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“Sleep here.” It’s dark now, the campfire providing the only source of illumination. Half his face is in shadow and the other half is creased in worry. “With me, I mean.”
I have to remind myself that I need oxygen to live. The wordssleep here with meare enough to get me half hard, and I adjust his hand in my lap so he can’t feel it. I scramble for something sensible to say. “I didn’t bring anything.”
“I have a spare toothbrush. And you can wear anything of mine.” We’re almost exactly the same size, so he’s probably right about that. I give him another opportunity to walk his offer back.
“I can sleep in the guest room.”
His face falls a bit, the worry becoming more pronounced. “If you want to. Or…you could stay in my room.”
I have to hold myself back from laughing at the genuine concern on his face, not wanting him to think I’m laughing at him. Does he really think I don’t want to? As if I haven’t been thinking about sleeping with him for months.
“I’d prefer to be with you.” And just like that, the worry is gone and replaced with a smile. “But only if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” He’s back to staring at the fire, and I’m back to staring at the side of his face.Do not push him, he’s talking about actual sleep.
Every inch of my body is alive with energy, any relaxation from before gone. I realize I’m holding his hand tighter than is necessary, and loosen my grip; it’s laughable, that I was just congratulating myself on earning the ability to hold his hand, and now here he is casually tossing out a sleepover. I rest my fingers over the pulse point in his wrist, noting the slow and steady beat. Relief erases some of my own nerves—he’s not freaking out.
We let the fire burn slowly down, and by the time Corwin gets up to douse the coals, I’m nearly falling asleep in my chair. That is, until we head inside and I watch, mutely, as he locks up and then fills two glasses of water from the kitchen sink. He hands one to me and I follow him upstairs, past the second-floor guest bedroom and up to the third, suddenly feeling not tired at all.
He places his water glass on what I take to be his preferred side of the bed, and walks over toward the dresser. As he rummages around, I take a moment to gaze around the room. Like the rest of the house, it’s modern and pretty spare: no photographs, no mess. The only personal item in the room is a hockey puck, incongruously sitting atop his dresser; it’s oddly charming, and the sight of it makes me want to hug him.
“Do you want anything to sleep in?” Corwin turns toward me, holding what I assume are his pajamas. I swallow around the lump in my throat.
“Whatever you want.” Now is probably not the time to tell him I don’t usually wear anything but boxers to bed.
His mouth pinches slightly, like he’s holding back a laugh. “You sleep naked, don’t you.”
I don’t bother holding mine back, chuckling softly and shaking my head. “Boxers. But just lend me the same as whatever you’re wearing, it’ll be fine.”
He shakes his head, stepping toward the bed and laying the clothes down. “No, I want you to be comfortable. Did you want to use the bathroom first? Spare toothbrush is in the cabinet.”
I head into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. Before rooting around in his personal stuff for a toothbrush, I turn on the sink and splash some cold water on my face.Just sleep, just sleep, just sleep, rolls through my mind like a broken record. Drying my face on my shirt, I open the cabinet in search of a toothbrush. After using the toilet, I let myself back into the bedroom.
Corwin’s already changed, and I curse myself for taking so long and missing it. He heads into the bathroom, but leaves the door open while he brushes his teeth. I can’t just pull back the sheets and climb into his bed, so I sit on the end, feeling like a fish out of water. The irony isn’t lost on me that he’s the virgin and yet I’m the one acting like it.
When he walks back into the room, he eyes me quizzically. “You’re going to sleep in jeans?”
“Listen, are you sure about this? I can sleep in the guest room or just go home, like usual.” I turn on the bed, tracking him as he moves across the room and goes to pull back the comforter on his side.
“I’m sure. I want you to stay here,” he points helpfully at the other side of the bed, “and I want to kiss you, and in the morning, I want to make you breakfast.”
I stand up quickly at that, and he takes the opportunity to move the sheets all the way back. I undress, folding up my clothes and placing them on a chair because I know he’ll prefer that to me tossing them about haphazardly. When I turn back around, he’s sitting against the headboard, watching me; he looks calm, but when I crawl in beside him I notice he’s tapping a finger against his leg.
As soon as I’ve joined him on the bed, he slides down until he’s on his side facing me, head propped up on one hand. I mirror him, keeping a careful distance between us. His eyes roam over my face, before traveling downward over my bare chest; my heart picks up, the look so blatantly sexual it feels like he’s actually touching me.
And then, he does—reaching out a hand, he gently brushes the hair off my forehead and trails his fingers down the side of my face. “I’m a little nervous.” He tells me.
“Me fucking too.” I say, and he laughs.
Dropping his hand down to the bed, he leans forward and I stop breathing. When he kisses me, he treats it like it’s a serious endeavor, and he’s not quite sure how to go about it. His lips are soft, and when he parts them marginally against mine, I reach a hand up to cup his face. He presses forward, as though he was waiting for me to touch him, and I tilt his head slightly.
He leans forward again, and I feel him place a hand on my shoulder to steady himself. When he groans at the feel of my bare skin beneath his palm, I struggle to maintain my control and not roll him onto his back and devour him. He opens his mouth further against mine, growing in confidence. I adjust the angle of his head again and nearly moan when he takes the hint and kisses me deeper; breaking away, I pull back enough to see his face.
“Can I—” Though I’m loath to remove it, I pull my hand away from his head and wave it around in the air, trying to snatch up the correct words.
“Yes.” He says. “Yes.”
Sliding my hand back into his hair, I surge upward and press my mouth against his. This time, he needs no instruction to tilt his head and takes it one step further by sliding his tongue into my mouth. I don’t know whether he falls back of his own accord, or whether I nudged him there, but suddenly I’m above him. A hand pressed into the mattress above his shoulder is the only thing keeping me there.
