Page 28 of What We Had

His eyes squeezed shut, the same way I saw him last night in the car. What was that? Fear? Holding back desire?

“I want you, Connor,” he whispered. “So badly.”

But?

I leaned in and kissed him. His mouth opened for me without hesitation, his tongue shooting into mine like a racehorse dashing out from the starting stall. I leaned back as he pressed closer into me, a ravenous hunger radiating from his body that, at first, I didn’t know how to handle. Yeah, he wanted this.

But, of course, I knew how to handle this. I used a variation of a judo move, using his momentum forward, slid sideways off the couch, rotated him, landed on top to pin him to the couch. He let it happen, no shout or flailing arms. Our kiss only unsealed for the millisecond it took me to flip him over to his back.

Kissing hard. My stubbly beard digging into the softness of his face. I had my right hand cradled around the back of his neck, left hand fidgeting to get his flannel shirt off. That white undershirt would come second. I needed my mouth on the meat of his pecs. I quickly dropped my hand down to lift his legs and wrap them around my waist and felt his ankles lock automatically at the small of my back. My hips ground forward, my erection painfully hard as I felt him beneath his jeans. His body went rigid for a fraction of a second, as if he tweaked his back. An old injury? His knee seemed fine.

I got half the flannel off, switched hands on his neck, got the other side off. I heard him whisper my name between kisses. A plea. Keep going? Heat flushed my entire system. All I wanted was Bennett, the taste of him, his flesh pressed against mine. God, just to beinsidehim again. Would he let me go that far?

He said my name again as I pulled up his undershirt, untucking it from his pants. I ran my hand down the length of his chest, teased a nipple on the way, then ran it underneath him and cupped his ass. I squeezed, dug my crotch deeper into his.

“Connor.”

That wasn’t ecstasy. That was a warning, and not the “I’m gonna blow” kind.

I opened my eyes.

Oh fuck.

He was shaking. Chin quivering. How did I not see that?

I sat back as my breath quickened. “What happened? What did I do? Did I hurt you? Is it your knee? Are you okay?” I said everything in a single lungful of air.

His breathing went rapid as if he had just finished sprinting. I crawled off of him and helped him sit up, but he flinched the second I tried to touch him.

What the hell?

“Benny, what’s going on?”

He mumbled something incoherent. Sweat popped on his brow, his face flush and white. “You need to go.”

Felt like he slapped me. “Bennett. What are you… what happened?”

He stood from the couch and swallowed hard. He wouldn’t stop convulsing. “You need to go,” he repeated. He ran a hand through his hair and tugged at the ends.

“Fuck no, I’m not leaving, not when you’re having a heart attack. Do I need to call 911?”

He shook his head, backstepped toward the hallway. “Please. Just go. I’m not, it’s not… I’m fine.”

“You’re not fucking fine!”

He flinched when I yelled. My mind raced, swirled like a person with too many decisions to make in too little time. “I’m not leaving when you look like you’re about to collapse,” I said calmly.

Bennett put a hand to his chest and closed his eyes. “I’m having a panic attack.” He turned, then rushed to the bathroom down the hallway.

I followed and stepped up to the door as it slammed shut. The lock clicked. I had my hand raised, about to pound on it, when I remembered how he reacted when I raised my voice.

“Bennett,” I said softly into the crack of the door, “I can’t leave until I know you’re better. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

I heard movement. A medicine cabinet opening. The rattle of a pill bottle. There was pressure against the door as if he pressed into it with a shoulder.

I put my back to the door and slid down until my rump hit the ground. Drew up my knees, buried my head between them. Was it something I did? Did I go too far? I kept an eye on all the signs, tracked each of his noises. Damn it, when he was saying my name quietly, was that him telling me to hold back?

Time passed, tracked only by the long-form jazz songs on the record still playing. Twenty minutes might have passed, though I wasn’t sure. I had a gaudy, shiny metal watch blinging my wrist, but I never looked at it.

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