Page 36 of Backward Motion

“I think I should go,” Sam said, turning away.

“No, Sam, wait.” Connor moved to wrap him in a hug, throwing Sam off guard. Pressed against Connor’s chest, Sam could hear the galloping thump of his heartbeat. “Bear with me, okay? I don’t want to mess this up,” Connor murmured into his hair. “I can barely get over the fact that you’re here right now. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Sam pulled back with a snort. “Hasn’t exactly stopped people before.”

Connor frowned. “I’m not those people.” He stroked Sam’s cheek then slid his hand along Sam’s shoulder, massaging his neck. “What do you like your partners to do?”

Sam didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t remember ever asking someone to do something except maybe stop, and even then, it would have come long after he’d wanted it to. He felt a curl ofhumiliation.All this time, was I doing it wrong? Is that why sex always felt so fraught?

Sam had arrived at college to discover the guys there were light years ahead of him. Until then, he’d never even held hands or kissed—if you didn’t count Plimmerton. It was one more small-town badge of honor he was desperate to be rid of, so instead of deciding whether he was ready, Sam had rushed to catch up. His first time was horrible. Not wanting to seem like a complete rube, he’d avoided telling the man he was a virgin, but it must have been clear from Sam’s obvious discomfort. Instead of coaching him along, the guy had simply powered through to finish.

Sam had gotten better at the physical part, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t enjoy himself—he liked touching and being touched, but there was this disconnect, this wall between how he felt and what he permitted. He’d equated desirability with being down for whatever and become so good at pretending he was that he’d almost convinced himself.

“Hey.”

Sam looked up, and Connor’s blue eyes crinkled with kindness.

“No stress. Kissing’s good. Kissing you is amazing.” Connor moved a hand behind Sam’s neck and lowered him back down onto the bed. “Let’s just do that.”

Sam nodded, and Connor’s mouth found his once again. A warm buzz spread down his chest to his toes, wiping him clean.

Chapter Seventeen

“Pass the potatoes, Connor,” his mom said as she stood beside his dad at the head of the table and ladled gravy onto his meat. She’d already cut it up into little chunks, a policy Connor knew his father hated. That and the fact that she served him every meal like he was a child.

Connor rose from his chair and handed her the dish of mashed potatoes across the table. She plopped a spoonful onto his father’s plate and returned to her own seat. Connor picked up his knife and fork and dug in. He figured the quicker he could shove food into his mouth, the less conversation he would have to make. Sunday-night dinner at his parents’ house was one of their few standing rituals. The definition of forced family fun.

“I swung by the rest home earlier today and dropped off a bag of your father’s old clothes for the gents there,” his mother announced, scooping a portion of green beans from the bowl in front of her. “They’re all falling off him now.”

“That’s nice of you,” Connor replied, spearing a chunk of meat with his fork.

“Don’t mind me, just over here wasting away,” his father grumbled from his wheelchair.

When Connor’s dad had gotten the chair eighteen months earlier—doctor’s orders—they’d been lucky that his parents’ house was single story and relatively accessible. Connor had built a ramp to the front door and asked a plumber friend to swap out the bath for a level-access shower to accommodate his old man’s new wheels. But it had been the death knell for Ian Finnegan’s enduring denial about his diagnosis. Shortly afterward, he declared he was stepping back from the business. He’d gone from spending most days at the office, poking his nose into everything and bugging the hell out of Connor and Sheryl, to sitting in the easy chair at home, blankly watching TV.

“Well, eat something, then, Ian,” his mother nagged. “Or you’ll end up in Connor’s baby clothes.”

Connor shoveled a spoonful of potatoes into his mouth, refusing to pick sides. His mother was a saint, not just for having spent the past thirty-odd years married to his father but also for having weathered the storm that was his illness. A burden all three of them bore in their own silent ways.

“How’s the office boy working out?” his dad asked. “Fired him yet?”

Connor’s whole body stilled at the mention of Sam, and he felt a rush of tenderness. Sam had left Connor’s apartment late on Friday—apologetic yet affectionate—after they’d spent the evening making out on Connor’s bed. It was surprisingly refreshing to take sex off the table. They’d lain together fully clothed, grinding and kissing like a pair of teenagers. Sam had lingered at the front door as he was leaving, still bound to some self-imposed curfew, before turning back to kiss Connor full on the mouth, freezing time in place. The entire night—the movie, the café, and later his apartment—had been unexpected, indescribable, the closest he’d come to living an Arctic Monkeys song. Connor realized he was staring at his hands and looked up at his father, masking his expression.

“He’s doing just fine, thanks. And office boy isn’t a job. Try office manager, administrator—”

“Receptionist,” his dad cut in. “But we can’t call him that, can we?”

Connor gritted his teeth.

“That’s Lily’s son, isn’t it?” his mother asked.

Connor nodded. “We went to school together.”

“Well, there’s trouble,” his father remarked.

His mother tutted. “No, Ian, Lily’s boy made excellent grades and went off to college. She hasn’t said much about why he’s back.”

Connor recalled the way Mrs. Bryant’s eyes had welled up when she’d spoken of Sam at the supermarket. He hadn’t been brave enough to ask Sam about Austin, but there were tells the man was working through some things.