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I’m already shoving the pillow between my legs aside and scooting closer. He unfolds one of his arms and wraps it around my back. With his other hand, he pulls my bare leg over his lap. My hand falls to rest naturally on the center of his chest where his heartbeat is vibrating his breastbone.
He sucks in a quick, quiet gasp, but I suppress mine. My junk is now pressed firmly against his hip, and if I know myself well enough, which I’m pretty sure I do, it’s about to get hard again.
“Okay?” he asks, which is exactly what I was about to say.
We really are two bumbling idiots. I feel like we’re in a photo shoot and someone is posing us to look like lovers. Is this how gay guys really do it? Like, is this normal, or are we doing it wrong?
“Is this weird?” I ask, because he wanted straight up.
“I don’t know. Is it for you?”
“I don’t know, either,” I agree.
“Do you hate it? We don’t have to.”
“No, I like it fine,” I rush to say. “Just checking in.”
He sighs again, but it’s not an annoyed sigh. More of a heavy, possibly even contented one. “I’m into it,” he says, though it sounds a little grudging, if I’m going to nitpick.
I press my lips together so I don’t say anything stupid. My head is resting in the crook where his arm meets his shoulder, where the masculine scent of him is strongest. It’s dizzying to be this close to his face again. To feel his low voice rumbling his chest. To hear his breaths move in and out of his nose.
“I think I like the feel of you,” he says, sounding a little drowsier.
There goes my cock, responding with a pulse at the thrill his words just shot through me. “I like the feel of you, too.”
“I’m trying not to overthink it too much,” he adds. “But it’s hard.”
“Yeah.” I quietly acknowledge.
“Well, we’re in it together now,” he says with a mirthless laugh.
It makes me almost smile. “I guess so.” There aren’t words to express the gratitude flooding me, especially regarding his use of “we” and “together.”
It’s the first time since my arrest that I feel something other than alone.
Did I see this coming?
Has all the attention I’ve paid him, the showing off women and the lavish life I lead been a ploy to make him notice me the way I’ve always noticed him?
Was my constant assessment of his handsomeness more than sizing up the competition? Or was attraction at the root of it all along? Was I, in fact, “asking for it” when I answered the door naked that day.
Because I think I might have been.
Not that I wasn’t loving life and squeezing every last drop of pleasure I could from it before, but it was taking more and more booze and cocaine to stem the boredom. For being only twenty-four, I’m pretty jaded. Same places, same faces, a routine with no purpose other than to be invited back—wherever.
I’ve never really had dreams or ambitions or goals. I never needed them. I have everything. I know that. But I also took it for granted, which, yeah, I guess I can acknowledge made me too carefree.
Drew has all those things—goals, ambitions, dreams that admittedly have been stomped on, but still. It’s admirable. I would never say that to him, it’d sound patronizing as hell, but he’s the first person I’ve ever been with who’s had to really try for something. He’s also the first person I’ve ever known who’s failed.
I want to kiss him. Not on the mouth necessarily, but on the cheek, which I could with a slight stretch of my neck. Just to let him know I see him. At least—some.
And also, maybe to hint that I’d like to see more.
17
DREW
My alarm goes off, and I fumble for my phone, immediately cognizant of my surroundings, Olivier’s scent, his body’s heat and weight, and also—the rock-hard bulge leaving a dent in my hip. I can’t believe I didn’t wake up before my alarm. My sleep is typically restless—blame the night shift—but right now, I feel damn near reborn.
