“Cool,” I said.
“That’s me,” Izzy laughed, swinging our hands. “I’m like the Indiana Jones of flowers.” He smiled at me, his cheeks curved up. “Or James Bond, if you prefer a spy reference.”
“Those flowers won’t even see you coming.”
We reached our buildings and paused, our hands lingering together. Izzy and I had already hooked up once, and as I held his eye, the urge to touch him all over filled me.
“So,” he said, his voice soft. “I had a really good night with you, Kai.”
“Yeah,” I answered, squeezing his hand. “Me, too.”
A second passed, and my heart pounded against my ribs. I stepped forward and pressed my lips to Izzy’s. His hand landed on my side as he opened his mouth and our tongues swiped together, desire pouring through me.
Fuck, I wanted him. I wanted to drag my tongue across his body, kiss his skin, and listen to the noises he made. He was sweet and gentle and perfect for me, and as we kissed on the street, I couldn’t believe I had let so many years pass without him in my life.
Izzy was exactly what I needed. He was the real, visceral thing that lifted me and pulled me out of my rut.
And then I pressed into him and grabbed the back of his head, and Izzy whimpered.
The noise was high and sweet, like musical notes, and it struck me like a bolt of lightning. My cock stiffened, achingly hard, and the night spun.
I stepped back abruptly, sucking in a tense breath, and panic took hold.
I couldn’t deny that whimper again. I’d heard it too many times. I’d heard not just the quiet version, slipped out the night I hooked up with Izzy, the whimper that turned into that surprising moan.
This whimper was even louder, even more embodied, and I’d heard it ringing out over my laptop speakers.
It was hardwired into my brain. The needy, soft voice tugged something buried deep behind my gut, sutured to my spinal cord.
Izzy looked down, a concerned, almost hurt look on his face. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I answered, forcing a smile even as I felt sick to my stomach. I couldn’t figure out why my brain was doing this to me. It was ruining me, punishing me for years of indulging my immature obsession.
But at the same time, I would know that whimper anywhere. I knew it as clearly as I knew my own body, my own voice.
I was torn in two, reality shaky around me.
“I’m good,” I lied and reached out, stroking the side of Izzy’s hair. When Izzy still winced softly, I managed to force out some truth. “I had a perfect night with you.”
His expression relaxed into a smile, but doubt still played in his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, “me, too.”
“We’ll do it again?” I asked. “I’ll text you.”
He nodded quickly, then gestured back to his apartment building. “You know where to find me.”
I kissed him again, as slow and sweet as I could before my anxiety rose back up, then headed across the street.
Nausea took hold. I was acting like an asshole, ending the date abruptly when we were only moments away from going upstairs together.
I was broken. Cursed. And I’d done it all to myself.
I hurried into my condo, frustration and disappointment crashing together like a maelstrom. I tore off my shirt, chugged a glass of water, and then slammed it on the counter.
Izzy deserved better than this. He deserved better than me.
My laptop called to me from the coffee table. Usually, on a night like this, there was one thing that would make me feel better, but I couldn’t indulge in that now. Turning to the cutie would just prove I was stuck forever.
I paced the condo, time ticking by and the night slipping away.
