Tomorrow, I’m Googling a picture when he’s not around so I can see exactly what that color is.
He doesn’t look surprised when I tell him I can’t pick just one favorite color.
“Is it because of your painting?” he asks, and fuck me, but the way he’s got his cheek resting on the hand that isn’t still playing with my hair makes me go all soft and fuzzy feeling. “Because you spend so much time thinking about colors?”
Okay, so maybe that’s just an obvious sort of thing he’s said, but is it really? Because shit, it makes me feelseen.
“Right now, I like pink,” I whisper, trailing my fingers up over his chest, along his neck, up to his cheek. His skin is hot under my hand, and it doesn’t matter that I can’t see his blush in the dark. I canfeelit. Scorching sunset pink.
And ‘cause that squirmy, fuzzy-warm thing that’s filling my chest and feeding those crazy-ass butterflies in my stomach just won’t take a hint and calm down, and ‘cause what I need more than air right now is a distraction from it— “I love how you blush for me, sunshine.”
I lean in and press my lips in place of my fingers. The puff of his breath as he exhales across the skin where my jaw meets the side of my neck is fuckingelectric. “I love seeing it creep down your neck under your collar.”
He lets out an addictive little moan when my lips drift from his cheek, over his jaw, and down across his throat.
“And,fuuck,” I rasp as he shudders against me, “when you’re ready for me to, I want to follow it across your whole body and watch every last inch of you turn that color, all flushed andpink and sexy as hell.”
“Jesus Christ, Tris,” he gasps.
His hand tightens in my hair, tugging me back to his mouth. He kisses me, hot and hard and deep, so that I can feel his burning sunset pink against my skin, radiating from him even after he pulls away.
Somehow though, not eventhatis enough to totally shut up those motherfucking butterflies.
26
Jesse
Does it make me a selfish bastard that I was nothing but disappointed when, on Wednesday afternoon, the day after Tris’s second night staying with me, I caught the unmistakable sounds of Mr. Thorpe and a repairman next door?
Probably, yes.
I really don’t think anyone can blame me though for being relieved that, instead of hearing Tris let himself into his apartment later that evening, I’d heard the sound of feet bounding up my stairs, followed by a bouncy knock at my door.
Having learned from my mistakes the previous night, I’d already finished cooking dinner for us.
It wasn’t anything special, just a repeat of the garlic bread and herby cream sauce over pasta I’d meant to make the night before. At least I’d had the chance to run to the store though, which meant I’d been able swap out the plain spaghetti with tortellini and throw together a salad.
We’d sat together at the kitchen table, elbows brushing, his right leaning against my left, while he told me about his day and I tried my hardest not to think about how very easy all of this would be to get used to.
At least, until dinner was over. Then, after helping me cleanup the kitchen like he’d insisted on doing, Tristan kissed me goodnight and slipped out the door, heading back to his own apartment.
I hadn’t been able to find the courage to ask him to stay the night.
That was last Wednesday. Since then, I’ve seen him of course. For dinner; once out and twice at my apartment. For a long walk and lunch on Monday, one of his days off.
On Tuesday night, we’d curled together in my chair and watched a movie. I don’t have a clue what it was.
Instead of taking in a single thing about the story as it played out on my laptop screen, I’d spent the two hours soaking in the feel of Tris’s body pressed close, the soft rise and fall of his chest against the arm I’d wrapped around him, the weight of his head on my shoulder, the fruity, minty-vanilla scent of his silky hair brushing my cheek.
When the movie ended, we’d stayed tangled up in the chair, kissing until I couldn’t think or see or barely even breathe. And I’d wanted more. God, I’d wantedeverything.
I’d spent so much of the preceding days rationalizing and processing and reminding myself of what I’d want for Stephen if he had lived and I had died in his place. What Iknowhe’d want for me if only he could tell me, but still, the memory of what had happened that first night Tristan and I kissed held me back. The fear that it might still be too soon, that I might not be ready. That yet again, I might crumble the moment it seemed sure that something was about to actually happen.
And so, dick throbbing with frustrated desire, I’d made myself pull away. I’d walked him to the door. Kissed him goodnight; long and lingering and not a fraction enough.
Now it’s Friday, and I haven’t seen him since. Nor do wehave any solid plans to see each other until his next day off on Monday.
It’s not like that’s all that long. Or like I haven’t heard from him.
