paused to brush off as much snow as he could first. The exertion warmed him a little, but he’d cool off quick enough.

He didn’t look at Marc while he pulled on his extra clothes, but he glanced over when he was done. Marc had donned workout gear, same as him. They now wore matching BU sweatshirts. Marc met his gaze with a crooked eyebrow.

Henry allowed another smile. “Warmer?”

“If we keep fucking around like this, I’m not exactly going to freeze.”

Ducking his head, Henry pretended interest in the Coke bottle stuck in the center console until the urge to blush passed. Despite an odd interest in Henry’s underwear choices, Marc was still straight. Right? Henry reached for the radio. “Maybe we can get some news on the storm.”

Marc made no answer.

Henry skipped through static, fuzz, and holiday music until he found a voice.

“According to you, the world was supposed to end in August last year.”

“We’ve been in the end times for three years already, Larry. August last year was simply the beginning of the flood.”

“Wackos,” Marc muttered.

“If we’re getting this slammed in December, there’s going to be a hell of a flood come spring.” Henry skipped to the next station.

Over the low drawl of a DJ reading his backlist, Marc said, “The storm wasn’t meant to extend this far west.”

“Tell that to the blizzard out there.”

Marc glanced over. “You sound like my uncle Bob.”

“Yeah, well, the GPS sounds like my aunt Debbie.”

Debbie chose that moment to chime in with, “Signal lost.”

“No shit, Debbie,” Marc said, reaching over to cancel the navigation program.

Henry found a news report and leaned back in his seat to listen to the list of closures and cancellations. The steady voice of the reporter lulled him for a while, as did the warmth creeping across previously numbed skin. Outside, the storm continued to buffet the car, rocking it gently. So much snow had piled across the windshield, the lights of the dash reflected back, showing ghostly images of the pair of them reclining in their seats. By the time the report cycled around to the weather again, Henry had closed his eyes in contemplation of a nap.

“With the storm taking a bizarre left turn and tracking inward, away from the Eastern Seaboard, we’re looking at a wider path. Accumulation estimations have already been surpassed from Long Island to Albany, with much of the Northeast rapidly disappearing under feet of snow.”

Opening his eyes, Henry peered through the rime creeping toward the center of the passenger-side window. It was four in the afternoon, but it seemed much later. The sky had disappeared. When the wind paused for breath, Henry thought he could see a single fence post poking out of the drift at the side of the road. The snow wasn’t that deep yet, but the heavy gusts were piling it up against anything that stood in its way. Even if they only got a couple feet, the car could end up buried.

The snow would insulate the vehicle, right? Like an igloo?

Pity he wasn’t stuck with someone more inclined toward sharing body heat. Not that he’d mind cuddling up with Marc. The object of his fantasies probably thought differently, though. Hell, if previous experience had taught Henry anything, it was that he sucked at guessing another guy’s thoughts.

“I’m starting to think we might be here until the snow passes,” Marc said. He’d picked up his phone and was fiddling with the screen. “Do you remember when we last passed a house?”

“I don’t remember seeing any houses. Besides, we should stay with the car.”

“Says who?” Marc stabbed at his phone, then shook it, as if he could bully the device into catching a stray signal.

“Experts.”

“I wonder how many of these so-called experts have ever been stuck inside a car during a blizzard.”

Henry noted the fact Marc had upgraded the leading edge to an actual blizzard. “Some of them. I read this book last year about how to survive all kinds of stuff. Kidnapping, plane crash, train derailing, flood, forest fire—”

“Why would you read something like that?” Marc was staring at him, mouth slightly open.

“To be prepared.”

“For a kidnapping.”

“We work in the financial industry, and we’re party to sensitive data. It could happen.”

“Or the plane could just crash, taking you and your precious data with it.”

“Mock all you want.” Henry pointed over his shoulder using his thumb. “Did you know we can take apart the backseat covers to use as blankets if it gets really cold?”

Marc had another strange look in his eyes. Turning away, he massaged his brow with the heel of one palm and stared disconsolately at his phone. Then he reached for the door handle. “I’m going to walk down the road a bit and see what I can see.”

“Snow. You’ll see snow.”

“Maybe I can flag someone down.”

“No one is going to be driving in this. The plows probably can’t even keep going.”

Marc had the door cracked open and the wind pushed inside the car in a frozen swirl. “I’m just going to walk a little way.”

Grinding his teeth together, Henry pushed open his door.

“What are you doing?” Marc said.

“Coming with you.” Kindly, Henry did not append the moron to his statement.

“I’m not going far.”

“It’s best if we stay together.”

“Is that another of your survival tips?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know. I just don’t like the idea of sitting here while you get lost.”

“I’m not going to get lost.”

“Can’t you just stay inside the car?”

“I’m not the sort of guy who just lets life pass him by.”

Henry knew if he answered that comment, he’d start babbling, yelling, and possibly cursing. He pushed open his door and climbed back out into the storm.

Chapter Three

“MARC!”

This was utterly stupid. The bitter wind stung his cheeks and blew right through his layers. Henry pulled his hood up and shivered as snow kissed the back of his neck. Angling his head down, he trudged back around the side of the car and fell, face-first and flailing, into a soft drift. Cold fingers crept under his clothes, stinging his skin. He clambered up to the side of the road and stood a moment, brushing himself off. When he realized new snow covered him as quickly as he dispensed with the old snow, he gave up and looked for Marc.

He saw nothing but angled streaks of white over gray. Or… what was that?

Cupping his mouth, he called out again. “Marc, stop!”

As he pushed through the snow, Henry decided there was something seriously wrong with Marc. The guy might call himself determined, but his take-charge attitude must hide a chink in his armor of charm—not that he’d been all that charming over the last three days. Not toward Henry, anyway. But any man who felt compelled to push down every barrier must be looking for something.

What was Marc looking for? And where in this frozen hell was he?

Henry pushed on, gasping as the wind tugged his hood back down. He reached for it and stumbled, arms windmilling. One foot slipped in the snow and down he went—only to have his fall arrested by a firm grip around his elbow.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Marc growled. Might have growled. The wind snatched at his words and tone.

Henry tried to wrench his arm free and succeeded only in pulling Marc down with him so they both fell in an undignified sprawl across the road. If their luck held, the plow would come now, scoop them up and push them over the embankment with their car.

Marc’s arms banded about his shoulders as they slid to a stop. “Stop moving. Jesus. You’re like a bag of cats. Take a breath.”

“I would if you’d let me up. Where were you?”

“Chasing you down the road.”

Henry spat out a mouthful of snow. “But I was chasing you!”

“Yeah, well, I decided you were right at just about the same time you decided to run back to Syracuse.”

“But….” Henry spluttered for a moment, then pushed Marc away from him. “Can we finish this in the car?”

Marc got to his feet and held out a hand. Ignoring it, Henry struggled upright and turned a quick circle, looking through the gray gloom for the rental.

“It’s back this way,” Marc said, indicating a direction.

Putting his head into the wind, Henry trudged back up the road.

The car looked abandoned and pathetic, angled halfway off the shoulder with the front end buried in a snowbank. Henry was just glad they’d found it. On the short walk back, he’d entertained visions of wandering lost in the frozen tundra of upstate New York until rescue found their solid corpses. Brushing snow from his clothing again proved a mostly futile exercise. Henry yanked the door open and thrust himself into the tepid warmth of the car. Marc joined him a moment later, having obviously tried and failed to shake snow off his clothing.

A distinctly uncomfortable quiet swelled around them. A relative quiet. The storm still blew outside the car, and the news report had been replaced by holiday advertising. No one would be going out for last-minute gifts in this weather.

Beside him, Marc breathed heavily.

“That was stupid,” Henry said.

Marc turned to look at him. “No kidding.”

“So you… what? Just waited by the door while I ran off down the road?”

“Pretty much. Then I figured I should come get you before you got lost.”

“I wouldn’t have even been out there if it wasn’t for you.” Wouldn’t be shivering, either, or so cold his hands and feet burned.

“I’m flattered.” One corner of Marc’s mouth twitched toward a smile. Then he breathed in deeply and pushed out a sigh. “Listen, I’m sorry. I… I got out there and realized you were right. I couldn’t see a thing. I mean, I figured there must be a house back there somewhere. The side of the road has been fenced for miles.”

With 742 posts.

“Any houses could be a mile or more back from the road,” Henry muttered.

“Yeah, I know. I just felt like I needed to do something.”

“You can’t stop a storm.”

Snow clung to Marc’s dark hair in great clumps. He’d forgotten to pull up his hood. He reached up to dislodge some and grunted as it slid down his face and caught in the collar of his sweatshirt.

He looked so dejected and unsure, sympathy bloomed warm in Henry’s chest. “Look, I want to get home as much as you do.”

“What makes you think I want to get home?”

“Isn’t that what that was all about?”

Mouth forming a hard, flat line, Marc turned away. A muscle ticked halfway along his jaw. “I just hate sitting around.”

A stronger gust of wind rocked the car. The windshield cleared briefly, then more snow slid diagonally across the glass, clinging in streaks and clumps.

Marc’s voice, when he spoke again, floated like a whisper over the noise of the storm. “What’s waiting for you at home?” he asked.

Henry felt his forehead wrinkle into a frown. “Is that a trick question?”

