Chapter 7: Morning after
The first thing Kenny became aware of was the weight. A solid, warm line of heat along his back, an arm slung possessively over his ribs, a breath stirring the hair at his nape. Morning light, pale and dust-filled, cut through a gap in the curtains, painting a stripe across the rumpled sheets and the tattooed forearm that held him.
He lay perfectly still, listening to the deep, even rhythm of Buck’s breathing against his spine. It was a sound he could get addicted to. The memories of the night flooded in, not as discrete images but as a full-body echo—a pleasant ache, a sense of profound lassitude, a shocking, quiet joy.
Carefully, millimeter by millimeter, he extricated himself from Buck’s hold. Buck murmured something unintelligible, his brow furrowing, but he didn’t wake. He rolled onto his back, one arm flung above his head on the pillow, the other resting on his stomach. The sheet pooled low around his hips.
Kenny sat up, pulling his knees to his chest, and just looked.
In sleep, the confident firefighter was gone. The easy smile was relaxed into a soft, parted line. The tension he carried in his jaw, the faint crease between his brows that Kenny had noticed even when he laughed, was smoothed away. Sunlight traced the gold stubble on his cheeks, the strong column of his throat, the dramatic sweep of the phoenix’s wings across his left pec. His chest rose and fell, steady and slow.
He was breathtaking. And he was here.
A daring impulse, sweet and hungry, unspooled in Kenny’s gut. Last night had been about collision, about claiming and being claimed. This morning… this was for discovery.
He shifted on the bed, the old springs giving a faint sigh. Buck didn’t stir. Kenny reached out, his hand hovering for a moment above the landscape of Buck’s torso, then he let his fingertips make contact.
He started at the shoulder, the skin warm and smooth over the hard cap of muscle. He traced the bold black lines of the firefighter’s cross on Buck’s bicep, following the curves with a touch so light it was barely there. He mapped the defined deltoid, the curve of the collarbone. His fingers drifted down, over the swell of the pectoral, avoiding the nipple for now, skating through the light dusting of blonde hair.
His touch was a question. What did this body feel like without the urgency of passion? The answer was power, even in repose. A latticework of muscle built for saving lives, now completely surrendered to his exploration.
Kenny’s palms slid down over Buck’s ribs, feeling each ridge, the incredible taper of his waist. He leaned closer, his own breath catching. The scent of them—sex, sleep, Buck’s clean sweat—was everywhere.
He gave in to the deeper pull. Lowering his head, he let his tongue touch skin.
He started at the faint, shallow dip of Buck’s navel. A lick, flat and slow. The muscle beneath jumped. Buck’s breathing hitched, but his eyes remained closed, lost in some dream. Emboldened, Kenny circled the rim with the tip of his tongue, then dipped inside, a brief, intimate penetration that made heat coil tight in his own belly.
He worked his way up, painting a wet, meandering trail with his tongue. He lapped at the hard, defined planes of Buck’s lower abdomen, each ridge a salty revelation. He followed the happy trail of hair, darker here, that led from his navel up to his sternum. He took his time, a slow, worshipping ascent, his hands resting on Buck’s hips, holding him steady.
He reached the broad expanse of Buck’s chest. The phoenix seemed to watch him. Kenny bypassed its fiery heart and went straight for the prize he’d been fixated on.
He closed his mouth over Buck’s right nipple.
He didn’t suck hard, not like last night. This was different. He laved it with broad, wet strokes of his tongue until it was a tight, pebbled peak. He circled it, teased it, then drew it gently between his lips, nursing with a soft, persistent rhythm.
A low groan rumbled in Buck’s chest. His hand twitched on his stomach. Kenny glanced up. Buck’s eyes were still shut, but his lips were parted, his breath coming quicker now. He was floating in the space between sleep and waking, being pleasured into consciousness.
Kenny switched sides, giving the left nipple the same devoted, meticulous attention. He flicked it rapidly with the tip of his tongue, then soothed it with flat, slow presses. He took it between his teeth, applying the faintest, most exquisite pressure, and Buck’s hips gave an involuntary jerk.
“Kenny,” Buck sighed, the word thick with sleep.
