“And you showed me?”
“Who else would I show?” he asks as if to say no one is more important to him.
Reaching over, I interlace my fingers with his as I press my lips to his cheek. “Thank you,” I say.
“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” he mutters. “But you’re welcome.”
* * *
I’m lying naked between Declan’s legs, my face resting on his stomach as he brushes his fingers through my hair. It must be three in the morning, but I can’t sleep. Even after nearly two hours of sex, I’m wide-awake.
And clearly, so is he.
I think we’re both just trying to prolong the inevitable and soak up every last second that we can.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” I whisper.
“You’ve got your mouth just inches from my cock, Shakespeare. I think we’re past having to ask that.”
With a quiet snicker, I continue. “That day in the pool, you said you weren’t straight. So what are you?”
“What am I?” he replies with a tilt of his head. “A drunk. An idiot. A horny Scotsman.”
I laugh before twisting a patch of his chest hair. He howls as I add, “You know what I mean.”
“Okay, okay,” he chuckles. “To be honest, Shelby, I don’t know. I’ve never found my attraction as something easy to define, but I’ve always wanted you. You, the person. You, the man. Do I need a label for that?”
A smile splits across my face as I softly spin my fingers across his chest. “No, you don’t.”
We’re silent for a moment before I add, “Does your family know? I mean…would they have a problem with you and another man?”
His jaw clenches for a moment. “No. They just want me to be happy. We all do.”
“And your parents?” I ask, uneasy about bringing them up since I know it sometimes sends Declan into a dark place.
“They would have loved you.”
My chest warms as I stare up at him. As I rest my face back on his stomach, I think about how unfair it is that Declan was blessed with such a happy family only to have them taken so tragically. And yet, my father abuses his with deception and lies.
More than ever, I want to be someone significant to Declan. I want to patch the hole their deaths left behind.
And I think about the painting he showed me today. How clear that moment was for him. How perfectly he recreated it.
“Why is it that you can paint some things from memory so vividly?” I ask.
“Some moments just stay in mind, I guess,” he murmurs.
“Like that night at the coffee shop?”
“Aye, Shakespeare. And that night in the pool. And that night in your room in Dublin. And the beach in California.”
I rest my chin on my hands and stare up at him through the dim light through the windows. “So just me then?” I ask coyly.
He smiles. “You, yes. But not just you.”
“Oh? Is there someone else?” It’s a playful question with a hint of worry hiding underneath. Does Declan ever care about anyone as much as he cares about me?
“I remember my parents vividly,” he says in a melancholy tone.
