Fuck. Hottest day of the fucking year and the central air is broken and Brian goes to work and leaves the fucking windows closed because he’s a fucking moron and fuck fuck fuck!

I toss my knapsack toward the counter and stalk toward the bank of windows, sweat already wending a trickling path down my spine. As if it wasn’t bad enough that today’s boring as shit lecture ran twenty minutes late. That the pathetic fan in Life Studies spewed more dust than cool air. That my hand is aching. That I spent the last half hour on the bus, also non-air-conditioned of fucking course, crushed between a beefy construction worker with hygiene issues and a New Ager who kept wanting to align my chakra, whatever that is.

I sooo don’t need this right now.

Fucking Brian!

I slam the windows open, spin toward the dining room and do the same with that batch. Wait for the refreshingly cool breeze to race through the room.

Nothing. Not a damn thing.

Fuck!

I stick my head out the window, trying to scent out a decent breeze like a blue tick bloodhound, and succeed only in inhaling a lungful of Pittsburgh smog. A car horn honks below me and a bus bellows past, and the stink of the city sears into my skin. I duck back inside, shirt sticking to me like plastic wrap. I run a hand through my sweat-soaked hair as I turn toward the kitchen. Veggies are in the crisper, I remember. Chicken, skinless, boneless, not-an-ounce-of-fat-on-it-chicken, per Brian’s request, is marinating in Vic’s zesty teriyaki sauce.

Have to make my famous stir-fry tonight. Have to. Because I fucking bitched and moaned for weeks that I was sick of fucking take-out and sick of my own late hours spent working on fucking assignments and sick of Brian’s late hours sitting in front of the computer going over graphics or ad copy and only half paying attention to the Chinese/Thai/Italian/whatever that went into his mouth. We were going to have a goddamn sit-down meal like normal human beings, I told him, even if it killed us. He seemed to think that since he’d survived Deb’s 101 Ways To Use Marinara Sauce throughout his youth, that we stood a chance with the chicken.

But... if I have to stand over a wok in this heat, I will definitely hurl.

Fuck it.

I toe off my sneakers as I cross to the kitchen, then bend to pull off the sweaty mass of cotton that used to be my socks. Gross. I toss them over my shoulder as I tug open the freezer door and... yes... there it is. Sweet, blessed cold bleeds across my face from the open door as I pull out the Haagen Daaz.

I shoulder the door shut behind me almost regretfully. I could just stand and let the brisk air wash across my skin. It feels soooo fucking good. But one of the most prevalent causes of nausea occurs when the human body undergoes a radical change in temperature without an appropriate cool-down period. Vomiting and intense abdominal cramps are the most common consequences. Yeah, I’ll pass.

I rip off the lid and reach for a spoon. I prop my elbows on the counter, and I’m grinning like a lunatic as the first velvety drop melts on my tongue. Vanilla... in Brian’s freezer it’s always vanilla... sweet and rich and heavenly. Aaaah, ice cream -- the dinner of champions... and of art students masquerading as giant sweat bubbles. My bitch of a day recedes with each dripping spoonful, until finally it’s just me and the finest dairy product known to man. Take that, humidex from hell.

I’m a third of the way through the pint and beginning to feel blissfully full -- and apparently blissed out on a sugar high as well -- when Brian’s arms snake around my waist. I didn’t even hear the door, so I jerk a little at the press of his body against my back, then relax. I glance down at the arms encircling me. He’s still wearing his suit jacket. Fuck, does the man not perspire like normal human beings?

Brian props his head on my shoulder, lips lightly brushing against my earlobe before turning his attention to the Haagen Daaz. “Hmmm,” he murmurs against my skin, “that doesn’t look like teriyaki chicken to me.”

“Too fucking hot,” I mumble around a mouthful of liquid heaven. I quirk an eyebrow at Brian’s profile while gesturing with the spoon. “Want some?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

And apparently the heat has broiled my brain, because Brian has flipped me around, nudged my ass onto the counter and tossed my shirt in the general vicinity of my socks before I manage to blink or think or even breathe. He plucks the spoon from my hand -- how the fuck did I manage to hold onto that? -- and dips it into the carton, leaning over me with a sinful leer.

He holds the spoon over my exposed chest, his eyes dancing playfully.

“Brian,” is all I manage to squeak out, half warning, half plea. He smirks a second before he upends the spoon, and my back arches involuntarily as the ice cream slides across my skin. “Fuck! It’s cold.”

