Doyle raised an eyebrow but nodded and said, “Twice.”
“How did they make you feel.”
“At peace.”
Larkin opened the door farther. “Mine made me feel happy.” He knee-walked closer until he was right up against Doyle, taking his face into both hands. “And that made me realize the only happiness I’ve felt in a long time hasn’t been in the moment, but through associations.”
“Evie?”
“Yes.” And Larkin kissed Doyle, every emotion, every fear, every insecurity, ugly and raw and unrefined, all of it right there, in a single brush of lips on lips.
Take it or leave it.
Doyle took it. He wrapped his arms around Larkin and pressed their bodies together, holding like he’d been chasing night upon endless night and now,nowhe’d finally caught up to Larkin and only needed a moment to collect his breath. Doyle kissed Larkin fervently, but somehow it didn’t lessen the moment, didn’t reduce this profound comprehension they had of each other to something as mundane as the pursuit of physical pleasure, not after Larkin’s admission of how numb he’d become toward sexual acts of any kind.
No.
Doyle kissed like they’d both been tumbling through the sky, careening toward Earth at breakneck speed, and finally, the gales—whipping them like ragdolls—threw Larkin and Doyle together. They both held on tight, and with that came a sudden and ethereal calm. The kiss was fear, relief, joy, uncertainty, beauty. It was day and night, the sun and moon, a promise to carry on justone more time, and the emotions you dared only feel when left in the safety of your own company.
The kiss… was love.
Larkin broke, leaned back, and opened his eyes, meeting Doyle’s steady gaze. “Professionals or friends or something…. Is this thesomething?”
Doyle put a hand on Larkin’s nape and drew them together again. “Yeah, it is.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was 10:03p.m. and Larkin lay in bed with a hand pressed to his forehead. Between the fight with Noah, all of it right there, sitting on the surface, still too painful to even look at from the corner of his eye, chugging ZzzQuil, and the subsequent meltdown, his headache was back in full force. He heard the fairy lights click off in the main room, and then the french doors opened.
“Can I have some Tylenol,” Larkin asked.
“That depends on how much ZzzQuil you took.” Doyle turned off the bedroom light.
Larkin could feel the glow from the touch lamp on the bedside table. “I wasn’t measuring.”
“Then, no.” Doyle drew back the covers. He climbed into bed, his body a furnace as he draped himself over Larkin’s chest.
Larkin moved his hand to Doyle’s bare shoulder and drew it up and down his arm, fingertips skating along defined muscle, dark hair, encircling the occasional freckle. It was familiar, and somehow entirely new. Larkin’s stomach fluttered when Doyle slid a hand underneath the ratty T-shirt he wore to bed.
“This okay?” Doyle asked, raising his head.
“I’m ticklish.”
“Are you really?”
Larkin narrowed his eyes.
Doyle smirked but pulled his hand free. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“You better not.”
Doyle propped himself up on his right arm. “Did you ever watchMister Rogers’ Neighborhood?”
“Of course.”
“He talked a lot about love.” Doyle rubbed his hand up and down Larkin’s chest, a sort of wonder in his touch, like all this time he’d actually been holding back, and tonight he was touching—really touching—Larkin for the first time. “He said love is at the root of everything. Love or the lack of it.”
“Are you looking to have a moral debate at ten at night.”
