Page 47 of Wedge

“Sex fiend,” I laugh, swatting him away. Seriously, he is almost forty, and the man gets hard so fast… okay, so not complaining here.

He cooks up a mound of scrambled eggs and toast, spreading fresh avocado over the toast and piling the whole mess onto plates, finally smothering it all with green chili. Grated cheese tops it, and we dig in, eating noisily. He makes as if to steal a piece of toast, and I pretend to stab his hand. He steals a kiss instead.

“Mm,” I murmur against his lips. “I approve of kiss stealing.”

When the mound of food is reduced to crumbs, he makes quick work of the cleanup, then grabs a blanket from the couch, opening the sliding door to the deck and gesturing me through. The cold hits like a slap, the sky a hard, bright September blue. He has outdoor seating and a small fire pit on his deck, which he flicks on before plopping onto a loveseat, a low blue-orange flame hissing to life. He spreads the blanket over his legs, then lifts the corner of it invitingly. I snuggle into his side, and he tucks the blanket around my shoulders.

We watch the Denver skyline for a bit, just savoring. Digesting. The glass towers flash gold in the sun, and a bus belches at a stop somewhere below. A helicopter blazes past us. It’s almost at eye level, this high up.

“Denver General’s right over there,” he says, thumb over his shoulder. “Best place in the state to get shot.”

“Hm, not planning on ever needing that info,” I laugh.

“Sounded smart though, didn’t I?” he chuckles. “Caleb does his nursing shifts there. And there’s a quiet bear bar around the corner. We could go sometime.”

“A bear bar.” I run my fingers over the chest hair showing at the neck of his shirt. “You’d fit right in.”

“Should I be offended?”

“You should be flattered.” I trace the edge of the blanket. He says it so easily, like he already knows the place, the people, how it all works. “You talk about it like you’ve been there.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Finally, he admits, “Never been in. Just know it’s there.”

“So, you’ve really never been with a guy before?” I ask.

He glances down at me. Swallows. Shakes his head. Then admits, “Blowjob at a bathhouse. Well, one that I came on.”

My mouth hangs open. “You’ve been to a bathhouse?”

He nods sheepishly. “Once.”

“Those places are too intense. I couldn’t do it.” I shudder. “People just reach out and touch, no consent, I just…” I can’t continue.

He smiles at me, no judgement. “Caleb told me you don’t like to be touched.” He grins. “Well, didn’t like to be touched.”

“I like you touching me,” I reply. “But you didn’t just grab from the start. You waited for me.”

He leans over and presses a kiss to my mouth. I hum happily.

“I did, yeah. Worth the wait,” he murmurs against my lips. “Figured I had to earn it.”

I crawl into his lap and kiss him hungrily. “No one’s ever done that,” I say against his mouth. The blanket’s warm, his arms warmer, and I lay my head on his shoulder and for a moment, I just let myself have this before I say anything else.

“No one’s ever done that,” I say again, quieter this time, and I want to keep going, want to explain why it matters so much instead of just saying it and leaving it there.

“Adrian?” He says it so softly. Gently. Fingers on my jaw, my neck, rubbing up into my hair. I want to purr like a cat.

“Yeah?” I peek up at him from under my lashes. So fucking handsome.

“You don’t owe me anything, Adrian. Not the story, not any of it.” He says it simple, no pressure behind it, just an open door. “But if you ever want to tell me, I’m here.”

I press my face into his neck for a moment, working up to it, breathing him in. The fire hisses softly beside us. “My foster brother. When I was twelve, he was fifteen. He….” I still can’t force that word out. I feel him go very still under me, not pulling away, just still, listening. I don’t have to say the word. “It went on for almost two years before anyone figured it out. That’s the touch thing. Not all of it, but most of it. Anyone grabbing without asking, anyone getting handsy without checking first, suddenly touching me? It just… shuts something down in me.”

His arms tighten around me, careful, like he’s asking permission even now. “Is he…"

“He’s not in my life. Hasn’t been since I was fourteen. The state moved me to the home where my foster dad taught me golf. Foster dad helped the state press charges. Foster brother did time.” I shrug against him, an old, practiced motion. “I don’t really think about him most days. Got therapy. Foster dad made sure of it. It’s more that my body remembers stuff my brain’s mostly made peace with.”

“You don’t have to be at peace with it,” he says, low, and there’s something rough in his voice I haven’t heard from him before. “It’s not small, Adrian. Not to me.”