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Ben couldn’t not-touch, even if it meant the end of everything. He had not been not-touching for a while. Ben’s hand had squeezed the tense muscles of Ray’s firm, lean bicep to stop Ray from punching a perp instead of arresting him. Ben’s chest had pressed to Ray’s back as Ben read a report over Ray’s shoulder. Ben’s leg had leaned into Ray’s as they sat so close there was barely air between them. And, Ray had been receptive to all of those touches.
The hand on Ray’s arm seemed to ease some of the anger Ray burned with. When Ben had pressed close that first time, he had been ready to be told to back off and keep to his own space, but Ray didn’t. Instead, Ray held the papers so that Ben could read them better. And, when Ben sat closer than he needed to and leaned his leg against Ray’s, he could feel Ray leaning back against him.
But those touches were friendly touches. Or, they could be thought of as just friendly touches. They were friends. Ben, who was rarely certain of his relationship with anyone, was certain of that.
This touch–this kiss–could be the end of that. That friendship. That easy closeness. Ben’s career, such as it was.
It was worth it.
It felt worth anything in that moment, to feel Ray’s lips pressed against his. To know Ray in that way. To taste him.
The harsh artificial light in the empty bullpen of the Chicago police department had made a halo of Ray’s blond hair. They’d found a clue and figured out the case together, and Ray’s smile was sunlight. Ben needed to know what sunlight tasted like.
The hope that perched in Ben’s soul sang that Ray might not throw him away for this. Might not push Ben away for good. Might not look at Ben with anger and disgust and then never look at Ben again.
Only the tiniest part of Ben’s soul dared to consider even the possibility that Ray might kiss Ben back, might welcome this the way Ray had welcomed every other touch.
Ray was kissing back.
Thank God. Thank all the gods. Ray was…
Ray had gone tense at the first brush of lips and Ben was as ready as he could be for the shoving and the shouting and for the (attempts at) shaming. (Ben could never be ashamed of the way he felt about Ray.)
But then Ray breathed out a warm sigh against Ben’s lips and melted against Ben. Then it was Ray’s hands on Ben’s shoulder and back, pulling him close. Ray’s mouth opening for Ben’s tongue. It was moments before Ben’s romantic impulse turned carnal.
Ben gripped Ray’s sides, shoved him against a desk–not theirs–and sent papers scattering. Ben’s knee pressed between Ray’s thighs, parting them. He wanted Ray to ride him.
Instead, now, Ben felt Ray’s hand on his chest. Pushing. Ben. Back.
Ben’s heart was in his belly, inches beneath where he could feel the heat of Ray’s hand even through his clothes. His heart felt like it was being squeezed.
Ben leaned back.
Ray’s breathing was ragged. “Not here.”
Not No. Not Don’t. Not Stop. Not here.
Not here Ben could work with. Not here felt like salvation. Ben felt himself smile.
“Where?”
Ray was quiet with thought, then said, “My place?” With hesitancy, as a question, as if Ben wouldn’t go anywhere to be with Ray.
Ben liked Ray’s place. It was small but Ben had accustomed himself to smaller and it smelled of Ray and Ray was loose-limbed and relaxed there.
“Yes,” Ben heard himself say, almost before Ray finished speaking.
Ray smiled and Ben moved to take his mouth again, but Ray pressed firmly, not shoving Ben away but not letting him any closer either. Right. Not here.
Then Ben was being pushed back and he had a moment of panic before he realized for them to anywhere that was not here, Ben would have to move.
But Ray’s breathing was still rough and his lips were kiss-swollen and his dick was starting to harden against Ben’s leg, so even Ben understood that being pushed away was part of not here instead of not ever, Ben still took his time moving away.
Ben could not help thinking of the way Ray’s body brushed against his as Ray levered himself off the desk as a promise of things to come. Ray still touched Ben, even when his feet were on the floor. He used Ben’s lanyard as a leash, leading Ben to the door. He didn’t need to be led. But he liked that Ray was doing it anyway.
They left the papers scattered on the floor. Normally, Ben couldn’t tolerate the rudeness of leaving a mess like this behind. But, normally, Ray wasn’t grinning at him wolfishly, the heat in Ray’s eyes a promise. And, besides, Ben wanted evidence of this.
He wanted people to come in the morning and see the papers and wonder what happened. He wanted to hear people speculate about it and remember the feeling of Ray against the desk and under him.
Ray opened the door without looking away from Ben. The coolness of the night should have been welcome on Ben’s overheated skin, but he didn’t want coolness now. He wanted Ray.
Ben almost reached out again. But he let himself be led. They were both in Ray’s car before he tried to touch again. Ben put his hand on Ray’s thigh. Ray swatted his hand away. Ben growled. Ray drove faster.
Ben kept his hands to himself all the way to Ray’s apartment. Outside the door, Ray hesitated. He looked at Ben. Not an I’m not sure look. But an Are you sure? look. As if Ben hadn’t started this. Hadn’t started wanting this the first time Ray hugged him and wanted it more every day.
Ben nodded.
Ray’s throat worked. He nodded. He opened the door to his apartment, stepped inside, and pulled Ben in after him. Even though Ben knew better, the closing of the door sounded like a punctuation mark–the end of Alone and the beginning of Us .