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“You’re my person, too,” he says before lapsing back into silence.
I think about a young Corwin, attracted to boys and being told he shouldn’t be; being so scared of who he was and what he wanted that he’s spent the last six years alone. How he shies away from casual affection even from his closest friends. Mostly I think about how he spends so much time taking care of everyone else, but nobody has ever taken care of him.
“Are you still mad?” He asks, suddenly.
Blowing out a breath, I pull up to a red light and turn to look at him. I want to stroke my fingers down the smooth line of his cheek, but I can’t. That’s a gap he’s going to have to be the one to bridge, after the conversation we’ve been having. “No. Not at you, anyway.”
“You were, though. Mad at me.” He aims for teasing but falls short. He only sounds exhausted.
“A little. It’s frustrating to know that there are a lot of things I could have done differently to protect you from all that.” I wave a hand toward the back of the car, like the charity event is sitting in the back seat. “Me and Lawson both. Jesus, I can only imagine the hell he would have raised if Lawson knew half of the shit you just told me.”
“We’d be paying his bail.”
“He’d probably look good in orange.”
When he laughs this time it’s a real one. Quick, but real. It feels as good as smoothing aloe over a sunburn. I bite my lip, mentally cataloguing all of the skin I’ve seen Corwin display in the locker room.
“You have a scar right here.” I pull one hand off the wheel to trace a finger over the front of my stomach. “Where did you get that?”
“Belt buckle caught me wrong and I had to have stitches.”
“Belt buckle.” I repeat through clenched teeth. The visual has me remembering the way his dad had slapped him on the back earlier, hard enough that the force could only be intentional. If Corwin has a bruise there, I’m going to drive to their hotel and kill the fucker.
We’re almost back at Corwin’s. I slow when I reach his drive, headlights swooping over the dark façade of the house. It feels like finding an oasis in the desert. Shutting the car off, I hop out, slamming my door and walking around to the other side. I get there just as Corwin is pushing his own open, and I wait for him to step out of the vehicle. The motion lights on the front of the house click on, bathing us in warm light. It’s the first time I’ve gotten a good visual of his face since we left; he looks like he’s bleeding out from a fatal wound, skin deathly pale beneath his dark hair, blue eyes glassy and stark.
“You’re still planning on staying, right?” He asks me.
“If you kick me out of the house, I’m sleeping in the driveway.” I tell him, honestly.Just try to get rid of me.A ghost of a smile teases over his lips and he steps past me to unlock the front door, ushering me inside. He brushes a hand down my arm as I pass him in the doorway and I want to grab hold of him and hang on.
We’ve barely stepped into the foyer before he’s shed his jacket, and I follow him silently up the stairs, neither of us turning on a light until we reach his bedroom. Tossing the coat over the back of a chair, he stops in the middle of the room, one foot trying to toe off the shoe on the other. He’s pulling at the buttons on his shirt, haphazardly trying to get them undone. Before he ruins it, I circle his wrists with my fingers and pull his hands away.
“Shoes first.” I tell him, before crouching down and pulling them off. I tug off the dress socks as well, stuffing them into the tops of his shoes and putting them to the side.
His hands are hanging loose by his side when I stand back up and reach for his shirt. The bowtie has already been removed and tucked into his pocket; gently, I reach for his collar and begin undoing the buttons. I work my way down his chest, tugging the hem free from his waistband when I reach it. When it’s hanging open, I slide my hands inside along the tops of his shoulders and push the shirt down his back until it slides off. I catch it before it hits the floor, tossing it over the chair in the corner to join the suit jacket. When I turn back, he’s already pulled his undershirt over his head, tousling that perfectly styled hair.
There is something incredibly sexy about him standing there bare-footed and shirtless, wearing nothing but black dress pants. I take a step back under the pretense of pulling off my own shoes and jacket, unsure whether taking his pants off is a step too intimate for him tonight. The hand job from this morning seems like a long, long time ago.
“I don’t know if I can manage on my own.” Corwin’s voice is soft, and when I look over at him there is warmth in his eyes. He waves a hand down at his still-clad lower half.
“No?” I move back into his personal space, amused, and rest my hands on his hips. He shakes his head. “You’re lucky I’m here to help you.”
“Very lucky.” He says, solemnly.
I tug him forward by the hips and kiss him, feeling his sigh against my lips. Pulling back, I trace my fingers over the scar on his stomach before loosening his belt and tugging it free. After I unfasten the waist, I slide my hands inside and mimic the way I removed his shirt—skimming my hands down his hips until the pants pool at his ankles. Nudging him back, I bend over and grab them off the floor, tossing them over the chair with everything else.
Color has returned to Corwin’s face, as though being home has breathed new life into him. He’s standing there, clad only in boxer briefs and a small smile, and I want him so badly it hurts. He reaches for my shirt.
“Your turn.”
I stand still, content to watch his face as he removes each piece of clothing with the seriousness of a brain surgeon. Soon enough we’re both mostly naked, and all I can think about is pulling him in and feeling his bare chest against my own.
“Do you want to have sex?” He inquires.
“Yeah. Wait—what?” He repeats the question, eyes unwavering on mine. I gape at him. “Right now?”
“Right now.” He confirms.
“I don’t think…” He’s watching me, standing so close I can see every individual shade of blue in his eyes. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
