“But I can do good things for the people I care about. I can help them. I want to do something, Whit. I can’t just sit on the couch and talk about what happened to me and expect that to do anything.”
She took a deep breath and tried to stem her kneejerk defensive reaction – her defense of him because he seemed unwilling to defend himself in this situation – and tried to look at what he’d said objectively.
“That’s really sweet of you,” she started.
“Don’t say ‘no’ yet.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a crumpled section of newspaper. He smoothed it against his thigh and then held it out to her. “Read this.”
It was a call for submissions at a small art show being held at the university, highlighting local, amateur artists. All mediums welcome, including crafts and sculpture.
“You’re scouting art shows for me?”
He shrugged, and though a blush crept into his cheeks, he refused to get bashful and look away from her. “Someone has to. If you can get onto my case, then I can get onto yours.”
It took her a second, blinking at him, to register the emotion building in her chest. It was…delight.
She grinned. “On your case?”
“Like all the time. It’s getting kind of old.” He grinned.
She wanted to throw her fist in the air and cheer, because Kev was actually mocking himself, making a joke out of his recovery. And maybe a professional would tell her that was unhealthy, but she didn’t think it was. She thought, after all his moping, and hyperventilating, Kev grinning and sniping was a huge sign of progress.
“Okay.” She settled back against the couch. “Who else is on the Kevin Estes Recovery To-Do List?”
He lifted his brows.
“You know what I mean. Who else are you wanting to help?”
His expression caught, a fast flicker of pain. “Ian, for starters.”
Whitney felt her smile slip. She swallowed. “You can always talk about him, if you want. If that’s something you need to do. I can handle that.”
The smile he gave her was tight. “No offense, but I don’t really think you’re ready for the whole story.”
She sighed. “You never know until you try to tell me.”
“Yeah, but…I kinda don’t want you to stop looking at me the way you do.”
Her stomach clenched, down low, the way it had last night, when his hand was between her legs. Heat rippled beneath her skin, raising goosebumps. “What way do I look at you?” she asked.
“Like you want me.”
The blue of his eyes, the loose hair framing his face – devastating.
She dampened her lips. “That’s because I do.”
~*~
He knew he was going to kiss her. He wasn’t going to lunge across the couch and tackle her, wasn’t going to fumble in his haste to initiate. The craving that hit him, as he stared at her across the couch – the want – was low, deep, and slow-burning. It felt…sustainable. It felt like the hot coals at the base of the fire, full of potential and patience.
He got up from the couch, and it was a revelation. He didn’t have to rut mindlessly against her in the middle of the living room. He could wait.
“Gonna grab a shower,” he said.
“Okay. I want to work a little more.”
He took his time under the jets, working a good lather of soap, cleaning himself with extra care, actually using conditioner on his hair. The hot water felt heavenly in a way he didn’t normally pause to enjoy, beating the tension out of his shoulders. When he got hard, he ignored it; he wasn’t going to jerk off to guilty visions of Whitney when she was in the next room…and about to be in bed with him.
He tugged on an old pair of pajama pants and a tank top, and climbed under the covers, leaving the light on.
He had no idea he would fall asleep; so used to being tight and tense all the time, he’d assumed he would stay awake, and suddenly forced his eyes open as Whitney slid in beside him, wearing that stupid white sleep shirt he could see through.
Though, he’d done more than peer through her shirt last night.
Whitney stretched out on her side, head propped on her fist, facing him. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I’m glad you did, though.” He shifted closer to her, and felt her knee touch his beneath the covers, the skin-to-skin contact quietly electric. “What time is it?”
“A little after one.”
“You shouldn’t stay up so late.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
The kiss would be now, he knew, the pleasant anticipation reaching a hot high point in his belly. But it would be sweet, and slow, and none of the desperate things kissing had always been for him.
Telegraphing his movement, so she could roll away if she wanted to, he reached out and cupped the side of her head. When he urged her in, she came willingly, and the kiss was soft, and careful, almost chaste.
