Alton Brown/Mike Rowe

Mike stood behind him, ran his hands down the smooth, well-worn cotton of Alton's hawiian shirt. He could feel the firm shoulder muscles from years of kneading dough, the erect nipples, and... was that a nipple piercing? Who would have guessed? Sliding further down, he felt the gently yeilding flesh that all true foodies accumulate eventually. Oh, Alton was no Mario Batali, but unlike Rachel Ray, he appeared to actually eat what he cooked.

The shirt was untucked, and Mike slipped his hands underneath, to grasp Alton's waist. The flank muscles necessary for motorcycle riding were firm and defined under the warm skin, and Mike remembered that Alton wasn't a hot-kitchen flower, content to stay on the sound stage all the time. No, he was a man with a taste for speed. Mike was about to hook his thumbs into Alton's waistband, but the cook turned suddenly in his arms, the shirt riding up, and Mike was looking down at wicked eyes behind the thick-rimmed glasses.

"You are a dirty, dirty boy, Mike." Mike started to back off, chagrined that he had misjudged the situation. But as he took a step back, Alton took a step forward, pinning Mike up against the granite countertop. Alton's voice, normally a pleasant tenor, sounded huskier than usual.

"You know, Mike, I don't believe in uni-taskers. Every part of my body can be used in multiple ways. For instance, my tongue, so useful for tasting the differences between cassia and true cinnamon, can also be used to excite each... tiny... hair on the outside curve of your ear." Suiting the deed to the word, Alton drew his tongue slowly up the skin of Mike's ear, from earlobe to the cute little divot at the top. Mike held perfectly still, afraid that if he moved, Alton would stop.

Alton pulled back, looked Mike up and down. Mike, although he had started this, suddenly felt shy, like the first time Bill from Vexcon had intimated that maybe Mike should ditch the camera crew and come home with he and the wife. Remembering, Mike grinned, and Alton grinned back at him. Alton stepped forward again, so his pelvis held Mike to the countertop. He reached out his right hand and fumbled in a drawer for a moment. Mike was wondering what could be more important than this moment, when Alton straigtened up, rubbing their jeans together deliciously, and leaned in to kiss him. He tasted of yeast and brown sugar, sweet and alive. Mike hoped that his clove toothpaste didn't clash too much, and then he stopped hoping for anything except the continuation of this sweetness, the nimble run of tongue along is teeth, the heady weight of a man he had wished for for so long.

Consequently, he was surprised to hear the grind of shears at his waist. Alton had pulled scissors out of that drawer, and was literally cutting the shirt off him. The kiss ended, and Mike almost whimpered. Alton leaned back, and with a look of total concentration, finished cutting the t-shirt up the center. A few more snips at the shoulders, and the white fabric slipped off Mike's shoulders, to rest in a pool on the counter. Alton curled his short-nailed hands in the thicket of curly chest-hair. Mike had always been self-concious about all this resplendent testosterone. Now that he was a medium-grade star, he even got his back waxed regularly, but the chest had hurt too much, so he'd left it. Now Alton was tugging gently, wonderingly at the hair, and Mike thought it might have its points.

"I watch your show all the time, you know," Alton confessed. He was apparently addressing Mike's sternum. Shy? Now? "I tivo them, and watch them time and again. And my favorites are always the ones where you take off your shirt. That FAQ show where you were wearing just a hotel towel? It keeps me up at night. It's the secret desktop graphic on my laptop."

Mike felt all his glibness desert him. Alton watched Dirty Jobs? Really? A widening self-evaluation of everything he had ever said on the show threatened to spin dizzily out of control when Alton touched him again, laying a cool hand on his chest. "Mike, you should know I want you. Can't you feel it?"

Alton was not speaking metaphorically. Mike's thigh was practically pulsing from the erection pressed against it, even through layers of denim. Alton's eyes had dropped to watch his hands, tracing the ridge of muscles that a year of hard labor had etched in Mike's stomach.

Mike reached out, awkwardly, and started unbuttoning Alton's shirt. At the third button, Alton's eyes flicked up again, looking at Mike's face, looking for....something. Before Mike could determine what, Alton had looked down again, to work at the leather belt, buckled tightly to keep the jeans from sliding off Mike's slim hips.

Mike finished his buttons, and slid his index fingers inside Alton's waistband. A boxer man, he noted.

Having gotten the belt unfastened, Alton seemed to be running low on courage. Mike, on the other hand, was buoyed by the thought that Alton, his Alton! watched him, wanted him. Mike wrapped his arms around Alton, and using the muscles so hard-won by shoveling charcoal and sludge, lifted Alton and turned around to set him on top of the counter. There was almost a bad moment with the pot-rack, but he avoided it at the last moment. Alton sat on the counter, his legs wrapped around Mike. Their bare chests rose and fell at the same feverish pace.

"Alton, I only hoped that you would, someday, be some kind of manly friend with me. I couldn't wish for more -- it was too unlikely. I only touched you because.... because..."

"Because there was quite a bit more vodka in the melon sorbet than you thought." Alton laughed, squeezing his legs for emphasis. "I couldn't tell if you were restrained because you didn't want me, or if it was because you did want me. Now I know."

