Page 17 of A Man To Remember (Skin on Skin #3)

AUSTIN

"THANK GOD," I breathe.

"God?" Jesse's eyebrows shoot up. "What's God got to do with anything?"

"I was so worried—"

"Worried?" He forces a laugh that sounds like broken glass. "Why would you be worried? I'm fine. Just needed a mental health day, you know?"

Fine .

Right.

Because people who are fine always look like they've been hit by a truck. Jesse's hair is sticking up in seventeen different directions, his clothes are rumpled like he slept in them, and there are dark circles under his eyes that suggest he didn't sleep at all.

"You don't look fine."

"Gee, thanks. You really know how to make a guy feel special." He's still talking through that crack in the door, chain lock engaged like I'm some kind of threat. Which, considering last night, maybe I am.

"Can I come in?"

He hesitates, and for a moment I think he's going to say no. Then the door closes, the chain rattles, and it opens again fully.

"Sure. Yeah. Come in."

I step inside, and immediately understand why he was reluctant to let me see the place.

His apartment looks like a tornado hit it. Empty coffee cups everywhere, blankets thrown haphazardly across furniture, papers scattered on every surface. The air smells like too much caffeine and not enough sleep.

"Sorry about the mess," Jesse says, already moving around the space, gathering cups and straightening cushions. "I wasn't expecting company."

He's talking too fast. Moving too much. His hands shake slightly as he stacks mugs, and I count at least six empties just on the coffee table.

"How much coffee have you had?"

"Not enough, apparently." Another forced laugh. "Can I get you some? I've got a fresh pot going."

Of course he does.

I watch him bustle around the kitchen, all manic energy and desperate normalcy. He's performing for me, putting on a show that everything's fine when clearly nothing is fine.

"Jesse."

He doesn't stop moving. "I've also got some crackers somewhere. Or toast. Are you hungry? You look hungry."

"Jesse, stop."

"Stop what? I'm being a good host. That's what you do when someone drops by unexpectedly, right? Offer refreshments, make small talk—"

"Look at me."

He freezes mid-reach for another coffee cup, back still turned. His shoulders are rigid, defensive.

"Please."

Slowly, he turns around. The bright, manic smile is still plastered on his face, but his eyes are hollow. Haunted.

"There," he says. "I'm looking. Happy now?"

Not even close.

I take a step toward him, and he immediately starts moving again, wiping down counters that are already clean.

"So what brings you by? Checking up on me? Making sure I didn't..." The sentence dies unfinished, but we both know where it was heading.

"I was worried."

"Worried. Right." He's opening and closing cabinet doors now, aimless activity that serves no purpose except keeping him in motion. "Well, as you can see, I'm perfectly—"

"Don't."

Jesse's hand stills on a cabinet handle. For just a moment, the mask slips. Raw pain flickers across his features before the performance snaps back into place.

"Okay. I'm not perfectly fine. I'm having a rough day. But I'm handling it. I'm dealing with it. I'm—"

He stops talking.

Just stops, mid-sentence, like someone cut his power cord.

When he looks at me this time, something fundamental shifts in his expression. The manic energy transforms into something else entirely. Something focused.

The change is immediate and alarming.

"Austin."

"Yeah?"

Instead of answering, he crosses the kitchen. Three steps and he's right in front of me, close enough that I can smell coffee and soap.

His hands find my chest, palms flat against my shirt.

"I've been thinking about you all night."

His voice has dropped to that rough register that goes straight to my cock. When he presses closer, I feel myself responding despite every rational thought in my head.

"Jesse..."

He doesn't let me finish. His mouth finds my neck, lips hot and urgent against my skin. My hands move to his waist without conscious permission, pulling him closer.

This is wrong. I know it's wrong. He's emotional, vulnerable, not thinking clearly.

But Christ, his mouth feels good.

"I want you," he breathes against my throat. "Right now. Need you."

His hands slide under my shirt, fingertips tracing the muscles of my back. Every touch sends electricity through my nervous system, making rational thought increasingly difficult.

"We should talk first—"

"No talking." His mouth moves up to my ear, tongue flicking against the lobe. "Just this."

He's pressing me back against the counter now, his body flush against mine.

His hands find my belt, fingers working the buckle with surprising efficiency.

"Jesse, wait—"

"Don't wait." The buckle comes free. "Don't think. Just let me..."

He pops the button, slides the zipper down. His palm presses against my cock through my boxers, and I actually groan.

"That's it," he whispers. "That's what I want to hear."

Before I can process what's happening, he's dropping to his knees. Right there in his kitchen, hands reaching for the waistband of my boxers.

My brain shorts out completely.

Jesse on his knees in front of me, looking up with those green eyes dark with want, his fingers hooking into my underwear—it's every fantasy I've ever had and several I haven't.

"Let me take care of you."

His hand presses against my cock through the fabric of my boxers, and I have to grip the counter to keep from falling over.

"Fuck, Jesse."

He massages me through the cotton, his palm working up and down my length.

His other hand finds my thigh, gripping tight as he continues working me through the fabric. I can feel myself leaking, the cotton growing damp under his ministrations.

But something's wrong.

The realization cuts through my arousal like ice water. Jesse's hands are shaking worse now, trembling against my thighs. His breathing is too fast, too shallow. When I look down at his face, I see desperation instead of desire.

Raw, aching desperation.

Like he's drowning and thinks my cock is a life preserver.

"Jesse." I catch his face in my hands, forcing him to look up at me. "Stop."

"No." His voice cracks. "Please. Let me. Let me fix this."

And there it is.

The truth behind the performance.

He's not doing this because he wants me. He's doing this because he thinks he owes me. Because he's trying to pay some debt he thinks he can settle with his mouth.

"This isn't how you fix it."