Page 68 of Loverboy

When I returned to Milo with the supplies in hand, he was hunched over, cupping his bloody hand in the other and staring deeply into it.

“Let me get a better look,” I said, dropping to my knees in front of him and setting the kit on the coffee table.

“It’s not that bad.” He stuck his hand out reluctantly.

“You’re so full of shit,” I muttered, touch far gentler than my words as I took his hand into mine and took the first real look at the damage.

I reached for a few packets of alcohol wipes, knowing one wouldn’t be enough. The wound was deep and messy, the skin split wide open, revealing the textured layers beneath. It could probably use a few stitches, but I didn’t want Milo to close up on me if I suggested going back to the hospital for a fourth time.

I tore one packet open and pressed the wipe against his palm harder than I needed to. He tried to jerk his hand back, but I held him steady. No more push and pull, not right now.

“Hold still.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” He frowned.

“Maybe I am.” I tried for a cocky grin to bring some normalcy back to the situation, but it felt shaky and uncertain, my words falling flat.

We lapsed into a more comfortable silence while I took care of him like I always did, stacking a few small gauze pads over his wound and applying pressure to staunch the bleeding.

“Hold it,” I instructed, letting him take over while I fished for the bandage rolls in the plastic kit.

The air between us thinned as I began to wrap his hand, my knuckles grazing his wrist with each pass of the bandage, his pulse kicking against my fingertips. I continued to hold him hostage even after I finished tying it off further up his arm, feeling the warmth of him beneath my palm and the little tremors he couldn’t seem to get a grip on.

“You’re still bleeding,” he pointed out.

I released him abruptly, stuffing my hand between my thighs with no concern for the mess the open wound would make of my jeans. “Doesn’t matter, I’ll take care of you first.”

“Well, stop that.” He smoothed his hand over his wrist where mine had been.

I looked up at him again, drawn to his mouth. The skin around his lips was blotchy with that tell-tale redness, his freckled cheeks tacky with dried tears. My world blurred around the edges, limited only to him and the space between us.

“I can’t,” I said hoarsely, the words falling from my mouth for the second time in a single night.

The shadow of my teenage failures suddenly seemed suffocating. The line I’d promised myself not to cross was drawn in chalk, and the forecast called for storms, the thundering in my heart threatening to wash it away and leave me devoid of caution.

Still on the ground, I pushed between his legs until his knees bracketed my hips. I ran my clean hand over his thigh, and he shifted, his hands hovering in the air like he didn’t know where to put them.

“Don’t do this.” I leaned in closer, hitting my forehead against his in a gentle scolding. “If you need to hurt, just come to me.”

Milo laughed nervously. “What, so you can hurt me instead?”

“Yes,” I said pointedly.

If that’s what it takes.

I dipped my head and brushed my nose over his shoulder, the smell of tobacco rolling off his shirt in waves. My lungs felt like they were on fire, the proximity reminding me of the way he ground himself against me before. My carefully maintained control was stretched so thin, so ready to snap.

My lips ghosted over the hollow of his throat, and his head fell back permissively. In the back of my mind, guilt made itself at home. Even though he was giving me access to him like this, it felt like I was taking advantage of him.

But at the end of the night, I was just a man. And I’d loved quietly for far too long.

31

Milo

TEETH SCRAPED OVER my neck, and for once, it wasn’t me who was trembling. Jasper’s lips quivered against my skin, his stubble rough. The heat of his breath made my eyelids heavy. If he pulled away and changed his mind, I wasn’t sure I would survive it.

He bit me. Hard. A raw, high-pitched noise clawed its way up my throat, my back arching instinctively. His tongue tended to the blooming ache, the muscles in my neck tender as my head lolled to the side. I reached up into his hair and grabbed at the roots, and the shock that rolled through me made the freshly wrapped laceration on my hand throb in time with my pulse. The sickness that had been consuming my thoughts was solidifying into something real.