Page 43 of Boy Blue
In his eyes was his response. That he didn’t know everything about me, and neither did I.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” I said. “I left home. I must have left home for a reason.”
He winced as though I’d struck him. Seemed intent on pulling away.
“Maybe I left to find you,” I said, my voice cracking wet over the words.
“Are you fey, now?” he asked, touching my cheek, his eyes softening. He must have seen confusion on my face, because he added, “That we were fated to meet?”
It seemed foolish to hear it out loud like that. But if it kept him near, kept him from pulling away, as though the workshop had more to interest him, I would say it. A hundred times I would declare it. And it had to be true in a way. That I’d been on a train and fallen off where he could find me. Fallen there and not anywhere else. Found by him and not by anybody else.
I slid the flannel shirt off his shoulders. Tugged the Henley from the waistband of his jeans. He stood still for me, watching me with careful eyes, breath hard in his chest. A sudden pause, and then his cool hands were on my arms.
I thought he meant to stop me, to stop what had started between us. He reached for his shirttails and pulled the Henley off, then pulled my t-shirt off and hugged me close to himself with a sigh. He shuddered as he breathed. I tucked my face into his neck as I felt the warmth of my body soak into him.
This was what I’d wanted, without having specifics to guide me, this closeness. His fingers along the back of my neck beneath my hair. The sigh that followed his swift kiss on my temple.
His hands went to my hips, clasping them. Holding me still, as if he wanted to absorb the moment.
“I would never hurt you,” he whispered in my ear.
“I know.”
Movements soft. Touches slow. He held me to him as he kicked off his jeans. His bare thighs felt cool to my hands, his arm around my waist as, shivering, he pulled me into bed, sloughing off my sweatpants as he went. Our legs tangled, hisfeet were freezing. I didn’t move away. Moved instead into the curve of his body, tugging at the waistband of his briefs.
“Where’s your underwear?” he asked, whispering the words against my skin, his hands on my naked hips.
“I don’t know,” I said. I didn’t care.
He touched me gently, his hand moving up my waist, the coolness of his skin turning to warmth, heat building between our bodies. I managed to get his briefs off, but only because he let me. I tossed them to the floor, somewhere. We’d find them later. What mattered more was the scent of him, musky, low, up close, and the tender, sweet sweep of his lips across mine. I felt he was sensing me, learning me inch by inch, and surely had I any memory at all, the memory this was making right now was emblazoned with gold.
“Can I?” he asked.
My heart was beating so hard in my chest, a rhythm so fast, that when I opened my mouth, no words came out. With my arms around his neck, I pulled him close. Felt the muscles in his chest against mine, the broad span of his shoulders. I could feel the slight curve of his belly, and the scratch of pubic hair. Into my hollow places, all of him came.
“Yes,” I said, managing only a single word. “Anything.”
He tipped me onto my back, looming over me, his hand between my legs, thick fingers around my cock, gentle and cool around my heat. His strokes were slow. Sure. Slick with the moisture coming from the tip. A flip of his finger around the crown. Repeated.
The sounds coming from me, they were not words. It was as though he was casting a spell or weaving a prayer into my skin. When I came, the sensation of floating, of flying, washed over me, his face in my neck, kisses to my cheek, his tongue in my mouth, and I knew this memory, the one he and I were making together, would stay with me forever.
My breath came in pants that slowed and went slower, and when I opened my eyes, my hand flung back on the pillow, he was there. Close. Watching me. Making sure of me, or at least that’s what it felt like. A wash of his warm gaze swept over me, feeling like pure love.
“What do you need?” I asked him, the words husky, whispered.
A flick of gaze, his eyes casting away from me. I rolled onto my side, my hand on his cheek.
He didn’t want to ask, perhaps because it would feel like making a deal between us, like he said it had been for him before, and he didn’t want that. I didn’t want it for him, either, so I eased close, half on top of him, the sweat on my ribs making me slip a bit.
His arm came around my waist, hooking me close, and I was still. I could feel his heartbeat, see the moisture on his lower lip from our kisses. And felt his hardness against my thigh, a small bit of cotton top sheet tangled between our bodies.
Had I ever taken a man in my mouth to give him pleasure? I doubted it, and there certainly were no memories of it, just images of a dark-haired Nimble, somewhere, standing next to a copper-haired Star. A wind swirling around them as we discussed something. A destination, maybe. A high bridge. A low valley. A restaurant with the best sandwiches ever eaten.
Shoving this away, I focused on Wolfe. My fingers in the cluster of chest hair, tugging, bringing his attention to me. I tugged the top sheet out of the way, and he was naked beneath me, winter pale, dark hair between his strong arms, along his sturdy thighs. Tufts of dark curls between his thighs. My hand went there, a long stroke along his belly, as I held myself steady, weight on one arm, palm planted in the mattress on the other side of him.
“You don’t have to,” he said. It was almost a grunt.
“I want to.”
