I nod, having figured that was probably where his head was at. I don’t particularly want an audience when we’re together, but nor do I want him to hold back from small things like that. Besides, it was Dryden in the car, and that man doesn’t care about anything at all, certainly not us.
“You can,” I tell him now, watching his face closely when he nods. There’s something wrong, and I’m not altogether convinced it only has to do with popping a tire. Which, as a person who has been stranded on the side of the road before can attest, I know can be a massive frustration. Oliver so rarely allows things to bother him, though. He bends, not breaks, when pressure is applied to him. Before he can move back away from me, I add, “What’s wrong?”
He grimaces, letting me know I’m right in thinking it’s something beyond the excitement of the morning. I wait, rubbing a thumb against his neck, wondering if the real reason for the look in his eye is the anniversary party he went to last night.
“Pity party, as Dryden would say,” he tells me, grinning and rolling his eyes again. “I just always feel…lacking when I’m around my parents, I guess. Like I’m trying so hard, but the goal is unreachable. And then this morning, with the stupid tire. I didn’t even have a spare, which is idiotic, and I don’t know how tochange it if I did! What kind of person doesn’t know how to change a tire?”
I frown at him. The kind of person who doesn’t know how to change a tire is someone who hasn’t been taught, who hasn’t learned. I slide my thumb up his neck and back down again. He leans into the touch, eyes on mine. After a second, he continues.
“I hate feeling like there are more things I suck at than things I’m good at.”
Raising my eyebrows at that, I shake my head. Leaning forward, I kiss his cheekbone and press a hand to his chest, asking him to wait here. He does, fingers tapping the counter as he watches me slip around the island and grab a notepad from the drawer. Curiosity replaces some of the sadness in his eyes as he watches me write his name across the top. When I add “skills” underneath, he chuckles and plucks the pen from my fingers. I wait, giving him a second to write. Once he finishes, I frown when I see what he added.
Under skills, he wrote cooking. He also added a column titled “failure” under which he wrote: changing tires, talks too much, fixing the heat, laying floors (probably), hanging art so it’s level, choosing paint colors, tiling (probably), and changing the oil on the car. I glance at him, exasperated. This is not the way this exercise was meant to go. I cross off “talks too much” with a pointed look in his direction and then adjust the title of the failure column to “learning.” For good measure, I circle it a few times.
Then, I get to work. I write down every single thing Oliver is skilled at and quite a few things that aren’t skills, as such, butmore things I appreciate about him. Like how he mixes up song lyrics and sways his hips when he hums and how he’ll jabber away, never stopping until he literally can’t continue without taking a breath. I write that he’s a good listener, a good lover, and a good friend. His fingers stop tapping the counter as I go, flipping over the paper and continuing on the back when I run out of room. I haven’t written this much since high school.
“Okay,” Oliver murmurs once I’m close to filling up the back side of the paper as well and getting ready to start a fresh one. “Okay, I get what you’re doing.”
Straightening, I set the pen down and use a finger to turn his chin until he’s looking at me.Do you, though?I think, stroking my thumb along his jaw. He sighs hard enough for me to feel it on my lips.
“You’re right. You’re right,” he repeats. “I’m being ridiculous. There’s just something about spending time with my parents that shoves me back in time to when I was a kid. I don’t know, it’s weird. Like a headspace I can’t escape, no matter how many miles I put between us. I just always feel like Ineedto do better. That I’m not good enough.”
I nod, still brushing my thumb idly over his skin in what I hope is a soothing manner. I know exactly what he’s talking about, since I often find myself sinking back into the sad, lonely little kid I was growing up, getting lost in the memories of how people used to treat me and forgetting that it’s not necessarily how they treat me now. It’s a little worse in Oliver’s case, since most people I grew up with around here don’t openly mock me to my face the way his father apparently does.
“But you’re right,” he repeats, looking down at the piece of paper on the counter and smiling.
