Page 39 of Keep

“Good.” His hips found a rhythm—slow, deep, deliberate. “Because there’s something I need to tell you.”

The words left him before he could stop them.

Chad stilled. Waiting.

“I know I’m the virgin here,” Hank whispered. “But this feels like—it feels new for both of us. You feel—I’ve never⁠—”

“I know,” Chad said.

“And when you hold me like that, I don’t ever want to⁠—”

“Then don’t. Stay.”

Hank mumbled something wordless against Chad’s neck. The climax was building at the base of his spine, in his belly, behind his eyes.

“I can’t hold on,” he said. “I’m⁠—”

“Then let go.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“I have to tell you something first.” The words came out ragged. His body was already past the point of return, and his brain—his stupid, meticulous, press-release-writing brain—was flooded with the thing he’d been trying not to feel all night.

I love you. I think I’m in love with you. It’s too soon and I don’t care.

The words were right there. Pressing against his teeth.

“It’s okay,” Chad said beneath him, hands on Hank’s face, steady. “Whatever it is. You can say it.”

Hank came. His whole body seized, sound leaving him in a way that was neither dignified nor controlled, and he felt Chad clench around him, heard Chad cry out, felt the hot spill between their bodies as Chad came too.

They shook together. Hank buried deep, Chad holding on, both of them trembling through the aftershocks until the room slowly reassembled around them.

Hank’s brain came back in pieces. Chad’s heartbeat against his chest. Their breathing, ragged, gradually slowing. Music from the other room—still playing, all this time, to an empty den. Then language, returning sluggishly, like a government office reopening after a shutdown.

He was still inside Chad. Still holding him. His face was pressed to Chad’s neck, and he could feel the pulse there, quick and settling.

The thing he wanted to say was still in his mouth. But it had passed through the earthquake and come out wrong. Or come out right. He wasn’t sure. He would never be entirely sure.

He shifted. Lips brushing Chad’s ear. And what his scrambled, post-orgasmic, short-circuiting brain actually delivered was:

“I’m a senator.”

Silence.

Not the comfortable kind.

Hank felt Chad’s body go rigid beneath him. Not pleasure.

He pulled back far enough to see Chad’s face. Wide eyes. Mouth open. Expression cycling through confusion, disbelief, and something that might have been the beginning of panic.

“What?” Chad breathed.

Hank’s heart, which had been slowing, kicked back into a gallop. He withdrew carefully—the loss immediate and physical—and sat back on his heels. Naked, exposed, still wearing a condom, still shaking.

You just told him. Not “I love you.” Not “you’re incredible.” Your job title. Seconds after the most⁠—