Hook, Line, and Sinker (Flirting with the Zodiac Book 1) Page 6

  Lawrence laughed at him, and they turned back from the beach, shoulders bumping—first good naturedly, then with more force, both of them grinning at each other ferally, until Ty tackled Lawrence, and Lawrence hauled him right up out of the sand, swung him around, Ty scrabbling at his back, kicking at him.

  Lawrence tossed him over his shoulder, and Ty went on flailing. “Caught a pretty fishy,” Lawrence teased, then landed a hand on the curve of Ty’s ass. “Not gonna let you be the one that got away.”

  “Who the fuck are you calling pretty?” Ty growled, glad that Lawrence couldn’t see his face. Lawrence thought he was pretty? Really?

  “You’re a nice shade of yellow right now,” Lawrence informed him, and Ty stilled, glaring down at the sand, watching as Lawrence’s feet churned it up underneath him.

  Lawrence set him down when they reached the patio, the rough edges of the paving stones biting into the balls of Ty’s feet. Lawrence gripped his shoulders tight to hold him steady, their gazes locked. “Ready to get married?”

  “Can I get changed first?” Ty almost laughed.

  “I guess,” Lawrence said, “but I kind of like the ‘I just dragged in a merman, gonna marry him before he slips back into the sea’ vibe.”

  Ty punched him in the arm, then stalked inside.

  ***

  The chapel was small, dingy, and musty. It was also deserted and cheap, and Ty was pretty sure the chaplain was drunk.

  Didn’t matter. They had a piece of paper saying they were married, and Lawrence had a ring on his finger.

  And they made it back to the restaurant for six, which was something, considering Lawrence got them lost on the way both to and from the chapel.

  Ty was seriously questioning his decision to marry Lawrence, let him lead him on the journey through life—stupid pre-writ vows—until they were seated at a tiny table on a beachside patio, the sea breeze ruffling the red-and-white checkered tablecloth, and the menu declaring that there was a seafood buffet.

  “You’re forgiven,” Ty said as he lifted the menu. “You can get us as lost as you like, so long as there’s a seafood buffet at the end of it.”

  “Good to know,” Lawrence chuckled, glancing over his shoulder at the windswept beach. “Fed fishy is happy fishy?”

  Ty curled his toes in his sneakers. “Mm, maybe.”

  “Drunk fishy is happy fishy?”

  Ty glared over the edge of the menu, and Lawrence grinned as the waiter set down the largest glass of sangria Ty had ever had the misfortune to witness.

  “They called it a fishbowl,” Lawrence said with a shrug, “I had to.”

  “Drunk fishy can’t consent,” Ty reminded him sternly.

  “Currently sober fishy could consent on drunk fishy’s behalf,” Lawrence offered, then took a swig of his own drink—a blue concoction that seemed more tropical paradise than the beach and the ocean and the palm fronds all around them.

  “Hmm, maybe sober fishy doesn’t want to.”

  “That’s fine,” Lawrence said. “You do what you want, what you feel comfortable with. You don’t even have to drink that if you don’t want to.”

  “I should,” Ty said, “since you ordered it for me.”

  “Well,” Lawrence drawled.

  “Wasn’t there something about that in the vows? Humbly submitting myself to you or something?”

  Lawrence’s gaze shifted darker again; he coughed and cleared his throat. “Something about that.”

  “Also something about trusting your better judgment, and I don’t know if this qualifies as better judgment.”

  “Definitely doesn’t.”

  Ty hefted the drink up. “I guess we should … toast or something?”

  “Sure,” Lawrence agreed easily.

  “We did just get married.”

  “Sure did.”

  “That’s … not weird, is it?” They clinked glasses. Ty frowned. “It doesn’t feel any different.”

  Lawrence sighed and leaned back in his chair, head on swivel. He was looking for the server. “Then I guess Val was right—we were basically married anyway.”

  Ty took a huge swallow of his drink. Lawrence grinned at him. “Someone said you should marry your best friend.”

  “I don’t think they meant quite this literally.”

  Lawrence shrugged, then lifted his glass again. “My parents are going to have my head when they find out, so might as well enjoy it. Cheers, Mr. Trafford.”

  “Fuck you, I’m not changing my name.”

