Page 32 of Heart of the Race

I looked down into his face. “Nothing to tell.”

“What does that mean?” His gaze lifted to meet mine.

“It means that he wanted me to pick between him and you.”

He nodded. “And you told him to go fuck himself.”

“It’s done.” I left it at that. “He also said that I’m basically dead inside.”

Sitting up quickly, he turned to face me. “You? Dead inside? He’s obviously never seen you bounce in your chair over three scoops of rocky road.”

His eyes were so dark, so warm, and having him close sent twinges of sizzling heat through me.

“You don’t think that, do you?” I checked.

“No,” he promised, leaning close. “You fight with me at the drop of a hat. Dead is not the adjective I’d use.”

My eyes filled fast.

“No,” he soothed, putting a hand on my cheek, stroking gently before smoothing his thumb over my bottom lip.

“V?”

“Does it have to be a whole thing?” he inquired, never moving his fingers from my face.

I was fairly certain he was speaking Mandarin or ancient Greek, some language I didn’t understand at all.

“I mean…” His eyebrows pinched over his nose even as he traced his thumb along my jaw. “Can it just be I’m fuckin’ sorry for being blind all the way back to high school when I screwed all the girls instead of jumping you in your bed in the middle of the night?”

“I don’t begrudge you the girls, or the women when you were older,” I allowed. “All those experiences and relationships make you who you are. I get that.”

“I didn’t know, Brian. I didn’t know I loved my best friend. I was too stupid to figure it out. It only made sense after you left.”

The when didn’t matter to me, just the truth he knew now.

“Am I gay if I only want to sleep with you but not any other guys?” he asked.

“You like to sleep with women too,” I reminded him. “So no, you’re not gay, you’re bi, since you’re saying you like me along with women.”

“There won’t be anyone else anymore.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“Okay,” he said after a second, sliding his hand to the back of my neck. “But does it have to be a thing?”

“I have no idea what that means.”

He didn’t answer, instead simply eased me forward, leaned in to meet me, and sealed his lips over mine.

I had kissed him a thousand times: on the cheek, shoulder, even brushed his mouth accidently once with firm purpose. But never had I opened for him and allowed him to know the yearning, the famine for his touch that lived in me.

The press of his tongue, the taste of it, made the ache deepen and burn. I seized on the wanting, on the desire, and claimed what I’d always hoped would someday be mine. It didn’t matter if he pulled away or shoved me off or even hit me. All that mattered was the precious moments I had to drink in his attention—his breath, his kiss—and that I would finally know what it felt like to have everything I ever wanted.

I could live a lifetime in just a few heartbeats of time.

But he didn’t pull away, and the first voracious, starving kiss became another, and another. He cupped my face in one hand and tangled the other in my hair as he held me close and didn’t let go until we both had to have air. Our lips parted just enough and then fused once more, harder, rougher, deeper, tongues sliding together as I was devoured.

I met him eagerly, forcefully, made him feel my ravaging hunger so he’d know, so there could be no mistake. I was demanding, dominating him like I never did, my hands in his long thick hair, tugging at his clothes, crawling over him, pushing him back and pressing him down.