Page 36 of American Love Story

“I didn’t cancel with you because you weren’t important.” He closed the door and leaned against it, his arms crossed tightly against his chest. He was wearing his Cornell sweatshirt and loose jeans that looked soft and worn. His locs were down, hanging halfway down his torso.

His hair always smelled like peppermint and coconut, and more than anything, I wanted to get closer, press my nose against his neck.

Instead, I stood there, my own arms a mirror image of his.

I’d made a career and a reputation out of being a guy who could own a courtroom, no matter how stressful the situation. Not today. I was sweating, nervous that Patrice would see right through me.

“You could’ve told me you had an emergency. I’m not that fucking self-centered, Patrice.”

He pursed his lips at my words, like he’d bitten into something sour. We stood there again for a second, then another, in silence.

“Stop saying shit like that about yourself, Easton,” he said, softer than the words warranted.

His face relaxed and he pushed off the door. My entire body thrummed with the need to take the three steps to where he was. Still I didn’t move. I didn’t want to do anything that would get me on the other side of the door.

Patrice was the only person in my life who constantly made me feel like I was looking in from the outside.

I’d always been an insider. My life had been charmed in that way, very few doors had ever been closed for me. If there was an insiders club, a VIP section, I always had full access. Not with him. What I got, he allowed; there was no trampling in and assuming I would be welcome.

“I cancelled because I wanted to see you too much.” He shook his head and laughed, but there wasn’t very much humor in it. “I felt guilty that I’d been hurrying home to see you and?—”

He started moving toward me, and waiting for him to cross those few feet felt like I was watching him cross an ocean. Once he was there, so close I could lift my hand and tug on his locs, bring him down for kiss, I still didn’t move. I wanted him to tell me why. Why he’d left me hanging after what we’d shared last night.

“Why, Patrice?” I could see the muscle in his jaw twitch, a gesture of frustration, but I knew, also of uncertainty. I’d seen him do that before, when he was figuring out how to proceed.

He closed those last few inches between us and grabbed my face.

His hands felt hot, and I almost flinched from the shock of it. I hadn’t felt them on my skin in so long, as his fingers grazed my cheek, I recalled how rough his hands were. Calloused. So unexpected for a man who worked with his mind. I knew it was from many summers working on construction sites for a familyfriend, but it still made something tight unfurl in my chest to feel those hands on me again.

My professor, a man who earned his livelihood from his intellect, had hardened hands. I shivered as his lips touched mine, that mouth which had ruined me for any other, so close to giving me what I’d been dreaming of for months.

I don’t know how I managed it, but I stepped back, because I wasn’t playing this game anymore. He was going to have to tell me.

“Why?”

He sighed and closed his eyes like it was really costing him to have to say it. “Because I fuckingwantyou. Because when I’m with you, you’re the only thing that matters and I never lose my focus, Easton.” He exhaled again, and it was a helpless, astonished sound. “You make me crazy.”

Those words, that confirmation that I wasn’t the only one who was far gone and in too deep. It was like a dam broke and I wanted—no, Ineeded—to kiss him. Our lips touched and it was…absolutely everything. Patrice blindly walked us back until we hit the couch, as I scrambled to get my hands on more of him. Without even coming up for air, I started pulling at his jeans, tugging them down. We were both barefoot and pretty soon, we were down to our briefs and panting from what felt like running for miles without taking a breath. Tongues tangling as our hands grabbed and scratched with barely refrained desperation.

I let go of him for a moment and leaned back, needing some distance. I wanted to tell him that I was pissed that he’d deprived us both of this. Of all the time we’d lost in this stupid game.

But when I looked at his shoulders and saw he was shaking, his face tight with the need to get closer, it finally dawned on me.

Staying away had cost Patrice, too.

“You know what I thought the first time I saw you like this?” I asked, my hands under his sweatshirt right above the raised skinon the tattoo on his chest. He was always so hot, like he had a fire roaring inside of him.

He shook his head, jaw tight.

“I thought, ‘I’ve never really wanted before.’ Because the way I want you, it’s more powerful than pretty much anything else.” I leaned closer, and this time, he didn’t try to move, just let me run my hands over him. All that dark brown skin, sinew and muscle. His body was like carved ebony. Every inch of him was perfect. I took care of myself, worked out. But Patrice’s body was pure beauty.

I ran my palm lazily down his chest, the sparse wiry hair tickling my hands as I ran them over him. I stopped just above his cock and looked up at him and saw that his breath was coming in short pants.

I turned my hand and ran it over that hard cock, fat and heavy in my hands. I gripped him hard like I knew he liked, still looking at him. My mouth watered as I felt him pulse against my palm.

“I dream about touching you like this.”

He shuddered out a breath, still not saying a word, and pulled me in for another kiss, his tongue licking at the seam of my lips, and I opened for him again. We tangled our tongues, mouths open and hungry. I lifted my hands and put them on either side of his face. Wanting to stay like this, locked with him. He sucked on my tongue hard and I whimpered, his hands making their way down my back until he was at my hips. My awareness of him suddenly was overwhelming. I froze for a second and he pulled back, looking at me with that barely restrained intensity.