Melted snow trickled down the inside of his sweatshirt. Shifting in his seat, he pulled it over his head, catching his dress shirt and taking that with it. He needed some new layers. Some dry clothing. Tossing both shirts into the foot well where they might do some good soaking up the snow dripping from his pants and shoes, he turned toward the middle of the car, intending to reach between the seats to get something else from his carry-on.

Marc’s face held yet another unaccustomed expression. Interest and… desire? How’s that for wishful thinking? But there was little question about the direction of Marc’s gaze as it roamed Henry’s bare torso, shoulders to hips, before flicking away. Henry shivered as the heat left his skin. Marc turned back toward the windshield, scrubbed his brows with his palms, and pushed his hands through his wet hair. “No, it’s not a trick question. Do you have family in Boston?”

“Yeah. You didn’t think I picked up this accent in college, did you?”

Marc obviously wasn’t from Boston, though he’d lived there long enough to have flattened his vowels a little.

Henry flipped open his case and surveyed the remaining clothing. Two more dress shirts, undershirts, boxers, and socks. He never bothered with pajamas when he traveled; he’d had the idea packing tartan plaid would make him seem less professional. Now he wished for the warmth and coziness of flannel. Sighing, he grabbed a handful of cloth and turned back around.

“Where is your family?” he asked.

Marc’s brows rose. “Maryland.”

Henry grinned. “Well, no wonder you don’t have any snow sense. That’s technically the South, you know.”

Ignoring the jibe, Marc said, “We get snow in Maryland. Six inches brings DC to a grinding halt.” His mouth curved into a rueful smile. “But I’ve been up here for eight years. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

“I’ve lived here all my life and I’m not used to it. Besides, this much snow is unnatural. It’s like we’re living in North Dakota or something.”

Marc’s smile widened. “Yeah.”

“You know, you’re a lot less intimidating when you smile.” Kind of. Not really? Sexier, and therefore less approachable, in one sense. Dizzying in another. And… had he just said that out loud? That odd glint had returned to Marc’s eyes.

Wrenching his gaze away, Henry asked, “How come you’re not heading to Maryland for the holidays?”

When Marc made no immediate answer, Henry glanced back up. All traces of humor had fled Marc’s expression, and he seemed occupied by brushing the rest of the snow from his sweatshirt. Then, obviously drawing the same conclusion Henry had, he pulled it over his head, removing his shirt along with it.

It wasn’t an invitation, but it was. Henry stared.

Marc’s chest was beautifully carved, the cut of his muscles obvious, even in the dim light. In fact, the shadows only enhanced his build, showing off square-shaped pecs, six definite abs and a tapered V pointing directly to heaven. Henry tried to look away before the line of dark hair from Marc’s navel led him to the folds of material over his crotch. Tried and failed. When he did manage to look up, Marc’s eyes were hooded and focused directly on his.

Henry felt the blush before it claimed his skin—an itchy tingle starting at his neck before spreading up and down, flushing his cheeks and chest in the same instant. He shivered. His nipples tightened under the prickle of goose bumps. Below his waist, his cock couldn’t decide whether to harden or retreat. The heat of Marc’s gaze hinted he fought a similar struggle.

For a moment it seemed as if they’d both lean in, drawn together by an invisible string. Henry’s breath shortened. Warmth flowed toward his frozen fingertips and toes. His ears burned.

Is he not quite straight? Or does he just want?

Henry remembered that struggle all too well. He also remembered the price of asking those same questions out loud.

Marc broke the spell, inhaling sharply and looking away. He bundled up his shirts and pushed them aside, then leaned toward Henry with a more innocent intent, angling his shoulder between the seats to rummage in his case. The scent of his skin tickled Henry’s nostrils. Masculine and clean. When Marc pulled back with a handful of shirts, Henry looked down. Tucked between the dress shirts was a flash of striped flannel. A pajama top.

Henry tried not to laugh, but a small sound escaped him.

“What’s so funny?” Marc asked, shaking out his new shirts.

Shaking his head, Henry lifted an undershirt and resisted the urge to sniff the fabric. He already knew it would smell like day-old sweat. That it wouldn’t smell like Marc. He shook it out and tugged it over his head. He did the same with a second undershirt and reached for a dress shirt. Warmth quickly caressed his skin, but it wouldn’t be long before the cold crept in again. Their breath was starting to fog.

Beside him, Marc pulled on his collection of shirts, leaving the pj top until last. As he stuck an arm into the striped flannel, Henry gestured toward it.

“I was laughing at your pajamas, but not for the reason you think.”

“What reason is that?”

Henry waved a hand. “It’s just that I never take pajamas with me when I travel. Well, I did the first time, but it felt weird wearing them in a hotel room. Like I was a boy playing grown-up or something.”

“So you’re laughing at me because I look stupid?”

“No, I’m laughing because I feel stupid.”

“I really don’t get you, Auttenberg.” Marc’s eyes narrowed. “You’re like a snake or something. All quiet until someone steps on you. Is the shy thing just an act?”

“The shy thing?”

“You’re quiet and reserved. Aloof, even. You never come to Mulligan’s on Thursdays.”

“You’ve never invited me.”

Marc’s brows drew together. “It’s a public place.”

Henry hitched his shoulders into a shrug. “I figured….” He clamped his mouth shut.

“You figured what?”

“I thought it was like a group thing. I didn’t realize anyone could just show up.”

“Like I said, it’s a public—”

Henry held up a hand. “A public place, I know. But do you make a habit of going where you don’t feel welcome? No, don’t answer that—of course you do. You’re Marcus Winnamore. There is no wall high enough, wide enough, or dug deep enough to keep you at bay.”

“That’s who you think I am?”

“You’ve been at the firm for four years, and you’re already a senior analyst. You’ve only lost one acquisition, not even to a competitor. The CEO of the company died, and you managed to close the deal with his son three months after the funeral.”

“Technically, that’s not a loss.”

“See? That’s what I mean. Hell, trap you in a car during a blizzard, and you think you can get out and walk to Boston.”

“You’re the one who ran off down the road.”

Henry raised his hands. “All part of the strategy, no doubt.”

“Do you have a problem with me?”

Not in the way you think.

“No, I don’t. I want to be you. Everyone does. You’re the shining standard held up to every new hire. I knew all about you before I even went for my first interview, and I’ve only got eighteen months left to get to where you are.”

A dark brow quirked. “By then I could be on the partnership track.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Henry let out a frustrated growl.

“You….” Marc’s tone held none of the wry amusement of before. “You’ve really, um, been following my career path?”

Henry cracked open one eye. “You need to watch those verbal tics, Winnamore.”

Marc’s quick laugh was as much a surprise as the delight lighting up his entire face, and it was damned infectious. Henry fought the curve of his lips for only a second before giving in. They chuckled for about a minute before falling silent, then it took only one stray glance to set them off again. Another minute of quiet passed, with both of them smoothing snow from their pants and plucking at their layers of clothing. Then they were laughing again, only their humor had a slightly hysterical edge, as if they needed to find something to laugh about, while outside the storm slowly buried them alive.

Chapter Four

THE STORM swallowed the remains of the day. Gray became dark gray, then full black. The only light inside the car came from the radio, and if not for the steadily increasing chill, it would be cozy inside their snow-packed shell.

Henry’s jaw ached from clenching against an intermittent chatter. His phone lay cold against his palm. Depressing a button on the side, he woke the screen and checked the time. 6:23. They’d been stranded for more than two hours.

“We should run the engine for a little while, otherwise we might drain the battery,” Henry said.

“Is this another of your survival tips?” Marc’s asked, his tone more amused than annoyed as he turned the key and started the engine.

Cold air immediately hissed through the vents, making Henry regret giving any advice. Ten minutes later Marc killed the engine, and the heavy quiet of the falling snow descended once more. Henry was tempted to play with his phone—a game, or flip through his album, maybe even read one of the books he’d carelessly downloaded over the past couple of months. A little activity would warm the battery. But the incessant cold dulled the urge to do anything beyond exist. He’d even stopped looking for things to count.

Beside him, Marc had given into temptation. The reflected light of his phone threw his face into stark relief, accentuating the furrow between his brows as he concentrated on a sudoku puzzle. Henry leaned over to check his progress and Marc gave him a quick half smile.

“Hey, no stealing phone heat.”

Henry flexed his ankles. “I want to tuck a phone in each shoe. My feet are frozen solid.”

“Mine too.” Marc put his phone down. “Why is it neither of us traveled with a proper coat? The wind in Chicago was brutal.”

Henry jerked his head toward the backseat. “Give up fashion for function? Are you mad? Then there’s always the matter of where to put a bulky jacket. Showing up at the client office with a carry-on and carefully folded overcoat is bad enough. Always makes me feel like a traveling salesman.”

Marc appeared to contemplate that for a moment. “We’re actually one rung lower. Salesmen get offered coffee. Mergers and acquisitions consultants get suspicious looks. They always think we’re there to break the company into pieces after laying off every employee over the age of thirty-five.”

“Isn’t that what we do?”

“If you need to ask that, you’re in the wrong business.” Marc’s dark eyes weren’t as compelling in the low light, but Henry felt the weight of his attention regardless. “Are you a team player, Auttenberg?”

