On Sunday morning, I woke up first. Mark was still snoring softly beside me, and the sun coming through the bedroom window was like déjà vu. I was here again? How the fuck had that happened?
Last night was a little bit of a blur. We’d exchanged some texts while I was at work, and those had ramped up from flirting to telling each other what we’d do if we were alone right then. As soon as the High-&-Tight closed, I was back where I’d been twenty-four hours before—pulling into Mark’s driveway.
Because hey, I was a red-blooded gay man. I wasn’t going to say no to more of the kind of sex we’d had on Friday night.
What part of one-night stand did you not understand?
I sighed. The part where the sex with Mark was really good and I wanted to keep coming back for more, apparently.
Wait, keep coming back?
It was two nights. Wasn’t like we were eloping or anything.
Yeah, and what will you say if he suggests hooking up again?
I squeezed my eyes shut. Oh, I knew what I’d say. I could still feel everything we’d done the last couple of nights, and yeah, if he suggested hooking up again, I’d be on board. When the sex was this good, it just didn’t matter what kind of uniforms were hanging in his closet.
Keep telling yourself that.
Mark rolled over and, after he’d blinked a few times, looked at me. “Morning.”
I smiled. “Morning.”
“Sleep all right?” he asked.
Surprisingly, yes. I nodded. “Yeah. Just woke up a few minutes ago. You?”
“Mm-hmm.” He mumbled something as he stretched. “I’m going to be feeling this for days.”
“Damn right you are.” I trailed a finger down his arm. “You won’t be sitting down this week without thinking of me.”
He shivered, closing his eyes as he grinned. “Like the sound of that.”
I laughed. I shifted a little, and a twinge bit at my knee. I managed to not wince, but I was going to be limping unless I did something to help it. A shower. That would help. We’d showered after we’d fucked, but hot water would help my knee more than anything. Anything aside from asking for an ice pack, anyway, and I wasn’t ready to let Mark think I needed ice the morning after I got laid. “You mind if I grab a shower?”
“Not at all.”
While I showered, the aches and pains in the rest of my body made themselves known. My legs didn’t feel like they were connected to my body. My hips felt every thrust I’d taken last night, but I managed to not fall on my ass. Even if it took some wincing, I made it down the stairs. I grinned as I got closer to the bottom step where I’d almost bent Mark over, before he’d panted something about the bed being more comfortable. It had definitely been more comfortable. Still would’ve been hot, grabbing him and doing him right there on the stairs.
Maybe another time. When my knee wasn’t acting up. Which was basically never, but a boy could fantasize.
Mark was in the kitchen, which was open to his living room. As he fussed with the coffeepot, I leaned against the kitchen island and took in my surroundings. Yesterday, we’d spent most of the morning in bed, then ducked out for coffee before I’d headed home, so I hadn’t really noticed much about the house outside the bedroom.
He’d mentioned something about being recently divorced, and that made sense as I looked around his house. It wasn’t cheap bachelor pad shit like a footlocker for a coffee table or a milk crate end table covered in beer cans. He had sleek taste—simple black furniture, black-and-white framed prints on the walls in black frames, not much in the way of knickknacks. He didn’t bother with decorative pillows, but there was a red, black, and white Navajo-style blanket draped over the back of the sofa.
And in the corner, sitting on top of an old TV stand, was a three-foot-high Christmas tree. It had a single strand of lights around it—they weren’t on—and some small ornaments. A lot of blue and gold, which wasn’t a surprise, and from where I was standing I couldn’t decide if the gray ornament near the top was a Navy ship or something out of Star Trek.
“Coffee?” he asked.
I turned around. “Yes, please.”
He poured a couple of mugs and handed me one.
“Thanks.” I gestured at the tree with the cup. “A Christmas tree? Already?”
Mark glanced at the pathetic little thing, and he shrugged. “Thought it would give the place . . . I don’t know, some life?”
I looked the tree up and down. “It’s cute.”
“If you’re into Charlie Brown Christmas trees, maybe.”
“Oh come on.” I laughed. “It’s small, but it’s nice. How does it look with the lights turned on?”
Mark nodded toward the tree as if to say Go ahead.
Hell, why not? I crossed the room and paused to look at the gray ornament near the top. Turned out it was two ornaments next to each other—the starship Enterprise from Star Trek, and the USS Enterprise aircraft carrier. Cute.
I turned to Mark. “You were stationed on the Enterprise?”
“Briefly,” he said as he joined me beside the tree. “Really early on.”
I faced the tree again and flipped the switch on the green cord sticking out from the stand. Instantly, dozens of tiny white lights came to life.
“There. See?” I smiled. “It’s cute. A little early, but cute.”
Mark smirked. “So it’s cute and small, and it’s early. I hope we’re still talking about the tree and not my dick.”
I choked on my coffee and almost spat it all over the glittery tree. When I’d recovered, I set my cup down and wrapped an arm around Mark’s waist. “We’re definitely still talking about the tree.”
He reeled me in closer. “Good. Because I don’t think Christmas lights could save me from any shortcomings there.”
