Stormy Weather

“Hey, ma.” Grant Singer tucked the phone between his neck and shoulder. A series of pots bubbled on his stove and he grabbed a spatula to stir the saucepan closest to him. “Honey,” his mother said, her voice warm and filled with affection. “How are you? How’s work?” “I’m good, Ma. Work is good.” He frowned at the sauce before hitting the speaker button on his phone and setting it on the counter at a safe distance. “What are you and Dad up to?” “Keeping busy. I’m watching the kids today, and your father is supposed to be washing the windows on the back side of the house, but it’s been over an hour since I’ve seen him, so he’s probably buried himself in the garage.” His mother must have pulled the phone away from her ear because her voice faded. “Say hi to Uncle Grant, everyone.” “Hi, Uncle Grant,” Grant’s nieces and nephews chorused obediently. He smiled. Picturing the four kids sprawled out in his parent’s living room like he and his sister had growing up. “But that’s not why you called, honey. What’s up?” Grant stirred at the sauce once again. “I’m making your pasta in garlic-mushroom sauce—” His mother broke in before he could finish. “Is this a date? This has to be a date. You know I made that for your father on our first date.” “And used so much garlic I had heartburn for a week.” Grant’s father inserted himself in the conversation. “Hush, you,” Grant’s mother scolded. “You loved that dish.” “I pretended to like it to not hurt your feelings.” “It was over fifty years ago. Not like you can remember.” “I can remember fine.” “Guys,” Grant raised his voice to be heard over their bickering. “Guys.” “What is it, dear?” his mother asked. Her voice sounded smug after once again proving her love to her husband by disagreeing with him. Parents. Grant shouldn’t have bothered. Worse, now that she knew he had a date, his mother wouldn’t stop calling until he shared all the details. He crossed his fingers, hoping he’d be able to give a positive report. “I need some help with the recipe.” “More garlic,” his mother said firmly. “Less garlic,” his father added, his tone just as firm. “Love you both. Got to go.” Grant stirred his simmering sauce. He’d go with option three: leaving the amount of garlic he used, exactly the same. At least hearing his parents, even briefly, had settled his nerves. If two such mismatched people could find love, so could he. * * * * “Are you sure I can’t offer you anything else?” Grant asked, his voice tinged with mortification. Despite the hours of preparation, Robert, his date for the evening, had left most of his meal uneaten. It was Grant’s fault. With all of his planning he never considered whether the entree qualified as “gluten-free.” “Really, it’s fine.” Robert pushed away from the table and patted his stomach. “I’m not a big eater anyway so the salad was more than enough.” Grant dropped his napkin beside his own, scraped-clean plate and ushered him into the living room. “Wow.” Robert sauntered toward the expansive wall of floor to ceiling windows that overlooked Lake Michigan. “What a view.” Grant joined him, eager to share the January moon showcased in the night sky. The milky orb glowed a stark contrast to the inky lake below, looming so large and low Grant swore he could reach out and touch the surface. “Amazing, isn’t it?” Grant agreed. “I didn’t even look at the other rooms after this.” “Lucky for you, the rest of the condo is so nice.” Robert settled onto the couch with a small wriggle. “Doesn’t it get annoying? All that light? I’d have to put up blinds.” Oh. Grant smiled, a weak twist of his lips to hide his disappointment. “My mother would agree with you.” “Why don’t you get us something to drink and come back and join me?” Robert patted the textured cushion beside him. “I’ll wait right here.” Grant hurried into the kitchen, his steps as crisp and buoyant as his newly restored spirit. Robert seemed willing to overlook the disastrous dinner. That was a good sign, right? He hummed along with the jazz playing over the condo’s sound system, his cheeks flushed with the evening’s progress. Except, blinds. Grant snorted. As if. His fingers stuttered across smooth crystal, the delicate glassware as hard to grab hold of as an icicle in July. He air-juggled the snifter for one heart-stopping moment before he set it down on the counter. Damn these first date nerves. At least he hadn’t overcooked the pasta. That was a win. But while he thought the garlic-mushroom wine sauce had mellowed nicely, Robert’s refusal to try anything other than the salad had him doubting the rest of his plans for the evening. Maybe popcorn and a movie would be too juvenile? Grant breathed into his hand and gave a quick sniff. A little heavy on the garlic, but nothing he’d consider offensive if both of them had indulged. Still, this was a first date, and even though it had been a while, nothing ever happened on a first date. Grant searched his junk drawer for one of the plastic-wrapped mints left over from Christmas. Robert was attractive enough, with light brown hair and a sleek build, but the lack of spark in their otherwise polite dinner conversation was disappointing. Give him some time, Grant chided himself. What did he expect on their initial meeting? Smoldering glances and a fireball of chemistry so intense they would