He hesitated a moment, their lips just brushing, and let Whitney decide.
Her hands curled into the front of his tank top. Her mouth pressed into his, warm, and open, her tongue flirting along his lower lip.
Tango let his mind go blank. Blocked out all his old trauma, his worries, his preconceived notions, and just listened to what Whitney was telling him with her body.
She wanted him. She wanted this.
He cradled the back of her skull in his hand, and kissed her again.
He’d always thought, for some reason, that finally being with her would be like a discordant shriek of violins; a mad rush, pawing, mouths smacking together and then apart. He’d thought the guilt would bite into him, and he'd have to drill her fast, furiously, before he could let himself hate what he was doing.
But this was…this was so easy. And so perfect. The way he drew her in even closer, let his tongue dance against hers.
“Say no if you want to,” he whispered against her lips as he eased her onto her back, mounting her in one smooth, long-practiced move.
No, he wouldn’t let his practice intrude. He would only use it to make her feel good; channeling the talent in his fingers, and mouth, and hips.
“I don’t want to say no,” she whispered back.
He smoothed his hands up and down her sides, long, slow strokes, bunching up her sleep shirt just a little more with each pass. Her skin was so delicate and warm beneath his fingers, the simple feel of her going straight to his cock, getting him hard. He plunged his tongue gently, almost sweetly into her mouth, again and again, sloppy, unhurried kisses, catching their breath between them. He nipped at her lip and she murmured a wordless sound of pleasure against the corner of his mouth.
Her thin fingers speared through his hair and she urged his head down onto her shoulder. Her lips brushed his ear when she said, “Kev, I want you inside me.”
And just like that he was fully-hard and more ready than he’d ever been in his life.
“Okay, baby.” He kissed her clothed shoulder, gasping a little. “Okay, we can do that.”
He skimmed her shirt up, and she lifted her arms to help him free it. Even though he’d seen her last night, it was no less stirring to see the smooth planes of her flat stomach, the rosy blush of her peaked nipples.
“You too,” she urged, and he sat up to jerk his own shirt off and toss it somewhere behind him.
Whitney giggled at his haste, and then sighed when he settled over her again, arching her neck to meet his kiss.
God, her mouth was sweet. He could have drowned kissing her.
But he migrated across her jaw, down her throat, across the gentle ivory slopes of her breasts. Her breath hitched as he pressed kisses down her sternum to her belly. He curled his hands around the points of her hips, anchoring her, and spent long moments ghosting his lips around her navel, and along the waistband of her panties.
She wriggled and said, “Kev,” in a low, foreign voice full of want.
There was still a voice in the back of his head telling him it shouldn’t be this simple,
this easy. The way should be laden with obstacles, and doubts, and a thousand little hurts. But it was easy as breathing when he slipped her panties down the length of her legs, and off her feet, and then she was totally bare to him.
“I wanna try something.” He sent a smile up to her face, looking up the length of her body. “It’ll feel good, I promise. I’m really good at this.”
She nodded, and her thighs parted beneath his hands, like she already knew what he was suggesting. A quiver of tension in her stomach belied her nerves, though, and Tango spent long moments stroking her legs with slow sweeps of his hands, working slowly, slowly upward. He met her gaze one more time, hoping his smile was as reassuring as it felt, and bent to put his mouth on her.
It was overwhelming – for her, yes, going by the high, breathy “oh” that left her lips – but for him, too. To be doing this intimate act with someone who he actually cared for, who he loved, to want nothing but pleasure for her, to use every brush of his lips and flick of his tongue to wring sensation from the woman he wanted more than anything – it lit him up. Every nerve alive, as if he was the one being touched. He threw himself full-focus into the task, testing and teasing and listening for each whimper, each breath, pushing her harder when he heard the noises of acute pleasure.
She fell to pieces beautifully, with a strangled little moan, lifting toward his tongue.
