Page 19 of On Fire

Tipping his head up, he takes a long draught and I watch him swallow. I’m as hard as I will ever be, and I can’t believe he doesn’t notice the massive erection in my pants.

“Come here,” he says.

“What do I need to do?”

“Do nothing.”

The next thing I know, he’s pulled me close to him. I’m two inches taller, not enough to escape those blue eyes. “What’s happening?”

“This,” he says, his hand behind my head, tipping my face to his and then our lips meet.

The scruff of his close beard sends shivers down my spine, thrilling but terrifying, and I try to pull away.

But his tongue is sweet, slipping in and around mine and his breath is fast. Shifting closer, he thrusts his hips forward into my pelvis, creating pressure.

My fingers fumble for buttons, trying to undo these teeny, little white things in the semi darkness, and I give up. He smiles and unbuttons them himself, and the shirt slides to the floor. His white tank top is drenched in perspiration.

“You haven’t done this in a while have you,” he asks though, with his voice so low, it’s more of a statement.

For some reason, now is the time I can’t seem to talk. All I can do is shake my head.

“Okay. We’ll stop then.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I can tell he’s not sure if he’s made a mistake or not. “Listen, I’m sorry if I presumed.” Looking out the window he puts a hand over his mouth and there’s a slight tremor in his arm. “I’m fucked up right now,” says the man who hardly ever swears. “These bombings have done something to me—”

The twilight backlights him against the window. Silvery light rolls over his broad shoulders and chest, leaving dark lines where muscles knit together and plunge between pecs, below the deltoid, and the upper arm of the bicep. I love men with great arms and his are perfect.

There are times when being reasonable is limiting. In this moment, I choose the opposite.