Love in Xxchange: Rory's Last Chance by Bailey Bradford (poetry books to read txt) 📗

so suddenly. He was well aware of the fact he had helped put that look there and the knowledge weighed heavily on his conscience.

Chance sat the platter on the table and walked back over to the fridge. “You want beer, soda, water…uh, I don’t think the milk is safe to drink. Kinda looks like cottage cheese.” He held the jug up and checked the expiration date. Well, fuck, no wonder it was all chunky—he was lucky the stuff hadn’t sprouted legs and walked off. Or maybe not. At least then he wouldn’t have to pull off the lid and get hit with a fetid scent whenever he got brave enough to dump it out. Chance shoved the milk back in and turned to Rory, who still hadn’t answered.

A real smile split Rory’s face and set his eyes to gleaming. Warmth built in Chance’s chest as a tingling sensation spread in his belly. Jesus, he had it bad.

“You sure the beer is safe? Judging from the look of that gallon of milk, I’m a bit worried.”

Laughing, Chance pulled out a couple of beers and popped the caps off. “The beer is fresh. Guess that’s telling, that the milk is kind of rotten but all the beer is just fine.”

“‘Kind of rotten’?” Rory reached up and took his beer. “That’s like saying August in RORY’S LAST CHANCE

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Texas is kind of hot.” Rory’s blue eyes deepened, turning almost black in a way that should have prepared Chance for his next words. “Or that what we did last night was kind of hot.

I’m pretty sure it was fucking scorching—or scorching fucking.”

And that quick Chance’s prick swelled full, pressing uncomfortably against his zipper as sweat broke out on his forehead. Christ, what the man could do to him. Rory’s eyes were burning a trail over Chance’s body before settling on the rigid length threatening to leave a wet spot on his jeans.

“Rory.” Chance took a step forward, unable to resist the strident need in Rory’s eyes.

He stopped when the younger man shook his head slightly and glanced away, that wary expression slipping back into place. What the hell was going on?

Chance pulled out a chair and sat across from Rory, measuring the man’s body language. Something had his lover wound tight. He would give Rory a little time, but if he didn’t loosen up and relax, Chance would start digging until he found out what was going on.

Placing a steak and baked potato on Rory’s plate, Chance thought about his options. If the man wouldn’t talk, there were two ways Chance could see to get answers. Talking or seduction. The former might result in angry words and a night alone. The latter, however, didn’t guarantee anything except the very real possibility of distraction on both their parts.

Plus, it seemed wrong to use sex in such a way. Damn it. At least he could enjoy the meal first—he would eat even though his appetite had fled with Rory’s shift in mood.

Conversation was stilted and Chance couldn’t help but notice that Rory shuffled his food around his plate rather than eating much of anything. Maybe he wasn’t an expert on the whole relationship business, but Chance did know enough to realise nothing was going to get better unless whatever it was eating at his lover came to light.

Pushing his plate away, Chance leant back in his chair and waited for Rory to meet his eyes. The anguish he saw in those blue depths would have buckled his knees had he been standing.

“Why don’t you just spit it out, Rory, before you up and bolt? The longer you wait, the harder it’s going to be.” He waited while Rory made up his mind, praying the man would open up and talk. When Rory’s shoulders slumped slightly, Chance had his answer. He got up then walked to Rory and hooked his arm through his lover’s.

“Come on, let’s go into the living room. Dishes will wait.” Rory let himself be led along RORY’S LAST CHANCE

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to the couch, where Chance gave him a slight push encouraging him to sit. Rather than sit beside Rory, Chance sat directly in front of him on the coffee table, knee to knee. Whatever was coming, he figured it would be best to face it head on, literally and every other way.

Moisture gleamed in Rory’s eyes, squeezing Chance’s heart with a compassion he hadn’t known was in him. Gently he took his lover’s hands, resting them on their knees.

“It’s all right, baby. If it’s not, we’ll make it all right. Go ahead and talk. Whatever you’re worried about, it won’t run me off.”

Rory turned away from the sincerity and warmth in Chance’s soothing gaze, afraid if he didn’t the tears he was struggling to hold back would burst free. What he had to say was humiliating enough. Crying would be the straw that broke the camel’s back—Rory would feel like the worst sort of fool.

Swallowing around the knot of fear that threatened to choke him, Rory turned back to face Chance. There was no disgust or anger on the man’s face, just compassion and concern that was perhaps an even bigger threat to Rory’s emotional stability. Rory turned away again; he couldn’t do this watching for signs of Chance’s expression changing to something that would break Rory’s heart.

“When I…” No, that wasn’t the way to start, damn it. Rory tried to organise what he wanted to say, something he’d failed to do every time he had tried since Art called. It wasn’t happening. “Fuck it.” Rory turned back to Chance, steeling himself and determined to get the whole sordid story out as a sudden burst of strength settled over him.

“You probably already figured out what happened with my dad, yeah?”

Chance didn’t answer immediately, studying Rory for a long moment instead. “I’m guessing, from what you told me and the voicemails Ian left me that your old man disowned you when he found out you were