“It’s cold,” he complains, approaching and immediately plopping down in my lap. I grunt but automatically grab hold of him.
We’re too big to be sitting like this, neither of us the size of man who could comfortably curl into the lap of another. Ewan gives his best go of it, though, resting his temple on my shoulderso the cold skin of his forehead presses against my neck. His feet—which are bare, I notice—wiggle their way between my legs so he can tuck his toes beneath my left thigh. My right, which is where the majority of his weight is sitting, already hurts; the arm wrapped around his back, holding him up from falling backward, burns. Even so, I have no complaints.
“Maybe you’re not as scrawny as I thought,” I murmur, turning my head so my lips brush against the side of his face. I feel his laugh against my own.
“Told you. I’m not scrawny; I’m wiry. What are you doing out here, anyway? You’re going to freeze your balls off.”
I manage to slip one hand partially underneath his sweater, making him inhale as my cold fingers press against the warmth of his back. After a moment, he settles back in, our temperatures aligning. I stroke tiny circles into his skin.
“It’s not cold enough to freeze off any part of my body, but I do appreciate the concern. You should still be sleeping.”
“Mm. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on the couch. I was just trying to relax before coming back to bed.” He breathes softly, the air not cold enough to fog, no matter what he says about freezing temperatures. He adds, “We could go back to bed right now, if you wanted. Warm up a little bit.”
“In a minute,” I agree, smiling at the coy way that offer was presented. I like where I’m at right now, though, regardless of which of my limbs has gone numb. “What was wrong?”
“Mm?”
“You said you were trying to relax. What was wrong?” I repeat. Ewan doesn’t answer right away, tilting his face to run his nose along the sensitive skin of my neck. I close my eyes to enjoy the tickle.
“The future, I guess. I worry about everything. It’s always worse at night.”
The future. I almost laugh at how closely those two simple words align with my own worries. We need to talk about it, and I’m probably the one who will have to initiate the conversation. Not yet, though. Not until I’ve had time to work through my scattered thoughts and come up with a coherent plan. Not until I’ve talked to Bernie and figured out what is even feasible financially. Last resort, I’ll sell theDrifterand my house, move down with Ewan and look for work in LA. I hope it won’t come to that, but as long as Ewan wants me, I’ll be where he is, no matter what it takes to get there.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask him now, slightly hopeful that he’ll open that conversational door and let me walk through. I’ve got a lot of thoughts bouncing around this thick skull of mine, and I’d love to have his opinion on every single one of them.
“Not yet,” he says, the words carried on a sigh. I nod, disappointed, even though I’d known it was coming. I stroke my thumb along his hip, dipping it below the waistband of his pants. My pants, actually, as he’s taken to appropriating my clothing instead of using his own.
“Okay. Soon, though,” I tell him, letting him off the hook today but not forever. He nods against my shoulder, somehow feeling small, even though I’m holding the weight of him.
We lapse into silence then, and by some wordless agreement stay on the patio to watch the sunrise. Ewan is a hot, slightly uncomfortable weight against my chest; every now and then, he wiggles his toes, still tucked beneath my legs. When the sun starts sending tentative fingers of pink across the horizon, Ewanbegins fidgeting, uncomfortable being in the awkward position for so long. I keep my hands tucked up warm inside his clothing, touching and stroking every little bit of skin I can reach. When the sun finally makes its appearance in gold-and-rose splendor over the sea, he unfolds his legs and climbs off my lap. I shake my leg out, trying to convince blood to flow to the dead limb.
“Let’s go,” Ewan tells me, curling his fingers at me until I put a hand into his and let him haul me to my feet.
“In a hurry?” I ask, amused. “Cold?”
“You’ve been edging me for the past hour,” he grumbles, leading the way toward the house. Testily, he holds the door open for me and waits as I pass through before following. “You can’t just stick your hands up a man’s sweater and get away with it.”