Tango felt ten feet tall and invincible. His veins fizzed with warm champagne; it was better than if he’d come.
He crawled up her trembling body until he was braced above her on hands and knees, taking in the gorgeous sight of her sex-glazed eyes and the damp little tendrils of hair clinging to her temples.
She licked her lips, pulled in a deep breath, and smiled up at him. “Wow.”
“Good wow?”
“Amazing wow.” She breathed a laugh. “You are very good at that.” Her little hands ran up his arms, nails teasing. “Now can we please have sex for real?”
He laughed, which was a total first. He’d never laughed while he was in bed with someone before. “Was that not real?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Hmm…not sure I do. You might have to explain it to me.”
Her answer was to wrap her arms and legs around him and pull him down flush with her sweat-damp skin, her nipples hard little pebbles against his chest, her mouth plump and red where she’d been biting her lips while he went down on her.
“Kev,” she said, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Be with me.”
His heart squeezed. “Of course, baby, whatever you want.”
“And what do you want?”
“I want you.” He could figure the rest out later.
~*~
She was a virgin, but she wasn’t a prude. She understood the mechanics; she’d read enough novels to know that it was supposed to be rapturous. She also knew it was supposed to hurt.
And now she knew Kev was so careful, and so gentle, and so slow. Until the stinging stopped; until the pain faded and all she felt was the length of him pressed against the length of her, warm salty skin, ragged breath, skimming lips, and the incredible intimacy of having him inside her.
“Are you okay?” he asked against her neck, low and worried, still breathing hard, his chest heaving beneath her cheek.
She trailed her fingers between his prominent ribs, tracing the shadows of tattoos in the dark. “I’m okay.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Twenty-One
Ian could be honest with himself. Tonight, at least. He didn’t try to convince himself that it was Kev shifting toward him under the sheets; Kev’s arm sliding across his chest; Kev’s lips pressing against his shoulder; Kev’s breath tickling his neck. He knew it was Alec, and it was a comfort.
He raked his fingers through Alec’s short hair, marveling at its rich, slippery texture, pressing at his scalp with his fingertips.
“Not to knock your favorite restaurant,” Alec said, making a pleased noise in his throat in response to the petting. “But I’m kind of starving again.”
“Well. That’s what fucking does for you.”
Alec snorted and pressed his face into Ian’s arm.
They’d turned the lights off before, and in the dark, warm beneath the covers, cold night air frosting the windows, Ian felt…peaceful, he supposed. Limp, and sated, and boneless, yes, but in a way that ran deeper than the simple aftereffects of sex.
It was almost like he was…
Well, he couldn’t be happy…could he?
“I’ll tell you a secret,” he said, cupping the back of Alec’s head.
“Hmm?”
“I have mint Milanos. But I have to hide them, or Bruce will eat them all when I’m not looking.”
Alec breathed a laugh across his skin. “I don’t believe you.”
“Oh, I have them.”
“No, I don’t believe Bruce eats them.”
“He’s incredibly crafty for a man that large, you know. And he has a sweet tooth.”
“Okay, so Bruce is banned. What about me? Did I earn a cookie tonight?” Alec’s tone was so playful, and young, and devoid of all insidious intent, Ian couldn’t help but smile. He kept waiting for the traps, the little verbal minefields men would use to make someone like him feel like he was still an expensive hooker. But Alec was just Alec; transparent, devoid of ulterior motives, earnest and straightforward.
If not exactly as straight as he’d originally thought himself to be. But even that change he was handling with remarkable aplomb.
“Yes.” Ian slipped his hand down the slender, silken line of Alec’s back and swatted his ass. “You can have biscuits.”
“Oh God,” Alec said, laughing as they disentangled and kicked off the covers. “Biscuits?”
“That’s how we say it in civilized countries.”
“In prehistoric countries.”