  They clinked glasses again, but the noise was lost in Lawrence’s laughter.

  ***

  They strolled—or perhaps stumbled—across the beach in order to get back to the hotel. They were both too drunk—Ty would argue he was drunk on both alcohol and feeling—and more than once, one of them stumbled and crashed into the water, almost dragging the other with them. They were both ruddy-faced and aching with laughter by the time the hotel came into view. Ty squeezed Lawrence’s hand, pointed. “Look, look!” he cried. “We’re almost back, let’s go!”

  He tried to run, but tripped over his own feet—or maybe Lawrence dragged him back—but he was on his knees in the surf, facing back the way they’d come.

  He looked up at Lawrence, illuminated in the glow from Earth, the stars. Ty blinked, swallowed tightly. He lifted his head before he could think better of it. “I, um.”

  Lawrence broke eye contact, looked out at the water. “Wanna go for a dip?”

  Ty gritted his teeth. “I, uh. Can’t swim.” He was embarrassed for all of two seconds before the hilarity of that hit him, forcing giggles to bubble up out of him. He nearly pitched over in the water.

  Lawrence hauled him back to his feet before he could drown. “What do you mean, you can’t swim?”

  Ty leaned against him, let his head loll across the older man’s chest. He was so broad. “I can’t swim,” he gasped, still wracked with laughter. “Never learned. Pools are expensive, the Hudson’s filthy. Dad never took me.”

  “But you’re a fish,” Lawrence retorted.

  “Fish out of water,” Ty mumbled, frowning. He remembered, vaguely, going to a pool exactly once, for lessons, him and Dad. They’d been told they needed a different class, one that was only offered across town.Ty hadn’t understood at the time; they wanted them to go across town, near to where the Piscean embassy was, where the few other Pisceans in New Martia lived. They said Ty needed a different class. The one meant for Pisceans.

  Dad hadn’t said anything on the train home, but the entire idea of swimming lessons had been abandoned. Dad only pursed his lips if Ty mentioned it.

  “Can’t you shift?” Lawrence asked.

  “Oh, sure,” Ty said, dragging his tee up over his head. “Definitely can do that, do that sometimes in the bathtub—”

  “So that’s what you get up to in there,” Lawrence muttered.

  Ty pitched his shirt somewhere into the surf, reached for the buttons on his shorts. Lawrence grabbed his hands. “What are you—”

  “Gonna shift,” Ty slurred, then paused. He was drunker than he’d thought. He looked back up at Lawrence. “You’ve never seen me shifted, have you?” He rarely shifted. Another thing Dad didn’t like to talk about, had never really taught him about. He’d done it more as a kid, but Dad clearly didn’t want him to, so he’d stopped.

  He didn’t think Val had ever seen him shifted, and they’d been friends since they were in the second grade.

  Lawrence shook his head. Ty’s heart picked up pace. He wanted to show Lawrence, wanted him to see him for everything he was—human, Piscean, everything in between.

  “Only fair,” he said, “that you know what you’re getting into bed with, right?”

  “Oh, I already know.” Lawrence sounded halfway excited, then looked away as Ty finished shucking off his shorts.

  He paddled a little further out, sinking into the surf. He couldn’t swim, but he still needed water to shift. He dug his hands into the silt of the bott
om, stared at the algae as it came into hyperfocus.

  Shifting was a very strange experience—not particularly painful, but almost like his skin was tight. He dug his fingers in deeper, let the waves wash over him; as long as he was shifted, he could breathe underwater without issue. He shut his eyes, gritted his teeth as his legs jerked side to side, thrashing around as the Piscean buried in him tried to shed its human skin. He could feel bones lengthening, muscles stretching as he writhed around, and then he was thrashing around in the water, tail roiling through the waves, coiling up around him, then flopping to one side or the other.

  He paddled out just a little deeper, getting more water over his neon skin. Much like a seahorse, he didn’t have scales, so he didn’t glint in the moonlight or anything poetic like that.

  He turned back to Lawrence. His friend—no, his husband—glanced around, then tossed his own shirt, his shoes. He waded out, the waves lapping at his ankles, then his knees as he joined Ty.

  “You can breathe like that?” he asked as he sat down on the bottom. He was so much taller than Ty; the water barely licked his clavicles.

