Hound Dog & Bean (17 page)

“It’s in the backyard. You put on the food, I’ll dump compost.”
How delightful
, Bean thought.
He has my same philosophy about putting things away.

A good sign.

Bean found a platter for the fish and foil-wrapped veggies and grabbing both glasses of wine, led H.D. out onto the deck. Then while his guest got to work at the grill, he headed to the compost pile. When he returned, H.D. was leaning back against the deck railing and holding out a glass of wine.

“Think these have ‘breathed’ long enough?” H.D. asked, and Bean couldn’t help but catch the note of sarcasm in his voice.

“I think so.”

“Good. I’m not used to waiting.”

Now what did that mean?
“Well,” Bean said, holding his glass to H.D. “To Hound Dog.”

“And Bean” came the reply, and they drank.

The flavor was a nice surprise. There was a hint of spice and black cherry. He closed his eyes and let it linger on his tongue. Even mint and cinnamon. And he owed it all to his coffee education, detecting these different layers.

He looked at H.D. and saw the man observing him. Whatever H.D. was thinking about, at least Bean’s worries about the wine were alleviated when H.D. took another sip and said, “Nice.”

“I’m glad.” Bean was nervous. More nervous than he’d had any idea that he would be. How long had it been since he’d had anyone in his home? Well…
this
one? This house he’d bought? Did he count the half-hour stand with a trick he’d drunkenly brought home from The Male Box one very lonely night well after midnight? Besides that man and the occasional friend or coworker, there had been no one. H.D. stood before him, exotic and different and gorgeous and hot, and Bean found himself aroused on so many levels.

Sexually, yes. Of course. Hell yes. But there was more. He didn’t know what. But he knew it felt good. It felt… right. Like H.D. had been here for years.

It had something to do with the fact that he was a man, of course. There was something about the company of men. An energy. A familiarity. Bean had felt it all over the world. Brazil. Mexico. El Salvador. Costa Rica. Even Ethiopia. That final country—the home of coffee—had been a dream come true. And then there was Guatemala (but that was a different kind of story, wasn’t it?).

It didn’t change the fact that wherever he went, he had felt this “company of men.” Even straight men felt it. Why else did they run off to sports bars? It wasn’t the beer or the game. Not
really
. It was the comfort of being with other men.

“I guess you’ve got one over on us,” his father had told him one night. “You can do
any
thing with a man. A man likes to be around other men. We can go play pool, argue politics, go fishing, smoke a good cigar¸ see the Royals play¸ work out at the gym…. Then we go home and sleep with our wives.
You?
You get to do it all. You not only hang out with them, you sleep with your male friends.”

“Dad. It isn’t like that. Not really. I mean…. Well dammit, Dad. Can’t you do all those things with Mom? Well, except for the cigars maybe.”

His father had given him a can-the-bullshit look. “Son. Man’s best friend isn’t his dog. It’s another man. It’s only a man who understands us. Women are from Venus or some such planet. We’re from Mars. There’s a lot of miles between. Any man who tells you his wife is his best friend is either a newlywed or he’s a damned liar.”

The comment disturbed Bean even now. Did all straight men feel that way? Did his dad
really
feel that way, or was it maybe the one-too-many beers they’d drunk that night?

Whatever the case, he liked that H.D. was here. Here in his space. His presence was… magnetizing. It was the way he… the way H.D. took up space. His cockiness. His smile. His posture. The way he rocked on his heels. It was in his lanky, sexy form and the… the almost power of his dreadlocks. It seemed like a silly thing to think—he’d not dare say it out loud—but it was hard for him not to stare at them. They were thick, and dark and light at the same time. They looked soft, and he wondered yet again what they felt like. They were more than just a hairstyle. It had taken H.D. a long time and a lot of dedication to form that waterfall, that mane of blond ropes.

“What are you thinkin’ about, chief?”

I’m thinking that I want to touch your hair. Bury my face in it. Then in your neck. And that I want to take that wild shirt off and see your body, see if your chest is smooth or hairy. I’m betting it is as smooth as a boy’s, but muscular. Not overly so, just lean and corded and sexy as hell. I’m thinking how I want to take you upstairs to my bed and fuck you and make you mine and
…

H.D. smirked at him, and for one horrifying moment, Bean was afraid he’d said all that out loud. But no. It wasn’t that.
I’m staring. I can’t help it. Say something. Say anything for God’s sake
. “I’m thinking I’m glad you’re here,” he said—
without
thinking.

