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The same unease twisted in Elliot’s chest, his stomach. A part of him debated following through. They could forget this. Or put on their underwear at least. This wasn’t just pretend. They had a history. Standing so close like this, naked, it ached of familiarity. Wentworth exuded warmth that called to Elliot. He knew the exact half-step and bowed head that would settle him perfectly into the cradle of those strong arms. They were working with—and against—their own emotions.
Elliot closed his eyes a moment and let himself feel how exposing this was. When he reopened them, Wentworth was looking at him. “Shall we?” He motioned towards the bed.
Elliot shook his head. “Maybe first . . . flirt with me.”
“Flirt?”
“I just . . . want us to feel more comfortable—connected—before we jump into bed.”
“We have a million connections already, don’t you think?”
“That doesn’t make this easier.”
Wentworth gripped Elliot’s hand and pulled him close. But the energy about it seemed stilted. Seemed like he was projecting power and confusing it with passion. “Too quick, Wentworth,” Elliot said, his chest expanding with nervous butterflies. “You can take your time. You can breathe.”
“I thought you liked it when I get protective?”
“Except, right now, what I need protecting from is you.”
“Me?”
“This is . . . This has . . . magnitude. With you.”
His posture shifted, softened. He swallowed and his eyes held Elliot’s, exposing his own nervousness. “Do you want to stop?”
Elliot knew he would, too. In a heartbeat.
He shook his head. “I don’t want to stop. But.”
“But?”
“Whether real or not, it’s been a while since I’ve let myself be intimate with a man.”
Wentworth cocked his head. “How long?”
Elliot stared at him.
Surprise hit Wentworth’s eyes. “You’ve never been with another man either?”
That either made Elliot . . . made him . . .
His voice cracked. “Just keep looking at me?”
Frissons of electricity seemed to shimmer through him every few moments. Their breathing was uneven, and Wentworth’s clammy grip on his hand kept shifting.
“You’re . . .”
“Yes?” Elliot asked.
Wentworth blew out a long breath, his eyes gentle. “You’ve always been so beautiful.”
Beautiful.
A word they’d once traded effortlessly. Had taken for granted.
But now.
Elliot cocooned the tenderness behind the syllables. He would protect it, preserve it.
He leaned toward Wentworth, like he might have back then, and Wentworth instinctually responded, running his fingers up Elliot’s arm.
Heat uncurled in Elliot’s stomach and spread through his arms, his legs, fingers and toes. The air crackled between them, and Elliot whispered, “Okay. Ready?”
Fingers tightened around Elliot’s and together they moved onto the set. Wentworth hesitated at the beautiful green bedspread and mountains of pillows, and glanced at Elliot.
The insecurity and the desire in that glance rippled through him. Elliot swallowed.
Wentworth’s Adam’s apple jutted. He turned Elliot to face him and grabbed his thigh, urging it around Wentworth’s. “Still okay?”
Elliot nodded. The sizzling press of their skin had him gasping, and hardening.
Wentworth felt it too; he lifted Elliot off the ground and crashed onto the bed. Almost as if Wentworth wanted to shield him, prevent anyone else from seeing. As if, perhaps, Wentworth wanted Elliot’s reactions all to himself.
He pushed off Elliot, just enough so he could breathe, arms braced either side. Elliot clasped Wentworth’s warm neck and kept his legs wrapped tightly around him.
He didn’t want to let him go.
Their eyes met, and Wentworth’s dropped to Elliot’s lips.
“Excellent,” Louisa called out. “Hold like that for a few.”
Her conversation with the cameraman was a hushed blur in the background. Side lamps warmed their profiles. Hard light briefly showed every laughter-crease around Wentworth’s eyes, then it softened. Wentworth looked gorgeous. So strong. So handsome. So nervous as he absorbed Elliot.
Elliot felt that look to his bones. Hell, right to his soul.
Louisa interrupted. “Sorry guys, I need you to move.”
Elliot swallowed. “She needs us to move like you’re—”
“Fucking you?”
“—making love to me.”
Wentworth closed his eyes a moment, then nodded. Elliot couldn’t process the slew of emotion that passed over his face.
“Wentworth?”
Wentworth clasped Elliot’s thigh and slid his hand to Elliot’s arse. The squeeze had a moan slipping from Elliot and he undulated toward Wentworth’s touch. They were both hard, and Wentworth brushed their noses together and pushed against him, mimicking the moment he might have breached Elliot.
Elliot pulsed from the friction, from the intensity of memories flooding him. He sucked in a breath, head tipping back against the blanket. Prickly beard tickled over his chin, his jaw. Soft lips pressed against his pounding pulse.
A hand touched his cheek and urged Elliot to look. Navy eyes poured into Elliot’s as Wentworth rocked slowly.
Molten. Elliot was boneless, all shivers. He had no idea how to move anymore, not consciously. He was all gasps to Wentworth’s thrusts.
It felt real. It felt like the first time they’d had sex. Serious, and nervous, and eager, and painful, and Elliot never wanted it to stop. His arms curled around Wentworth’s neck and he raised his head, lips whispering against Wentworth’s. Begging.
