Page 94 of Catcher's Lock

“Let’s skip the third-act breakup.”

I can definitely get on board with that.

“Deal.”

31

Boyfriend

Josha

Age 24 (Now)

Today is already different.

Zombie’s morning rumble comes from someplace to my left, and the warm weight on my chest is a muscled arm, not the troublesome furball. When I turn my head, soft stubble tickles my jaw, and full, parted lips leak drool on my shoulder.

Therightnessof it is overwhelming.

I skim my fingers down his spine, midnight memories percolating from the shroud of sleep. God, he was a beautiful disaster last night. And the way he coated my cock and clenched around my finger and the plug when he came…

It should have been my dick inside him.

I don’t know why I didn’t fuck him, when he was practically begging for it. I’ve dreamed about it for so long there’s something momentous and terrifying about taking that final leap. But in the pale green morning light, my fears feel far away, lulledby his nearness and the sleepy, youthful tangle of his limbs.

My brain might insist it’s been less than a week, but my heart wants to believe he’s always been mine.

My body doesn’t give a fuck—all it knows isyes.

I bet his sweet hole is still slippery and pliable from the toy. I bet I could roll him over and slide right in—fuck him to wakefulness like he did to me a few hours ago. I doubt he’d mind.

But he’s barely slept the last few nights, and I’m loath to disturb his peaceful slumber, even as my dick strains against the sheet. Besides, our first time should be unforgettable, and I want to watch his face when I finally sink inside him.

When.

Notif.

Not only in my secret dreams.

I can wait forwhen.

If I stay in bed, I’m going to lose the battle with my better nature, though. Carefully extracting myself from his embrace, I force myself to get up, take a shower, and make breakfast. The huckleberries are starting to ripen, so I kill some time picking and cleaning a couple of handfuls to add to the pancake batter. I slide a sheet pan of bacon into the oven and brew coffee and flip pancakes while the kitchen fills with classic breakfast aromas.

When I carry the makeshift tray—another sheet pan draped with a dish towel—into the bedroom, I catch Gem emerging from the bathroom, wearing nothing but his ink.

“Get back in bed,” I say, holding up my offering. “I’m being romantic.”

“What time is it?” he asks, slipping back between the sheets to sit cross-legged with his back against the pillows.

“Almost eleven.” After handing over the tray, I climb up to settle on top of the covers, facing him so we can share.

“Shit. Why didn’t you wake me up? Shouldn’t you be at the lot by now?”

“Probably.”

“You didn’t trust me alone?” His wry, lopsided grin makes my heart ache.

“That’s not it,” I protest with a shake of my head.Not all of it.