I snorted and rolled my eyes.
Mark laughed. Then he gestured toward the kitchen with his thumb. “You want some breakfast? I’m not God’s gift to cooking, but I make some decent French toast.”
Whoa. A home-cooked breakfast? One that I didn’t have to sweat bullets over budgeting? Fuck. That sounded amazing. I didn’t want to take advantage of him or use him as a meal ticket, but damn if the prospect of French toast wasn’t seriously tempting.
“Sure. Yeah. Can I help with anything?”
Mark shook his head. “No, I’ve got it. Have a seat.”
I couldn’t remember the last time someone besides my mother had cooked for me, so I didn’t argue. Coffee in hand, I took a seat on one of the barstools at the kitchen island.
Mark made breakfast, and then we moved to the table.
“Wow,” I said after a couple of bites. “This is really good.”
“Thanks.” He actually blushed. Fuck, he was cute. “It’s probably one of a dozen things I know how to make without giving anyone food poisoning.”
I laughed. “You’re better at it than me. I’ve tried to make it a couple of times, and it always comes out either soggy or leathery.” I made a face before skewering another piece of syrup-drenched bread.
“Eh, we all have our weak spots in the kitchen. Whatever you do, don’t ask me to make my mother’s meatloaf.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Just . . . trust me.” He grimaced as he sliced off a piece with his fork. “My ex-wife tried it once and made me swear on my life I’d never commit that crime against food again.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Worse. But then my mom gave us all salmonella one Fourth of July, so . . .” He shrugged.
“Salmonella?” I sputtered. “Seriously?”
Mark rolled his eyes as he nodded. “Yeah. That was not a pleasant weekend for any of us.”
I almost mentioned the time the mess decks on my last ship gave about two hundred people food poisoning, but I didn’t want to talk about my old career, so I let it go. “What else can you cook?”
He thought for a second while he took a sip of coffee. “I can make a decent steak. Pretty good at a few different kinds of pasta.” He paused. “I learned how to make this really amazing stroganoff, but I almost always fuck something up. If I tried to make it now, I’d probably have to call my ex-wife and have her walk me through it.”
“Ever tried writing down the recipe?”
“I did,” he muttered. “But I still manage to screw it up, and thank God she’s a wizard at unfucking culinary disasters. That’s why I keep her on speed dial.”
I laughed. “Your own personal cooking lifeline. Nice.”
“Trust me. I need it.” He sipped his coffee. “Do you cook?”
“I try to.” I played with the handle on my coffee cup. “I’m pretty good at making bocoles. They’re little round cakes made out of corn dough. You can put pretty much anything on them, and my mother makes them all the time.” I paused. “She does a lot of Huasteca cooking.”
“Huasteca?”
I nodded. “The natives that used to live in San Luis Potosi. Or, well, they still do. Just not as many.”
“Are you Huas . . . How do you say it again?”
I smiled. “Huasteca.”
“Huasteca.” It sounded a bit clumsy, but he was trying.
“I have some Huastec blood, yes. My ancestors were mostly Spanish, except my grandfather was Italian, and my great-grandmother on my mom’s side was Huastec. She passed down a lot of the recipes.” I laughed self-consciously. “My abuela and my mother are much better at it than I am. The bocoles are pretty easy, so I can’t fuck them up.” I paused. “There’s this one dish—Zacahuil. It’s . . . like a three-foot-long tamale.”
Mark blinked. “That’s not a meal for one, is it?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “No, that’s for when the whole family comes over.”
“Can you make that?”
“I’ve . . .” I grimaced. “Yeah, I can make it. Sort of. But it’s been a long time since I’ve even eaten it, so I’d need my abuela looking over my shoulder if I tried to make it.”
Mark chuckled.
We kept on talking. Mostly about kitchen disasters and things our mothers had made while we were growing up. That turned into who’d had the most traumatic childhood meal (his grandma’s atrocity of a stuffed-pepper recipe won that one), whose school had had the worst food (my junior high’s shoe leather mystery meat patties), and the weirdest thing either of us had ever eaten (possibly a tie between the live baby octopus he’d tried in Korea and my neighbor’s famous frog legs).
It wasn’t until I went to refill my coffee for the third time that I realized I’d been sitting long enough for my knee to get stiff. Damn, how long had we been here?
According to the clock on the microwave, it was almost one thirty in the afternoon.
“Shit,” I said. “I didn’t mean to stay quite so late.”
“Quite so—” He did a double take at the clock. “Whoa. Well hell. Do you want to go grab something for lunch?”
I hesitated. Joining him for lunch after we’d spent the whole morning talking, and after our one-night stand had turned into two, had implications. Or at least, left the door open for implications.
It was also really tempting. I was getting hungry again, and who was I kidding? I liked Mark. Spending a little more time together wouldn’t kill us. Might kill my I’m not dating a military man argument, because it was creeping into actually dating, but . . . to hell with it.
I smiled. “Sure. There’s a place not far from here that’s really good.” I gave the clock another glance. “The church crowd is probably clearing out by now too.”
“Sounds perfect. I’ll get my wallet.”