The Tinder Stories Page 5

  Morgan had a small smile on his face, and Chris couldn’t help noticing that his cheeks still held a faint tinge of pink from earlier. “No? What about ‘pretty’? Anyone ever called you that?”

  He blinked. “What?”

  The smile grew until Chris could see Morgan’s teeth, all straight and white and perfect. “Pretty. Handsome. Cute. Whatever. Nice to look at, that’s for sure.”

  The change in attitude was abrupt enough for Chris to blink again and shake his head slowly. “Uh… no. No one’s ever called me pretty.” It wasn’t like he was unattractive; Chris had enough self-confidence to know he was decent-looking. But he’d never thought of himself as more than that, and certainly never “pretty.”

  “Sure.” Morgan shrugged. “Blond. Blue-eyed. Good skin. Nice build. Pretty.”

  It sounded like he was cataloguing a grocery list. In other circumstances, Chris was pretty sure he’d be flattered to hear his charms laid out like that, but Morgan never lost that damn condescending tone. “Are you staying or not?” he snapped, uncomfortable under Morgan’s laughing gaze.

  In response, Morgan leaned in until he was a mere breath away from Chris’s mouth. “Staying,” he said in a whisper.

  Chris made himself hold absolutely still, though everything in him was screaming to either lean forward half an inch or leap as far across the room as possible to get away. But he refused to give in to whatever Morgan wanted, even though he wasn’t quite sure what that was.

  It became obvious, however, when Morgan chuckled and kissed him, his tongue darting out to map the crease of Chris’s mouth and his teeth making tiny nips at Chris’s top lip. Morgan kept up the assault for at least ten seconds, long enough for Chris to clench his hands into fists to keep from snaking them around Morgan’s neck.

  Chris’s cock was hard in his shorts again by the time Morgan broke away with a small, indrawn breath. “You’re staying,” Chris said, even though he was pretty sure that had already been determined. “On one condition.”

  A raised eyebrow said exactly what Morgan thought of that declaration, but he merely looked interested and asked, “And that would be…?”

  Chris shifted and tried to adjust himself discreetly, but he was pretty sure Morgan knew he was hard. “That you tell me why you hate firemen.”

  If he’d been asked later, Chris would have said it was impossible to pinpoint the exact second Morgan’s shade came down. One moment they’d been leaning into each other, mouths still swollen with kisses and sharing a small, intimate space. And then the next moment was just… different. Closed and shuttered, Morgan had put miles between them without ever moving off the bed.

  Chris looked at him, noting the blank expression, and prepared himself for a sharp no.

  But Morgan surprised him yet again. “All right,” he said carefully. “I’ll tell you.”

  THEY SETTLED themselves on patio chairs on Chris’s small back porch, each with a beer in their hand and staring out at the tiny grassy yard. Well, Morgan was staring, in any case. Chris just concentrated on peeling the label from his bottle, putting the long, curly strips on the low table that sat between them.

  “I used to fight fire,” Morgan said after a lengthy silence.

  Chris looked over at him. “You did? For what department?”

  “CDF. Northern California.”

  Chris nodded. The California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection was responsible for over thirty million acres of wildland in the state. The CDF responded to the same types of calls that Chris’s urban department did: medical aids, automobile accidents, drownings, lost hikers. But they were also first on scene for most of the brush fires that cropped up in California’s dry, privately owned acreage. Chris had only been on two brush fires in his career, but it was enough to know that he never wanted to fight wildland fire again. It was too intense, moved too fast. Took too many lives.

  “Fifteen years,” Morgan was saying. “I gave fifteen years of my life to the CDF. And I loved every damn day of it.” His voice grew softer but his expression was still hard as he looked out over the backyard, probably not seeing what was in front of him. “I loved fighting wildfire.”

  Chris took a pull of his beer and digested that. It fit, really. Brush fires were huge, with the potential to do years’ worth of damage in a single day. Sometimes—most times—city departments were needed as backup. But to be called out on a hastily assembled strike team was one thing; to be on the front lines of fires like that every single time they started, well. It took a certain type of personality to deal with that kind of destruction. Chris was guessing Morgan fit the description well.