Kenny released the nipple with a soft pop. He looked up. Buck’s blue eyes were open now, hazy and heavy-lidded, fixed on the ceiling as if still decoding the sensation.
“Hey,” Kenny whispered, his lips brushing the wet skin.
“What are you doing to me?” Buck’s voice was a gravelly wreck.
“Exploring.” Kenny licked a stripe from nipple to nipple. “You’re a national park.”
A slow, dazed smile spread across Buck’s face. He finally looked down, his gaze connecting with Kenny’s. The sleep in his eyes was rapidly burning away, replaced by a dark, drowsy heat. “You need a permit for that.”
“I think I earned it.” Kenny punctuated this by sucking the right nipple back into his mouth, harder this time, grazing it with his teeth.
Buck hissed, his hand coming up to cradle the back of Kenny’s head, not pushing, just holding him there. “Fuck, yeah you did.” His other hand slid down, over his own stomach, and slipped beneath the sheet. Kenny heard the rustle of fabric, saw the movement of Buck’s arm. He was touching himself.
The visual, the sheer lazy arrogance of it, sent a jolt straight to Kenny’s cock. He redoubled his efforts on Buck’s chest, sucking and licking one nipple while his fingers plucked and rolled the other. He could hear the wet, slick sounds from under the sheet, could see the tightening of Buck’s abdominal muscles.
“Gonna come,” Buck warned, his voice tight. “Just from this. Just from your mouth on my tits like a goddamn—”
Kenny bit down, not hard, but with a sharp, sudden pressure.
Buck cried out, a raw, shocked sound, and his body arched off the bed. The sheet tented wildly over his fist as he came, shuddering through the orgasm, his cock pulsing in his own grip. Kenny gentled his mouth, suckling softly now, drawing out the last tremors until Buck collapsed back onto the mattress, boneless and spent, his chest heaving.
Kenny lifted his head. Buck’s nipple was red, thoroughly abused, glistening with saliva. Buck’s arm lay limp at his side, the hand sticky under the sheet. His eyes were closed again, a look of stunned satiation on his face.
For a long moment, the only sound was their breathing. The morning outside the window was getting brighter, the town beginning to stir.
Buck finally opened his eyes. He looked at Kenny, a complex emotion swirling in the blue—amazement, vulnerability, a fierce, glowing warmth. “No one’s ever…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, as if the end of the sentence was too immense to voice.
Kenny knew. No one’s ever worshipped you like this. No one’s ever taken the time.
He crawled back up the bed and laid his head on Buck’s shoulder, his ear over the steady, strong heartbeat. Buck’s clean arm came around him, pulling him close.
Buck’s chest vibrated with a silent laugh. He pressed a kiss into Kenny’s hair. Outside, a church bell began to toll, calling the faithful to a service. The sound was clean and clear in the morning air, but here, in the tangle of sheets and the scent of their joined sleep, it felt like a benediction for something else entirely.
The sound was clean and clear in the morning air, but here, in the tangle of sheets and the scent of their joined sleep, it felt like a benediction for something else entirely. Buck’s fingers traced abstract shapes on Kenny’s bare shoulder, his touch speaking a language quieter than words. Kenny’s stomach chose that moment to growl, a loud, rude interruption that made Buck’s chest bounce with a silent chuckle.
“Someone’s hungry,” Buck murmured, his voice still rough from sleep and recent pleasure.
“I hope you’re staying for breakfast?” Kenny asked, tilting his head back to see Buck’s face.
“I’d like that,” Buck said, bending to press a kiss to Kenny’s forehead. “But on the condition we shower first. I feel like I fought a warehouse fire and lost.”
They untangled themselves, the morning cool raising goosebumps on their skin. The walk to the bathroom was a nude, casual procession, a new and thrilling domesticity. The shower was small, steam quickly fogging the glass door as they stepped under the hot spray.
Buck washed Kenny’s back with a slow, soapy thoroughness, his strong hands kneading the tension from his shoulders. Kenny returned the favor, lathering Buck’s chest, his fingers tracing every familiar ink line through the slick suds. They kissed under the falling water, languid and deep, a slow rekindling of warmth without the night’s desperate edge.