“What does that mean?”

“What’s your life plan? Partner at Beck and Meyer? You know they’re never going to add any more names to the marquee.”

They had nine partners, seven uncredited. Henry shrugged. “I haven’t thought that far ahead, to be honest.”

“No chart? No absolute plan, in triplicate?”

“I have goals.” He cocked his head. “Maybe my plan is to ride your coattails to the top.”

“You’re assuming I’m aiming for the top.”

“You’re not?”

“The top is just another wall.” Marc might have winked. It was hard to tell in the dark.

Henry let his head drop back against the headrest. “My ass is numb, and I think I’m going to lose at least six toes to frostbite.”

“So take your shoes off. You’ve got extra socks, right? In fact….” Marc began shuffling. A couple of seconds later, he leaned through the familiar path between the seats. Light flashed as he aimed his phone at his case. “Aha! I have four pairs. I’ll trade you one for your prelim on Hiddenger.”

This was nice, this actual chatting. Marc’s focus remained evident, but his edges seemed to have been softened, either by the storm or their shared laughter. Henry didn’t dare hope it had been their intense, shirtless moment.

“I always bring extra socks.” He waited for Marc to sit back down before pushing through the gap to rummage through his case. “I have four pairs too. So no deal.” He pulled the rolled socks into a bundle and started digging under the case. “I think it’s hat and glove time too.” He had both tucked into pockets of his overcoat, but wasn’t having much luck locating either in the dark.

“Losing your fingers to frostbite would suck, particularly in our profession.”

Giving up the search for his hat and gloves—he could save them for when he was really, really cold—Henry turned around and flopped back into his seat. “I can type with two fingers if I have to. There is also the typing pool on the fifth floor.”

“You mean the shark pool. A man is lucky to get out of there with his bachelorhood intact.”

Henry grinned. “I might have heard a rumor about you and Gabrielle Steiner.”

“One date, and the firm has us married.” Marc cast a sideways glance in Henry’s direction. “She’s not my type, anyway.”

Henry’s pulse kicked up a notch. After shucking off his shoes, he kicked them aside and pulled one foot up to his lap, tugging off the sock as he did so. He gasped as he wrapped his comparatively warm fingers around his ice-cold toes. “So….” He waited a beat, killing a verbal tic or two, and continued. “Who is your type?”

He’d heard no rumors questioning Marc’s sexuality but knew a few circulated regarding his. Considering Henry was quietly “out” at the office, he assumed any gossip about him speculated on his wild sexual habits. Everyone knew gay men were kinky, right? The fact he presented as a studious and fairly straightlaced guy (ha!) probably did little to dissuade everyone from their presumptions.

“Let’s talk about your type,” Marc countered.

Let’s not.

Actually, Henry didn’t really have a type. He’d been so focused on his career he hadn’t pursued a relationship in years. Sadly, he’d had more sex with his hand than an actual flesh-and-blood partner for about two of those years, and any fantasies regarding Marc Winnamore were strictly off-limits.

Concentrating on massaging the numbness from his toes, he said, “I think you know all about my type.” A quick look to the left showed Marc’s reaction, and it was perfect. Henry wished he could capture it with a camera. The combination of surprise and curiosity suited the defined lines of Marc’s face. Softened them again. Henry returned his attention to his feet, busying himself with replacing his cold and maybe wet socks, then adding a second and third layer.

Halfway through the process, he became aware of Marc doing the same—only his motions seemed jerkier, less sure, as if his mind were elsewhere. When they had both relaxed back into their seats, Marc turned to him. “I’m….” His mouth twisted into a grimace.

“Lemme guess. You’re not gay, right?”

It was a blunt statement, and the moment it passed his lips, Henry wished he could take it back. But he felt as if he knew Marc’s type. The overachiever, the go-getter, the guy who slapped backs and produced hearty guffaws on command. Marc was so not gay. Yet every time he’d looked at Henry over the past two hours, he’d been unable to hide his interest. Was it just curiosity, or something more?

Thinking back over the Chicago trip, Henry began to wonder if it was something more, something unacknowledged. An inclination Marc’s family didn’t approve of. Maryland wasn’t that far away—why else would he avoid them at Christmas?

If that were the case, then Henry had just done something near unforgiveable.

“Hey, listen.” Henry waited until he had Marc’s attention before continuing. “I’m sorry. I mean…. Crap. That was really rude, and I’m sorry, and I should know better. As a gay man, I should freaking well know better. If you’re just curious, that’s fine. I’m not going to judge. I’d never… I’m messing this up more, aren’t I?”

Marc reached forward to grip the steering wheel. Henry didn’t need light to imagine the whitening of his knuckles. “What do you mean by curious?” Marc whispered toward the windshield.

This less-sure Marc was new, or maybe a version Henry had only caught glimpses of before. He couldn’t decide if he preferred the arrogant, confident model or not.

“Um… have you heard the term bicurious?” Henry kept his tone as neutral as he could, which was hard, no pun intended.

“I’m not bisexual.”

Right, just like you’re not gay. Henry hauled in a breath and held it until every stinging retort tumbled back into the well. Marc didn’t come across as homophobic, not really, and while he’d never made any truly friendly overtures, he’d never publically snubbed Henry either. Not really. Until this trip, he’d seemed like a genial guy—still did when he wasn’t being acerbic.

Then there was this scene right here.

Henry bit his lips. Licked them. “We can change the subject if you want.”

Marc had let go of the steering wheel, but his fingers still curved as if forming fists. He clutched his fists to his chest and let out a short, sharp laugh. “This is like a bad reality show.” He deepened his voice. “Trap two guys in a car during a blizzard and see what happens in The Freezer.”

“Technically, you’re the one who started this conversation.”

Marc looked at him. “I know. I also know how I come off. Everyone’s best friend until I’m not. Arrogance and charm. A lot of that is me. But it’s also who I need to be. I guess I figured you might understand. I’m smart, Auttenberg. I know you know that, because you’re smart too. You know how to play the game, and you’ve been doing a phenomenal job at it over the past couple of years. Maybe even better than I have. But here’s the thing. Neither of us is who the other guy thought we were, are we?”

Swallowing over a suddenly dry throat, Henry nodded.

Marc issued another harsh chuckle. “Forget TV, this should be the new team-building exercise. Lock two schlubs in a car for a couple hours and see what happens. Maybe they should have us driving everywhere in teams instead of flying.”

“You’d have made me drive so you could work.”

Another chuckle, this one softer. “Probably.” Marc glanced over again. His lips worked a moment, then he pushed out a short sigh. “I don’t know what I am, okay? I’m not curious. I’m confused.”

Again, Henry’s mouth raced ahead of sense. “You, confused?”

“Hilarious, isn’t it?”

“What are you confused about?”

In the near dark, Marc’s stare got a whole lot more intense. “You.”

Chapter Five

HENRY COUNTED the pounding beats of his heart until he succumbed to the need for breath. Blood swished behind his ears, and the air he sucked into his lungs seemed to bounce and echo inside him. His feet were suddenly warm, and his teeth had stopped clattering together.

“Me?” And his voice had acquired a squeak.

Marc leaned forward. Instinctively, Henry flinched back. Thankfully, Marc didn’t notice. He’d pushed through the gap again, the stripes on his flannel shirt rippling as he dug around in the backseat. When he reemerged, he had two suit coats with him. He passed Henry’s over.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” Marc glanced down. “I think I’m going to change my pants too. My ass is numb.”

“Way to dodge the subject.”

Marc waved a hand. “We’ve got all night. We’ll get back to my confusion soon enough.”

Okay, Marc needed a break. That was fair. It had been a whopper of a confession. Some guys might go their whole life without even admitting that much. But Henry wanted, no… needed the answer to a single question. “Why me?”

“You’re not going to tell me you don’t think you’re good-looking, or worthwhile, are you?” Marc shook his head. “Half the women I’ve taken out have needled me about their appearance and career, as if they need my approval to exist, let alone count on a second date. I don’t get it.”

“I’m not a woman, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Not super self-conscious either. Just tragically aware of the futility of being attracted to straight guys. Seemingly straight guys. “And you know how ‘the game,’ as you call it, is played.”

“Want to hear about my date with Gabrielle?”

“Not really.”

“You live in North End, right?”

The interior of the rental car rivaled the square footage of Henry’s apartment in North End, and the mortgage cost him almost a third of his take-home pay. But he loved the neighborhood. He felt as if he’d made it every time he stepped onto the street and rubbed shoulders with all the other young professionals with their shiny new suits and shiny new dreams.

“Yeah, I do.”

“So does Gabby. I saw you when I went to pick her up.”

“You went to pick her up?”

“What can I say, I’m a gentleman.”

Henry felt his brow scrunch. “Where did you see me?”

“Jogging past Copp’s Hill cemetery.”

That was his route….

“I barely heard a thing Gabby said all night. She accused me of being an asshole, and I told her some lie about family worries.” Marc cupped the back of his neck. “Which wasn’t much of a lie, really, because I was wondering how my mom would react to me bringing home a guy instead of the wife and two-point-five she keeps hassling me about.”