  “I was on with CDF for six years before I met Kyle,” Morgan continued, beer forgotten. “Craziest son of a bitch ever. Smokejumper.”

  Chris made a noise of agreement. Smokejumpers had the insane job of parachuting out of planes into the heart of a wildfire. Their supplies were also dropped by parachute as soon as the jumpers landed, making the men completely self-sufficient for up to forty-eight hours. Chris knew that even just smokejumper-training camp was insane; he couldn’t imagine actually jumping out of an airplane straight into the middle of burning forestry.

  “He was married,” Morgan said quietly. “To a cute little thing named Monica. God, she hated what he did for a living. Wanted him to quit and work for her daddy in his hardware store. Kyle would laugh and kiss her and tell her hardware was more dangerous than fighting fire.”

  There was silence for a while, but Chris knew Morgan was far from finished, so he waited patiently for the rest.

  “I didn’t see him that often,” Morgan finally said, tracing the lip of his bottle with one finger. “Four times a year, maybe. They only work from June through October in the actual planes. The rest of the year they work for their own department, and Kyle’s wasn’t anywhere near mine. But when I saw him, it was good.”

  The faraway look in Morgan’s eyes said much more than his words, and Chris didn’t pry. Clearly the other man had been more than a friend to Morgan, and if Morgan wanted to say so, he could. If he wanted to keep his memories to himself, that was okay too. Chris had never been the nosy type and appreciated the same courtesy from others.

  “It took me a year and a half to figure out that Kyle was really damn reckless. He’d tell me these insane stories about things that had happened back at his own station, stories about him doing all sorts of shit that could get him hurt or killed if he’d made just one little mistake, and I sort of didn’t believe him. Most firefighters I worked with at that time—and especially the ones with wives and kids—were pretty much rule-followers. The job’s pretty fucking dangerous as it is without adding in your own stupid ego thinking you’re indestructible.” Morgan shook his head, and Chris sensed the familiar air of disgust Morgan always had when talking about firefighters.

  It really was nothing Chris didn’t already know. He’d been with Oceanside Fire for two years and had been exposed to enough different guys to understand that most firemen had a similar outlook on their jobs and their lives. But Morgan was talking, was sharing with Chris, and for that reason alone Chris stayed silent and listened.

  “His crew started saying things too,” Morgan went on. “About how damn crazy Kyle was on the job, and how he was going to get himself killed because he was always diving headfirst into places that they knew weren’t safe. There was a lot of mention about his file and how thick it was with all the write-ups and reprimands. Surprises me now that he didn’t get his ass fired. He should have. Maybe then he’d be—” Morgan stopped there, and Chris could see a tiny muscle work in his jaw.

  “You need another?” Chris asked then, pointing at their empty beer bottles, but Morgan shook his head and took a deep breath.

  “Then there was the Sheep Creek fire,” Morgan said. “In Montana. It was burning thousands of acres overnight, so they put together squads of CDF teams. I knew Kyle would be there—the California and Montana jumpers always teamed up to fight the big blazes. For that reas
on alone, I volunteered to go. Because I knew he’d be there and I didn’t care about anything but seeing him.”

  “But there are hundreds of guys on a wildfire at any given time,” Chris said, puzzled. “Chances were slim that you’d be able to even find him, right?”

  “A slim chance was better than none,” Morgan answered, his voice taking on a wistful tone that Chris didn’t know if he liked, coming from Morgan. “And it didn’t matter. Kyle and I always found each other. Except this time… well, I found him. After he’d leaped out of his fucking plane before the rest of his squad. After he’d gotten himself hung up in a burning tree with no one else around to free him for at least fifteen minutes. Fucking idiot daredevil son of a bitch.”

  Chris bit down hard on his lower lip while Morgan talked, listening to the sound of his voice change from wistful to angry to a resigned bitterness. “So, he died?” Chris asked, sure of the answer.