“I could get used to this,” Buck said, water dripping from his eyelashes.
“The shower?” Kenny asked, rubbing shampoo into Buck’s blonde hair.
“This. All of it.”
They dried off with thick, worn towels, the steam pouring out into the hallway. Buck scrubbed his hair briskly, turning it into a chaotic sun-bleached mess. Kenny watched him, a mischievous idea crystallizing. While Buck was turned, vigorously drying his legs, Kenny acted.
He scooped up the discarded pile of Buck’s clothes—jeans, henley, socks, even his boots by the door—and padded silently into the bedroom. He stuffed them into the bottom drawer of his dresser, beneath a stack of sweaters. He returned to the bathroom doorway, leaning against the frame, a picture of innocence.
Buck straightened up, running a hand through his hair. “You got a spare toothbrush or should I just use my finger?”
“Second drawer,” Kenny said, nodding to the vanity.
Buck found the brush, uncapped Kenny’s toothpaste, and began brushing his teeth. Kenny watched the powerful muscles in his back and shoulders shift with each movement. Finished, Buck rinsed, spat, and wiped his mouth. He turned, a easy smile on his face. “Okay, lead me to the coffee.”
He stepped past Kenny into the hallway, heading for the kitchen. He got three steps before he stopped, his head tilting. “Uh. Kenny?”
“Yeah?”
“Where are my clothes?”
Kenny bit his lip, failing to suppress a grin. “What clothes?”
Buck turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. He was magnificent standing there in just his boxers, damp hair, and absolute confusion. The black cotton boxers hugged the dense muscle of his thighs and the notable swell of his cock, still soft from the shower. “My jeans. My shirt. They were right there.”
“I didn’t see anything.” Kenny shrugged, walking past him toward the kitchen. “Maybe you imagined them. Occupational hazard. All that smoke inhalation.”
Buck followed him, a low laugh building in his chest. “You little shit. You hid them.”
“Prove it.” Kenny opened the fridge, pulling out eggs and butter. The morning light flooded the small kitchen, illuminating the dust motes and the sheer, startling reality of Evan Buckley in his underwear, leaning against the doorway.
“You want me to have breakfast like this?” Buck asked, gesturing down at himself. A genuine, amused embarrassment colored his cheeks.
“I think it’s a great look.” Kenny cracked eggs into a bowl. “Very ‘casual Saturday’. Besides, I’m not wearing pants either.” He was in a loose pair of sleep shorts that hung low on his hips and an oversized t-shirt.
Buck stared at him, that slow smile returning, wider now. “You’re a menace.” He pushed off the doorframe and walked into the kitchen, the floorboards cool under his bare feet. He moved behind Kenny at the stove, his warmth a palpable presence. His hands settled on Kenny’s hips, his chin resting on Kenny’s shoulder to watch him scramble eggs in the buttered pan.
The sizzle was a homey sound. Buck’s breath was warm on Kenny’s neck. “Smells good.”
“It’s just eggs,” Kenny said, but he leaned back into the solid wall of Buck’s chest, letting himself be supported.
“It’s perfect.” Buck’s lips brushed the shell of his ear, then he moved away to rummage in the cabinets. He found two plates, two mugs. He filled the kettle for tea, knowing Kenny’s preference from the wine-shop conversation days before. The domestic rhythm of it, unspoken and effortless, made Kenny’s heart thump awkwardly against his ribs.
They sat at the small, scarred wooden table by the window. Sunlight pooled between them, illuminating the steam rising from their mugs. Kenny pushed a plate of buttered toast toward Buck. He watched Buck take a bite, the strong line of his jaw working, a crumb catching in the stubble at the corner of his mouth.
Buck ate with a focused appreciation, a man used to fueling a powerful body. Kenny picked at his own food, the anxiety he’d held at bay all morning beginning to coil in his stomach. The night, the shower, this quiet meal—it felt monumental. It felt terrifyingly fragile.
He studied Buck across the table. The morning light loved him. It gilded the blonde hairs on his forearms, turned his eyes from piercing blue to something softer, like a summer sky. The phoenix on his chest, visible above the line of the table, seemed to watch Kenny too.