So that was the issue with the family. Might be more complicated, but Henry sensed Marc wouldn’t want to dig deeper right now. He reached for humor. “Getting a bit ahead of yourself, aren’t you? We haven’t even gone out on a date yet.” God, a date with Marc. Henry’s heart rate increased, giving him a flushed shell of confidence that might harden and crack at any moment. “That must have been six months ago.”

“About a week before I planned to take you down to DC. The Ackerman and Styles reorg.”

“Planned?” Henry’s stomach clenched.

“I didn’t think I could sit on a plane with you, be in a hotel with you, and not do something I might regret.”

“And now?”

“I have spent three days trying not to look at your mouth.”

That… explained a lot.

Still, despite the urge to lean in and offer up his mouth, Henry found himself leaning away instead. He didn’t want to. His flushed and heated skin itched for the cool touch of Marc’s fingers, and all of his fantasies were slipping out of their respective corners and presenting themselves for closer inspection. But… he’d been here before. Not exactly here, but close enough.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not interested in being an experiment.”

Shock flittered across Marc’s face. “A what?”

“We work together. A night of awkward sex is going to make that harder than this”—he gestured vaguely toward the dissipating mist of breath between them—“already has.”

“What makes you think the sex would be awkward?”

“Do you even know how to have sex with a guy?”

“I’ve watched a lot of gay porn.”

Oh my God. He really didn’t need to know that. Not now.

Henry forced a laugh. “Do you watch het porn?”

“Sure.”

“And how often have you had sex like that? Like porn-star sex.”

Marc didn’t answer right away. Instead he fought his way into his suit coat. When he spoke again, his breath formed a thick cloud between them. Despite the heat incited by their conversation, the temperature kept dropping. “Point taken.” Another moment of silence, then Marc settled back in his seat. “I shouldn’t have said anything, should I?”

Henry began his own battle with his suit jacket, catching his arm on the dash and wrenching his wrist backward before he got it on. The quake of his limbs wasn’t all due to the cold, but the added layer of fabric provided a little more warmth, and that helped calm him. The jacket wasn’t cut to sit over four shirts, though, leaving his shoulders in a permanent pinch.

Similarly, he found himself caught between the proverbial rock and hard place. As a gay man, he wanted to offer support to someone who was obviously struggling with his identity. That it was Marc having the struggle shouldn’t make a difference. But it did. Henry had told the truth about looking up to Marc, wanting to be like him. Sensibly, he’d held back the rest of it—that he’d dreamed about more. Friendship turning into a partnership, of being in a relationship built upon mutual respect and want. Not what he’d had before, and not a short bet.

Hey, daydreams were supposed to be unrealistic, right?

What he had never figured out, though, was if his secret life was any more or less wishful than anyone else’s. He knew what it was like to be rejected by someone who couldn’t handle the idea of being with someone of the same sex. God, he knew that pain. But still, he lusted. Stupidly, silently, while trying to maintain a professional distance.

Was that why he came across as shy?

Life made so much more sense when he had something to count.

“We passed more than seven-hundred fence posts before the storm drove us off the road.”

Marc turned toward him. “What?”

“I counted them. I figured out how many we might pass if we followed this road all the way to Boston.”

“Why would you do that?”

“So I wouldn’t think about you.”

Marc’s inhale echoed through a sudden and deep quiet.

Henry reached again for some humor. “We could say it’s carbon-monoxide poisoning or something. We’ve been sitting here for nearly three hours now.”

“With the engine mostly off.”

“Listen.” Henry raised his hands, fingers spread. “We can hit the Rewind button if you want—”

“There’s only one direction, Auttenberg, and that’s forward.” Of course Marc would say that. “Isn’t every first date an experiment of a sort?”

“You’d really have asked me out on a date?”

“I was thinking about it.”

Henry took a turn at illustrating shock, then instantly felt bad. This was a guy who’d trekked to North End to pick up a woman he hadn’t even been interested in taking out. “Let’s get back to the jogging thing.”

Marc’s groan was comical. “When you’re at the office, you always have a look of intense concentration on your face. It’s kind of off-putting. Part of your reserved, aloof thing. As if you’re too busy to mix with the rest of us.” Well, damn. “When you’re running, you look different. Peaceful, somehow. And you move with a lot more grace than I would have expected. And….” Marc bit his lip.

“And?”

“You looked approachable.”

“I… what? What do you mean?”

“You just have no idea, do you?”

“You’re the intimidating one,” Henry said. “We’ve covered that. Guy everyone looks up to, right? We’re all following your career trajectory.”

“One guy in particular with a focus so intense, I can’t tell what he wants, or what he’s even thinking.”

“This is so weird.”

“Yeah, it is.” Marc took a breath and held it. His exhalation whistled between them, full of unspoken words, the loudest being a noncommittal but probing “so.” A moment later he murmured, “What are you thinking?”

A lot of things, and none of them useful. Most of all, though, Henry was thinking he’d never forget the lines of Marc’s face as revealed by the dim light of the car radio. The peak of his nose, the dark valleys of his eyes. The way his lips thrust forward when he thought and parted when he smiled. The flash of white teeth, the smudge of stubble along his jaw.

“I’m thinking this is a really bad idea,” Henry said before leaning forward to kiss him.

Chapter Six

MARC’S LIPS were dry and unexpectedly soft. Henry had imagined he might be more resistant or tense, that he might draw away. Instead Marc leaned into the kiss—to what amounted to little more than the touching of two mouths together until Marc licked his lips, tongue tip swiping and tickling. Moistening.

Henry groaned.

Bad idea or not, he suddenly needed this kiss. Because he’d wanted it, because it was obvious Marc had wanted it, and because, dammit, he now had something to prove. That maybe this wasn’t an experiment. Not another mistake. Maybe Marc just hadn’t known what he’d been missing—that he’d been born to kiss men—and it was Henry’s responsibility to rectify the wrongs of the past twenty-eight years.

With barely a pause for breath, Henry pressed forward again, reaching up to capture Marc’s jaw, scratching his thumb over the rough texture of his skin. He kissed the seam of Marc’s lips, then just the fuller bottom lip, intending to tease his mouth open. Obviously no stranger to the art of kissing, Marc tilted his head so their mouths slid together more conveniently, and invited him in.

Henry fell into the experience of tasting someone new. The tease of Marc’s tongue was so like him—arrogant, self-assured, but also a little coy. He wrapped his warm hand around the back of Henry’s neck, setting off idle thoughts of where Marc might have found some heat. Not that Henry felt cold right now. Not really. The soft sounds Marc made were unexpected. Over the wet click and slide of lips, teeth, and tongues, his breath hitched and moaned.

Needing more than a sip of air, Henry pulled back, and Marc dipped his chin down, taking his mouth out of reach. Henry could give chase, and he half suspected Marc hoped he would. That was part of the game too. Henry rubbed his cheek alongside Marc’s, showing him how it felt to have another man’s skin against his, and withdrew. Just a couple inches.

Quiet breaths filled the pause. Henry licked the taste of Marc from his lips and hummed. Marc inhaled sharply. Pulling his hand from the back of Henry’s neck, he leaned all the way back into his seat.

In the near dark, Henry studied the wrinkles across his palm and began counting them. Christmas carols whispered softly into the chill, and every exhalation fogged the air.

They really should start the engine again soon.

He gestured toward the key. In one of those rare moments of unspoken accord, Marc started the car. The quiet rumble of the engine competed with the carol spewing metaphorical tinsel from the dash.

His sister liked this one, didn’t she?

Why was Marc so quiet?

He should let Marc speak first, right? Marc needed to be the one to decide if the kiss had been a mistake.

“Okay,” Marc finally said, his voice just louder than a chorus of “The First Noel.” He glanced over. “So….” He pressed his palms to his eyes again, then pushed his hands through his hair. Henry recognized a pattern when he saw one. This was Marc’s “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing” gesture. Marc looked at him again, intently, obviously wanting to catch his gaze. When Henry complied, he asked, “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

“Because I’m the one who kissed you.” If he said anything more than that, Henry would incriminate himself, and the sentence passed would hurt.

However Marc chose to reject him, it would hurt.

Why had he kissed Marc? God, he really should have known better.

“It wasn’t how I imagined it,” Marc said.

Henry drew in an audible breath.

Marc continued. “I thought it would be really different, and it was, but it wasn’t.”

“Kissing is kissing.”

“You don’t taste like a woman.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“And you smell all wrong, but it’s not wrong. I….”

Henry waited out the pause.

“I liked it. You smelled, you felt…. Fuck.” Hands to the eyes again. “I think I’m more confused than ever.”

You and me both, and that could be my fault.

“Want to know what I think?” Henry asked. When Marc didn’t say no, he pressed on. “I think you’ve just figured out that it feels more natural than you expected.” Speaking of wishful thinking…. “It’s only different because of what’s in your head. Kissing is kissing. My skin is rougher, and I smell like a guy. Guess what? I am a guy. I’m not delicate, and my mouth won’t always be soft. I won’t bruise if you kiss me hard and fast. I’m not going to apologize if I bite you or leave a stubble rash across your mouth.” Marc’s quick breath stirred Henry’s already half-hard cock into something not quite comfortable, given the number of layers over his crotch. “But the mechanics,” he managed, “are the same.”

