Thank fuck.
He's finally here. Inside the circle of my arms, his face against my chest, his hands on my back, and he fits perfectly. As if he was measured for this, as if this space between myarms was always his and I was just keeping it warm until he was ready to fill it.
I squeeze him and hold him the way I've been wanting to hold him for weeks, tight and complete, my arms wrapped around his back, my hands spread wide across his shoulder blades, pulling him against me until there's no space left between us.
He's small against me. I can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, fast but steady, and his hands are gripping the back of my shirt at my waist like he's never going to let go.
"I should probably clarify my question," I say. "Ready to go to bed withme?" I need to hear him say it again. I need to know this is what he wants, that every step from here forward is what he's choosing.
He tips his head back and looks up at me. His face is open and flushed. His eyes are bright. The smile he gives me remakes his entire face the way it did the first time I saw it and has been remaking me ever since.
"Yes, I'm ready to go to bed withyou, Tex," he says.
I pick him up. My hands slide down to his thighs and I lift him easily. He wraps his legs around my waist, his arms around my neck, and his face is above mine now, looking down at me. I carry him the way I carried him out of the water except this time we're both dry and choosing this. His eyes are alive with heat. His legs tighten around me and his hands lock behind my neck. I carry him across the parking lot, through the open bar door and up the stairs.
His weight is nothing. I carry him up three flights without losing my breath. The whole way he's looking at me with those eyes, his fingers are in my hair and every point where his body presses against mine is burning.
I stop in the hallway. "Shower first?" I ask. "We both smell like Big Bertha and I love that grill but she's not invited to this party."
He laughs and I feel it vibrate through his chest into mine.
"Definitely," he says. "Shower first."
I carry him to the bathroom. His legs are shaky when I set him on his feet and I keep one hand on his hip to steady him. The bathroom is small, just a shower stall, a sink, and a toilet. Two grown men can barely fit in here, but that's fine. That's perfect. I don't want any space between us.
I pull his shirt off. Slow. Up and over his head, and I see the bruises again. They're faded now, almost gone, yellowed ghosts of what they were, but they're still there. I see them and I don't react. I don't flinch or stare or let my face do anything except stay focused on him.
I tug my own shirt off. His gaze traces my chest, my stomach, lingering on the dark hair there. My hands settle at his waistband. I pause, thumbs brushing lightly over the skin just above the elastic, waiting. Asking without words.
He nods, small but sure.
I ease the shorts down his thighs, kneeling briefly to help him step out. Then he's bare in front of me—thin frame, ribs still faintly visible but softer now from weeks of real meals, skin kissed gold by the Florida sun.
He's beautiful.
The most beautiful thing I've ever seen, standing uncovered in my bathroom, not hiding, not shrinking. He's hard. His erection throbs visibly with his heartbeat, precome beading at the slit, and the sight of it—the proof of his desire—nearly undoes me because I know what it means. This isn't a body being manipulated into responding.
This is pure want.
His want for me.
Real and visible and pointed at me. I have to close my eyes for a second because the trust of that — his body telling me the truth without him having to say a word — is almost more than I can take.
I strip off my jeans and briefs in one motion. His eyes drop to my cock. Thick, hard, already leaking, and his flush deepens, spreading down his throat and chest. He swallows, lips parting.
I turn on the shower. The water comes down warm. I step in and hold out my hand to him. Palm up, fingers open. An invitation. The same way I've offered him everything since the day we met.
Here. This is yours if you want it.
He takes my hand and steps in. The water hits us both, soaking hair, running in rivulets over skin. I draw him close until our bodies align, skin to skin for the first time with nothing between us. The feeling of it, the full-body contact, warm and wet, sends a current through me so strong my knees nearly buckle.
"Do you know how long I've wanted this?" I ask. "Since the truck, Stormy. Since you lifted that visor and I saw your eyes. Since the first night, lying on the other side of that bedroom wall. Knowing I had to wait a long time. Knowing you might never be ready."
He looks up at me. The water is running down his face and his eyes are wide and locked on mine. He's listening.
"I would've waited forever for you. You know that, right? If you never kissed me, if you never touched my face, if you never walked into my arms, I would've waited. I would've spent the rest of my life standing six inches away from you and never closing the gap. Because scaring you away would have been worse than never having you."
"You didn't scare me away." His hands flatten against my chest, fingers spreading.