Mike grinned at Alton. "Did. Do. Will."

Alton traced a thin white scar on Mike's collarbone. "You have so many old injuries, and scars. It makes me feel like I should protect you."

Mike let go of Alton's waist to take his hands. "You have your own work injuries," he said, kissing the shiny skin of a healing burn on the back of one knuckle. He turned the hand over to kiss the knife-scar on the outside of a thumb. "We're a couple of ragamuffin men."

Mike let go of one of Alton's hands, and had the satisfaction of feeling it curl around his neck, the thumb rubbing the bone behind his ear. With his free hand, he unfastened Alton's constraining jeans, thinking dark thoughts about the inventor of the button fly. The boxers were magnificent, a pink flamingo pattern on black silk. How like Alton. The head of his penis poked out, too erect for the frail constraint. Mike gently brushed the shaft through the silk, felt the whole body of his lover quiver.

Alton grasped the edges of the counter, then moved his left hand along as if looking for something. He pressed a hidden button under the lip of the counter, and a shallow drawer concealed above the other drawers popped out. In it were .... could it be? Mike stopped stroking for a moment in sheer astonishment. Labeled in Alton's neat handwriting were half-a-dozen small screwtop jars: chocolate-cayenne, raspberry coulis, pineapple-mint, unflavored, cinnamon-clove, ginger-mango. There was also a stash of gloves and a beautifully polished marble french rolling pin, the kind that tapers. Alton cleared his throat. "Um, I've never liked the feel of the glycerin-based lubes, so I infuse my own silicone lube. I was.... I was hoping you'd like....." His voice tapered off, but this time it wasn't uncertainty, or ONLY uncertainty. It was invitation.

Mike grinned up at him. "You're like a boy scout. Only way, way sexier." He gave Alton a playful push backwards, and Alton immediately lay back on the counter, his shirt spreading around him like tropical wings. The two men worked together to strip off Alton's jeans and socks.

Remembering everything his massueuse had taught him, Mike knelt at Alton's feet, dangling over the edge of the counter. He knuckled the soles of his feet, used his thumb for smooth pressure up the sides of Alton's shins. Standing up and looking at all the luscious man laid out on the counter, he massaged small circles on the inside of Alton's thighs, one hand on each side. Alton had his eyes closed, his lids fluttering in time with the circles. Mike's hands ascended, drawing closer to the core of pleasure. Wrapping his left hand, calloused and hot, around Alton's penis, he reached out for the jar labelled "unflavored". He wanted to taste the man himself.

He set the jar on Alton's stomach, who obligingly opened it for him. Mike dipped his finger in, and rubbed the slickness on his palms. Then he rubbed in on Alton, who arched drastically. Mike could feel his caullouses catching on the penis, despite the lube, and apologized for having rough hands, but Alton propped himself up on his elbows. "Your rough hands, your hard body, it's all part of the package. I -oh- I like it."

It didn't take long. Alton quivered more and more under Mike's hands, warm against the cool stone backdrop. In an upwelling of lust, he came. Mike licked his fingers. Looking around, he found a kitchen towel, and wet it, to clean Alton and himself up, a little. At the touch of the warm wet towel, Alton stirred. Mike stroked his thighs and stomach in long, soothing strokes.

Planting his elbows on either side of Alton's hips, Mike leaned down to look at him and say, "Thank you, Alton. That... was everything I'd imagined." He lay his head down on Alton's stomach, the last gasp of erection pressed against his throat.

Alton reached up and lazily began combing Mike's hair. "Well, thank you too, kind gentlemen." His accent grew more pronounced the more relaxed he was. "But really, you should get up."

Mike grunted and levered himself up, and Alton sat up and rubbed his hair vigorously. Mike said, "Well, uh, I guess I should be on my way."

Alton curled one leg around him. "Oh, no. We can't have that. To present a starving man dinner and then give him only the appetizer? I won't have it."

Mike stopped. He could never have asked for more, himself, but this hinted that Alton might... His speculation ground to a halt there, because Alton had left the countertop and deftly unfastened the waistband of the only remaining pants between them.

"Do you really think that I was going to leave you so unsatisfied? No. I am all about the happy." Saying this, he deftly pulled Mike's pants and underwear down to his ankles, and pushed him staggering back against the sink. He stood up, the whole length of him pressed against Mike, and Mike feeling every iota of skin. Alton nibbled Mike's shoulder. His tongue flicked a nipple, and then there was a tugging, sucking kiss next to Mike's navel. Alton was on his knees, and looked up impishly at Mike. "You taste.... delicious." He carefully took off his glasses, and Mike was surprised to see how young it made him look, how wild-boy.

"You know I'm a fiend for research, right? Well, I can look up sex techniques just as well as cooking techniques, and there are some I've been dying to try." Mike was all about letting him try. Not gonna stop him. Nope. Mike knew about learning from experts.

Alton's clever mouth reduced Mike's thinking to "uh! yes! o god!" in short order. Afterwards, he was never able to reconstruct exactly what had happened, that first time. It had felt very, very good. He had ended up with bruises on the back of his ass at the height of the sink. And as they lay on the immaculate floor, Alton had looked over at him and said, "Now that's good eats."