Despite the panic fluttering somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, it was oddly liberating to be this frank, this forthcoming. Henry hadn’t imagined himself in the position of aggressor, or educator, with Marc. It didn’t diminish his lust, nor did it make him feel superior. He simply wanted with an increased urgency. Because if Marc was open to discovery, then this was different.

This kiss hadn’t ended with a fist to the jaw, a shocking flash of pain, and a hurt that had little to do with either. This might not be a mistake. Marc’s looks, his words…. He’d kissed back, and his fists were still tucked behind his head.

But not for long. Marc pulled them out and examined them. “It’s not the same.” He might be counting the wrinkles on his palms, but that would be too much of a coincidence. He was probably wondering if he needed to make another attempt at blotting out reality.

Then, suddenly, too quickly, he was across the center console, hands raised. Henry had seconds to grab at air, ready himself for a yell, but the punch never landed. Instead Marc caught Henry’s face between his hands and claimed his mouth in the type of kiss he’d been promised: hard, fast, and bruising. Henry’s head spun, thoughts scattering toward a happy place as he rolled forward and lifted his chin. Marc growled, nipped his lips, and kissed him again. Harder.

God, take me now.

Henry searched beneath Marc’s layered clothing until he found skin. Marc was warm, despite the chill, alive and sensual against Henry’s palm. Henry caressed and scratched the flesh under his fingertips, reveling in the quake and rumble of Marc’s breath, pulse, and hitched moans.

They rocked back, Henry’s head colliding with the window behind him. Harsh exhalations muffled the thump. Henry wanted to slide his hand up, over Marc’s ribs. Find a nipple. What sounds would Marc make when he tweaked that tiny nub? The multiple shirts hampered access to Marc’s chest, so he reversed direction, going for the waistband of his sweats, then under, to his suit pants, and down to what he hoped to find—the firm ridge of an erection pushing at the zipper.

Marc was so hard.

He wasn’t alone.

Marc’s assault on his mouth continued, though at a less frenzied pace. He’d found a rhythm, one as natural as fucking—his tongue flicking and thrusting, his lips closing the deal. His hips bucked into Henry’s palm, and a deep groan pushed into Henry’s mouth. Marc sent one of his hands south to pluck at Henry’s layers before wedging it between them. So not shy. As Marc took Henry’s constrained erection in a firm grip, Henry thrust his elbow back onto the armrest on the door behind him, needing to ground himself.

Winter punched into the car, bringing snow and ice and bitter cold. He must have hit the window button. Almost stunned by the chill intrusion, Henry pushed Marc off him and tried to sit up. He scrabbled behind himself, hampered by the fact every movement pulled fabric across his very hard cock. His face felt numb; his brain had switched off.

“Here, I got it,” Marc said, reaching around him to depress the stupidly small button.

The window shuddered upward and sealed. Marc leaned back and turned off the engine. The resulting quiet felt absolute, and Henry’s ears rang. Panted breath coalesced into a dense cloud between them. Snow scattered in the icy dark. A hard shiver pinched Henry’s shoulders. Reaching down, he adjusted himself so he could sit and lean away from the door. The back of his seat wasn’t any warmer. He could hear Marc’s teeth chattering.

The quiet wasn’t comfortable. It was cold and awkward.

Henry turned up the volume on the radio, hoping for news the storm might be wearing itself out, or nearly done with New York state. “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” pranced into the car instead.

“It’s looking pretty bad out there.” Marc had cleared a circle on the driver’s side window.

“Yeah.”

Marc glanced over at him. “We really are going to be stuck here all night, aren’t we?” He actually looked as if he only just realized that fact. Or acknowledged it.

“I think so, yeah.”

Then Marc grinned, his rakish expression brightening the half dark. Henry reeled from his first intended dose of Winnamore charm. Of course, a good portion of his blood had defected south of his belt.

Marc reached down to adjust himself. “You know, there’s more room in the backseat.”

A chuckle bubbled up out of Henry’s throat. “Not feeling so confused?”

“I’m feeling very fucking horny.”

“I’m flattered.”

Marc’s expression gentled. “You should be.”

“Marc….” Doubt bubbled up, surfacing with the shivers now catching every muscle in Henry’s back. Damn, it was cold in the car. Stupidly cold. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

“What do you mean? You’re as hard as I am.”

“You know what I’m talking about. We have to work together. I want to work with you. I’ve been trying to get assigned to your team for two years. This is… this is going to make things all kinds of awkward.”

Marc shrugged one shoulder. “It doesn’t have to.”

“How can it not?”

“Is this how you want to spend your last night on Earth? Arguing over whether you want to get off or not? Seize the moment, Auttenberg. Live in the now.”

“Jesus. We are not going to freeze to death,” Henry ground out through chattering teeth.

“And we don’t have to let this interfere with our work. You know as well as I do our firm takes a liberal view. They don’t care who we sleep with, so long as we keep it in the bedroom. Or the copy room.”

“Not helping.” The fact Marc thought this thing, this whatever they were doing, might extend beyond the car had Henry’s head spinning too fast.

“Then what’s the issue?”

“Let’s just slow down for a sec. If we weren’t working together, I’d be all over you right now. You’re saying we can do this and it’s not going to affect our….” Henry stumbled over the next word.

“Partnership,” Marc provided. “Are you always this analytical?”

“Yes. No. Dammit, we work together.”

“So you keep saying. Why is that such a sticking point for you?”

“You can’t really be that naïve.”

Wrapping his arms around himself, Marc huddled a moment, obviously giving the situation the consideration Henry felt it warranted. Either that or he was cooking up his next argument for sex—which wasn’t happening in a freezing-cold car. Henry might wonder where Marc’s confusion had gone, but this charge-ahead behavior was so typical, he didn’t have to. Marc had sampled something he liked and now he wanted more, operative word being now.

“Look, I know you think I’m not thinking straight.” Marc gave a short laugh. “I’m definitely not thinking straight, and I haven’t for a while. This is more than me just wanting to get off, though. It’s…. You know when you get a sense of how something is supposed to play out? A feeling that it’s the right deal, or the wrong approach? This”—he gestured between them—“feels good. It makes sense. When I kiss you, my head goes quiet. I stop thinking and wondering. As for the office thing….” Marc breathed out. “We’re both adults.”

“Who should know better?”

“Better than what? To act on a feeling? You know as well as I do that no risk means no reward.” When Henry made no immediate answer, Marc said, “I’ve seen you checking me out. You’re damned careful, but I know you’ve thought about more than just being on my team.”

Henry’s cheeks were suddenly the warmest part of him.

“There’s more at stake here than our working relationship,” he pointed out.

“Me figuring out what I want, you mean.”

“I’ve been here before, Marc. Right here. Only last time, the guy decided it was a mistake and nearly dislocated my jaw.”

Surprise registered in Marc’s dark gaze. “Oh. So, that’s what you meant about not wanting to be an experiment.”

“I don’t think you’re going to punch me when you figure out this isn’t want you want. But it’s still going to hurt.”

Marc opened his mouth, then closed it. Making a small sound in his throat, he tendered a nod and slumped back into his seat. The holiday music injected false cheer into the otherwise awkward pause, and Henry struggled between the urge to kill the radio or leave it be. It was their only connection to reality, to the storm that had trapped them in this icy confessional.

When Marc spoke again, he did so quietly. “I was going to ask you out, remember? I hadn’t figured out how to do it yet. Me asking what you were doing over the holidays? I’ve been thinking about just that all day, trying to work out a casual way to get it into conversation.”

“Actually talking to me would have helped.”

“Yeah.” Marc blew out a sigh.

Henry scrubbed at his forehead, noting the fact his skin had cooled considerably. “You were really thinking of asking me out?”

“You don’t think all this is improvisation, do you? I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

“It could just be a ‘trapped in a snowstorm’ thing. Holy shit, I don’t want to die without checking this particular box.”

“I don’t think many people have ‘see if I’m gay’ on their bucket list.”

“You might be surprised,” Henry murmured. He tried for another breath, the previous one not having been all that clarifying or refreshing, and let it go with a hum.

“What?”

“In the last three”—four?—“hours, you’ve taken just about everything I thought I knew about Marcus Winnamore and turned it upside down. On top of that, I don’t think I’ve ever had such a personal conversation with someone I’m….” He didn’t know how to define what they were doing.

“Involved with?”

He’d been going to say working with. Henry met Marc’s gaze. “Is that what you want?”

“Have you been listening to me?”

Yeah, he had. But except for that one painful mistake, he’d managed to confine his wants to an organized list. That’s what counting was, after all. Making a list and ticking it off in the same motion. Nothing satisfied him more. This thing with Marc, though, all the wanting, the apparently not covert looks—he’d known this man could unhinge him. Even before this, he’d known Marc was dangerous.

“I think it’s my turn to be confused,” Henry said.

Marc didn’t take offense. In fact, he chuckled. “I think I know something that can help with that.” He leaned in, his breath warm. Lips grazed Henry’s cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “What say we move to the backseat and talk about it some more.”

Henry’s breath caught. “You don’t want to talk.”

“I do want to use my lips, though.”

“That is just about the worst line I ever heard.”

“But you’re thinking about my mouth, aren’t you?”

The one moving right beside his? Every word a warm breeze across his lips? Hell yes, he was. And, really, what was so wrong with that?

In answer, Henry kissed him. Again. His rational brain cells yelled in protest. The rest, those caught up by all that was Marc Winnamore, rounded them up and sat on them.

