So I’d pulled my hand away. If he wanted me, he’d have to show it.
And he had. I’d almost had a heart attack when he grabbed me by the arms. But the way he’d kissed me, as if he were suffocating and I was fresh air, left no room for doubt—he felt it too, that thing between us. Whether he was gay or straight or something in between, it was there, and oh my God it was hot.
So what was Derek’s problem? What could he be upset about? Was it guilt? He’d said Carolyn wasn’t his girlfriend, although even so, he might feel bad for fooling around with me behind her back or something. Derek was such a good guy, that could totally be it. I hadn’t noticed any hot chemistry between them tonight, but that might have been because I hadn’t wanted to.
It was also possible Derek felt bad because I was a guest in his home, and he was doing so much for me. Maybe he was worried I’d felt pressured to repay him with sex or something. It was ridiculous, and hopefully it had been obvious to him how much I’d been into it, but I could see him feeling that way.
Or maybe he was horrified by what we’d done. Maybe it disgusted him. Maybe he was upstairs right now scrubbing away the evidence and begging God to forgive him.
I hoped not, but no matter what, it was clear that he was not okay with what had happened.
Upset by the thought, I turned off all the lights and went upstairs, glancing at Derek’s closed bedroom door but going straight into the guest room, making as little noise as possible. When I was undressed and lying on my back beneath the blankets, hands behind my head, I wondered how tomorrow would go. What he’d say. How he’d act.
In my gut I felt it would be best to let him take the lead, and then follow it. If he wanted to pretend it had never happened, fine. We didn’t need to talk about it. Nothing had to change, either, and I hoped he wouldn’t want me out of the house just because things had gotten heated between us. It wasn’t that big of a deal. We could go back to the way things had been before he grabbed me. Brush it off. Remain friends. It’s not like I wasn’t used to keeping my sexuality to myself, and I hadn’t expected anything to happen with Derek in the first place.
That said, I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
I’d do more than that.
Fifteen
DEREK
Guilt. Shame. Anger.
I lay on my back, staring at my bedroom ceiling and drowning in anguish.
What the fuck had I done?
You shot twenty years’ worth of repressed desire and sexual frustration down another guy’s throat, that’s what. And then you left him kneeling on the kitchen floor without saying a word.
It was all my fault. I was a terrible person.
I shouldn’t have grabbed him. I shouldn’t have kissed him. I shouldn’t have let him touch me that way. I shouldn’t have liked his mouth on me. I shouldn’t have lost control. I shouldn’t have had the best orgasm of my entire life with another guy.
But I had. I’d never felt anything like it.
Why was that? It’s not like I hadn’t had good blowjobs from women before—at least, I’d thought they were good. But Maxim took it to an entirely new level. It had almost been like an out-of-body experience. Was he really that good? Or was it the thought that made it so mind-blowing? The idea that I’d finally given in to a forbidden desire just this once, and I’d never have it again?
Either way, I couldn’t deny how powerful it had been. How intense. The fucking walls had trembled.
Weak. I was so weak.
How had I let this happen?
It’s not like I was gay. I was attracted to women, too. And I wanted a traditional family—a wife and kids. I didn’t want a fucking boyfriend. That was ridiculous. Was I supposed to bring a guy home to my parents? To client dinners? Company picnics? Corporate fundraisers? Was my father going to turn over his business to someone he saw as less than a man? Less than himself? Less than perfect?
Fuck no. And I’d worked too hard to give it all up.
If only sex with women was more satisfying. Maybe that was my problem. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy it, but somehow, no matter how beautiful or eager or passionate the woman was, no matter how willing she was to please, no matter how rough she let me get, I was always left feeling vaguely unsatisfied. Like there was supposed to be more, and somehow I was missing it.
Like the walls were supposed to tremble.
I closed my eyes, inhaling and exhaling. Never again. It didn’t matter what the walls had done, because there were more important things at stake than sexual satisfaction. My career. My reputation. My self-image. My relationship with my family. My plans for the future. Allowing myself to be with Maxim that way jeopardized all of that.
I’d told Maxim last night that I didn’t have a dream, but that wasn’t true. My dream was to be normal. To live the kind of life people around me approved of and admired. To be seen as someone who had it all, even if he knew deep down it wasn’t true.
What good had truth ever done me, anyway?
I hadn’t fallen asleep until nearly three o’clock in the morning, so I let myself sleep in, which was rare. Usually I’m up and about pretty early on weekend mornings, getting things done. But today it was almost eleven when I finally got out of bed, and I didn’t even feel all that rested. My head was aching and my mouth was dry. I’d definitely overdone it with the whiskey last night.
I stepped into the shower, trying to plan out exactly how to handle Maxim. Poor guy—he had to be so confused, maybe even angry. I’d been so totally out of line to take advantage of him like that. To use him as a weapon in this fight against myself. He was totally innocent.
Well, not totally.
My blood heated and my dick started to rise as I remembered looking down at him last night. Oh my God, he’d looked so hot with his mouth on me.
