John imagined he would fall asleep quickly after the emotional day, much like the gray floof that’d curled up on the pillow next to him as if it belonged there and promptly shut its eyes. Instead, once he was in his pj’s and under the covers, his mind began to race. He couldn’t stop thinking about the day—technically now the day before, but he was still wide awake.

He’d gone to the theater with every intention of packing as much as he could and returning tomorrow to do the same again. Instead Chance Allsop had appeared in his life, and now he had no idea what was happening. He’d bared his soul to the man, rescued a kitten, and ended up showing a movie after all—to guests Reed had drummed up from gods knew where on a snowy winter night.

And you and Chance shared an incredible kiss, his brain reminded him, helpfully adding how incredible it had been when their lips came together, when the tip of Chance’s tongue had brushed against his mouth—he’d very nearly opened his heart then and there.

Right. He shifted under the covers, remembering the effortless heat between them, how it would have been so easy for John to lean into Chance and let him take control.

The thing was, John didn’t trust himself. Especially after Rico. Lord, the scene tonight had been embarrassing. And wasn’t that just great, to have his bad choice appear at the theater after so many months.

Rico wanted something, John was certain of it. What, he had no idea. He certainly wasn’t going to let Rico weasel himself onto the deed for the house at this point. When the dust cleared from losing the theater, at least the house would still be his.

The pipes squeaked, interrupting John’s thoughts, followed by the sound of the shower turning on across the hall. Great, now John could fantasize about a naked near-stranger taking a shower. He turned onto his stomach and pulled the pillow over his head, trying to block out the sound. It didn’t work, because John didn’t have to hear the sound of running water to keep his fantasy alive.

“Great,” he muttered to no one, or maybe to the kitten. “Just great.”

Innumerable minutes later, the water turned off and John felt himself beginning to relax. He jolted into awareness again when the low murmur of a voice reached his ears. The house was old. It was late at night and very quiet, but John couldn’t make out the words and wondered who Chance would be talking to at this hour. Then he realized, of course, he was talking with someone back home in England.

The thought made his stomach lurch and his blood run cold. There was something about Chance . . . handsome looks aside, in the few hours since Chance had appeared in John’s life, he’d proven himself reliable; there was a quirky sense of humor—though it would serve Chance right if they did get some remnant of the plague from the kitten sleeping next to him on its very own pillow. And kind. Chance was kind; John knew he wasn’t imagining that. The idea that Chance was only in Skagit temporarily was more disquieting than it had any reason to be.

“Christ, John, get a grip,” he whispered into the dark. “You are not getting a man for Christmas.” But it was too late, his heart had allowed some kind of hope inside. “I am so stupid.”

---

John gave up on real sleep at about five a.m. Plus the kitten was up and ready to play. Chance found him downstairs in the kitchen an hour or so later; he didn’t look much more rested than John felt.

“Coffee?” John offered.

“Tea?” Chance responded hopefully.

John shook his head. “Sorry. Maybe some herbal stuff for when I’m too sick to enjoy caffeine?”

John noted dispassionately that Chance looked absolutely adorable. Either he hadn’t noticed his hair sticking up at all angles, or he didn’t care. The complete opposite of Rico, who’d spend forty-five minutes getting ready to be “seen.” At first John had found it endearing, but by the end he’d wanted to break every reflective surface in the house.

“Fine.” But his unexpected guest stuck his lower lip out.

“Are you pouting?”

Chance shuffled over to the breakfast counter and sat down on a barstool.

“What is it you Americans say? I refuse to incriminate myself? I’m knackered but couldn’t sleep. Jet lag is kicking my arse. My body thinks it’s teatime.”

The kitten had been playing with a piece of tinfoil in the pantry but ventured out to see who John was talking to. The traitorous thing clumsily raced to Chance, mewing, demanding to be picked up.

“Entertain Simba, and I’ll make you a cup of coffee you won’t be able to resist.”

“We are not naming this adorable beast ‘Simba.’” He picked up the kitten and began to coo at it.

John left Chance and the kitten for the safety of the pantry, where he pretended to look for tea. He knew he didn’t have any but suspected by the end of the day he would have a selection for his . . . guest. Instead he grabbed a gold bag that contained special roast coffee from his favorite café in town, the Booking Room, and he reminded himself again that Chance Allsop was only visiting, not staying.

Back out in the kitchen, he busied himself prepping the fancy Italian espresso machine he had a special place for on the countertop. An indulgence, to be sure, but one he used often. Chance watched him with sleepy eyes. The kitten was the only one getting any rest.

“So, you said your mom was from Skagit. Do you still have family here?”

“I said my mom was waiting in front of the movie theater,” Chance corrected. “She was actually from a smaller town closer to the Canadian border.”

He skritched the kitten between the ears. John waited for the rest of the story.

