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Having spoken with Finch Whitlock at length today, I can believe it. There is one thing wrong with what he’s saying, though, and it makes me smile.
No, it makes me smirk.
Poet tilts his head. “What?”
“You said you will install the aids later. What makes you think I’m letting you leave this bed tonight?”
“I have to—”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.” I lean in and kiss him, and honestly, despite what happened between us just a few days ago, sex is the last thing on my mind.
But that changes the moment our lips meet.
I kiss him gently, conscious of every inch of him, of the cuts and scrapes and the stitches hidden beneath the dressing, and the fatigue I still see in his eyes. My hand finds his jaw, and I don’t make the decision to ease him onto his back.
It just happens.
I keep my weight braced on my arms, not letting an ounce of it press down on him.
He smiles against my lips, drawing me closer, deepening the kiss. “I like this.”
My pulse flutters. I pull back only so he can see my mouth. “I like this too.”
“Then kiss me again.”
I do. And there is no urgency in it. No frantic need to peak. We already know how fast a night can become unforgettable. And how good it is to take it slower.
Poet bites my lips. Then he kisses my cheek, and my neck before I claim his mouth again.
His fingers tighten in my hair, his pelvis flexing just enough to remind me he is very, very naked. “I thought you were going to make me rest.”
“You are lying down.”
He laughs and I love it.
“I will not put my weight on you.”
“I know, Oscar. I trust you. I always have.”
I trust him too—I trust us. And so I don’t think about where this might take us tonight. I kiss him until I am dizzy with need and warmth, and desire becomes something else. Something hot and restless that makes us both breathe a little harder.
My clothes are gone.
I am hard.
Poet is too and his legs are sprawled open as I lie between them, sweat coating his tanned and bruised skin.
I want to fuck him.
But not now. I already know what Poet needs and wants from me when that happens, and he is in no state for that tonight. Besides, I know what this is and though a craving for him is building in the deepest parts of me, it’s not about sex. It is about finding somewhere to put the last twenty-four hours and turning something bloody and harsh into something beautiful.
Poet reaches for me, his palms sliding over my bare shoulders. The light in his eyes, the heat, tell me he feels it too—that we need to let last night go. Not search for any more rhyme or reason in it than we’ve already found. We need to live and breathe. We need to feel.
And we need each other.
