Free Behind the Scene by Emory Vargas Page A

Christmas and decorated for me."
    "She has good taste."
    When the flames begin to crackle softly, Ethan slips off the couch and crosses the room on his knees, sliding easily on the carpet until he's next to Robert and the heat. He makes small, content noises as he holds out his hands. "This is great. I hate winter so much. My fingers get terminally cold."
    It's all Robert can do to keep his hands off Ethan. He steadies himself with a breath, and nods and says, "Stay here, warm up. I'll grab you some dinner on a tray. Do you... do you need a blanket or anything?"
    "The fire is good. Thank you," Ethan says, shifting to set cross-legged in front of the fireplace.

    • • •

    They eat together on the floor, silently tucking away small portions of vegetable stew and French bread. Ethan looks sleepy by the time he's finished, his posture shifting and easing, as if he's been drinking wine and not ice water.
    Robert lets his mind wander. He'd like to kiss Ethan now--or just reach and touch his knee, or the hard plane of his inner thigh. Or simply graze his fingers along the back of Ethan's neck. He's almost certain that they'll fuck tonight. But right now, over empty dishes and next to a peaceful fire, it's difficult to imagine how they'll breach the gap between casual conversation and casual sex.
    "This place has a Jacuzzi tub," Robert says.
    "No way. You dick," Ethan says, grinning. "My tub sucks. I swear, when I move I'm basing my entire living situation on finding a better bathroom."
    "That was an invitation, you know."
    Ethan watches him for a moment, and then looks down and fidgets with their dinner trays, stacking the bowls and the glasses and placing the spoons inside of them. A server, maybe. Or an ex-server. As frequently as Ethan takes beatings, it's unlikely he spends entire evenings on his feet carrying heavy plates around.
    "An invitation to what?" Ethan asks.
    "Play."
    Ethan's gaze snaps up, and Robert amends the offer quickly, shaking his head. "Not--no rules. Honestly? I just want to touch you," he says.
    "You're always checking me out in the parking lot," Ethan says, visibly calming. It sounds more like an observation than an accusation.
    "I might have a small crush."
    "I don't do crushes either."
    Disappointment flares in Robert's gut, but he smiles and asks, "What do you do?"
    "Depends. Do you top?"
    Desire begins to mingle with the disappointment. It feels a little like indigestion. "Yes," Robert says.
    "To be honest, I usually spend a night like this in a heated blanket watching House Hunters, but I could do a long bath and a long fuck, if you have it in you," Ethan says steadily, as if he's asking Robert to go for a brisk walk with him.
    For all the steadiness, there's something else there, something Robert can't place, and a tiny red warning light goes off somewhere in the barely functioning rational part of his brain. Be careful, it says, while the rest of him starts devising creative sex positions and an obscene agenda that will hopefully last for hours.
    Robert picks up the trays and stands. Ethan's eyebrows arch delicately as he casts a pointed glance at Robert's tented slacks.
    "Oh. Yes," Robert says, with a short laugh. "That's a yes."

    • • •

    Robert's impulse to invite Ethan over was more wishful thinking than concrete plan, and he hasn't prepared enough. His apartment is clean, but the bathroom is the bathroom of a man who rarely has guests over. He spends a few awkward minutes trying to tidy up while Ethan fills the tub and examines the fixtures politely instead of watching Robert shove a red butt plug and several brands of lube into a bathroom drawer.
    "Food magazines," Ethan says, pointing at the pile beside the toilet. "Cool."
    Robert cringes at the mess of bathroom literature. "It's more of a wannabe hobby than anything."
    "I don't know about that. The stew was good. Really good." Ethan turns the water off, stands, and starts undressing.
    "Thanks," Robert says. "It's the slow