Communion (On My Knees Duet 3)

This is what I tell myself.

That it will be okay.

There will be pictures—I’m sure there will be. Some people will be upset. It’s not pastoral, and it’s okay. I knew all this, and I made my choices tonight. This is who I am, and I did nothing wrong. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll just find another way…

That’s the last thought I remember before waking up in Rayne’s arms. He’s smiling down at me, looking tired but serene—not like we spent three hours dancing and tossing back shots at a bar.

“You ready to head home, cowboy?”

I quirk a brow up. “You smirkin’ at me?”

“Never.” He grins.

But he looks like he’s amused by what a lightweight I am. Tonight was one of my first nights out since college, I realize. I guess it’s pretty sad.

Vance’s fingertip smooths between my eyebrows. “Don’t be doing that now.” He pulls me up, and we hug with my head against his shoulder—which is what I need, although I’d never have asked.

I feel better by the time we’re in the car. Strangely apathetic about what might happen when I turn my phone off “silent.”

“Whatcha thinking?” he asks as he drives us home.

“Not much.”

I run my hand through his short, soft hair, trying not to touch the scar at first and then running my fingertip gently over it, saying a prayer of thanksgiving.

“Ring feels good,” I tell him.

“Mine, too.” He holds his hand up so I can see he’s got his real band on, and he’s also still wearing the gumball machine ring.

"Any nerves going?" He takes my hand, bringing it up to his lips so he can brush a kiss over my knuckles.

"Somewhat."

"About bar pictures?"

I shrug. "All of it.” I picture Rayne and I in our beanies, shaking my head at the memories. Which are amazing and also so very gay. “But if they can't swallow this pill on the front end, then I'm going to need to go. If this whole Vegas thing was too gay, then…" I shrug.

"I don’t think you’re going to have to wait long to see. Because…photos."

I smile, so Rayne won't think I’m overly worried. "I know that. I know a dozen people took our picture last night. Let them find out. Let them know I'm so in love with you we flew to Vegas, because we couldn't wait another second. Mine," I murmur, leaning close so I can brush my lips over his warm cheek.

"And you're mine,” he says. “Forever. Look at my face.” He takes my hand in his and presses it to his cheek. "Nothing anybody like that says is going to matter to me. Let them do what they will."

I'm in awe of Rayne's strength. With his short hair and his fresh scar and his pretty eyes and dark, dramatic eyebrows, he looks like an actor—beautiful and vital.

"I'm so glad we did this,” I say. “Can't imagine not telling the world that I love you."

He holds my left hand with his right one, tracing over my ring. I relax against the seat, tired but happy. Vance keeps stealing glances at me, giving me these little cat-like smiles, like he's so satisfied.

"You know I'm looking at you thinking ‘how'd I score that as a husband’?" He smirks.

"That." I feign offense.

"That piece of ass."

I reach over and grab his ass, then cup his crotch, where he's half hard. "Mr. Rayne with the boner while he’s driving."

"Damn straight." He laughs, looking heavy-lidded.

“I don’t think that thing is too straight.”

We're grinning at each other. I rub my palm over his growing erection.

"You must not like this car too much," he drawls.

"Pull it over."

"What?" He laughs.

"You heard me. Pull over."

He looks amused, like he thinks I'm kidding.

"Park the car, V. Or today is going to be a full day at work."

"Fuck," he murmurs, giving me that rich, husky laugh I hear in my dreams as he pulls onto a side street and off on a grassy shoulder.

I'm hard enough to hurt as he parks and looks at me from under his lashes.

"Whatcha want, preacher?"

"I want that cock in my mouth."

He pulls it out without question, and I feel a hot throb of my cock and balls just looking at him.

Yeah, that's mine there... "Move your seat back." My voice is rough and demanding, but I can tell by Rayne's face that he likes it.

He does what I ask, pumping himself when his chair's back almost parallel with the car’s floor.

"Did I say touch it?"

His lips twitch. "No sir."

"Get your pants and boxer-briefs down to your knees. I want to see those lines."

That makes him smile. For some reason, I like to bite along those imprint lines from where the seams leave their marks on his waist and hips and on the soft skin of his inner thighs.

I have to swallow as he does as I ask. His big balls are pressed against the leather of the car's seat, and his dick is like a damn hose—long and thick and far too large for his big hand to handle.