Chapter Seven

DECAMPING TO the backseat proved a complicated exercise. Henry needed the time to think, though, a space between those two amazing kisses and whatever Marc wanted to try next. He still felt he should warn Marc that sex wasn’t really on the menu tonight. Not with an ambient temperature of too-freaking-cold and a lack of essentials, like slick and condoms. But as Marc was fond of pointing out, he was a smart guy. He probably knew the limits.

Marc climbed through first, and Henry moved over to the driver’s seat. They then wrestled one of the suitcases through the gap to the front passenger seat. Before moving the second case, they each searched for anything that could be used to make them warmer.

Marc held up Henry’s toilet kit. “No condoms?”

“From kissing to condoms. Are you sure you haven’t been with a guy before?”

Laughing, Marc tossed the bag aside. “Sure I’m sure. Why the hell else do you think I’m so eager?”

Henry couldn’t help grinning in response as he climbed through the gap. The burst of activity had warmed him up a little, but he had to take his jacket back off to navigate the space between the seats. Marc had found his hat and pulled it on. His coat was bundled up behind him. Henry sat with his overcoat draped across his legs. He’d found his gloves, but they weren’t doing much for his fingers. His hands felt like blocks of ice. His toes fared little better, and his cock had decided to retreat for safety.

He looked over at Marc, who seemed very close in the confined space of the backseat. “Not sure we’re any better off back here.”

“That’s because we’re sitting next to each other like two teenagers on their first date.”

Henry’s short laugh produced a small cloud of breath. “Except we’re slowly freezing to death.” Another shiver crawled across the back of his shoulders.

Marc shuffled back a bit and reclined sideways on the seat. He moved one leg up and left the other dangling. “Get between my legs.”

“I don’t think now is the time.”

“I’m not asking for a blow job. Just move so I can extend my leg.”

Henry moved to the edge of the seat. Marc straightened his leg and scooted down a little more, then held up his arms. “C’mon, lie on me. Put your coat over the both of us like a blanket.”

“Yeah, that might work.”

Henry arranged himself so he lay over Marc. It was oddly intimate, as if they were settling in for something other than survival. Were they settling in for something more? Marc moved his other leg up, and Henry pulled his coat over the top of them both. Marc’s coat remained tucked behind him like a pillow. When a cramp moved up the back of Henry’s neck, he lowered his head into the crook of Marc’s shoulder and neck. Marc slipped his arms around his back. They shivered together.

Henry pressed his nose into Marc’s skin. He grinned when he heard a hiss.

“Your nose is cold.” With a little more shuffling, Marc managed to turn his head. Cold lips touched the end of Henry’s nose.

“Your lips are cold,” Henry said.

“Why don’t you warm them up, then?”

“Why aren’t you freaking out over this?”

“Why do you need to keep examining it? I’m not a fence post, Auttenberg. I’m a person. I only need to be counted once.”

“That….” Made sense, dammit.

Marc’s lips ghosted across his. “I’ve had nearly six months to think this through. Now I’ve tasted you and I’m ready for more. That’s it. Doesn’t need to be any more complicated than that.” He paused, breathing in, then said, “Unless you’re waiting for me to apologize for being an ass in Chicago.”

“No.” He wasn’t. “I get it. But you being done with your thinking doesn’t change the fact we’re barely clinging to this seat, and that it’s too freaking cold to try for much more.”

“Damn you and your logic.” Marc lifted his hips, or tried to. He grunted and shifted beneath Henry. “Maybe you’re right.”

“We’ll have plenty of time to experiment when we get back to Boston.” Henry bit his lips together—his cold, nearly numb lips—and wondered if he’d presumed too much, despite Marc’s insistence this might be something. Then Marc captured his mouth in a kiss so sweet, it warmed him from the inside out. The intimacy of their position reasserted itself as Henry moved into the kiss, shifting so he could return equal measures of warmth and need. Marc’s mouth was already familiar—the shape of his lips, the tease of his tongue. His taste, the way he paused for breath almost regularly, as if they were swimming.

Regular sips of oxygen weren’t the same as a proper, deep breath, though, and eventually Henry had to lift his head. He peered down at Marc, seeing nothing but shadows. The backseat was a lot darker than the front.

Marc pulled him in for another round and Henry lost himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent so long just kissing. He licked and pecked, explored every corner of Marc’s mouth. Marc did the same. Henry nosed Marc’s ear and rubbed his sensitive lips along Marc’s jaw. Nuzzled his hair, nipped his neck. Beneath him, Marc writhed and groaned. Tried to lift his hips. The evidence of his growing arousal pressed into Henry’s groin, where it met a like-minded soul. They were both hard again and filled with want.

Henry shuffled backward.

Marc caught his shoulder. “Where are you going?”

Henry reached down to pull at Marc’s sweatpants. “Lift your hips.”

“I can wait, or we can just get off in our clothes.”

“You really want to freeze to death in sticky shorts?”

“When you put it like that….” Marc gasped as Henry unzipped his suit pants and pushed down his underpants, freeing his erection, which straightened with careless glee—heedless of the cold.

After pulling off a glove with his teeth, Henry wrapped a hand around the firm shaft.

“Holy shit, your hand is cold!”

Chuckling, Henry withdrew his hand and blew on his fingers. He grabbed Marc’s dick a second time.

“Not much warmer, but… mmm, that feels good.”

Henry took a moment to appreciate Marc’s size and shape, to familiarize himself with his lover’s cock, get a feel for it. “Very good,” he confirmed.

Marc nudged his hips upward. “Glad I meet your approval.”

Henry bent forward and breathed what he hoped was warm air across the crown. Marc moaned. Flicking out his tongue, Henry teased what he could barely see, finding Marc’s slit—and a taste of him.

“Oh God.”

Closing his lips around the head, Henry hummed.

“Don’t stop.”

Marc shuddered. His hips thrust upward, but he managed to restrain them… just. Henry lifted his mouth away and said, “I’m not delicate, remember? You can fuck my mouth.”

Marc made a strangled sound before reaching down to caress the side of Henry’s face. “Want you so bad.”

Taking the hint, Henry put his lips to the head of Marc’s cock again and sucked downward. He heard Marc cry out, felt the jerk of his hips. Marc wrapped a hand around the side of his head—not gloved, fingers almost warm. Henry braced for the pull against his hair, his ear, but it never came. Marc caressed his neck instead.

There, with his mouth around Marc’s dick, Henry once again reevaluated the man he’d looked up to—his potential rival, mentor, partner… friend? Now more. That touch at his ear, the gentle kisses—this was no experiment. Marc had been thinking about this, and he wanted it as much as Henry did.

Henry showed his want with his mouth, sucking up and down, adding pressure with his tongue. He grunted softly as Marc nudged his throat, and he squeezed the base of Marc’s cock before tugging lightly, encouraging him. He used every trick he’d learned in college—not that he’d given a lot of head, but he had a dick and he knew what he liked—and worked to wring every last drop of enjoyment from the experience for both of them.

Even before Marc approached his climax, Henry’s mouth was full of his taste, his nostrils full of musk. Marc breathed and moaned, jerked and thrust. Then he tightened—thighs, abs, balls. Feeling the moment approach, Henry prepared himself, only to have Marc finally tug at his ear—back, not forward.

“Gonna come,” Marc gasped.

“So come,” Henry said, moving his mouth back down to swallow Marc’s harder-than-hard cock.

Marc batted at his ear again, hips thrusting upward, legs trembling. Then, with a great cry, he came, and Henry worked to swallow every last drop, pumping with his hand, sucking gently. Keeping pace with Marc’s climax—milking him and carrying him through.

Leaning back, Henry licked his lips and scrubbed his mouth against his sleeve. He hadn’t missed much. He savored the taste—not his favorite, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like it. The bitter tang was as much a part of sex as the scent of a man’s balls, the sound of breathless cries, and hips obeying a rhythm commanded by nature.

Marc continued to shiver and jerk, breathing heavily. Henry tucked his polished and limp cock back inside his underwear and did up his suit pants. Then he bent backward to grab the icy-cold Coke from the center console and swallowed what was left in one gulp.

When he turned around, Marc grabbed the front of his shirt and tugged. “Come here.”

Henry obeyed the command, allowing himself to be pulled forward, meeting Marc’s lips in another of those unexpectedly sweet kisses. Catching his own flavor, Marc leaned back and hummed. “I taste good with Coke. Damn.”

Henry’s gentle laugh highlighted the situation in his own pants, the hardness that had yet to abate. Without thought, he ground down, then immediately felt guilty.

Beneath him, Marc moaned again. “Can’t believe how good that feels.”

Henry thrust again. “This?”

“Yes.” Marc lifted his head. “I think I’m definitely gay.”

Henry laughed. “Wow, I must be good. One blow job and you’ve switched teams.”

“The BJ was phenomenal, but this…. Tasting myself on your tongue, feeling you hard against me. It feels…. Fuck. It feels right.”

“You’re just horny.”

