“Is not joke. You always act like it is. Like is so funny I want you on air hockey team or darts.”
“I’m shit at darts.”
He laughed, and he touched my face again, warm, calloused palm cupping my cheek. “I know. We lost.”
“I mean, I can’t see the board, so…”
“Yes. I like losing with you.”
“I need you to shut the fuck up, Vanya.”
He did, but only for a second. “Why?”
“Because I—” I couldn’t say it. Could I? Was I going to let those words tumble from my lips? Was I really going to create another fucking personal disaster that could ruin so many things, considering he was on Alexio’s team, and he was one of Jonah’s new best friends?
Shit.
Yes. Yes I was.
“If you don’t stop, I’m going to crawl into your lap and shut you up myself.”
“Okay.”
“Vanya—”
“Okay,” he said again.
Something snapped. I sat up, felt forward with my hands until I touched him, assessing how much space I had between us, how much room I had to maneuver, and how much expensive shit I might break in Alexio’s car.
It took me three seconds to determine I didn’t care about most of that, and with a heavy, determined breath, I pushed up, swung my leg over toward him, and let his massive hands guide me against him.
Usually, when I did this, warning bells began to ring in my ears. Fear would skate up my spine. Ugly voices from my past would begin whispering in my head.
And then everything would come to a screeching halt.
The times that didn’t happen were good, but they were frantic. I was racing a fucking clock, trying to outrun the moment my past trauma would ruin everything. That was a phrase my therapist had given me.
He’d also given me a list of ways that could help me cope with how sex made me feel so I could use them with a new partner I trusted, but that was the problem: I didn’t fucking trust anyone.
Vanya felt different, and there was no rhyme or reason why. He was mouthy and rude and pushy. Hewas massive and intimidating and could be a serious boundary-crosser, especially when it came to competitive games.
From a logic standpoint, he was no different to Ryan—the first guy I’d dated after the big incident, who had been kind and careful with me. But Ryan hadn’t been enough.
He was no different than Chase, or Brenden, or Aaron, who also tried but couldn’t get past the walls I’d built up.
Vanya was somehow everything and nothing like them.
His warm, powerful, possessive hands were holding me tightly against his chest as I writhed, my dick hard against another man for the first time in so, so fucking long. My hands trailed down his chest, feeling the soft curves of his pecs, the fleshy bits over his ribs, his thick waist, then back up to his neck and shoulders.
He had a slight beard, rough against my palms. When I moved upward, I felt thick hair cut short, lying in soft waves that hung over his ears.
His jawline was strong, lips full, breath warm and sweet.
“Micah,” he groaned. His hips shifted beneath me, and I could feel his own hardness throbbing under my ass.
I wanted to take him, and god, it had been too fucking long since I’d thought about bottoming for anyone.
“I need,” I murmured, but I couldn’t finish my sentence.