fall onto the kitchen counter, their meal forgotten in the blaze of passion? Maybe, the tiny wishful voice inside his head that had started this whole mess meekly offered. Too bad. This wasn’t his favorite rom-com, or his favorite porno. Point made, if only to himself, Grant filled the glasses with the Armagnac he had been saving for a special occasion. His first date of the new year should qualify. He inhaled and stretched his arms out in front and then behind his back, palms meeting in a silent clap to release his pent-up tension. Grant repeated the motion a couple more times before shaking out his arms. Relax. Be patient. Give Robert a chance. They both seemed to want the same things, one of the reasons a mutual friend had passed on Robert’s phone number when Grant announced his resolve to find himself happy and settled in a relationship this year. Grant put his hand on his belly. He swallowed down the acidic burn from its internal gyrations and took another what he hoped was calming, breath. He needed to have faith a friend’s recommendation offered a better start to a potential romance than a random meeting in a bar. Pep talk completed, Grant grabbed their drinks and hit the light switch with his elbow. The small glow from the bulb over the stove illuminated his path into the living room. “Cognac? How thoughtful.” Robert’s welcoming smile was a little too wide and a little too plastic for Grant’s comfort as he passed him one of the snifters. “Actually, this is Armagnac.” Oh God, could he sound any more pretentious? So much for keeping things light. Grant’s face flushed with the hated tale-tell rush of heat and the slick tickle of sweat beneath his arms told him his antiperspirant failed to live up to its advertising. “Never heard of it.” Robert shrugged, a sinuous movement of his shoulders before he tossed back a hefty swig. Grant silently mourned the abuse of the fine spirit, but urged himself to patience. He took his own savoring sip. The bottle had been worth waiting for and his joy at the explosion of flavor on his taste buds set him off again with an enthusiastic burst of information. “It’s funny, while both are distilled from white wine grapes, Armagnac is distilled only once and needs to be aged for a longer period of time.” He held the glass up to the light and admired the rich color. “The extra patience is rewarded by more finesse and roundness in the flavor.” All right, he cautioned himself. Enough of the lecture. Don’t continue unless he’s interested. “Sounds like a lot of work for something so medicinal.” Robert touched the back of his hand to his mouth, a gesture of distaste if Grant ever saw one, and placed the snifter on the low table before him. The delicate glass teetered, half on-half off the coaster until Grant nudged it level. “I’m not here having dinner with “Weather Guy Grant” to discuss cognac.” “Armagnac,” Grant winced at the hated nickname even as he corrected Robert once again. The anticipation that had danced him into the kitchen drained away, leaving a solid lump of disillusion in his gut. The next thing he knew Robert would be asking about… “Enough of the small talk. I want to hear what it’s like to work with Rick Steel. Have the two of you ever done any storm-chasing? You know, like that movie?” This time Robert’s smile oozed enough fanish enthusiasm to leave Grant wishing he’d brought in some extra napkins to mop up the mess. “That’s sooo exciting.” “No, I haven’t.” Grant set his snifter down, the smooth taste of the long-anticipated bottle turned sour by Robert’s question. Instead of a possible boyfriend Robert was nothing but another Rick Steel groupie. He was going to rip his friend, Jason a new one for putting him in this position. Grant might find the situation funny, except it wasn’t the first time someone had gone out with him to learn more about his infamous coworker. Grant never understood the mentality. Was he merely the closest they would ever get to the real thing? How was that good enough? “Stormy weather’s nothing to take lightly. I’m uncomfortable with anyone putting themselves in that kind of danger.” Grant’s expression brightened. “I did spend a year up at the Mount Washington Weather Observatory.” “I’m sure you were thrilled.” There was no mistaking Robert’s dismissive tone, and Grant’s airy hopes for the evening dropped another couple of degrees on his internal barometer. “Don’t you find something elemental about extreme weather? The wind, the driving rain, the forces of nature unleashed? I saw Rick’s live broadcast after the storm drains backed up downtown. He was so brave.” Robert’s voice quavered with what Grant could only consider breathy awe. Grant tugged at his earlobe, scouring his brain for a way to change the subject. His shoulders locked under his ears, the tension from earlier returning with a vengeance. This time accompanied by a dull throb over his right eye. Even worse than being a Rick Steel fan, the guy had a weather kink, too. He glanced toward the kitchen, instinctively searching for an out from the uncomfortable turn of the evening. The darkened doorway stayed as blank as his mind and he turned to face Robert once again. “Whoa,” Grant wheezed, his eyes wide and adrenaline spiking through his veins. When had Robert moved so close? He shifted position on the couch, scooting