No. This is what gets you into trouble. Stop thinking about him that way. Frowning, I went completely still, closed my eyes, and thought about the least sexy thing I could conjure up—my second grade teacher back in Ohio, Sister Mary Ruth, and how she used to call us all liars and snap our hands with rubber bands when she thought she’d caught us fibbing. God sees you lying, she’d say. God sees everything you do.
Thirty seconds later, my body was my own again, and I continued soaping up and wondering what to do. Should I apologize? Should I pretend it hadn’t happened? Should I say I was drunk and don’t remember a thing after dinner? Part of me wanted it to be that easy: What? A blowjob in the kitchen? I have no idea what you’re talking about.
You fucking coward. You can’t do that. At least be man enough to own what you did. Tell him you’re sorry. Tell him you don’t know what came over you. Tell him you’ve never done anything like that before and never will again.
Grimacing, I rinsed off and stood there under the spray for a few more minutes, delaying the inevitable. This would be the most uncomfortable conversation I’d ever had. Fucking brutal. But at the very least, maybe it would deter me from ever giving in to those feelings again.
I got out of the shower, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and brushed my teeth. In the mirror, I noticed my eyes were bloodshot, and the circles beneath them were dark. I put some drops in them, but told myself I deserved to look like shit after what I’d done. Then I took a few deep breaths, pushed my shoulders back, and opened my bedroom door.
The guest room door was open too, but I didn’t hear anything downstairs. Slowly, I made my way down the steps and into the kitchen, bracing myself to find him there.
But he wasn’t. And I saw no evidence that he’d been there at all—no coffee made, no dishes in the sink, no smell of breakfast lingering. Confused, I checked the back hall and noticed his shoes weren’t there. What the fuck? Had he just left? How? He didn’t have a car or any means to get a cab. Had Ellen picked him up? From the corner of my eye, I caught movement in the yard. I pushed open the back door and went outside in my bare feet.
He had lined up my potted plants on the driveway and was standing over them with
the hose.
“Morning,” I said, walking over to him.
“Morning.” He glanced at me but returned his focus to the plants a second later. His expression was unreadable.
I shoved my hands in my pockets. “Sleep okay?”
“Great. You?”
Shrugging, I made some noncommittal answer, something between a grunt and a murmur.
“I think I finally beat the jet lag. I woke up around eight and had all this energy, so I came out here to finish up what I didn’t get to yesterday.”
I surveyed the yard and realized how much he’d done—the beds had been weeded and watered, the roses had been deadheaded and cut back, the patio had been swept. “Wow. Thanks.”
“I enjoyed it.”
I studied him again, my insides tightening. He wore my jeans again, and one of my shirts. He hadn’t shaved since he’d been here, and his stubble was growing in slightly darker than the hair on his head. No gray in sight, of course. And under that shirt I knew his skin was perfectly smooth. Abs perfectly taut. He was so young—and I was old enough to know better. Here I’d lectured him about actions and consequences, and it had been me who’d gotten carried away by my feelings. Who hadn’t thought before he acted. Who sincerely regretted what he’d done, even if it had led to the best orgasm of my life.
Don’t think about that. Do what you came out here to do and move on.
“Maxim, I owe you an apology.”
“No, you don’t.” He didn’t look at me.
“Yeah, I do. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking.”
No reaction.
“I’ve never done anything like that before in my life.” It wasn’t even a lie. But the next part was. “It must have been the whiskey.”
Finally, he met my eyes. Studied my face. “Okay.”
“Because I’m straight. I’m not into guys at all. I just—lost control for a minute there.” I concentrated on not blinking, not looking away, not surrendering anything. The defensive walls were up and they were going to stay up.
He nodded slowly.
“But it didn’t mean anything. And it won’t happen again.” I said it firmly and meant it.
He focused on the plants again, his face impassive.
Jesus, Maxim. Could you please be a little less Russian right now and let me know what you’re thinking? Are you mad? Insulted? Fine with this? Do you even give a fuck?
“So let’s forget it happened. That work for you?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.
He moved to the next plant. “Of course.”
“Good.”
An awkward pause.
“So…you about done out here? Have you eaten yet? Thought maybe I could make us some lunch and then we can look online for some options for apartments.” The more normal I could make this, the better. I’d thought about asking him to leave, or even paying for him to stay at a hotel, but decided that would be worse. That would be acknowledging outwardly that he had affected me, and I couldn’t do that. The only way to pass the test I’d failed last night was to try again.
“That would be great, thanks.”
“Okay. I’ll get something going and give you a shout when it’s ready.”
“Sounds good.”
I walked back into the house, feeling his eyes on me the entire time. Once I was inside, the door closed behind me, I exhaled and tried to feel relieved. That had gone well, hadn’t it? So why did I still feel so uneasy? It wasn’t like his reaction had been upsetting. On the contrary, he’d barely seemed to care. Why was that?