  “Worse,” Morgan sighed. “He lived. He lived through burns covering 60 percent of his body. He lived through the loss of his left leg below the knee. He lived through ninety-seven days in a burn care center and then lived through his mother and father taking him back to Ohio with them. And he lived through returning all my letters and not answering my phone calls and refusing to see me when I got on a damn plane and flew out there.” Morgan paused and looked over at Chris, his eyes full of what Chris might have thought to be regret. “He should have died.”

  Chris opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, not sure at all what was the right thing to say. “I’m sorry,” he finally offered, for lack of anything else.

  “You don’t know what it’s like to be sorry,” Morgan said softly, turning back to the yard and hiding his expression again.

  Chris sat there with him for a long time, long enough for the shadows to lengthen across the grass and touch the edge of the patio. The silence was not uncomfortable, so he waited there in the pre-summer afternoon and thought about what it would be like to be sorry.

  An unexpected growl from his stomach made him blush, especially when Morgan looked over. “It’s been a while since pancakes,” he remarked. “Growing boy like you probably eats more than one meal a day.”

  He ignored the “boy” reference. “I could eat, yeah. You?”

  “I could eat.”

  “If I show you my exceptional culinary skills, will you tell me the rest?” Chris knew there probably wasn’t much more to the story, but Morgan had been unusually open so far. Considering that Chris had let Morgan top him not less than two hours ago, Chris figured he was at least entitled to ask.

  “I think the fact that you know the word ‘culinary’ is pretty exceptional already. But okay.” Morgan grinned at him, his smile playful.

  Chris found himself grinning back. “I can make decent lasagna.”

  “Just put something in front of me and I’ll eat it.”

  Whether it was intended as a double entendre or not, Chris’s cock twitched inside his shorts. “Is that so?”

  Morgan’s grin turned wolfish. “Usually. If it’s good, I’ll eat it.”

  Half-hard to full mast in five seconds, Chris noted, wriggling in his chair. He lifted up the waistband of his shorts and peeked inside, nodding. “It’s good. You’ll like it.”

  Morgan laughed and slid out of his own seat, coming to kneel on the rough patio floor in front of Chris. “Show me.”

  He lifted his hips and slid his shorts down enough to free his cock, already heavy in his palm. “See?” he said, tongue darting out to wet his own bottom lip. “Good.”

  “Let me taste,” Morgan said, eyes hot and focused on Chris’s prick. He leaned in and licked at the tip very delicately, just enough to taste the tiny, shiny drop of fluid that was beginning to gather. Chris watched with wide eyes as Morgan drew his tongue into his mouth and savored it. “Mmm,” Morgan murmured, looking back up at him. “You’re right. Good.”

  “Again,” Chris heard himself say as he clutched the arms of the chair. “Taste again. Just so you’re sure.”

  Morgan chuckled to himself and moved closer, licking again and again just at the head of Chris’s cock until it was shiny and wet and slippery with his saliva. Pulling back the littlest bit, he met Chris’s gaze again. “I’m sure,” he murmured. “It’s good.” And with that, he ducked his head and swallowed Chris down.

  Chris sucked in a breath and arched up into Morgan’s mouth all at once, the relentless warmth and heat setting all of his nerve endings ablaze in a sparkling display of electricity. The man knew how to give a blowjob, that was for sure, and Chris’s knuckles grew white as he gripped the seat’s arms.

  Morgan worked on Chris’s cock with none of the precise, controlled personality that Chris had come to expect. Morgan kept a hand at the base and his mouth firmly fastened around the rest, and took deep, sucking pulls that had Chris shaking and trembling long before he thought he was ready to come. Morgan thought differently, obviously, because his other hand reached up to cup Chris’s balls in a warm hold, and the pressure on his dick increased.

  He wasn’t sure when he went from holding the chair in a death grip to placing his hands gently on Morgan’s head, but Chris closed his eyes and did his damndest not to guide or thrust. The muscles in his thighs were trembling with the effort, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold off.

  Chris opened his eyes again and a small whimper escaped, though he tried to hold it back. The sight of Morgan’s cheeks hollowing slightly as he sucked was too much, and Chris shuddered once in warning. Morgan stroked hard with his tongue, and then that was it. Chris’s muscles tensed, and things went slightly off-kilter as he came fierce and rough into Morgan’s mouth.