back a graceless inch to widen the gap between them. “Sorry,” he excused his reaction with a dry cough. “Well, all of those conditions usually lead to property damage and possible loss of life. My job as a meteorologist is to try to help people avoid both scenarios.” Great. Now he sounded stiff and pedantic. “Honestly, Grant.” Robert ran his hands over Grant’s firm thighs and leaned in even closer, the scent of his cologne tickling Grant’s nose. “I think we’ve spent enough time talking this evening, don’t you?” Grant bit his lower lip and fought back a sneeze. Was it him, or were they having two separate conversations? Despite his disgruntled feelings the rest of Grant’s honorable intentions disappeared beneath the first sparking rush of lust pulsing low and heavy in his groin. He was only human, and Robert’s hands were strong, arousing as they squeezed his quads with insistent pressure. The heat from Robert’s palms burned through the thin fabric of Grant’s best dress pants and his d**k perked up, demanding its chance to take over Grant’s thinking for the rest of the evening. “Well…” Before Grant could finish his sentence, Robert pressed their mouths together, effectively silencing him. Barely a beat passed before Grant’s hopes for the future raised a white flag in surrender. Oh, what the hell. Grant’s head spun, dizzy with the secondhand flavor of the Armagnac and the firm press of Robert’s chest against his. He’d give the guy props, Robert kissed with practiced skill; his lips warm and pliable, determined to coax a response from Grant. Maybe this wasn’t the beginning of a long-term relationship, and Robert was probably using him as a Rick Steel stand-in, but hey, take it when you can get it, right? Grant’s brain called a time-out and let his body make its own decisions on how things should progress. Only later, when Robert lay naked and aroused on Grant’s bed did his rational mind start up again. Offering an uncomplimentary opinion on Grant’s lack of resolution in the face of some easy s*x and the reasoning behind Robert’s overeager yet strangely distant attentions. Everybody’s a critic. Grant sucked in a gulp of over-heated air. His chest flushed and his hands trembling with need. He ignored his troublesome inner commentary and admired the body spread out beneath him, each vertebrae of the softly curved spine an invitation leading to his goal. His tongue slipped over Robert’s lower back. The skin salty and moist with sweat, a better taste than the dessert abandoned in the fridge. The more satisfying odor of horny male replaced the heavy cologne and Grant groaned approval into the dimples at the base of Robert’s tailbone. Grant widened his knees, spreading Robert’s legs further apart, feeling the play of muscle and tension in his own inner thighs. He pressed closer and began the slow, sensuous descent into Robert’s welcoming warmth. God, but it had been a long time. Grant closed his eyes, deaf to everything but his blood thrumming in his ears and he relished the quiet revelation that always accompanied this moment. Too bad the physical connection only highlighted the emotional lack. Grant’s arms shook with the effort of holding himself up, sweat beading on his forehead. He wanted to kiss Robert, needed to express his thankfulness for this gift of closeness, of touch, but Robert kept his eyes closed, and his face turned away. Robert bucked upward, pushing himself back against Grant in an unspoken demand. Okay, so his inattention had been noted. Grant rocked forward, finding his rhythm. He sucked in another breath and shook his head, forcing the stinging drops of sweat to run down his cheek and pool in the hollow of his throat. Despite the pleasure sparking through his nerve endings, Grant kept to a slow pace. There might not be an emotional connection between them but right now the physical was doing just fine. Hot. Slick. God, so unbelievably good. Each time Grant entered a man he enjoyed this sensation, loved the way his partner’s body was always tighter, hotter than he expected. He pushed forward again, greedy for more. Robert dropped his head, the muscles of his back prominent under the smooth skin. Grant gasped, Robert’s momentary submission triggering the primal part of his brain. Robert wanted the forces of nature unleashed? Well, get ready. Grant’s lips peeled away from his gritted teeth and he quickened his pace. Robert jolted forward with the motion, held captive by the ferocity of Grant’s grasp on his hips. He wrapped one arm around Robert’s shoulder, dragging him closer. Grant’s focus narrowed to each leveraged thrust; each guttural gasp as he battled the raging desire to let his body run its own race and simply take what he needed. Luckily Robert was a talker and his running commentary distracted Grant from the building tension. “Harder. C’mon. Give it to me.” Robert shifted, struggling against Grant’s weight until he managed to bring his knees closer to the pillow and up under his thighs. “Yeah. Oh God. Oh yeah.” Grant’s balls drew tight, hard as stones and ready to spill. A shuddering groan fought its way deep from his chest. So damn close. Before he finished his final push, Robert let out a yell and Grant froze, all the heat and desire draining from him in a painful, numbing instant. “Oh God, Rick! f**k me, Rick!”