“When my mum fell in love with a man who wasn’t the snowy-white Christian her parents had imagined for her, they disowned her. Didn’t matter that he had money, that my family was practically more British than afternoon tea or the queen. All that mattered was my dad’s ancestry and religion.” He shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong, I could write volumes about how terrible English history is, and there’s plenty of racism there today, but my dad’s family loved my mum as much as he did, from the very moment they laid eyes on her.”

“I’ll scratch family reunion off my list for you today.”

Chance laughed. “About right.”

“But you were serious about what you told me last night?”

The atmosphere in the kitchen was charged. John wasn’t certain what was causing it. He was either treading on dangerous ground or . . . something else.

“Your dad came here, met your mother, and they lived happily ever after?”

“Well, he cheated at cribbage, which pissed her off, but other than that, yes,” Chance replied, watching John carefully.

John poured beans into the coffee grinder, reveling in their scent. He pressed the power button, and the sound of the blade pulverizing the beans filled the space where they’d been talking, giving John time to consider his next question. He scanned his cup collection, picking out a demitasse. It was one of his favorites, a deep indigo with gold filigree along the rim.

“Why?” he asked, placing the cup on the counter, hoping Chance would know what he was asking.

“Why did I come here? Or maybe what you’re really asking is, why am I going to stay now that I’m here?”

John shrugged, feeling foolish and exposed. Like a third-grade boy asking if someone liked him.

“I came because I promised my mother. Frankly, I thought it the most ridiculous promise I’d ever made. But I had to honor it. She made me promise on her deathbed. Tricky woman she was, probably knew I’d never do it any other way. And at this point in my life—I’m forty-five,” he added, “I thought, what could it hurt? I’ve spent my adult life in relationships that, while not entirely unsatisfying, were never meant to last. The worst possibility was I would return to London and keep living the way I already was.”

Chance paused, shifting his weight on the barstool, leaning forward so he could prop an elbow on the countertop, watching John. The water was finally hot enough. John took milk from the fridge, pouring it into the silver jug he'd purchased solely for this purpose. Deftly he steamed the milk, then set it aside before pulling a single shot of espresso, not letting it run long, making sure there was plenty of crema floating on the surface.

He poured the shot into the waiting cup, followed by a bloop of warm milk. Putting the cup back down on the counter, he pushed it toward Chance.

“Here, try this.”

Chance reached out with his free hand and pulled the hot drink closer to him. Picking up the cup with his large, gentle fingers, he brought it toward his mouth. John kept watching, fascinated, as Chance’s sexy lips opened slightly in anticipation of the hot drink, his pink tongue emerging to moisten them. The gold filigree on the cup’s rim disappeared for a moment as he sipped the coffee, then reappeared as he licked his lips again, and John couldn’t look away even though he knew he should.

“Well?” he asked. His voice cracked like a thirteen-year-old boy’s, and he cleared his throat, trying to hide his sudden nerves.

“I think you should taste it.”

“Oh.” Disappointment shot though him. It was that bad? Normally he was pretty good at making espresso. He reached for the cup.

“No, here.”

John was confused. He glanced over at Chance, who was abruptly right next to him. When had he moved from the barstool? The only thing there now was the sleeping kitten. Next thing John knew, he was tasting the bittersweet coffee on Chance’s lips, from Chance’s mouth. And holy fuck, Batman, it was hot. Without a doubt it was the most carnal espresso John had ever tasted.

Neither of them had shaved or showered yet that morning. Aside from the earthy flavor of the coffee, John tasted Chance himself, his very essence. Indescribable yet immediately addicting: a human opiate. He smelled good too, fresh from bed, sleepy and inviting. John wanted to stop kissing so he could press his nose into Chance’s neck and inhale his very self. But he also wanted to keep kissing, their tongues stroking each other in a delicious dance.

There was something about kissing that John almost found more intimate than the act of sex. Kissing was an act that led to sex; if the kissing wasn’t good, it was pretty much guaranteed the sex would be mediocre at best. John put everything into a kiss; he opened himself and demanded the other man open too.

He realized, with the perfection of hindsight, that kissing Rico had never been like this. Chance, however, was an open book John was reading with his tongue, with a caress of his cheek, with his nose rubbing against Chance’s when they switched sides to approach each other from the opposite direction. John dragged his tongue across the little scar he’d noticed, learning the small divot, learning Chance.

Chance pressed into him, demanding John open further, sucking John’s tongue into his mouth. John groaned and let him, loving the feeling of being possessed, of being wanted, of being someone who made Chance lose his English control. A moment passed, and Chance bit lightly on John’s lower lip before demanding to be let back inside, licking the roof of his mouth, across his teeth—all places, until now, John hadn’t realized turned him on.