  Ty nodded, then lifted his head. “Can’t breathe air like this,” he gasped, then dunked himself under.

  “Oh.”

  Lawrence got back to his feet, looked to the horizon. “You wanna learn to swim?”

  Ty blinked, hoping that conveyed his confusion. Lawrence’s smile was warm, even in the cold of the water. “I bet you’ll really like it.”

  He grabbed Ty by the wrist and led him out further and further, until the ground dropped away beneath them. Then Lawrence paused, grabbing Ty’s hands tightly. “It’s okay,” he said. “Just kick your—well, I guess you have … fins somewhere?”

  Ty coiled his tail, then wound his way around Lawrence. “I want to go back,” he said, then dunked his head under.

  Lawrence led him back from the edge, just a touch. “It’s fine, starfish. I’m here. I’ll catch you.”

  Ty blew some bubbles in response.

  “I’ve got you,” Lawrence said cheerfully, “just try it. Use your arms to propel yourself—use your tail too.”

  Ty huffed. Lawrence almost laughed. “You can’t drown,” he said, “you can breathe. You’re fine. I won’t let you get swept out to sea, I promise.”

  Cautiously, Ty unfurled himself. He pushed away from Lawrence.

  “Like this.” Lawrence held his arms out in front of him, then pushed them to either side.Ty copied him, but didn’t move. Lawrence nodded. “Add your tail—think about kicking, I guess. You were doing a lot of thrashing earlier—I think you’ve got the motion.”

  Ty flailed his tail about for a few seconds, then pushed himself forward. “There you go!” Lawrence cried.

  Ty tried again. Then once more, and then an enormous wave crashed over them and pushed him under, leaving him floundering in the dark.

  Well, Lawrence was right that he couldn’t drown, at least.

  He surfaced, then glared at Lawrence, who was paddling right alongside him. With a huff, he turned himself to shore and dove under, letting his tail do most of the work.

  He crawled up on the beach a moment later, making sure he was in just deep enough to get water over his gills. Lawrence splashed up behind him.

  “The heck? You were doing fine.”

  “I’m cold,” Ty replied.

  “Tydeus Meredith Metzler, I’m going to teach you to swim, whether you like it or not.”

  “Not now,” Ty burbled, glancing up the beach.

  Lawrence sighed and folded his arms; the air was chilly, the wind cool. Ty tried to ignore how Lawrence’s nipples were standing at attention.

  He shifted against the sand.

  Lawrence crouched down beside him. “Can I touch you?” he almost whispered.

  “Yes,” Ty replied, breathless as he lifted his head out of the water.

  “Where?” They were leaning into each other now, lips a scarce inch from brushing.

  A hand along his hip; Ty guided him in. “Here. Right here, please.”

  “We’re drunk,” Lawrence whispered, pausing so close to where Ty needed his touch—suddenly, wantonly, achingly.

  “Don’t care,” he replied. “We’re both drunk. We’re married.”

  “Still,” Lawrence said.

  “We’ll stop if you want to.”

  Lawrence’s touch faltered, and for a second, Ty thought he was going to pull away.

  Then his hand slid all the way over Ty’s hip, followed the bone right down to Ty’s center. “Here,” he breathed, then glanced down between them.

  Ty’s tail curled languidly as Lawrence’s fingers stroked along the length of his slit. “Yes,” he agreed.

  Lawrence ran his hand up Ty’s cock, which had slithered out of him, stirring to life the second Lawrence touched him. He squeezed him, and Ty let his eyes flutter shut. He flopped back into the water so he could breathe.

  “And here,” he heard Lawrence say, his voice muffled by the water, and his fingers slid down the underside of Ty’s cock, found the flaring opening right beneath it, slipped inside. Ty thrust up to meet those fingers, tail coiling underneath him, lolling to the other side.

  “Yes!”

  Lawrence pushed his fingers in deeper, braced one hand on Ty’s shoulder. Ty groaned, grabbed at the sand beneath him. He tilted his head back. He didn’t even care if he was pointing, if he was neon fucking yellow; Lawrence had his fingers in him, and it felt fucking fantastic. He hadn’t let anyone touch him there in so long.

  He hadn’t had anyone who wanted to touch him there in so long.