Kenny’s fork clinked softly against his plate. He took a sip of tea, the liquid suddenly tasteless. He needed to know. The not-knowing was a hollow space where dread was starting to grow.
“So…” Kenny began, his voice smaller than he intended. He put his mug down, his eyes fixed on the dark liquid inside. “What does this mean for us?”
Buck stilled, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. He lowered it slowly.
Kenny forced himself to look up. He saw the shift in Buck’s face—the easy morning comfort sharpening into acute attention. “I mean,” Kenny continued, the words tumbling out, “last night was… incredible. This morning is… I don’t even have a word for it. But I need to know if I’m just… reading into things. If this is just… hookups. And casual. Because for me, it’s not. It can’t be.”
There. It was out. The vulnerability hung in the air between them, more exposed than their naked bodies had been.
Buck didn’t answer immediately. He set his toast down, wiped his hands on a napkin. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and his gaze was so direct it felt physical. “Look at me, Kenny.”
Kenny met his eyes.
“The first time I saw you,” Buck said, each word deliberate, “you were in that bookstore, arguing with Maggie about where to shelve a collection of Pablo Neruda poetry. You said it belonged under ‘lyricism,’ not just ‘classics.’ Your hands were flying, and you had this… light. This absolute conviction about where beauty should live.”
Kenny remembered that day. He hadn’t known Buck was there.
“I asked Maggie about you after,” Buck continued. “She just smiled and said, ‘That’s our new Ken. Be careful, he’s quieter than he looks.’ I’ve been trying to get you to look at me ever since. Last night wasn’t a hookup. It was a destination.”
The coil of anxiety in Kenny’s stomach didn’t unravel; it melted, flooding him with a warmth that was almost dizzying.
“My job is shit,” Buck said, his voice dropping, roughening. “It’s waking up to sirens and walking into flames and carrying pieces of people’s worst days out of rubble. It’s fucked-up schedules and missed birthdays and this constant low-grade dread that the next call is the one that breaks you.” He reached across the table, his hand covering Kenny’s. His palm was calloused, warm, utterly certain. “This? You? This quiet morning? It’s the opposite of all that. It’s the shore after the storm. So no, Kenny. This isn’t casual. Not for a single fucking second.”
Kenny turned his hand under Buck’s, lacing their fingers together. He couldn’t speak. The relief was a tidal wave, washing everything clean.
The relief was a tidal wave, washing everything clean. Kenny looked at their joined hands, at Buck’s thumb stroking his knuckle, and the world seemed to click into a sharper, more beautiful focus. He could hear the bakery delivery truck rattling down the street below, the sound now a part of their morning, not an intrusion.
Buck stood up, the chair legs scraping softly on the floorboards. He kept hold of Kenny’s hand, his expression resolved and unbearably soft. He pulled Kenny up until they were standing chest to chest in the patch of sunlight.
“Come here,” Buck murmured, his voice a low vibration.
He led Kenny not to the living room, but back down the short hall to the bedroom. The room was still in disarray, the sheets a twisted landscape of their night. The light was different now, brighter, exposing everything.
Buck turned to face him, his hands coming up to frame Kenny’s face. His thumbs traced the arches of his cheekbones. His blue eyes were clear, stripped of all guard. “Kenny,” he began, then paused, swallowing hard. “Here’s my proof that I’m falling for you.”
He kissed him.
It was not rough. It was not hungry like the balcony kiss or desperate like the kisses in the dark. This was a slow, deep, pouring of feeling. Buck’s lips were soft, moving against Kenny’s with a devastating tenderness. He kissed him like he was learning the shape of a prayer. Kenny felt it instantly—the raw, unprotected emotion flowing from Buck’s mouth into his own. It was a confession more profound than any words.
Kenny whimpered into the kiss, his hands coming up to clutch at Buck’s bare shoulders. The feeling was too large; it threatened to crack his ribs. Buck’s tongue sought his, a gentle, searching slide that tasted of mint and black tea and utter sincerity.
The kiss escalated, not in fury, but in depth. It was a silent conversation that said I see you, I choose you, I am here. Kenny felt Buck’s hands leave his face, sliding down to the hem of his t-shirt. Buck broke the kiss just long enough to pull the fabric up and over Kenny’s head, letting it fall forgotten. His own boxers were pushed down in one smooth motion.