H.D.’s smile was beautiful. “I’m glad I’m here too.”

Bean’s heart soared.

“I’
M
GLAD
I’m here too,” H.D. said—without even thinking about it. The words were out of his mouth before he knew he was going to say them. It surprised him. What surprised him more was that he meant them. He
was
glad he was here—and damned if he knew why.

It wasn’t the possibility of sex—although he was pretty sure the option was on the table. It was the fact that he was here without it being a guarantee. When had he ever gone home to a stranger’s house without knowing that sex was the whole point? The fact was, he was enjoying simply
being
here in this place, in this home, on this deck, with
this
man….

He was damned if he could put his finger on what it was. “He’s just a man” came the line from the song once again.

But Bean wasn’t like most men. First, that… predatory feel wasn’t there. Not that the Hound Dog normally minded. He liked that men found him hot. Who doesn’t like knowing that someone finds them attractive? But….
But what?
Well, he didn’t know “but what”!

Was that all he wanted this to be? Hot?

Hell yes! When a man was hot for you¸ you
knew
what he wanted. So you fucked him. Or he fucked you—a rare thing, of course. But either way the itch was scratched, and you both went your separate ways. It was the ones where you didn’t know what they wanted that made H.D. nervous.

So why wasn’t he nervous now?

He had been. He had been a stupid mess all day.

Now?

Now he felt… calm. At ease. Peaceful. All those words. He felt welcome.

It felt nice.

Bean was just so… relaxed. So there. In the moment. H.D. didn’t know
how
he knew all this. He didn’t
know
Bean at all. He sensed it, though. He could smell dishonesty. The Hound Dog could sniff out an ulterior motive. Every. Single. Fucking. Time.

There didn’t seem to be one here. Not a whiff. Except for that occasional rutting flash he saw in those (beautiful) brown eyes.

Occasional? As in I might not be getting laid tonight?

For some weird reason, it didn’t seem to matter. There was always next time.

Next time?

“What are you thinking about?” asked Bean, those big brown eyes boring into him again.

How I want to kiss you
, H.D. thought. God! He
did
want to kiss Bean. He took a big swallow of the wine (that he knew hadn’t cost $2.99 at Sun Fresh—Bean wasn’t that kind of guy) and placed the glass on the deck railing. Then he took the four or five steps between them and kissed Bean.
Really
kissed him. Took that fuzzy face in his palms and kissed him and used his mouth to ask for entrance. Bean gave his permission, and their tongues touched, then caressed, then wound together. H.D.’s heart began to pound and his toes to curl in his sandals.

When the kiss ended—H.D. was pleased to note that Bean seemed as instinctively certain as he was when the right moment came to stop—they both took a step back.

“Wow” was all H.D. could say.

“Wow,” Bean echoed.

Neither said a word for what seemed the longest time. Then H.D., having finally found
something
to say, took another step back. “Let me check on dinner.”

As it turned out, it was very close to ready. He peeked at the vegetables, and they were perfect. He didn’t want them to turn to mush. Crisp, yet tender at the same time.

He took them off, careful not to burn his fingers—it wasn’t easy.

“Need some oven mitts.”

“I got it,” he said and lifted the lower part of his shirt to help him carry the foil packet to the plate on the table. Like the thin cloth helped! He laughed under his breath. Why didn’t he just bring the plate to the veggies? He wasn’t thinking straight.

Right! He wasn’t thinking
right.
Never straight.

He saw Bean’s eyes lock on his belly, and God, his jeans were riding so low his pubes were showing. Did it make him look like a slut? Normally, that would be a good thing, but for some fucking reason he didn’t want to look like a slut to this man. Didn’t want him to know how many men he’d slept with. How stupid was that? Why should he care?

Bean was just a man!

H.D. shook himself and went back to the grill, poked at the salmon with the barbeque fork, and it began to break apart in flakes. Perfect. Done. “Time to eat,” he said.