One of them groaned; maybe they both did. John was only wearing a thin pair of cotton sweatpants; there was no way in hell Chance couldn’t feel his erection . . . the same way John could feel Chance’s thick, hard cock against his thigh. Brazenly he rubbed himself against Chance, wanting more friction, skin against skin, wanting to crawl inside him. The sensations were almost more than he could bear.

His hands snuck up to Chance’s hips; he gripped them tightly and slid his fingers under the elastic band of Chance’s sleep pants. Chance’s skin was hot under John’s fingertips, hot and smooth, the top of his ass tantalizing John.

“Please,” he whispered, “please.” Begging for something he couldn’t put words to in that moment—although naked was at the top of the list.

“Yes,” Chance replied.

John’s erection throbbed; he had to grab himself for a moment, worried that even at his age he was about to come prematurely. Grabbing himself didn’t help, he was so sensitive and turned on.

He slid to his knees, not as easily as he once had, but he could still do it. Chance was looking down at him through heavy lids, electric blue eyes watching, clearly wanting. John would’ve known from Chance’s expression alone, even if he didn’t have a bobbing erection to taste.

Reaching up, he tugged the plaid sleep pants down so the elastic was just under Chance’s sac. The scent of musk drifted to his nostrils and John breathed it in, immediately needing more. He leaned in and ran his cheek along Chance’s erection. Chance shivered and sighed, grabbing the counter for support. John grinned and kept nuzzling, rubbing himself and his own scent across his man.

The thought jolted him for a mere second before he acknowledged that it was true. For right now, Chance was his man. And John was going to pleasure him. Sticking out his tongue, he started at the base and licked upward. When he reached the bulbous tip, he took it in his mouth, just the tip, and ran his tongue around it, across and partly into the slit. A spurt of salt hit his tongue, making John suck harder. He loved a man’s cock in his mouth, and Chance’s cock was especially . . . wonderful.

Chance groaned again. John looked up. Chance’s eyes were closed—in anticipation or pleasure or both, John didn’t know, but he was going to give him one and show him the other. His own cock throbbed again; he was much closer than he wanted to be. “Fuck.” He stopped a second to try to calm down.

“Come here.”

Strong hands on his shoulders tugged him to standing. His knees creaked as he rose.

They were chest to chest now, Chance’s lips sealed over his again, and John was lost, not really noticing as Chance eased his sweatpants down so their erections were pressed against each other. Skin to hot skin. John groaned, and this time it was he who sucked Chance’s tongue into his own mouth.

Chance pulled away.

“What?” Was he doing something wrong?

“Just . . . this. I like to watch.”

John looked down to where Chance had his large hand wrapped around both of their erections. He began to pump and press his hips against John’s as much as he could while keeping his hand moving. John pressed back, but standing the way they were was awkward. He shifted so his back was against the counter, giving both of them purchase. They were breathing hard, and John wanted to watch too, but he was forced to shut his eyes. The sensation was so much, overwhelming, too everything.

The ember that had been smoldering at the base of his spine popped into flame without warning.

“Oh crap, I’m coming,” John gasped.

Chance grabbed the back of his skull with his free hand, pulling John’s face into his shoulder as John came hard, pumping desperately into his lover’s hand, the come slicking his cock, making him want more. Chance groaned. John felt his ejaculation and bit his shoulder gently, wanting to taste him. It was right there and strong enough to take it.

“Bloody hell,” Chance panted.

“Yeah, that.”

In the dark of the early morning kitchen they gazed at each other. John was speechless. What they had just done had been the hottest, most emotionally invested sex he’d ever had. He felt exposed, opened up, revealed—and once he realized it, he found that he didn’t mind. In fact, he welcomed it.

“In answer to your question.” Chance’s voice was hoarse.

“What question?” John had no idea what time or day it was. He didn’t recall a question.

“I’m staying because I found you.”

Oh right, he’d asked why. “How can you know that? It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. You don’t know me. You’ve met me at my worst. I’m needy, in financial ruin and, I’ve been told, boring.”

“John, if I can meet a man at his lowest point and find him breathtaking, I think when I get to see him at his best I’ll still be enthralled.”

They were standing in his kitchen, pants around their ankles, come drying between them, discussing whether or not Chance could really be attracted to him. John shook his head. He was ridiculous. And he needed a shower. “The shower in the master bedroom is large enough for two.”

“Is that an invitation, or are you just torturing me?”

John kicked his sweatpants all the way off and pulled his T-shirt over his head. He held out his hand. “Definitely an invitation.”

Chance mimicked him, tossing his clothes onto the pile. John flared his nostrils, Chance naked was making him have thoughts again. Broad-chested with a dusting of dark hair tapering to a waist with the slightest love handles . . . god, he was gorgeous.

“Not so bad yourself, John.”