Chuckling, he hiked himself up, fitting his hips against mine. The weight of his body on top of me made me deliriously happy. “Pretty stupid of me to come out to my mom when I can’t even do the things I’m confessing to.”
I groaned, wriggling underneath his hard body. “Maybe the doctors are wrong about this. I’m sure we can do it without smacking your skull into anything.”
“It’s aboutexertion,” he said. “This, like, hundred-year-old doctor told me that orgasm would bring on a killer headache. He didn’t say anything aboutgivingblowjobs, though.”
Just hearing thewordmade me hard. And when Graham’s hands began to work my fly open, I let loose a moan which told him exactly how much I liked the idea. He started by teasing me — leaning down to drop light kisses in all the best places. “I don’t think exertion is going to be a problem, here,” I panted. We hadn’t had sex in ten days. I was going to blow like a land mine if he ever got around to taking me deep.
Graham’s warm breath ghosted over me, and I held my breath.
And then his phone rang.
He tried to ignore it. He really did. He took me in hand as the ringing ceased, and I received a few happy strokes. But the damned phone rang again, and I could feel just how much it put him on edge, especially with everything that had gone down tonight.
Shit.
I put my hands on his shoulders. “I think you need to check that.”
With a sigh, Graham slid off of me, grabbing his phone off the desk. The blue light from the phone’s screen illuminated his wince. “My father.” Then he looked at me on the bed, with my throbbing dick hanging out, and he actually began to laugh.
Smiling back at him, I sat up, tucking everything back into my jeans. “You’re going to have to talk to him.”
The phone was silent again. “I know,” he said, laughing, sounding a little manic. “God, I don’t want to.”
“Just do it,” I told him. “Rip that bandage off.”
He sat down in the desk chair, looking at the phone as if it would lash out and attack him. “Shit.”
“Dial,” I ordered.
With a sigh, he tapped the screen.
“I’m going to brush my teeth,” I told him. Then I went for the door.
“Hi,” poor Graham said into the phone as I turned the knob. “I’m okay, I guess.” His voice shook.
I left him alone then, taking my time in the deserted bathroom. When I’d run out of reasons to stand around in there, I opened Graham’s door again, prepared to leave if he was still on the phone. But he wasn’t. He was just sitting on the edge of the bed now, his head in his hands. And even though I was pretty sure that both Graham’s parents were as solid as they come, the defeated slump of his shoulders gave me a shiver of uncertainty.
Tiptoeing inside, I closed the door behind me. Then I went over to Graham, gingerly, the way one approaches a potentially rabid beast. He didn’t look up. And I realized that he was crying.
That gave me a moment’s hesitation. Because sometimes a man just needs to shed a few tears in private. But Graham leaned then, until his forehead made contact with my hip. I put a hand to the back of his neck, just holding him. “Is he shaken up?” I asked. Because even if Graham’s dad didn’t manage to say the right thing, it couldn’t possibly be permanent. There’s no way that Mr. Graham would adopt the Rikker Family School of Parenting.
“Not sure,” Graham sniffed. “But I am.”
Aw, Christ. I sat down beside him then and pulled him into my arms. “Did he say the right things?”
“All of ‘em. Not sure I deserve him.Them.”
“Huh,” I said. “Then maybe you deserve your sister? Because she’s kind of a bitch.”
He tried to laugh, but it came out as a sob. “My head is fucking killing me.”
“How bad?”
“A solid seven.”
“You want a couple of pills?”
“Yup.”
