Page 12 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

"I've lied to families about their missing sons. Coerced people who trusted my choices that put them in danger. I've used the identities of people who never knew what they were part of. And I remember it all. That makes me a dangerous witness."

Each confession peeled off a layer of armor, leaving me more exposed. "There are things I've been part of that would make you sick if you knew the details."

"Probably." Matthew nodded. "Doesn't mean you deserve to die for them."

He paused, just long enough for the silence to settle.

"And forgiveness—it matters. Especially when you didn’t fully understand what you were part of."

I’d braced for judgment and revulsion. Instead, he sat beside me like my past was merely another injury that needed tending.

Like he’d seen wounds before that didn’t make a man unlovable.

"You don't understand. The things I've done—"

"I understand enough." His thumb brushed across my knee again. "You were in an impossible situation, making impossible choices. That doesn't make you a monster."

"How can you know that?"

"Because monsters don't break down when they try to tell the truth."

The words settled into my bones like missing pieces finally sliding into place. I stared down at Matthew's hand resting against my knee, a simple point of contact that had somehow made confession possible.

"I've never told anyone that before. Any of it."

"I'm glad you told me."

For the first time in years, someone knew the worst of what I'd done and hadn't walked away. Matthew's thumb moved in a small circle against my knee, barely perceptible. "How does it feel? To say it out loud?"

I considered the question seriously. "Terrifying. And..." I searched for the right word. "Lighter, somehow."

"Good."

We sat quietly, his hand steady against my leg while I processed what had just happened. I'd expected disgust and rejection, plus demands for more details. Instead, I'd found acceptance without conditions.

Matthew shifted slightly, and his touch moved with him—palm sliding higher, thumb following the worn seam along my thigh. The movement was slow, giving me time to object.

I didn't want to object.

"This." I looked down at where his hand rested. "I don't know how to do this part either."

"What part?"

"The wanting."

Matthew turned toward me and raised his free hand, resting his palm under my chin. I resisted the instinct to pull back. In my experience, too often gentle caresses were a prelude to violence.

My body's needs overrode my brain, and I leaned into him. His thumb traced the sharp ridge of my cheekbone.

His other hand rose from my knee, reaching toward the other side of my face while his thumb explored the dark hollow beneath my eye.

"Is this okay?"

I nodded, but it didn't feel like enough, so I added, "Yes."

When his lips met mine, it wasn't a shock like the first time. I responded by letting his tongue slip inside while I reached out to touch his chest.

Matthew's tongue flicked against mine, and a soft moan from him escaped into my mouth. It wasn't rushed. It was methodical and intimate.

He settled his hands on my shoulders, his fingers spreading along my collarbones before traveling down my arms. "You're shaking," he observed, whispering against my mouth.

He was right. I'd started to tremble again.

"Good shaking or bad shaking?" Matthew asked, pulling back just enough to study my face.

"I don't know." It was an honest statement. "Both, maybe."

Matthew's thumb traced my lower lip, still slick from our kiss. "We can stop. Anytime."

"I don't want to stop. I just—I need you to know that I don't know what I'm doing. Not with this."

"This?"

I glanced toward the hands on my arms. "Being wanted without expecting something in return."

"You don't have to perform anything. Not for me and not because you think you're obligated."

"That's not—" I stopped, frustrated by my inability to articulate what was happening inside. "I want this. You. I don't know how to want it without expecting it to vanish."

"It doesn't have to vanish."

"Everything vanishes."

Matthew leaned forward and kissed me again. "Maybe, but not tonight."

I poured months of loneliness into the kiss. He matched my urgency, wrapped his arms around my waist, and pulled me closer until we had no space.

"Your room?" I surprised myself with my direct question.

He didn't respond in words. He stood and extended his hand. I accepted it, letting him guide me to my feet and toward the bedroom doorway.

At the entrance, I paused, looking back at the living room where we'd shared meals, conversations, and the gradual, delicate process of learning to trust each other.

"Second thoughts?" Matthew asked.

"No, just recognizing that everything changes after this."

"Yeah, it does."

Matthew's bedroom was sparse like the rest of his apartment—a queen bed with a simple wooden frame matched with a dresser with clean lines.

Blackout curtains blocked the city's ambient glow.

The only personal item was a single photograph on the nightstand: four teenagers on a beach, grinning, with an older man and woman—Matthew's family.

He guided me to the edge of the bed before stepping back slightly, giving me space to breathe. He sat beside me. "We can just sleep, if you'd rather."

"I don't want to just sleep." A statement of brutal honesty.

Matthew reached for the hem of his shirt. He pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, revealing the broad chest and muscled shoulders I'd glimpsed while he'd tended my wounds. A pale scar bisected his left pec.

It was my turn. I gripped the bottom of my borrowed shirt and then hesitated.

"Hey." Matthew's voice drew my attention. "Whatever you're thinking, stop."

"You don't know what I'm thinking."

"You're considering every mark on your skin, wondering what I'll think when I see them." He reached out and covered my knuckles where they gripped the shirt's hem. "I've already seen them. They don't change anything."

I lifted the shirt slowly, peeling it away from my bandages and healing tissue. The cool air raised goosebumps along my ribs, but Matthew's eyes didn't linger on the damage. He concentrated on capturing my gaze.

He encouraged me to make the next move. "Your turn to touch."