  He was limp in his chair for a few seconds before realizing that Morgan was still on his knees, one hand trying to get at the zipper of his slacks. Chris gathered himself enough to sit forward and help him, getting his fly open in time for both of them to stroke Morgan’s stiff prick together. Morgan let out a groan and a quiet “yes, like that,” and then there was warmth spilling over his fingers while Morgan quivered and came.

  Chris oozed out of his chair and onto the floor, bringing Morgan down with him in a tangle of limbs and slightly damp clothes. “See?” he mumbled, curling into the other man. “Good.”

  Morgan laughed, a true sound of amusement, and Chris liked the way it felt against his chest. “It was good,” he admitted. “But you still owe me some lasagna.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  WHAT HAD started out as just one night of Chris doing Morgan a favor turned into a once-a-week habit of amazing regularity.

  It wasn’t always the same night, due to Chris’s fluctuating work schedule. Sometimes it was a Tuesday, with Morgan bearing tacos from the take-out place down the street. Sometimes it was Sunday and Chris would cook. Nothing fancy—he wasn’t good enough in the kitchen for the gourmet crap—but he could make a passable stir-fry or grill some chicken, and Morgan seemed satisfied with whatever Chris put in front of him.

  And once in a great while, Morgan turned up at work.

  Chris was just hopping off the engine after getting back from a call when Morgan came strolling into the garage, dressed sharply in a crisp white shirt and forest-green tie and carrying his briefcase. He was wearing small spectacles with no rims, ones Chris couldn’t recall seeing before, and two things occurred to him at once.

  The first was that he hadn’t known Morgan wore glasses, or even contacts. As often as Morgan had been coming over for the past month, he never stayed the night. The fact that Chris had yet to ask him to stay was beside the point; he figured if Morgan wanted to, he would. If he didn’t, he would leave. He always left.

  The second thing that occurred to him was that his dick had grown rigid inside his turnouts as soon as Morgan had come within fifteen feet of him. Chris was grateful for the thick yellow fabric that covered his erection. It was meant to protect him from four-hundred-degree heat, but it served other purposes too, thank God.

 
; Chris watched from under his lashes as his captain, Rich, greeted Morgan and led him inside. Apparently Morgan was only here to brief Rich on the upcoming classes he was teaching. Chris was fine with that. It was the man’s job. There was no other reason Morgan should be at Station Nineteen at… eight thirty at night?

  Wait.

  Chris glanced again at the clock on the wall of the garage just to be sure of the time. Half past eight wasn’t a usual time for visitors, even if they were department employees. Especially employees, since just about everyone knew that any time after six in the evening was usually downtime for the firehouse. Dinner, television, and relaxation was the order of the day once it got dark. It was really rare for anyone who wasn’t a relative of the firemen to come by.

  Chris bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning like a loon as he checked the inside of the paramedic drug box he and Tucker had used on their call. Gloves, gauze, and one vial of morphine needed to be replaced, so he went to the supply cabinet and unlocked it. Chris didn’t know he was whistling softly until he returned to the engine and handed the supplies to Tucker.

  “What’s with you?” Tucker asked, repacking the box.

  “Huh?” Chris blinked and looked down at Tucker where he was crouched on the garage floor.

  “The shit-eating grin. The little spring in your step.” Tucker looked up at him and smiled, flashing those insane dimples that had previously had some impact on Chris’s jerkoff fantasies.

  “Oh. Um. It’s—” He realized he didn’t have any explanation for it, other than the truth, and Chris would be damned if he was going to reveal that little tidbit about his personal life. Particularly when he had no real clue about where he and Morgan stood, not to mention the fact that Tucker was probably the last person on earth Chris wanted to tell. It was sort of weird telling the guy you used to want to fuck about the one you were currently fucking.

  “That good, huh?” Tucker chuckled and focused his attention back on the medic box. “Looks like your mood suddenly improved.”