I found myself getting unreasonably grumpy about it as I made sandwiches for lunch. Had our interlude in the kitchen not affected him at all? How could he be so cool about it? Had he not enjoyed it as much as I had?
Why didn’t he appear to want me anymore? He’d certainly been all over me last night.
Christ Almighty, have you gone insane? Are you even listening to yourself? He reacted exactly how you wanted him to! How you needed him to! You can’t have him living here for two more weeks, coming on to you all the time. You’ll lose your mind! This is the best possible outcome from your stupid mistake.
Don’t fuck with it.
Sixteen
MAXIM
It wasn’t the damn whiskey.
He was lying. About some of it, at least. I could hear it in the tone of his voice, defensive and insistent, and see it in his face—a carefully controlled mask.
But why?
As I finished watering the flowers, I went over his remarks again in my head. I owe you an apology. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. I’ve never done anything like that before. It must have been the whiskey. I’m not into guys at all. It didn’t mean anything. Forget it happened.
Even though I’d been prepared for it, I didn’t like it.
I didn’t want his apology—I wanted his body, his attention, his permission to feel this way. I wanted to be invited in. Just…more of him. I wanted more of him.
And it was fucking terrible and greedy and selfish of me to want more than he was willing to give. He was being so generous, and I certainly didn’t feel like I deserved any of it, but I couldn’t help feeling that way. I didn’t even really understand it. I’d never been the guy who wanted more. Give me no-strings sex without the complications of more any day of the week.
But this felt different. He was special to me. I wanted to be special to him.
The more I thought about his words, the more bothered I became. Maybe it was true that he’d never done anything like that before, but he hadn’t done it because he was drunk. If he hadn’t said yes when I asked permission, if he hadn’t been so hard in my hand, if he hadn’t come so hard and so fast and so long in my mouth it nearly choked me, then maybe I’d believe it was the whiskey.
But no. He’d done it because he’d wanted to. That’s what you were thinking, Derek. I want this. Plain and simple. And he’d wanted it badly—enough to risk rejection. Enough to go after it hard. Enough to say fuck the consequences and put your mouth on me. I was one hundred percent certain about that.
And maybe that was it. Maybe that’s what had me a little riled up. If he’d come out here and simply said I’m sorry about the way I acted, it was a mistake, let’s forget it and move on, that would be different. At least then he wouldn’t be denying the truth.
I was hurt and angry for about thirty seconds before realizing how childish I sounded.
Jesus, Maxim. Get over yourself. What good would it do for him to admit the truth? What difference would it make? If he doesn’t want more of you, there’s nothing you can do about it. He’s done so much for you, the least you can do is respect his feelings on this.
A few minutes later, I turned off the hose and wound it up on the reel mounted to the side of the garage, vowing to honor his wishes. Whatever his reasons were, they were good enough for me, and as much fun as last night had been, however good it had felt to be so close to him, I’d try to forget it had happened.
But when I went into the house and saw him at the kitchen table, my thoughts ran away from me. I want to kiss you again. I want my hands on you. I want your skin on mine.
I couldn’t think of one person who’d ever had such a powerful pull on me. It was as if gravity was somehow stronger between us, as if it wasn’t a feeling at all, but an inescapable force. It left me feeling disoriented and off-center and almost powerless.
I liked it. And I didn’t like it.
But one thing was certain—I had to keep it hidden.
After lunch, during which neither of us spoke much, Derek brought his laptop to the kitchen table, along with pen and paper. “Let’s see what’s out there for apartments right now. Want to sit over here so you can see?”
“Okay.” I moved to his side of the table, but I was careful to keep some distance between our chairs. Getting too close to him was not a good idea.
“That’s for you to take notes.” He slid the paper and pen in front of me. “And after we ballpark what
your rent will cost, we can make a monthly budget.”
“Ballpark?” I wondered.
“Oh—it means to make a reasonable guess at something. To get close to a number, even if you’re not exact.”
“Got it.”
Derek started the search, and as the minutes ticked by, it was increasingly clear that I’d have to double my savings in order to move in anywhere decent. Even a small room and bath in a shared apartment would cost at least a thousand dollars a month. First and last months’ rent would eat up what I already had saved, and I had to think about utilities, groceries, transportation, and clothing, too. Derek helped me estimate what those things might cost per month, and we added up the numbers. The total was slightly alarming.
“Wow,” I said, running a hand through my hair. “California is expensive.”
“It is,” Derek agreed.
“And I still need a laptop.”
“I thought about that,” he said. “I know it’s high on your priority list, but realistically, getting a new one will have to wait until you’re on your feet. In the meantime, I have one you can use.”
“You do?”
“Yes. It’s older, so it’s not very powerful or fast, but it’s something. I just have to wipe it clean, and it’s yours as long as you need it.”
“Thank you.” I met his eyes and realized we hadn’t left enough space between us at all. “I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s nothing.” He licked his lips. Stared at mine. “Just an old laptop.”
“It’s everything.” What are you thinking right now? “And it means so much to me.”
Strong Enough Page 9