“No. I’m, well, yeah, I kinda am, even though you just blew my mind. Hey, what about you? I….” He paused again. Henry fought the urge to make a joke about verbal tics. Marc would laugh, he was sure, but he also liked this less-sure version of his idol. The man who trembled beneath him, stuttering and hesitating. “I don’t know if I’m ready to—”

Henry silenced him with a kiss. Then, “Shh. You’ve been gay for five minutes. You don’t have to blow me on your first day.”

After a moment of contemplative silence, Marc said, “Maybe I’ve always been gay. It never felt like this with a woman.”

“Maybe you just haven’t met the right woman.”

Marc studied him a moment. “No, it’s you. I’ve never obsessed over anyone the way I have over you these past few months.”

Wow. Henry’s heart lurched. He grabbed at a breath. “Wanna give the object of your fascination a hand job?”

“That, I can do.”

Rearranging themselves took about as much time as moving to the backseat and involved more laughter and more nuzzling kisses. The sweeter side of Marc began to feel less unexpected. Then Henry’s pants were unzipped, nudged down, and pushed aside. His stiff cock jutted out into the cold. Marc grabbed him without hesitation, and Henry ceased to care if what they were doing made sense.

“You feel good,” Marc said, sliding his hand up and down in much the same way Henry had done for him. Gauging his length, his thickness. Getting the feel of him. “You’re not cut.” Noticing that extra little slide.

“Nope.”

“I thought you were Jewish.”

“That is, like, the weirdest thing to say when you have another guy’s cock in your hand.”

“Not really. I mean, it’s an observation, right?”

“I’m not Jewish. Auttenberg is a German name.”

“So is your first name really Heinrich or something?”

On his birth certificate, and…. “That’s my father, and I really, really don’t want to talk about him right now either.”

“Got it.”

Obviously an expert at tugging on his own dick, Marc employed a pull and twist. Henry spread his legs, let his head drop back, and gave himself over to the experience of being fondled. Marc moved his hand up and down in a maddening, irregular rhythm at first, with a pause now and again to squeeze, or to run his thumb over Henry’s slit, pressing, collecting slick droplets to add to the uneven friction. Then, just as Henry began to crave the unexpected, to move into it, need it, Marc spat into his palm and began jacking him with swift and steady strokes.

Henry thrust into that talented hand, aware he was gasping, grunting, moaning. Making a lot of sound. He grabbed Marc’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss, mashing their mouths together. Their tongues met and tangled, and for a magical moment, it seemed they moved together, as if they were making love. God, how he’d craved this closeness—and it was so damned perfect, it nearly hurt. Then the urge to come jolted through Henry, claiming all his thought. His entire focus narrowed to the thrum in his balls, the need to push harder and faster, his impending climax.

“Coming,” he warned, knowing he’d probably said it too late, but aware, just the same, that Marc had probably read the signs.

Marc continued stroking him until he came, then something soft landed over the head of his cock, the cold fabric pulling a yell from his throat. “Shit, what’s that… ungh….” Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. He was coming, and coming hard, body jerking and tingling, skin flushed and maybe even warm.

When he returned to reality, Marc was wiping him gently with the cold, and now damp, fabric. “It’s one of my socks,” he explained. “We’re not freezing to death with sticky underpants, remember?”

Henry let out a shaky laugh. “I remember.”

Marc kissed him again, combining hard and sweet, showing Henry yet another facet of his hidden self, this apparent need for confirmation on top of connection. When Henry started shivering, he drew back. “I could get really used to kissing you, Auttenberg.”

“I could get really used to you calling me Henry.”

Marc’s quiet laugh fogged the air between them.

Another round of rearranging, this time tucking his spent cock back inside a few layers. Then they reset their hats, found their gloves, and retrieved Henry’s coat. After, Marc reclaimed his seat, spread his legs, and opened his arms. “Let’s not waste all the heat we just generated.”

“I’d not have picked you for a cuddler.”

Marc might have shrugged in the dark, his outline fairly indistinct but for his upraised arms. “Not fooled by my practical spin on it?”

Henry chuckled. “I can pretend.”

The way Marc folded around Henry as they realigned belied any practicality. The closeness felt more important than trapping any heat. Henry found he liked it, this other hidden aspect of the man he was just getting to know properly. But as they lay together breathing quietly in the chilly dark, body heat trapped between them and held there by the spread of Henry’s coat over his back, he couldn’t help wondering if Marc’s seeming affection had grown more out of circumstances than intent.

Marc kissed the side of his head. “I can hear you thinking, you know.”

“If you don’t want this when we get back to the office, I’d understand.”

The circle of Marc’s arms tightened. “I figured that’s what you were thinking about. Pretty selfish of you when I could be lying here having a crisis.”

Henry laughed. “Are you?”

After a pause, Marc gave a definite shrug. “A bit. Which is why I’m not going to forget this when we get back to the office, and not because you’re my big gay experiment.” He breathed out. “I don’t know if now is the time to really get into it? I’ve got some thinking to do. But I don’t regret this. I won’t. I wanted it too much, and it’s too good for regrets. It’s better than I hoped.”

Henry sucked in a deep breath. “I can help with the thinking. Even if you decide this isn’t what you want, I can be a friend, or a friendly ear. Coming out isn’t just enjoying a blow job, and it’s not just telling one person.”

“I know.” Marc nuzzled his cheek. “That other guy—”

“We’re past the ‘hit first, ask questions later’ stage, and I know if you blow me off, it won’t be because I’m gay.” Henry raised his head enough to look Marc in the eye. “You’ve known that for two and a half years, and you’ve only ever been civil. Mostly. When we weren’t working together.” He smiled.

“Not going to blow you off. I want your report on Hiddenger.”

Henry snorted. “Nice.”

He could just make out Marc’s faint smile in the dark. “I don’t know what this might be, but I’m interested in finding out. Are you?”

“Yeah.” Henry’s stomach disagreed, and an invisible fist wrapped around his heart. But Marc had said it clearly enough before, in terms he could understand. Risk equaled reward. And this? Even now, lying together in the backseat of a cold car, they seemed to fit.

“Next thing to figure out is what I’m going to tell my family.”

Leaning forward again, Henry dropped a quick kiss onto Marc’s lips. “I get the feeling you’ve avoided telling them a lot of stuff.”

“You know, they really shouldn’t be surprised by this. I’ve never been who they wanted me to be.”

“I find that hard to believe. You graduated with honors, and you’ve got a great job.”

“But I went to the wrong school and got the wrong degree. I’m living in the wrong city, working with the wrong company.”

“Right.”

“No, wrong.” Marc’s nose had cooled, and it made a chill spot on Henry’s cheek.

“Boston is the right city. You have good friends, and you’re definitely doing the right job.”

“Thanks. Mostly I know that. But this is…. This is going to feel like another wrong choice.”

“It’s not a choice. This is who you are.” And acknowledging it would be difficult at any age, at any time. The world could be a stupid and cruel place. When Marc didn’t immediately respond, Henry pulled in a breath and held it. Prepared the right words to put himself out there, to demonstrate he really believed Marc was different, and that he was worth the risk. “I can be there, if you want.”

“Thanks.”

The small response felt like a letdown, but only at first—only until Henry considered what Marc had left out. Assumptions and promises. They’d already talked about what might or might not happen between them. Now they were talking outside of that. They were talking about the friendship they were building, regardless.

“So tell me about your family,” Marc said. “Do you usually spend Christmas with them? Any German traditions?”

“Yeah, and not so much on the traditions. More when we were kids. My mom’s not German, and my dad was born here. So it’s not as if we sit around in lederhosen drinking beer and eating sausage.”

“Pity.”

Henry dug his elbow into the man beneath him, but the gesture was halfhearted. Knowing what Marc faced at home made him miss his own family more. By now they’d be worried. He’d called from Syracuse, but not since. They’d guess he’d been caught by the storm. For him, though, more than their concern over where he might be, was the fact this would be the first time he’d missed Christmas Eve.

“We do have this one tradition, but it’s not a German thing. We always spend Christmas Eve together. My sister and her family, me, my mom and dad. We stay up late and play games. We watch—” Henry swallowed and was surprised by the size of the lump in his throat. He hadn’t realized how much he relied on even simple tradition, spending this single night with his family, even as an adult. It made sense when he reflected upon it, though. His life was made up of touch points. Of things he could count, and count on.

“What do you watch?” Marc’s tone was gentle.

“The Sound of Music. I know. It’s stupid, right? It’s my sister’s fault. She saw the movie for the first time when she was, like, five, and we’ve had to watch it every year since. Sometimes more than once.”

Marc didn’t laugh. He did chuckle, but it was a commiserating sound. “What else do you do? Do you sing?”

“God no. Well, sometimes, and badly. That’s when we know we’ve had too much to drink.” Henry grinned. “My favorite part of the night is when we get to choose one present to open.”

“We used to do that too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m their loss, right?”

“Right.” But Henry’s response felt thin, as if the tightness of his throat had tried to squash the life out of it. He shifted a little, worried he might be getting heavy, or that his weight atop Marc might start feeling metaphorical.

“If you keep moving, I’m going to get hard again.”

Henry pressed down, right there, smooshing their sated cocks together. “You’re definitely gay.”

Marc hugged him a little closer. “Probably. And damned comfy.” He sucked in a short but audible breath. “Thank you for taking me seriously.”

Blinking, Henry stuttered, “Um… sure. You’ve proved yourself worth listening to, even before tonight.”