  Lawrence grabbed his cock again, squeezed, and Ty came with a short cry, then turned himself over rapidly as his nerves started screaming from Lawrence’s prolonged touch.

  Lawrence pulled back, seemingly dazed and confused. Ty hauled himself up, glancing around.

  “Where are my clothes?”

  Lawrence blinked, shook himself out of his stupor. “Let me get you something from the hotel. Just wait right here.”

  He jumped to his feet, and Ty’s eyes widened. He watched Lawrence as he dashed across the beach—or, more specifically, Lawrence’s ass in those tight shorts, fuck—

  Ty groaned and flopped back into the water, digging his nails into his palms.

  Nine

  Half an hour later, Ty stepped out of the bathroom, vigorously running a towel through his hair. He was pretty sure there was sand embedded in his scalp, but he was warming up at least.

  Lawrence clicked off the TV and sat up. “Um,” he said quickly.

  Ty waved a hand. “It was good.”

  Lawrence nodded, then set the remote on the nightstand gingerly. “Did you want to …”

  Ty curled his toes into the carpet, then pitched the towel aside. He wanted to, yes.

  He crawled onto the bed with Lawrence. He glanced at his husband, felt the flush lifting to his cheeks. Even though Lawrence had had his fingers stuffed in Ty earlier, it felt very awkward to ask for anything else. “How do we …”

  “I could bring you off again,” Lawrence suggested, and Ty squirmed.

  “No,” he said. “Long refractory period.”

  “Still,” Lawrence said, and Ty shifted again, now feeling like prey being stalked by a dangerous predator. “Sex doesn’t have to be about dick-in- … whatever you have.”

  “Genital slit,” Ty replied automatically.

  Lawrence pulled a face. “That is … so sexy,” he groused.

  “Slit or hole works fine,” Ty replied with a shrug, then looked at the wall and chewed his lip. “And we kinda have to if we wanna—”

  “We don’t have to worry about that right now. Why don’t you just let me take care of you?”

  Lawrence crawled over him, straddled his legs. “Stop thinking for a minute, and just let me …”

  Lawrence guided him down. His head hit the pillow, his hair fanning out around him. “That … could be good.”

  “I’ll make it good,” Lawr
ence growled, then nipped at Ty’s neck; Ty lifted his head.

  He bent his legs at the knee so Lawrence was framed between them.

  Lawrence nipped and licked a path up his neck, to his lips, then kissed him deep. He rolled his hips down against Ty, pressed them together. Ty was surprised he was up again already.

  Lawrence’s hand slipped under his waistband. “You got so tight when you came,” he whispered, his breath hot against Ty’s cheek. He worked Ty’s shorts off, trailed his hand up the inside of Ty’s thigh. “Can’t wait to find out how you feel around my cock, how tight you’ll squeeze me.”

  He stroked the length of Ty’s slit again, then pushed a finger in. “I can kinda see the appeal of vaginas now,” he murmured, “no need for lube.”

  “Can you please not talk about vaginas when you’ve got your fingers in me?”

  “Sorry, it just seems—”

  “Not the same in the slightest,” Ty huffed. Lawrence quirked a brow. “Val and I compared.”

  Lawrence blinked a couple of times. Ty rolled his hips. “So you’re here with me, or we’re not doing this.”

  The silver-haired man’s head bobbed once, indicating he’d received the message, loud and clear.

  “I’m still warm,” Ty told him as Lawrence plunged his fingers in deeper. “You can—”

  “You think?”

  Ty nodded, and Lawrence fumbled one-handedly with his shorts. “Can’t wait to be in you,” he murmured, anticipation bleeding through his tone. “Want you so bad. You looked so good when you came, wanted to be there with you, fuck, Ty—”

  Ty closed his eyes; he was wet and warm, and Lawrence’s fingers moving in him made obscene sounds every time he came near to pulling out.

  He did withdraw suddenly, and Ty felt slick all down his thighs. Then there was pressure and heat, and oh, Lawrence pressing down into him, swearing softly above him as he sank in.

  “Fishy.”

  “Feels good, Laz.”

  Lawrence let out a short cry, then rocked his hips. “You feel so fucking good,” he all but whimpered, and Ty fluttered with the sensation of that cock sinking down, down, splitting him apart.