He bites his tongue on the obvious rejoinder and then most coherent thought leaves me as his mouth chases the droplets, his warm tongue laving across my skin. His lips dart across my ribcage, following the meandering path of swiftly melting cream. Cold again, this time on my navel, and then his tongue is there, dipping into the hollow. I let my head hang back and close my eyes as his tongue zooms lower, swirling across my stomach. Yeah. Oh fuck yeah. His teeth nip and his tongue soothes as he retraces his path, tracking a line across my chest, ducking his head to the left to loop his tongue again and again and again against my nipple, biting and sucking and then he’s nuzzling at my neck, lips fastened over that spot that makes my eyes roll back and my toes curl. And then it stops, and he’s hovering above me, the heat of him washing over me, and I open my eyes to see his lips painted in Haagen Daaz’s finest vanilla. And we kiss then, and he tastes of ice cream and sweat and whiskey.

He pulls away and I surge after him, hands gripping his shoulders. I’m not through with him yet. I plunge my tongue into his mouth and seek out the heat there, drape my leg around his waist, tangle my fingers in his hair… and then his arms are wrapped around my thighs, lifting me, and FUCK, I yelp against his lips as my bare ass hits the cold stainless steel surface of the countertop.

He pulls away again, and this time, I let him.

And realize, for the first time, that he’s still clad in his Armani. The jacket has been abandoned somewhere along the line, but shirt and tie and trousers are still in place. I’m spread out naked on the counter and he looks ready to take a meeting. It’s fucking hot.

It’s fucking Brian.

I catch my bottom lip between my teeth as the spoon dips once again into the rapidly depleting carton. His lips quirk in a smile as he holds the dripping mass of ice cream over my straining dick. I yelp again as the first droplet hits my cock, and then he’s plastering the gooey mess all over me, his mouth open slightly, his tongue peeking out from between full flush lips.

“Brian,” I say as I prop myself up on my elbows.

He lifts his sparkling eyes to mine.

“Brian,” I breathe again, no warning this time, no plea. Just demand.

Now.

And he lowers his head and swipes his tongue across the underside of my dick. My back arches and my mouth drops open. And when his mouth closes around the head of my cock, my eyes squint shut despite my best intentions. And when he takes me in, all the way in, his nose nuzzling against my pubes, the head of my dick bumping against the back of his throat, my hands flail out for purchase, any purchase, and I’m vaguely aware of the crash and clatter of a bowl as it hits the floor, and can picture the lemons and limes rolling across the hardwood even as my body writhes against the countertop.

Strong hands grip my pistoning hips and hold me in place. And he works me, wet tongue stroking expertly, warm breaths huffing from his nostrils, and my world dwindles down to the press of his lips and the weight of his thumbs and the moans from his throat.

When he pulls away it takes a good five seconds for me to process it. Then my eyes fly open and my fingers twist in his hair. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Don’t fucking stop!”

He grins up at me, hair tousled now, tie loosened now, top buttons of his shirt undone. Not ready for a business meeting anymore. The glimpse of golden skin revealed by the gaping shirt has me salivating. I want to rip that shirt off and nip my way across his chest.

But I want him to finish sucking me off more.

He flexes his grip experimentally, and his grin gets wider when I use the opportunity to snap my hips upward.

“Brian.”

He licks his lips.

Okay, getting desperate now. This is just not fucking funny.

“Brian!”

“Patience, little padawan.”

“Padawan, my ass!” I throw a leg over his shoulder and push myself forward, my body dangling precariously at the edge of the counter. “Suck me NOW!”

“Uh. Okay, sweetie? As delectable as you are, with that cute little twink physique and that button nose and that adorable bubble butt... I really don’t have a death wish. Mmmkay?”

What the fuck?

I blink. Blink again.

The heat from the late afternoon sun bakes down on my back. Hottest fucking day of the year, and they had to choose today for Gus’s party. Blink again, and find Emmett looking at me like I’ve suddenly grown scales and a tail. He presses his lips together and wanders over to the Anakin Skywalker piñata, shaking his head.

Holy fuck. What did I... was that out loud? Ohhhh shit shit shit.

I swivel my head in Brian’s direction, only to find him smirking at me, tongue pressed firmly in his cheek to stop the laughter. A blush makes its way up my cheeks. He knows. He fucking knows exactly what I was thinking. Dreaming. Remembering.

Oh fuck. Emmett must think... shit, scales and a tail might be preferable to what Em is thinking right now!

I shift in place, wincing, and cross my hands strategically at my crotch. I send out a mental prayer, trying desperately to think of pestilence or something equally disgusting to will the damn hard-on away. I add in a quick addition that, failing that, nobody notices it. Or if they notice, they don’t say anything. Yeah, I’ll settle for that.

“Well, Sunshine?”

I blink again, and turn to see Debbie waiting patiently at the long table set up in Mel and Lindsay’s backyard.

“Huh? Did you say something, Deb?”

Deb rolls her eyes. “Honestly, Justin, I don’t know where your head has been today. I said,” she gestures wildly with the scoop, “chocolate or vanilla?”

“Oh,“ I grin. “Vanilla. Always vanilla.”