Believe, Page 3

  The thought was a departure from his usual fantasies, and too much. He broke the kiss, panting. “I want you in my mouth.”

  Rhys gazed down at him, still slowly thrusting his hips. “Sure?”

  “Yes. Stop asking me that.”

  “Fair enough.” Rhys walked up Jevon’s torso on his knees and brought his dick to Jevon’s mouth, smearing his lips with the sticky head. “Smack me if you want to stop though, okay?”

  Jevon had no intention of stopping or of ever letting Rhys and his glorious body out of his sight. But Rhys’s dark eyes were serious, so Jevon nodded. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Good boy.”

  Though wry, the term of endearment was so sweetly erotic Jevon almost wept. Almost, because the emotion fast became a distant memory as Rhys’s cock slid into his mouth.

  Jevon flattened his tongue and took it all in. Sensation overwhelmed him—choked him—and swallowing around Rhys seemed surreal, like it was happening to someone else and he was watching from a balcony. Am I really doing this? Even as he scraped his teeth over Rhys’s length, he wasn’t entirely convinced until Rhys’s gravelly moan invaded his introspection.

  “Man, I don’t believe you haven’t sucked dick before.”

  Jevon gazed up at him, transfixed by his hooded eyes and flushed cheeks. A retort danced through his mind, but his mouth was crammed full of Rhys’s cock, and he had no intention of giving that up.

  He sat up slightly to give his neck more scope. Rhys groaned again and gripped the back of the sofa bed. “Yeah. That’s right. Suck it. Show me how you want me to suck your dick.”

  The prospect of Rhys returning the favour made Jevon’s cock throb. It jerked, and Jevon gasped, sucking harder and working Rhys with one hand while the other flew to his own dick.

  Rhys threw his head back and thrust into Jevon’s mouth, gently at first, but then with more force as Jevon opened his throat. “Fuck yeah. Jesus. You’re good at this.”

  Jevon hummed on instinct and squeezed his hand around the base of Rhys’s shaft. Moisture dripped down from his mouth, slicking Rhys’s cock, and he imagined Rhys pulling out, shoving him down the bed, and easing inside him. Or pushing Rhys onto his back, nudging his legs apart, and—

  Fuck. Where on earth was his head at now? He’d never pictured himself topping, but the reality of being with Rhys had blasted open a door he’d only had the nerve to peep around until tonight. For the first time since Jevon’s attraction to men had made itself known, anything—everything—seemed possible.

  I want him.

  Jevon’s composure began to slip as years of unresolved desires broke free, spilling out of him in every gasp and shudder—every groan and violent jerk of his hips as he fucked his own hand.

  Rhys’s moans grew louder, too, and more frequent, his muttered curses less intelligible. He tightened his grip on the back of the sofa bed and drove his cock mercilessly down Jevon’s throat. “God, yeah. Like that. Don’t stop.”

  As if Jevon could. As if he wanted to. He screwed his eyes shut and lost himself to the crazy duel sensations of Rhys swelling in his mouth and his own dick pulsing in his hand. Rhys was getting harder by the second, his thrusts erratic, and Jevon was barely holding on.

  And then he wasn’t holding on at all.

  He lost his grip. Orgasm sluiced through him, and his body arched up from the bed. He came with a muffled scream, choking on Rhys’s cock, swallowing convulsively as hot come splattered his belly.

  Rhys shouted and fucked Jevon’s mouth impossibly harder. “Shit, I’m gonna come, mate.” He tried to pull back, but Jevon clamped down and gripped Rhys’s hips, holding him prisoner in his mouth as Rhys exploded down his throat. “Fuck!”

  It seemed to go on and on. Jevon’s chest heaved, and his stomach caved in and out, but he couldn’t bear to let Rhys slip from his mouth. He sucked and licked Rhys’s softening dick until Rhys finally pulled out with a shaky groan.

  Rhys collapsed sideways, landing in a heap beside Jevon, panting wildly. He muttered something that Jevon didn’t quite catch and slung an arm over Jevon’s chest.

  Jevon’s mind was in bits. His body was on fire, and the confirmation he’d been chasing all this time slotted into place so absolutely that he couldn’t breathe. I’m gay.

  Shit.