I relax to see it, recognizing the looser, more genuine version of the one he’d given me earlier. Tugging him back in by his neck, I kiss him again. Lord, but I missed him while he was gone. Twenty-four hours have never felt so long as they did yesterday, rattling around this house—a space I love—and finding myself lonely with the silence I used to crave.
He smiles, wrapping an arm around my waist and leaning into the affection. Another line to add to the list of things to love about Oliver—how easy he is to please. A big part of the reason I never tried dating was the worry that I’d struggle to meet a standard, whether that be in bed or otherwise. Oliver seems pleased with everything I give him, the only standard he claimed to have being someone who listens to him. Which, luckily, is the one and only thing I can say I’m better at than everyone else.
“What should we have for lunch?” he asks, mouth tickling my ear and chin poking into my shoulder where he’s propped it. I smile, kissing his cheek again, happy that my songbird flew home in one piece.
Oliver slides closer, nose pressed against the back of my neck, breath tickling as he sighs. Usually, we sleep back-to-back, but tonight, he seems intent upon wrapping himself around me like an octopus. When his hand crawls up my chest, I smile and slide my fingers through his.
“Mm.” He hums, another noise that makes a grin spread across my face. Even in sleep, he’s trying to break out in song.
He settles after that, and I’m almost back asleep when he rolls his hips. Eyes opening once more, I squeeze his hand as his hard cock brushes against my lower back.
“Mm,” he repeats, the sound far different than it had been earlier when he was still dozing. Now, it sounds less like a noise produced while sleeping and more like a noise produced when horny.
Releasing his hand, I turn over. Willing and eager, he lies back, lips already opening to mine when I kiss him. Oliver sighs, arms wrapping around my neck and locking me in place. My own elbows, planted in the mattress, keep me elevated enough to keep my weight off him. We might be the same size, but two hundred pounds of man resting on top of you is still two hundred pounds of man, no matter how big you are.
“You taste so good,” he murmurs, kissing me again and pulling my bottom lip into his mouth. I shiver when his lips find my neck, and he sucks gently. “Such a good boy for me.”
I close my eyes at that, hips lowering down enough to press my own erection against his. It shouldn’t be erotic, hearing “good boy” spoken in a context where a dog isn’t present. But it is. It feels like a jumper cable attached directly to my dick, heat and electricity andwantzapping through me.Yes,I think,yes. Let me show you how good I could be.
Oliver likes things slow. Or perhaps he keeps them that way for my benefit. Either way, it’s minutes—hours, perhaps, hell if I know—before his hands still and the kissing stops.
“Ever heard of sixty-nine?” he asks. I snort, leaning down to kiss him hard. Cheeky bastard. He laughs into my mouth, eyes shining in the dark room when I lift up enough to see his face. “Okay, well, since you’re familiar…want to have a go?”
As if he even has to ask. Rocking my hips against his, I slip my tongue back in his mouth and enjoy the leisurely, soft kissing. His hands begin exploring once more, fingers dipping below the waist of my boxers and teasing my crack. I push against his hand to let him know it’s all right when he glides a fingertip across my hole.
“Top or bottom?” he asks, sucking lightly on a different part of my neck. I think about it, unsure. When I take too long to answer, he adds, “Top might be better, since it’s a touch more control.”
“Okay,” I agree, pressing my lips to his once more before I roll onto my back and curl my legs up, slipping my boxers down my legs and tossing them over the side of the bed. Oliver, wearing nothing but a soft, silky shift, sits up and lifts the fabric over his head. Even in the dark, the move is sexy—the white material shimmering as it reveals pale skin below. It wasn’t hiding much to begin with, to be fair, and when Oliver had come out of the bathroom wearing it, I’d nearly choked on my tongue. My first thought had been that it was pretty enough to be something he might wear on his wedding night.
Undressed, he gracefully lowers himself back to the mattress. I follow, not quite done with the kissing portion of the night’s event. I love it when we’re like this—naked and touching, his skin soft against mine, leg hair rough where itbrushes against the inside of my thigh. Everything about him is warm and inviting.