I placed my palm against his smooth chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath his warm skin. I let my fingers start to roam across muscle and bone.

When my thumb rubbed his scar, Matthew bit his lip. "Afghanistan?" I asked.

"IED. Same blast that killed Farid—or that I thought killed him." His hand covered mine, pressing my palm more firmly against his chest. "Piece of shrapnel missed my heart by maybe two inches."

I leaned forward and kissed the raised tissue, tasting salt and the faint residue of shower soap. Matthew's sharp intake of breath encouraged me to continue, to map his flesh with my mouth instead of only my eyes.

He kneaded my shoulders with his powerful hands. When they drifted lower, tracing the edge of my bandages, I stiffened involuntarily. He asked, "What do you need?"

"I need—" I swallowed hard, searching for words. "I need you to keep caressing and stroking me. But slowly. Like you have time."

"I have all the time you want."

His hands resumed their exploration, palms sliding down my sides. When he reached the waistband of my jeans, he paused, fingers resting against the metal button.

I answered the question before he could ask it. "Yes."

The denim whispered against my legs as he worked it down my hips, his knuckles brushing against newly exposed skin. I stepped out of the fabric, standing before him in only the boxer briefs I'd borrowed from his drawer.

Matthew's gaze traveled the length of my body, not appraising or judging, but witnessing. I fought the urge to cover myself and hide the evidence of what I'd endured. My arms began to cross over my chest before Matthew's hands caught them, fingers circling my wrists.

"I want to see all of you." He guided my arms back to my sides and stepped closer until our bodies nearly touched. "Can I?" His fingers hooked in the elastic of my underwear.

I nodded. My throat was too tight to allow words.

The last barrier disappeared, leaving me completely exposed in his small bedroom. Vulnerable in a way I'd trained myself never to be. I saw only reverence in Matthew's expression, as if I were something precious rather than damaged.

He shed his remaining clothes with efficient movements. He joined me on the bed, settling beside me rather than over me. "Tell me what feels good." He leaned in to press his lips against the sensitive skin below my ear.

"I don't—I'm not sure I know."

"Then let's figure it out."

Matthew's mouth moved lower, tracing the column of my throat with gentle pressure. When he found the spot where my pulse beat against thin skin, I gasped.

"That. That feels—"

"Good?"

"Different. New. I know it matters that it's you."

Matthew lifted his head to look at me. "It does matter. It matters to me that it's you, too."

His fingers found the sensitive skin of my inner wrist, and I arched toward him unconsciously. As he traced the sharp jut of my hip bone, I heard myself make a sound I didn't recognize.

"You're responsive."

"Is that—good?"

"It's honest. I like honesty."

He kissed me again, deeper this time, while his hands continued to explore. When he pressed kisses along my collarbone and down my chest, I gripped the sheets beneath me.

A partial confession escaped. "This is the first time."

Matthew paused, his lips resting against a nipple. "First time?"

"That it's ever felt like mine. My body. My choice. Mine."

I reached for him then, pulling him down until our mouths met again, and our bodies aligned. Matthew's hand slid down, trailing along the hollow of my stomach, and then he curled his fingers around my cock shaft.

The contact was electric—shocking, almost, not in its novelty but in how right it felt. I wanted to hide and shrink from the sudden rush of heat and self-consciousness, but he kept his eyes on me, intent and unwavering.

He ran his thumb up the shaft, slowly tracing the ridge. My hands, unsure at first, found their way to him, and I mimicked the gesture, exploring how his uncut skin moved over his head and peeled back. We both breathed shallow and fast briefly, eyelids fluttering at the sensation.

Matthew set the rhythm. He guided my hand with his, a wordless lesson in what he liked, how tight to grip, and how to twist at the head.

He kissed me, open-mouthed and hungry, and we tangled together, thighs and torsos pressed together, cocks sliding against each other in a wet, slick heat. I lost track of whose hand was where. Our lips, tongue, and fists blurred sensations, while the ache in my groin grew.

The tension inside me snapped first—I gasped, shuddered, every nerve ending firing at once as I spilled cum over his hand. He held me through it, not letting go, stroking me gently as the spasms faded, until I could breathe again.

Matthew smiled, sticky-handed, and kissed my shoulder. "Still okay?"

"Yeah," I rasped. "Better than okay."

"Good."

I lay on my side, propped on my elbow, as Matthew stroked himself—his eyes half-lidded, mouth slack as he brought himself to the edge and then over. He erupted across his stomach, his chest arching, and a soft moan escaping him.

He wiped his hand on the sheet, then reached for me, dragging me into the mess of his embrace.

I rested my face in the crook of his neck and breathed, letting the salt and heat of our bodies ground me.

We lay breathing hard, skin slick with sweat, the apartment reduced to this narrow bed and shared heat.

We stayed like that for a while, tangled and quiet. I didn't know if it was what people called afterglow, but it felt whole, somehow—more complete than anything I'd known before.

Eventually, Matthew shifted position, kissing my forehead. "You hungry?"

"Starving."

Outside, the city continued its restless movements, but inside Matthew's bedroom, time froze. I let myself sink deeper into the unfamiliar luxury of choosing to stay and wanting to be exactly where I was.

Maybe staying didn't always mean surrender. Perhaps sometimes it could be the bravest choice of all.