Marc chuckled softly in response.

After that, they fell into the first truly companionable quiet of the day. Night. It was late and dark and cold. Definitely night. But though the air inside the car had dropped to well below comfortable, the sound of the wind outside proved oddly soothing, as did the rise and fall of Marc’s chest beneath his. The whisper of their breath, the warmth of their aligned bodies. They hadn’t had to shift much to get their legs sorted. They lay together naturally, Marc’s shoulder making the perfect pillow.

It was only going to get colder, and he hadn’t forgotten the danger of their situation. But Henry felt safe and secure tucked in close to Marc. As if, together, and only together, they might keep each other safe until morning, and maybe beyond. With that thought at the forefront of his mind, he gave in to the heavy blanket of sleep and let fear remain outside, in the provenance of night.

Chapter Eight

A SCRATCHING noise intruded upon his sleep, matching the endless steps of some useless dream journey. Henry opened his eyes and blinked a few times, disoriented by the feel of someone under him and the not quite familiar scent of that someone pressed to the side of his face. The noise came again, accompanied by a flashing light. Henry looked up and the plume of mist erupting from his mouth filled in all the gaps in his memory. He and Marc were stuck in their rental car on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, and now the ghosts had come.

Or maybe someone had found them.

A muffled voice called from outside the window. Pulling a gloved hand from the warm little nest he and Marc had made on the backseat, Henry pressed his palm to the window.

“What are you doing?” Marc mumbled.

“There’s someone out there.”

Marc’s thoughts did not immediately skip to ghosts. “Oh thank God.”

Together, they struggled until the easiest thing for Henry to do was slide off the seat and onto the floor. Marc sat up and depressed the window button. Nothing happened. A quick glance forward showed the radio had gone dark. Silent and icy blackness filled the interior of the car.

“Battery must be dead,” Henry said.

Light flashed through the window again, revealing a speckled clear spot in packed snow. Had the storm buried them?

Marc opened the door and pushed. The bottom stuck in the ice and frigid air rushed through the crack.

“You all okay in there?” a female voice asked. “How many of you?”

“Two,” Marc answered. “And we’re fine.”

“I got a plow out here. I can’t get your car out, but I can give you a ride somewhere.”

“That’d be great,” Marc said. “Just need to get this door open.”

“Yeah, it’s stuck. I’d half plowed past you before I saw you. I need to clear a bit. Hold tight.”

Henry scrubbed at his face. The cold air rushing into the car had equalized quickly with the internal temperature. He didn’t want to think about how cold it actually was, and if they’d have woken up in the morning or been a news story. Their cocoon had felt warm, but any heat between them had quickly dissipated as soon as he moved. Shivers now racked his shoulders, pulling painfully at his muscles, and his feet were numb.

Shoes.

“We need to put our shoes back on,” he said.

“Right, and maybe put our cases back together.”

By the time their rescuer had cleared the door, Henry had found their shoes and packed their cases. “Pretty sure we’re going to end up with each other’s shorts and socks.”

“We’ll figure it out later.”

Marc leaned against the door while the woman pulled, and together they managed to get it open. Marc scrambled out. Henry handed him his coat first, then the cases. He followed after, dragging his overcoat out with him.

Winter had claimed the world, turning it into a dark and icy wasteland. Forward from the plow, in the track of the headlights, he could see the road had been cleared once already. Banks two feet high leaned away from another six inches on the tarmac. “A plow already passed us?”

“Yeah. Your car is nearly off the road. They just about buried you.”

“We didn’t even hear them.” Another chill raced down his spine.

Beneath her woolen hat, the woman’s ruddy cheeks lifted in a grin. “My lucky night. I get to be the hero. Name’s Betty, by the way.”

“It’s really good to meet you, Betty,” Henry said. “I’m Henry and this is Marc.”

“You two did real good snuggling up together in the backseat.” She winked. “Looked mighty cute too.”

Marc cleared his throat and looked away, but a smile tugged at his lips.

Henry simply blushed, and the color stung his cold cheeks. Clapping his hands together, he said, “So, um… where can you take us?”

“Let’s try for Duanesburg. From there, we should be able to find you a ride to Albany.”

They stowed the suitcases and climbed into the cab of her truck, Henry in the middle, Marc by the passenger door. The clock on the dash read 1:03 a.m. They’d left Chicago at one the previous afternoon, and despite having had maybe five hours sleep between then and now, it felt like the longest twelve hours of Henry’s life. So much had happened, most of it unexpected. But right then, the warm air blowing from the vents felt more significant than any of it.

The rumble of the engine and motion of the plow quickly proved somnolent. Before Henry knew it, his eyes had closed again. He jerked awake, only to realize he’d leaned into Marc. He turned to look at him and met a sleepy smile that warmed him more than their now ridiculous layers and any heat blowing around the cabin.

“You boys local?”

“We’re from Boston,” Marc said.

“Well, you’re not going to get there tonight. Storm’s moved on, but it’s going to be a while before the roads are clear. I’ll bet most of the rentals are gone too, or buried on the side of the road.” She turned a grin on them. “You need to make a call? I got a cell booster in the cab. Never know when you might need one out here.”

Shifting away from Marc slightly, Henry dug in his pockets for his cell. After he’d pulled it out he noticed Marc hadn’t reached for his own phone. He really had no one to call? Settling himself back against Marc’s side, Henry dialed his parents. It was late, but….

“Heinrich?” His dad sounded old and quiet.

“Hey, Dad.”

“I knew you’d call. I told your mother you’d call.” And he’d waited up, would have waited all night if necessary. “Where are you?”

“Outside of Albany. We had to pull over when the storm caught up with us. Wait for a plow.” That sounded better than sliding off the road and nearly being buried by snow, right?

“I’m glad you’re all right. Want me to drive up to Albany and get you?”

“No, Dad. The roads might not be clear for a day or so. As soon as they are, I’ll come right home, okay? I’ll call Mom in the morning too, and again tomorrow night. Let you know where I’m at.” He could feel color trying to creep across his cheeks, but he was so flushed from the warmth of the car and his clothes and Marc, the new blush barely registered. Besides, while it might seem as if his family kept a close hold of him, not everyone had a father who would wait by the phone and then offer to drive a hundred miles to pick him up. In a storm.

That was better than having no one to call.

Henry glanced over at Marc and spoke into his phone. “Hey, Dad?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m bringing a friend home for Christmas.”

Marc’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t object.

Where Henry’s mom would have had a million questions about this “friend,” his father only said, “Of course! We’ll see you when we see you.”

“Will do. Now go get some sleep.”

“I might just do that. Look after yourself, Heinrich.”

“You too, Dad.”

He tucked his phone away and looked back up at Marc.

“Your name is Heinrich,” Marc said.

“I prefer Henry.”

Marc’s brow furrowed briefly. Was he counting excuses not to visit Henry’s family? The way his expression quickly relaxed seemed to say otherwise. “All right, then. Merry Christmas, Henry.”

Henry couldn’t hide his smile. His first name, at last. It sounded good on Marc’s tongue, and he looked forward to hearing it again. But more than that, he realized, he’d gotten his Christmas Eve gift after all. Two of them. A fantasy—which, but for the cold, had lived up to every expectation—and a truth, an aspect of Marc not very many people got to see. It had been an intensely personal gift, one just for him. Just for Henry Auttenberg.

He leaned back into Marc’s warm side and smiled. He couldn’t prepare for what might happen when they got back to Boston, but he was ready for it. “Merry Christmas, Marc.”

More from Kelly Jensen

Paul Summerfield is stunned by the gentle reminder it has been over a year since he and his partner, Evan Akkerman, have made love. He vows to take Evan out for Valentine’s Day. Dinner and sex. Lots of sex. There’s only one catch—he’s supposed to be in San Francisco that week cataloging the art collection of an important new client. No problem, he’ll just change his schedule and cut his trip short by a day.

In San Francisco, Paul struggles with regrets and the fear his love is slipping away from him. Every call to Evan seems only to prove the distance between them is increasing. All this, and a key piece of his client’s catalog is caught up in customs. To keep their Valentine’s date, Paul will have to choose between the career he’s built over fifteen years and the man he’s loved for just as long.

KELLY JENSEN was born in Australia and raised everywhere else. Currently, she lives in Pennsylvania with her husband, daughter, and herd of four cats. After disproving the theory that water only spins counterclockwise around drains north of the equator, she turned her attention to more productive pursuits such as reading, writing, writing about reading, and writing stories of her own. She also enjoys volunteering at her local library, playing video games, and holds a brown belt in Kiryoku, a martial art combining Shotokan, Aikido, and Tang Soo Do. Her family is not intimidated by her.

Twitter: @kmkjensen

Website: kellyjensenwrites.com

Facebook www.facebook.com/kellyjensenwrites

By Kelly Jensen

Counting Fence Posts

Out in the Blue

When Was the Last Time

Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS

www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Published by

DREAMSPINNER PRESS

5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA

www.dreamspinnerpress.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Counting Fence Posts

© 2016 Kelly Jensen.

Cover Art

© 2016 Bree Archer.

http://www.breearcher.com

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or www.dreamspinnerpress.com.

Digital ISBN: 978-1-63477-011-8

Published July 2016

v. 1.0

Printed in the United States of America