Born to Be Wylde by Jan Irving Page B

shaking. He wanted to hit Marty.
“Step away from him, Wylde. I’ve got him,” Ken ordered. He hated seeing his Wylde anywhere near the guy. Wylde’s hand tightened on Marty’s throat. His blue eyes were dark cobalt, narrowed.
“Wylde… Steven,” Ken whispered, needing to reach his lover. “Please let me do my job; let me finish this.”
Wylde held his gaze, feral, long hair in his eyes. His muddy hand tightened, and then he stepped back, and Ken wrestled Marty around to handcuff him.
“Ow, what did you hit me with, you fucking hippie?” Marty growled at Wylde.
Wylde shrugged, looking serene now that Ken had Marty in custody. “Used my slingshot.”
    T WO weeks later, Ken parked his SUV after a long shift. His body ached with tiredness as he slammed the vehicle door behind him, looking around hopefully for Wylde.
    His lover came and went, but somehow Ken never slept alone anymore. Sometimes he woke up in the morning and found wildflowers on the pillow beside him. Sometimes he found some high-priced Seattle tea on his counter. Wylde was a mix of primeval and uptown, it turned out, and Ken loved discovering that.
    His heart picked up when he saw his lover’s tall, muscled form up on a ladder. He was drawing a tarp taut near the old site of Ken’s studio. Ken came to a halt as he saw Wylde was also not alone. His father Makoto was there; Josh, Wylde’s young best friend; and Alec, Ken’s fellow deputy whom Wylde had once been attracted to.
    Josh and Alec had come by for sushi soon after Wylde began living with Ken full-time. He liked both men, and he could see that the darkly handsome Alec was relieved Wylde had found someone because he seemed to truly care about him.
    Now Josh flashed a smile, a good-looking kid with ash blond hair and gray eyes, before he went back to placing debris into a wheelbarrow from the ruins of the studio.
    “What is going on, Wylde?” Ken asked as he came up behind his lover, putting a hand in the back pocket of his jeans and discreetly squeezing his ass.
“Gave you time, Ken, but you haven’t made any pots,” Wylde said. His blue gaze was serious, intent on Ken’s face.
    K EN ’ S eyes burned, as he remembered everything that had happened over the past weeks. “It was just intense. Marty, poor Andrea. I was grateful for the support you’ve given me.”
    “Marty’s in jail, and you gave Andrea back to her sister,” Wylde said, stepping down the ladder and then turning to face Ken. “It’s time to make stuff again.”
    Belatedly Ken took in more details, such as Josh’s truck had an open trailer to take away the ruins of his old workspace, making room to… rebuild? And there was a footoperated wheel, a long table, and his supplies sitting on the pine-needle floor stretching between two Douglas fir trees under the tarp Wylde had just finished putting up.
    A place to work over the summer.
“Wylde….” Ken looked away, swallowing thickly. Wylde put an arm around him, insistent. “Time to make
new stuff, Ken.”
     
Ken took a deep breath, holding concerned blue eyes. “Okay,” he said.
    M UCH later when they were alone again, Ken lit candles, and Wylde brought sake and a warmed carafe and cups thrown by Ken’s hands. The spring night was warm, and around them were the soft sounds of nesting birds and bright dots of flowers pushing through the forest floor.
    Ken sat at his potter’s wheel, and Wylde fitted himself behind him, arms around his waist.
Ken’s heart picked up to a slow, heavy beat, and his cock filled as Wylde tasted the skin of his neck, biting down to leave a possessive mark. Yet they had time; there was no rush. He knew Wylde just wanted to be a part of this, Ken’s reawakening to his craft, as he had once brought Ken’s body back to life.
Porcelain clay bubbled up in his hands as if he’d never spent any time away from the wheel. It was drier now than it had been the last time he’d created, because the air was drier in later spring, so he used