Later, after I’ve learned my lesson—slowly and very thoroughly—I sit a sex-rumpled Ewan down at the kitchen island to make him breakfast. I aim more for caloric intake than finesse, not trying to impress him with my culinary skills so much as ensure he eats. Ewan sits with his chin propped in his hand, chatting amiably about nonsense things that nonetheless feed my soul like a man in the desert being presented with water. I love hearing him talk. I love hearing about the little things he finds important enough to say. I just love him, and every minute that ticks down on the clock makes me more and more sure. If Ewan wants to stay together, I’m going to sell up and move to LA.
Chapter Twenty-One
EWAN
Shiloh is sleeping deeply enough to not be snoring. His breathing is heavy and slow, shoulder rising and falling gently. I’ve been awake for an hour, eyes on his back and long adjusted to the dark of the room, watching. Watching and thinking.
There’s little more than a foot of distance between us—so much of him available to me without straining. And if I moved closer? If I slid over, careful not to jostle the mattress too much? Well, there’s a hell of a lot more I might be able to get away with then.
He’s asleep, and I’m awake. I could give him exactly what he asked for. The only thing holding me back is that sliver of mattress between us and that one single encompassing fact of him being asleep. I told him I was open to trying, and Iam. Hell, I even did a little research after we had that talk, trying to figure out exactly how people went about this. I’m just so fucking nervous, and my mind keeps catching on the edge of consent. It’s not a fine edge—not to me. I’ve never considered there to be any gray area when giving or offering it. It’s either a yes or a no, and “maybe but we’ll have to wait and see how I feel when I wake up” hadn’t factored into that equation. I really, really don’t want to find out how it feels to initiate this with him and then have him ask me to stop; have him tell me that I chose the wrong morning and should have let him sleep. Worse, what if he doesn’t tell me?
I promised him I’d try, though, and to be honest, I want to. I’m hard just considering it, fingers tingling and pulse skittering. I want to touch, and the longer I stare at that broad back, the stronger that desire becomes. Tentatively, I close the distance and brush my knuckles down the line of his spine, barely touching him. When I reach the dip of his lower back, I flip my hand and trail my fingertips along the curve of his waist. No reaction.
Slowly, I move across the bed until I’m close enough to feel the tickle of his hair against my face. This time, when I touch him, I follow the slope of his shoulder, down his arm to where his hand is resting on the mattress in front of him. He shifts a bit as I trace the fine bones of his hand, outlining each finger. When he curls his hand into a fist, I move that last inch closer and press myself against his back. The sheet has slid down, exposing my back to the cold of the room; a direct contrast to the burning heat of Shiloh’s skin against mine. I’m glad forthe cold, for once. My senses are dialed up to eleven, dick hard where it’s held between my body and Shiloh’s. I’m unsure what to make of how turned on I am right now—fired up from the mere thought of what I’m about to do and a few simple, safe touches. I could grind against Shiloh a couple of times and come from that alone. And wouldn’t that be a humiliating way to end our first foray into Shiloh’s dream world.
Trying to give myself a minute to calm down, I reach back for where I’d stowed the lube when I woke up an hour ago and hyped myself up to try this. The click of the cap sounds loud enough to be a gunshot in the otherwise perfectly silent room. Shiloh, the big bear, sleeps on, completely undisturbed. I hate him for it a little bit. If anyone so much as breathes on me when I’m asleep, I’ll wake up.
Leaving the open lube bottle where I can easily reach it, I go back to teasing Shiloh. And myself, because there is something to be said for the slow, silky slide of skin over skin, feeling the way goose bumps rise and listening for the smallest changes in his breathing. I lean close and press my mouth against the back of his neck, smiling against him when he unconsciously tilts his head back, seeking more.
Hand on his belly now, my own tingles as I stroke him as though I’m the one being touched. He twitches like it tickles but still doesn’t wake. Nor does he wake when I push up onto an elbow, leaned over him as I watch his face and blindly grab for the lube. I can’t see much, just the vague slope of his profile and the darker shadow of his beard. I can hear everything, though, including the sharp inhalation when I lean down and breathewarm air against his neck.