As Ian shrugged into his robe and belted it, he reflected that he’d never had this, not with any lover – banter. The gentle back and forth jibes, tinged with laughter and knowing little smiles. Warmth curled through his stomach.
Alec stepped into his boxers and they walked to the kitchen together, shoulders bumping, arms overlapping, unhurried and content in one another’s company.
“Come look at this,” Ian said, stepping up to the counter and the row of stair-stepped ceramic canisters set up against the backsplash. He pulled the lid off the largest and revealed shiny brown flax seed. Then he lifted out the false bottom and revealed–
“Mint Milanos,” Alec said, hooking his chin on Ian’s shoulder, staring down into the canister with an astonished laugh. “You weren’t kidding.”
“Darling, I never kid.”
Ian plated the cookies and set them at the island, on the edge between two stools. “Do you need milk?” he asked, and he tried not to sound too mocking.
“Water’s fine.”
When they were settled, the quiet of his expensive kitchen broken only by the sounds of chewing, Ian allowed himself another small revelation. Alec seemed glad to be with him.
Kev was the closest thing he’d ever had to a true romance, and their nights together had been fraught with sighs, and furtive glances, and the tension of guilt and regret, and shared memories of horror. They hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t teased. Hadn’t been light with each other. It had always been heavy, tinged with emotion, desperate.
But that was love, wasn’t it? Love was heavy, and hurtful, and it chafed you in all the wrong ways. Didn’t it? His life had been a shitshow, so it only stood to reason that anything worthwhile, anything he really wanted, would be difficult. Like trying to hold onto barbed wire.
Then…what was sitting barefoot in his kitchen eating cookies with his lover? When nothing was wrong, and nothing hurt, and the only glances were sly and flirtatious?
Alec swallowed, flicked crumbs off his fingers, and took a sip of water. “Ian?”
“What?’
“You can talk abou
t it, you know.”
Bristling, Ian darted a sideways glance toward Alec, but eased a little when he saw Alec watching him with curiosity, and an open, honest sympathy that managed not to be pitying.
Ian couldn’t take pity.
He took an unsteady breath. “Talk about what?”
Alec shrugged, but his gaze didn’t waver. “If this is weird for you.” He gestured between them.
Ian cracked his next Milano in half between his fingers, but didn’t eat it. “Why would it be weird?”
Alec gave him a look that said come on.
“Having second thoughts?”
“No.” Alec looked frustrated. “But you were really broken up about that other guy. I know I’m the rebound.” He sounded hurt.
“Kev and I–” Ian started, shocked that the words had come so easily. He pressed his lips together and drew in a deep breath through his nose. Could he do this? Was it right? Or healthy, even? “Kev and I are a volatile combination,” he said, finally, scrubbing at his face with both hands. A few stray cookie crumbs prickled against his skin. “We have too much history, I suppose. Too many bad memories.”
“And I’m the distraction,” Alec said, voice wooden.
“No,” Ian said, faster than he expected. He turned to the boy beside him, took in the way he chewed at his lower lip, eyes wide with poorly veiled hurt. “You are not a distraction, darling.”
Alec glanced away, blinking.
Ian moved to cover one of his pretty, pale hands with his own on the counter. “What I’d like to know is your reason for bringing this up.”
Alec shrugged, but he kept blinking, eyes wet in profile. “It makes sense, I think. Wanting to know if you and your partner are on the same page.”
A slow warmth shifted beneath Ian’s skin. He’d underestimated this one.
“Sweet boy.”
Alec sniffed and glanced down at their stacked hands. “It’s…it’s never been like this before for me. I didn’t…” He exhaled. “I liked sex okay. With…with…”
“Women,” Ian supplied.
Alec nodded. “But I never – I didn’t know–” He sent a look of appeal to Ian, face raw with emotion. “I care about you. And I don’t think I can stick around if you’re just playing with me, or trying to make him jealous.”
Loverboy (Dartmoor Book 5) Page 24