  Not bisexual—like Rhys—and like he’d assumed himself to be for so long, but gay. His encounters with women had been wonderful, but as his heart thudded in his ears, he knew there would be no more.

  I’m so fucking gay.

  The relief was so intense he almost laughed until he realised Rhys was staring at him. “What?”

  “You look like you’re freaking out,” Rhys said. “If it’s because I shot in your mouth, don’t worry. I got tested at work a month ago.”

  Jevon shook his head. “I wasn’t thinking about that, and I’m not freaking out. But I’m clear too, in case you were worried. I got tested when my girlfriend cheated on me, and I haven’t been with anyone since.”

  “You have a girlfriend?” Rhys’s tone sharpened.

  “No . . . I had one, a year ago.”

  Silence. Then Rhys blinked. “Sorry. I misunderstood. I’m all for sexual freedom in relationships—if it feels right—but cheating fucks with my head, you know? Sorry it happened to you.”

  Jevon shrugged. “It was my fault, really. I pushed her into it so I had a reason to bail.”

  “Because you were freaking out about liking men?”

  “Something like that.” Understanding and empathy warmed Rhys’s face. Jevon wanted to touch him, but his hands were sticky with jizz. He settled for knocking his head on Rhys’s shoulder. “Anyway. It doesn’t matter now. I—um—I think I’m gay.”

  Rhys nodded slowly. “There are worse things to be.”

  “I’m starting to see that.”

  “Good. You can’t expect the world to accept you if you don’t accept yourself.” Rhys yawned and flopped onto his back. “I remember when my brother came out, I was waiting for him to start walking tall, you know? Shoulders back, not giving a fuck what anyone thought. But it wasn’t like that for him, and it took me a while to realise that labelling himself didn’t change the fact that he still didn’t know who he was.”

  “What about you? What happened when you came out?”

  “I never bothered,” Rhys said. “Because I don’t give two shits what people want to call me. Bisexual suits me right now, but it might change. Or it might not. Does it matter? Not to me . . . and that’s all that counts when it comes to my sexuality.”

  “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  It wasn’t what Jevon meant to say, but Rhys seemed to understand. He sat up on his elbows, sweat glistening on his chest, and nodded toward the tiny bathroom. “Go wash up. We can expand on that when you get back.”

  Needing a minute and grateful for the out, Jevon slid from the bed and meandered across the room, legs still wobbling. He sensed Rhys’s eyes on his back and tried not to imagine what he might be thinking as he took in Jevon’s naked body. He was captivated by Rhys, but though his throat still ached from Rhys’s cock and Rhys’s guttural shouts still echoed in his head, it was impossible to know how Rhys truly felt.

  Perhaps he was humouring him.

  Or had a virgin fetish.

  A friendly daddy on Grindr had warned Jevon about shit like that once, but as he wiped dried come from his skin and washed his hands, none of it seemed to fit Rhys. His kindness was too authentic, too real, and Jevon couldn’t deny the insane heat that simmered between them even now, when they’d both come themselves hoarse.

  “We can expand on that . . .” What did that mean? The desire to find out rippled through Jevon, jerking his briefly sated cock back to life. He left the bathroom and padded to the bed, the words to ask Rhys to touch him again dripping off his tongue.

  But Rhys was asleep, sprawled on his stomach, naked and beautiful, and perspective returned to Jevon like the beginnings of an autumn rainstorm. Dro
plets of reality but then a downpour of cold hard facts: Rhys was a stranger asleep in his own bed, and Jevon was a hook-up with a plane to catch.

  He gathered his clothes and dressed quietly. Then he kissed two fingers and touched them to Rhys’s temple.

  Thank you.

  Three

  Sleeping had become the curse of the wicked. Torn between imagined monsters left behind in his waking life and the flickers of long brown limbs and innocent eyes of his dreams, Rhys couldn’t catch a fucking break. He tossed and turned in his bunk until the crude blast of the base alarm woke him just before dawn.

  Autopilot kicked in. He rolled to his feet, grabbed his kit, and dashed to the rooftop with the rest of the scrambled HELIMED crew.

  He jumped onto the chopper. A flight doctor he vaguely knew was already on board: an ex-military medic who was satanically good looking and something of a legend when it came to trauma medicine.

  Marc grinned and clapped Rhys on the back. “How’s tricks?”

