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“I really don’t,” he insists. “I’ve thought about it for years and years. ‘Ryan Caulfield …’ I’d think to myself. ‘What’s that fucker up to now?’ You’ve always been on my mind, man.”
“You, too,” I choke out.
“Am I?” I feel the tremor of a little chuckle in his chest that he doesn’t quite release. “You mean you really haven’t spent these past eight years hating the shit out of me?”
I smile against his chest despite all the what-the-fuck-is-going-on that’s circling inside my skull.
Then, quite suddenly, I remind myself that I have a couple of degrees in psychology. Why the hell am I being a dumb kid again when it comes to Stefan Baker?
It makes perfect sense why he’s acting like this.
He’s just lonely. That’s what this is. And he’s suffered a life change that is not only extreme, but potentially traumatizing. His whole life’s worth has been dependent on baseball. When he scores homeruns, he feels value in himself. When he wins a game, he feels a sense of accomplishment. His teammates are his family.
I was once his family.
And then it all went away. No more screaming fans watching from the bleachers. No more butt-slaps on his way in and out of the dugout. No more camaraderie that he was so used to, that he relied on for assurance and validation, that he grew to love.
He’s alone. And scared. And needing. And hurt.
His future is now a blank slate of what-the-fuck-do-I-do-now.
“No, Stefan,” I finally say, offering my words to the silence in the room like sacrificial lambs. Here we go. “I have always … had a place in my heart for you. I don’t know if it’s because I was gay and never … let myself realize that I … liked you. I thought that the way I felt about you—our close bond as best friends—was how all best friends felt toward each other. Maybe I had something more for you inside me. Feelings.”
“Feelings?” he murmurs softly.
This shouldn’t be so easy to say, yet the words slip right out of my mouth and spill across the ribbed white tank top material that covers his chest. “Yeah. Feelings. Whatever. I didn’t know what they meant back then. But I knew you were the most important thing to me. Always were. And even after we … parted ways …” I swallow, my hands that I have wrapped around his body sinking slightly. They’re an inch away from resting on the top of his butt. His lower back is a canyon between two impressively thick cords of muscle, by the way. “After we weren’t friends anymore, I still felt … very strong things when it came to you. I missed you. A lot. I wondered—many, many, many times—how my college career would have been different if you were by my side … as you had been all through high school.”
He doesn’t say anything in response. His grip, as well, doesn’t let up any. I’m still half-suffocating, crushed against his body as he holds the hug with ceaseless strength, never letting me go.
I feel incredibly safe in his powerful arms. A tornado could pound its way through my living room, and the pair of us would be the only thing that remains—two dudes, standing here hugging like idiots.
“Ryan?”
I lick my lips. “Yeah?”
“I … I want to try something.”
At last, his arms relent, but he doesn’t let me go. He simply pulls back a bit, arms still locked behind me, and he gets a look at my face—a long, hard look at my face.
I stare up into his rich blue eyes, which burn with need.
“Try what?”
“This,” he answers, then brings his lips to mine.
15
RYAN
When his lips touch my lips, I literally fall out of my body and become someone else.
Instant denial.
This can’t be me. Ryan Caulfield was not destined to end up in the tight embrace of Stefan Baker, who then proceeds to kiss him.
No. It would never have happened. It isn’t possible.
But my eyes flick open, and Stefan’s face is right there, his eyes closed, his face tender, and his full, soft, plush lips that I’ve stared at my whole life are pressed against mine.
And his hand still caresses the back of my head, holding me in place, trapping me now against his face instead of his chest.
Fuck. I much, much prefer his face.
The kiss goes on for so long, and there’s not even any tongue. Just his soft lips as they unite with mine, savor, then unlock, readjust, and unite again. Over and over. One soft kiss followed by another, followed by another. His mouth parts a bit more each time, daring a bit more each time, testing the waters …
Testing. That’s what these kisses are. Experiments.
His lips are asking: Does this feel right? Does this feel good?
Do I like this?
Then his hands let go of my body and come up to my face, gently gripping both my cheeks as he continues to slowly, softly, agonizingly devour me.
