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The cusp of a second beginning. It felt electrical, shivery. Open and trusting. “Each step together.”
They looked dizzily at one another, a playful smirk at Wentworth’s lips. “You can kiss me now.”
Elliot held his gaze, an infinite second.
“What’re we waiting for, bumblebee?”
“This is our last first time,” he murmured back.
Wentworth’s grin doubled. “It is. What should our last first kiss look like?”
“I suppose” —Elliot’s gaze kept falling from Wentworth’s eyes to that gorgeous grin. The beard he needed to feel against him— “it would be the opposite of what a last kiss looks like?”
The memory of their arthritic kiss surfaced between them, a tender, achy moment. They were building a new them on old memories.
Wentworth brushed a stray lock off Elliot’s face. He understood. “Mmm. The opposite?”
“Yes.”
Wentworth dipped. Laughter and lust and longing danced between them. “The opposite. Does that mean deep? Or long?”
Elliot’s throat dried. “Both.”
They searched one another’s eyes.
The final inches between them disappeared.
Nights are books
Dreams, the story
Moon shines through edges
Oh, what glory
W. McAllister, “Story Glory”
Elliot had imagined this would be intense, passionate, so addictive they wouldn’t want to stop, and . . .
It was.
They locked together like they’d never been apart, at once finding the comfortable grooves of their past. The feel of Wentworth’s strong arms around him, the deep ocean scent of him, the way he slid his thigh between Elliot’s legs . . .
Except, it was better.
Wentworth’s rumbling groans were deeper, and his short beard tickled Elliot’s face, combed down his throat.
They kissed like lovers at the end of a journey, setting sun behind them, the promise of a happily ever after.
They kissed like lovers about to be torn apart for all eternity. Like lovers discovering the depths of each other.
Frissons of energy sparked at every remembered favourite touch. Two fingers dragging up Wentworth’s inner thigh. The insistent press of Wentworth’s hand on the small of Elliot’s back. The pleading grip that threaded through his hair.
The heat of Wentworth soaked through Elliot’s jeans, his T-shirt. Warmed every goosebump, even as it produced more shivers.
Desire swelled between them; Elliot moaned and Wentworth sucked in his sounds, eyes darkening, hands roaming down his back. They’d been starved of this touch too long, but the body remembered. God, did it remember.
Nose at Wentworth’s neck, under his ear, Elliot breathed him in. God, he’d never get enough of that beard teasing his skin. Better than any fantasy he’d had. He wanted to feel these kisses all over him.
Elliot pulled away, just enough to make eye contact. “Can we?”
“You bloody well bet we can,” Wentworth growled, taking his hand and whisking him to his cabin.
The side of the piano pressed coldly against his lower back and he relished it, the desperation with which Wentworth pinned him against it. That thick thigh sank knowingly between Elliot’s again, fingers knotted in his hair, hot twisting tongue plunged into his mouth.
Elliot slipped his hands under Wentworth’s T-shirt until the soft material scrunched around his wrists, and his fingers closed around hard nipples.
Wentworth grabbed the back of his T-shirt and pulled it over his head. It hit the end of the bed. “You remember.”
Elliot dipped his head and captured one nipple in his mouth, flicking his tongue against the nub. Wentworth tightened his hold at his head, chest rising and falling on rapid breaths. Elliot lifted his gaze and nipped again, relishing Wentworth’s parted lips, his half-lidded eyes, the aroused twitch at his brow. The expression . . . “I remember that. Everything.”
Wentworth steered him up into a bruising kiss, dragged his lips along Elliot’s jaw and left a ticklish whisper at his ear. “I won’t be outdone, Elliot.”
“I hope you follow through on all your promises.” The ones made now, the ones made then.
Wentworth stilled and his eyes shot to Elliot’s. This look was different from the others: intense, serious, stubborn.
He slid a large hand around Elliot’s arse cheek, and steered Elliot’s leg around his hip. Fingers dragged over his jeans to the seam at the back, tantalising and teasing, vibrations that made Elliot’s arse clench and his cock ache.
Hands grasped his hips, Wentworth lifted Elliot and swivelled with him toward the bed. Gravity rushed through him as they dropped onto it and then, at last, he felt Wentworth’s weight settling over him again, felt him stretching Elliot’s arms above his head. On the same bed they’d shared as teenagers. How many times had they explored their bodies, pushed one another to come harder, longer, on this bed?
There’d been humoured sex in this bed, sultry sex, frustrated sex. They’d played out a dozen fantasies. The quirky, the naughty, the forbidden.
A hundred plus times they’d penetrated one another on this small bed, and yet, in this moment, he felt like a virgin again. They were grown men now, they barely fit in this bed—they were different, and this would be different. The past and the present forging something new between them. Something he craved; something that made him nervous.
