He looked like somebody’s boyfriend.
He looked like somebody Dustin wanted to pull into his arms.
Instead, Dustin nodded at the bed. “Get in.”
They arranged themselves. Dustin had to lie on his good side because of his shoulder, and Greg lay rigidly beside him, flat on his back with his hands on his chest like a tomb effigy.
“Relax,” Dustin said.
“I am relaxed.”
“You look embalmed.”
Greg huffed and made an effort.
It wasn’t successful, but it was an effort, and Dustin appreciated it.
He turned off the lamp.
Dark settled over the room. The house creaked softly around them, old wood adjusting to the night. Normal sounds. Nostalgic sounds.
Dustin closed his eyes.
Then Greg’s hand found his chest.
Bare skin. Careful fingertips. Seeking.
Dustin opened his eyes.
In the dark, Greg had turned toward him. Dustin couldn’t make out his face, but he understood the touch.
Greg was feeling his heartbeat.
“Greg?”
“I’m sorry.” Greg didn’t move his hand. “I just needed to— Can I?”
“Yeah,” Dustin said. “You can.”
Greg’s thumb moved slowly across his sternum.
It was barely anything, but Dustin felt it everywhere.
He’d had people touch him with hunger. With skill. With enough alcohol in their system to finally be honest about what they wanted. He couldn’t remember the lasttime someone had touched him like they were trying to memorize him.
Greg’s hand slid up to his collarbone. To the side of his neck. His fingers were cool and careful around the road rash, then tracing Dustin’s jaw, and then Greg was close—breath warm, air shifting between them—and kissing him.
Slow.
So slow Dustin could catalogue every sensation separately. The warmth of Greg’s mouth. The catch of breath through his nose. The hand on Dustin’s jaw, holding him there.
This was nothing like the kisses Dustin had pressed on Greg in motel rooms.
This was Greg kissing him like he was savoring the experience.
And Dustin, who always set the pace, who always knew the next move, just let it happen.
A sound slipped out of him.