  “All good.” Rhys zipped up his orange flight suit. “What are you doing down here? Thought you’d stuck your boots in up north?”

  Marc scowled. “I have, but there’s been a cock-up with doc holiday time down here, and I wasn’t going to let them ground the chopper, was I?”

  “Bible,” Rhys agreed.

  Marc rolled his eyes. “Bloody young ’uns. Always with the wacky lingo.”

  “Yeah, yeah. How’s Jamie?”

  Like the rising sun, Marc’s face brightened. “He’s good, man. Haven’t seen him since Tuesday morning though. Can’t wait to get home.”

  Rhys nodded with as much pleasantness as he could muster, but the sight of someone else so nauseatingly in love turned his stomach. Marc and Jamie, Dylan and Angelo. Harry and his Cornish horseman soulmate.

  Fuck’s sake.

  Rhys slapped his headset on and listened to the briefing as it came through. Major fire incident. Multiple casualties. Location: Bedford.

  “Bedford?” Rhys glanced at Marc. “That’s not in our jurisdiction.”

  Marc shrugged. “Must be a bad one. Check your kit, then sit tight. Windy out there today.”

  Great. Despite transferring to the air ambulance way back at the start of the year, Rhys had yet to get used to turbulent flights. Even the calm ones rolled his stomach when he didn’t have a patient to concentrate on.

  He ran through the pre-flight checks and took his seat as the chopper came to life, closing his eyes to the roar of the rotor blades.

  Marc nudged him. “Really? Still? Guess I’m navigating then.”

  “Fuck off,” Rhys muttered without opening his eyes. “You’re the one who said it was windy.”

  And it was. The chopper took off less than two minutes after Rhys had rolled out of bed and was immediately buffeted by strong gusts he hadn’t noticed when he’d sprinted to the helipad. He gritted his teeth, reminding himself that the pilots were ridiculously experienced at flying in all weather conditions, that they wouldn’t attempt a take-off if it was truly dangerous, but when that didn’t work, he settled for a method he’d come to rely on: fantasising about the one who’d got away, AKA Jevon. The charismatic dude who’d done a moonlight flit from Rhys’s bed.

  Like magic, the juddering helicopter faded away, even with the crew still chatting through Rhys’s headset. He blocked their voices and pictured Jevon as he’d last seen him, padding to the bathroom, come splattered on his belly, his tattooed skin sheened with fresh sweat. He’d smelled amazing. Felt amazing, and his every nervous touch had set Rhys on fire, but it was more than that. Hooking up with Jevon had been nothing like Rhys had experienced before. Rhys was a natural bottom, and he’d never dominated a man like Jevon had invited him to. Until that night, getting dicked out had been his favourite escape, and he’d rarely called the shots.

  Jevon’s way had blown his mind. Three months later and he was still thinking about it. Obsessing over it. Imagining what could’ve gone down if he hadn’t passed out drunk. Idiot. He was used to a hangover and an empty bed, but that morning had felt like the end of the world. Still did when he had time to stew on it—which was more than he cared to admit now he’d quit playing around at the club.

  The flight out of London took twenty-four minutes. Thoughts of Jevon—his gentle, curious gaze and gorgeous cock—took up ninety per cent of the journey, but a couple of minutes before landing, reality kicked in.

  “Jesus,” Marc muttered. “That ain’t no kitchen fire.”

  Rhys peered out of the window at the huge clouds of smoke billowing from the compound below. “Might’ve started as one.”

  “Nah. The fire doors would’ve contained it. If that shit ain’t deliberate, I’ll buy your lunch.”

  Marc always bought lunch, so Rhys let the latter comment slide, and he respected Marc’s opinion too much to disagree with him. “What is this place?”

  “Immigration detention centre,” Marc said darkly. “So either an inmate set the fire from inside—some kind of protest, maybe—or we’re looking at an outside terror attack.”

  Rhys suppressed a shudder, but their time to speculate ran out. The chopper landed. Marc jumped out. Rhys followed, and they dashed to the pop-up control point to touch base.

  Time ceased to exist. The detention centre housed families seeking asylum, and many of the injured were young. Chopper teams always copped the worst cases, and Marc was immediately assigned to a badly burned teenager. Rhys saw terrible things with such monotonous regularity that blood and gore went over his head. Screaming relatives affected him more, but the boy didn’t seem to have any nearby.

