Page 277 of What We Burn

He shrugs one shoulder. “You seemed upset.”

“Because my hypothetical bisexual crisis didn’t get enough follow-through, yes. That doesn’t mean I expected you to volunteer like we’re discussing who takes the garbage out.”

“You said you wanted someone to touch you because they wanted to,” Sage says, watching both of us.

“But Holden? He’s . . . ” I look from Sage to him. “You’re straight.”

“I am.”

“Like, notably straight. Famously straight. The straightest man in a house full of men who are all sleeping with the same woman.”

“Yes, Milo. I’m so straight I regularly get naked with four other men and make eye contact while we all fuck the same woman—sometimes we even use each other’s cum as lube.”

“You know,” I muse. “When you put it that way, it does sound rather gay.”

Holden’s mouth quirks. “I’ve sucked dick before. In college. I didn’t like it as much as I like eating pussy. But I didn’t hate it.”

Now Sage is full-on cackling. “I’m sorry,” she says, gasping around the laughter, “but I kind of want to see this. For science.”

Holden tilts his head at her, then at me. “You want to?”

My brain is melting out my ears. “Right now?”

He shrugs. “Unless you want to pencil it in for later.”

“I . . . ” My brain stutters.

Sage is vibrating on the counter. Her face is red. She has the apple clamped between her teeth to keep from screaming with laughter, and her legs are kicking against the cabinet doors like a kid at a puppet show.

Holden moves closer to me, crowding me as he places one hand on the counter next to my hip. “You what?”

I am suddenly aware of three things:

1. My heart is vibrating at a hummingbird frequency.

2. Holden’s forearm, which until this moment I regarded only as a blunt instrument for murder and shelving, could definitely splinter my spine if he chose to.

3. I’m rather erect.

“I . . .” I start, then realize my mouth is already open and sound is leaking out. I close it and swallow. “I did not see this coming.”

“If I do my job right, you will be,” Holden says, absolutely deadpan.

Sage is actively wheezing now, fanning herself with the apple like it contains the oxygen she needs to survive this moment.

Holden’s hand is still on the counter right next to my hip—a barrier, an invitation, something between a dare and an act of mercy. I can’t read anything on his face except a slightly elevated pulse at the side of his throat, maybe a crinkle at the corner of his eyes. No smirk, no teasing, just patience while he waits for me to roll the dice.

I set the pasta container down, my hand shaking a little. The feeling is new for me, which is alarming because I pride myself on being the guy who’s been there, done that, and ruined every souvenir T-shirt on the way.

“Okay,” I say. It comes out thin, which offends me, so I straighten up and try again. “I mean, my dick is interested. So, yeah. I wanna know.”

His jaw flexes but he says nothing. Instead, he steps right into my space, and the kitchen, the whole world, narrows to the six-inch vertical strip between our bodies.

His left hand lands at my waist, casual but heavy, like he’s done it a thousand times by accident and is now owning it. “You want to do this here?”

I glance at Sage, half-expecting her to intervene, possibly with a fire extinguisher. Instead she has her chin in her palm and her face says, Don’t you dare tap out, Hart. This is the show I paid for.

“Here is good,” I say, and the moment I do, my brain starts chemically spiking with a giddy, terrified energy that feels suspiciously like being fifteen again except with more muscle mass and self-loathing.