Page 35 of Merrick

Wilder gave him one last squeeze, then stepped away leaving Merrick utterly bereft. Merrick’s body swayed forward, chasing after Wilder and finding nothing besides air.

“Arms down,” Wilder said. “Let’s go.”

Merrick followed Wilder to his car, a Lexus parked inside a narrow garage that didn’t even have room for Merrick to open the passenger door. He stood on the curb waiting for Wilder to back out, then sank down into the cool, black leather seat.

Wilder tapped a few buttons on the screen in his car.

“Put in your address,” he said, and Merrick did.

The short route that had already become familiar to him popped up, and Wilder hummed, nodding as he put the car into drive.

“You do live close,” he said.

“It’s convenient.”

“Tell me what you were like as kid,” Wilder said out of nowhere, throwing a sidelong glance at Merrick. “I don’t want you to stop talking until we get to your place.”

The protest died in the back of his throat, and instead of arguing about the request—the order—Merrick did what he was told. He started about St. Jack’s Bay, how it was a small coastal town on the east coast that nobody would ever know about if they didn’t live next to it. He told Wilder about growing up with parents who never paid attention. Merrick knew his need for conversation stemmed from being ignored as a child. If he talked enough, his parents would have to pay attention to him and,eventually, they did. And not long after that, Bryce was born and he had to talk even more to find his footing with them again.

Art had been a blessing, even if he didn’t realize it. He took to it naturally and at a very young age, winning awards at the fair by the time he was in middle school. He’d made the decision to move to California on a whim because he was desperate for the noise of a city. He’d landed in LA and made a little life for himself in a cheap apartment on the edge of Silverlake.

He’d been tattooing for years, landing a job at Ink and Ember a handful of months before. Maybe a year, Merrick wasn’t sure. He’d never been good with anniversaries or important dates. He told Wilder about Bryce and how he’d moved to California and immediately fallen into bed with another tattooer at the shop, Holden. Merrick was more upset they’d kept their relationship secret from him than anything else, he said.

“Have you told your brother about me?” Wilder interrupted.

Merrick reared back. “Why would I?”

Wilder gestured vaguely, like the conversation was a tangible thing in the space between them. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“I’ve spent my time lately trying to avoid him, honestly. He got a job at Rapture, and I?—”

“Certainly don’t want to run into your brother the way you ran into me,” Wilder supplied.

The nav announced their arrival at Merrick’s apartment building, and he gratefully closed his mouth and nodded his agreement with Wilder’s statement. “Exactly.”

Wilder found a parking spot around the corner and reversed into it, turning after he parked and beckoning Merrick closer. Merrick leaned in without complaint, angling his head to the side when Wilder made it clear he was coming in for a kiss. Kissing Wilder made submission easy. The other man commanded entry and ownership of Merrick’s mouth like it was his birthright, and Merrick was more than happy to sign himselfover. Wilder slid a hand around the back of Merrick’s neck and kept their mouths sealed together, only ending the kiss when Merrick let out a breathy and high-pitched whimper.

“Are you still hard for me?” Wilder whispered into his mouth.

“Very.”

“Perfect. Now show me where you live.”

CHAPTER 14

Wilder

Merrick’s apartmentwas completely him while also not being him at all. It was one of those cookie-cutter units that had sprung up in the eighties, completely devoid of all character, but Merrick had done his best with it. The living room looked to be the place he spent the most time, sketchbooks and paint scattered across the coffee table. There were a few paint-covered beer cans, discarded paint brushes, and a half-eaten bag of chips.

“I’m going to go look at your room,” Wilder said, waiting until Merrick had started to tidy the disaster on the table before packing it up.

“I can show you.”

“I can find it myself.” Wilder glanced at the table. “Be a good boy and clean up, then come find me.”

Merrick’s chest swelled when he exhaled, and Wilder left him alone to his arousal and confusion. Merrick’s apartment was probably the same size as Wilder’s house, if not bigger. Merrick had two bedrooms, one sparse, the other clearly lived in. Wilder pushed the door open, scanning the space before stepping inside.

The bed was a queen, neatly made with two pillows and a black and white comforter pulled taut at every edge. There was a black rug on one side of the bed, a nightstand that looked like it had been put together right out of a box and a dresser that matched. The real standout of the room, and the rest of the house, was the art. Merrick’s walls were covered with it, and Wilder hadn’t seen enough to know if it was Merrick’s own work or someone else’s. He imagined it was probably a mix of both, but appreciated all of them as if they had been made by Merrick’s own hand.