Then Buck’s hands were on Kenny’s sleep shorts, tugging them and his briefs down together. The morning air touched his skin, but Buck’s body was right there, pressing close, all heat and hard muscle. Skin met skin from chest to thigh, a full, breathtaking contact.
They swayed, locked together, mouths finding each other again in that same unbroken, romantic kiss. Buck walked them backward until Kenny’s knees hit the bed. They sank down onto the tangled sheets, Buck settling over him, his weight a beloved anchor.
Their lips never parted. Buck reached for the lube on the nightstand, his movements fluid and sure. Kenny heard the cap, felt the cool slickness as Buck’s fingers prepared him. There was no frantic stretching this time, only a careful, devoted pressure, two fingers sliding in and out with a rhythm that mirrored their kissing. The ache was a bright, sweet precursor, a promise.
“I need to be inside you,” Buck whispered against his lips, his breath hot and shared. “Right now.”
Kenny could only nod, breaking the kiss to gasp, “Yes. Please.”
Buck coated himself, his eyes locked on Kenny’s. He positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging insistently at Kenny’s entrance. Then he pushed forward, slowly, so slowly, filling him with an inexorable, perfect pressure.
Kenny’s mouth fell open in a silent cry. Buck captured the sound with his own lips, swallowing it as he sank deeper, deeper, until he was fully seated. They held there, joined completely, their kiss becoming a shared breath, a lifeline.
Buck began to move.
It was not fucking. It was something else entirely. Each long, slow withdrawal was a melancholy ache; each even slower, deeper thrust was a homecoming. Their bodies moved in a gentle, rocking cadence, a tide without storm. Buck’s hips rolled against Kenny’s, a deep, grinding connection that brushed his prostate with every measured stroke, building pleasure not in sharp spikes but in a warm, rising flood.
Their lips stayed attached, moving together. The kiss was wet, deep, and uninterrupted. Kenny could taste the shift in Buck’s breath, could feel the soft groan vibrate from Buck’s throat into his own. He wrapped his legs high around Buck’s waist, heels digging into the firm muscles of his lower back, pulling him in even closer, taking him even deeper.
“You feel… god, Kenny… you feel like peace,” Buck rasped into the kiss, his words breaking apart on a thrust.
Kenny’s hands were everywhere—smoothing over the sweat-damp planes of Buck’s back, gripping the powerful swell of his shoulders, tangling in the sun-streaked hair at his nape. He was full, so utterly full, of Buck’s body, his scent, the tender, relentless rhythm of his hips.
The pleasure crested not as a crash, but as a gradual, luminous overflow. It started deep in Kenny’s belly, a coil of heat unwinding with every profound stroke. His orgasm approached quietly, a wave rising from the depths. He broke the kiss, pressing his forehead against Buck’s, their noses brushing, their panting breaths mingling.
“I’m close,” Kenny whispered, his voice shattered. “Buck, I’m…”
“Look at me,” Buck breathed, his own rhythm faltering, becoming deeper, more urgent. “Come for me. Let me see you.”
Kenny’s eyes flew open, locking with Buck’s. The blue was almost black, blazing with an emotion that had no name. That was all it took. Kenny’s climax rolled through him, a silent, shuddering release that ripped a choked sob from his throat. His cock pulsed between their stomachs, spilling heat, and his channel clenched rhythmically around Buck’s length.
The intense, fluttering pressure shattered Buck’s control. With a final, deep drive, he buried himself and came, his own cry a raw, broken thing against Kenny’s lips. Kenny felt the hot, pulsing flood inside him, a claiming that was now a vow.
They collapsed together, spent, still intimately joined. Buck’s weight was heavy, perfect. He nuzzled into the hollow of Kenny’s throat, his lips placing a soft, trembling kiss there. The only sound was their ragged breathing slowing, syncing up.
Outside, the church bells had stopped. The town’s quiet hum had returned. But inside this sunlit room, something new had been forged in the gentle, relentless tide of their bodies—something fragile, and real, and irrevocably begun.