“Let me help this time?” asked Bean, and before H.D. could answer, he’d run inside and came back wearing big, silly oven mitts shaped like a cat and a dog—like Jim Henson versions of oven mitts.

Bean tugged the foil onto the platter he’d provided earlier. Easy peasy. Then he motioned to the round table in the corner of the deck. He placed the platter in the middle and dashed back inside. Then he was back as fast as he had been last time with plates and silverware.

They sat at a table on the deck to eat. It was too beautiful a night to do anything else. H.D. liked the setup. The houses next door where designed in such a way that few windows looked down into Bean’s yard, and those that did were blocked by the trees that surrounded the property. “You could sit out here naked if you wanted,” H.D. said with a wicked grin.

Bean shrugged. “I have. I like to be naked.”

“Don’t let me stop you.” H.D. raised and lowered his eyebrows several times.

“Seriously,” Bean said. “I really do.”

H.D. rested his chin in his hand. Looked at Bean. What a
man
. He felt that comfort come over him again. Yes. He could sit out here naked with Bean and it not be about sex. “I get that,” he said. “Sorry if I was being a letch.”

Bean blushed. It was cute. “I don’t mind.”

“Let’s dig in,” H.D. said and gestured to the platter of fish and the second one filled with steaming vegetables.

“Sounds good,” Bean replied, but he still waited.

He’s so damned polite
, thought H.D. “Go on,” he said. “Please.”

Bean nodded and then cut the salmon into even pieces. Four. Almost perfectly quartered. Why would he doubt Bean would do otherwise? Then he served H.D. (of course) before himself. H.D. handed the plate of veggies over, and Bean paused, then carefully picked out an equal amount of each choice; asparagus, zucchini, squash, peppers…. This time he didn’t serve H.D., but handed the plate over.
Thank goodness
, H.D. thought while Bean took a helping of the couscous. As H.D. got his share, Bean poured them both the last of the red wine.

“I have a second bottle waiting. It’s a viognier.”

“A what?”

Bean laughed. “Hell. I don’t know. It’s white.”

“Cool,” said H.D. He took his glass and raised it. He wanted to drink to something—
why? Why do you want to do that?
—but had no idea what to drink to.

Bean seemed to know somehow and filled the emptiness with a toast of his own. “To a good outcome from a bad happenstance.”

What?
Then it hit him. The punch, of course. He clinked his glass against Bean’s as a response.

They drank. And then they dug in.

T
HE
SALMON
was perfect. Totally and completely perfect. Flaky. Sweet. Tender. Juicy. No “fishy” taste at all. It rivaled or beat anything his father could grill. Bean’s taste buds practically swooned. And the wine complemented the dish just the way the man at the store had said it would. He couldn’t wait to taste the viognier. Even if it was a “heady wine with a slightly high alcohol content.” Especially if it helped with a first date.

The vegetables were wonderful. H.D. had obviously put some butter in the foil-wrapped packets, but not so much that they turned soupy or greasy. Just enough to complement their natural flavors. It surprised him. H.D. was a pretty laid-back kind of guy. Knowing exactly how much butter to use wasn’t exactly a skill he would have expected such a man to develop. Surprise! He loved surprises.

He hoped there were more in store for the evening.

They were halfway through the meal, making meaningless small talk, when H.D.’s eyes went wide. “Shit,” he said. “I forgot to make the dessert. I brought—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bean said with a smile. “I got some key lime pie out to thaw. Been looking for an excuse to eat it.”

H.D. displayed a perfect smile. “Sounds awesome.”

Bean sighed happily. He was having such a good time. There was a moment there when he made the stupid admission of being naked out on the deck, but it had gone smoothly and with no hiccups. Whew! The heady balance of flirting! Be suggestive, but don’t go too far.

The truth, though, was that he wanted to rip H.D.’s clothes off, throw him down right in the midst of the food, and make a feast of his bottom. It was perhaps his favorite sexual activity, and H.D. had an ass that could launch a thousand ships. But he also knew the value in waiting.
Not
waiting had gotten him into a hell of a lot of trouble once. He needed to know the lay of the land. And see what this was all about.