“We?”
He gives me a look. “Yeah, sweetheart. We.”
I shake my head almost to myself. We spend the next hour going through every angle we can think of. Some ideas die fast. A few actually have legs. Lance catches details I missed from being buried too deep in the problem for too long.
I roll my shoulder again. The pain’s a bit bad tonight.
Lance notices immediately. He sets the notebook aside. “Okay. Enough of that for now.”
Before I can argue, his hands are on my shoulders. His thumbs dig into the tight knots. The pressure is perfect, bordering on painful in the best way. Every deep knead sends heat spreading down my back and lower. He keeps calmly talking the whole time, throwing out more ideas for the shop like he’s not currently turning my body into liquid.
I’ve felt his hands on me before. It’s not the first time he gave me a quick massage, but tonight hits different. The sure way he works the muscle. It’s always done something to me, even years ago when I told myself it didn’t. Now, there’s no pretending. My heart is doing something entirely different—softening, sinking, swelling with how much I want him.
By the time he’s done, I’m breathing harder than I should be, half-hard and aching in more ways than one.
We stay there, eyes on each other. It’s quiet except for the low hum of the old fridge and the occasional car passing outside. Light from the work lamp catches the side of his face, showing every line of exhaustion and the fact that he’s still here, trying to bear some of this weight with me anyway.
Tonight, I see it all clearly—the effort, care, and the fact that he’s sitting in my shop with my worst week numbers spread out between us.
Something in me finally gives up pretending I’m still in control.
Since we started this, I’ve made myself believe that it’s his exploration, his timeline. My job is to stay inside whatever lines he draws. Right now, every part of me wants to cross every fucking line.
I reach over and grip the back of his neck. Lance’s head jerks up, eyes wide with surprise, but I don’t give him a chance to speak. I pull him in hard.
The kiss hits like a breaking point. All the restraint I’ve been carrying since Azure Tides comes crashing down at once. I kiss him like I’ve been dying to for months—hungry, desperate, with every bit of frustration and want I’ve tried to bury. Lance makes a startled sound against my mouth, his body tensing for a heartbeat before his hands fist my shirt.
I don’t let him decide. I grip his waist tighter and yank him forward, lifting him off the stool and backing him against the bench in one rough motion. He gasps into the kiss, arms wrapping around my shoulders as I press my body fully against his, pinning him there. My heart is hammering so hard it feels like it might crack my ribs.
We’ve barely started, yet he already looks wrecked enough to ruin my ability to think straight.
“Hey,” he whispers. That single word does considerable damage already.
I drag my mouth along his jaw and down to his throat, finding the spot below his ear I’ve been thinking about since that night on Vince’s couch. He tips his head back with a sharp inhale.
His fingers dig into my shoulders as he lets out a low, filthy moan.
Christ. I could live off that sound.
“George,” he murmurs against my lips, my own name vibrating through me.
I pull back a bit so I can enjoy the view before me. His mouth is swollen, hair a mess, eyes glazed and dark. He seems already deliciously fucked out.
He blinks slowly, then gives me a crooked grin.
“If you keep looking at me like that, Big Guy, I’m not responsible for what happens next.”
I kiss that fucking mouth before it can say anything else.
27
Lance
I’ve spent way too many nights jerking off to exactly this.
George’s got both hands now braced on the workbench on either side of my hips, caging me in without actually touching. The heat rolling off him in the dim shop light is enough to make my skin prickle. The fluorescent strips overhead are mostly off. Only the underglow from the bay door and a couple of work lamps spill low across the concrete, catching the sharp edge of his jaw and the stretch of his shoulders under the worn flannel.
The way his chest rises steadily while mine is already tripping over itself drives me crazy. I grab his collar and tug him even closer. His growl vibrates against my lips.