  Marc stabilised him for transport and they carried him to the helicopter, readying for take-off a mere half hour after they’d landed. With him on board, Rhys went back to collect leftover equipment, and it was only then he noticed a second child crouched on a kit bag.

  “Shift up, kiddo,” he said. “I need that bag.”

  The tiny girl stared back at him, apparently oblivious to the chaos around her. “Brother,” she said.

  Rhys glanced around. “Who is?”

  “Brother,” she repeated.

  “Rhys! Come on! We need to go!”

  Rhys acknowledged Marc’s shout with a wave of his hand and, lacking any brighter ideas, scooped the girl up from the kit bag. He searched the immediate area for anyone with a fucking clue what was going on. Other paramedics and fire crews were all busy, but a G4S worker caught his eye. Rhys approached her, balancing the girl on his hip, the kit bag slung over his shoulder. “She was on her own,” he said. “But I think we have her brother in the chopper. Get her taken care of.”

  There wasn’t time to wait for a response. He started to pass the child over, but she dug her fingers into his flight suit and tightened her legs around his torso. “No.”

  “Come on, kiddo,” Rhys said. “I’ve got to go. This lady will look after you.”

  “No,” the girl said again in a perfect echo of their first exchange.

  Her grip was fearsome and something in her eyes terrified Rhys, but there was little he could do but detach her tiny hands and force her into the waiting woman’s arms.

  He backed away and ran to the waiting chopper, slotting into his place opposite Marc. The helicopter took off and Marc shot instructions across the strapped-down gurney, but even as Rhys’s mind switched back to autopilot, he found himself glancing out the window as the incident scene grew smaller. The young girl was impossible to spot, but somehow, he still felt her gaze all over him.

  “That’s it,” Marc said. “We’re done for the day.”

  Rhys glanced up from the coffee pot he was surreptitiously emptying into the flight crew’s travel mugs. “We’re not going back?”

  “Couldn’t if we wanted to. Chopper’s fucked.”

  Mixed emotions warred in Rhys’s tired brain. They’d already made three runs to the fire incident and fatigue had begun to creep over all of them. Going off duty was a relief, but the helicopter was their ride home. I
f it was grounded, so were they. “What’s wrong with the damn thing now?”

  “No idea. Someone’s coming to look at it, but even if they can fix it, it’ll be awhile.” Marc glanced at Rhys’s handiwork. “Is one of those Pater’s? I’ll take it to him.”

  Marc departed with the pilot’s coffee, leaving Rhys alone in the staff lounge they’d been permitted to use. A doctor was asleep in an armchair in the corner. At first glance, he reminded Rhys of Jevon, but closer inspection revealed hair that was too short, skin that was too pale, and actually . . . he didn’t look anything like Jevon at all. Fuck. Will this never stop?

  Scrubbing his face, Rhys turned away and retreated to his own quiet corner to drink his coffee. A nap sounded good, but as the hospital java kicked in, sleep wouldn’t come.

  Restless, he crept out of the staff room and into the bustling A&E corridor. The department was still in major-incident mode on top of their usual patient numbers, and the quiet hum of civilised chaos got under Rhys’s skin, reminding him why he’d become a paramedic and not a nurse. Disaster was a lot easier to face with the rain on your back, the wind in your hair. Indoors, there was no escape.

  A nurse hurried past but doubled back when she noticed Rhys. “Did you come from the Smallwood fire?”

  “The detention centre?” Rhys nodded. “Yeah. Three times. How’s it looking?”

  The nurse shook her head. “Horrendous. We have half a dozen fatalities and double that in unaccompanied children. No one speaks English, and we have no idea who belongs to who.”

  Rhys’s mind flashed back to the little girl he’d plucked from the ground. The young man who was likely her brother had died in the helicopter, and he hadn’t had time to ponder her fate before now. “Where are they all?”

  “Over there,” the nurse said, pointing to a curtained off area in minors. “Social services are here, but they don’t know their arse from their elbow without an interpreter. Those poor kids.”

  She shook her head and disappeared in the direction of the unclaimed children. Curiosity got the better of Rhys and he followed her, expecting to be hit with a wall of noise as she pulled the curtain back. But there was none. Beyond the busy department, twelve or so young children were huddled on the floor, silent and staring.