Page 35

“No.” George slapped my hand as I tried to sneak another slice of bread from the pan he was using on the stove to toast it. I’d already snuck two slices from it. The first one had been because I wanted to see what he’d do. The second had been because seeing his “grimple” this early in the morning was an absolute treat.

I reached again, slowly—then dropped my hand when he outright glared.

“ Alex .” George huffed at me, his cute scowl made the balloon in my chest expand once again. I leaned against the counter at his side, far enough from the flames not to get scolded.

“Can I help?” I offered, even though I was pretty sure I’d ruin anything I touched.

“No.” George’s brows were furrowed as he glowered into the pan of eggs he was scrambling. “If you help, you’re only going to steal more food and spoil your breakfast. ”

He’d somehow…miraculously found ingredients in my fridge to make a classic American fry up. Hash browns, buttery toast, eggs, and sausage. All sizzling on different burners. Like he was that muppet—with the zillions of arms—he managed to flip and stir and scowl every food item into submission.

“Are you?—”

“Stop asking.” George grumbled to himself, something about me and my “sneaky, greedy hands” and “nibbling problem”.

“What if I promise not to steal food from the pans?”

George paused, his angry stirring halting as he considered. Then he shook his head. “No,” he said, softer this time. “I’ve got it covered.”

His back looked lonely, despite being drowned in a borrowed t-shirt from my closet and nothing more. It hung past his cock, and I was half-tempted to yank it up so I could see what was mine beneath it. But I didn’t. Instead, I latched on to his back like an overgrown barnacle, hands at his hips.

“This okay?” I confirmed, lips finding his nape—my favorite place to sate my “nibbling problem”. “Not too distracting?”

“Is this your version of offering moral support?” George’s response was dry.

“Maybe?” I squeezed his hips, unfairly turned on by how good he felt like this. Domestic. Like this was our everyday life—and not just a blip in the monotony of my world. A single bright, delightful moment.

I ran my fingers along his hip bones, tracing them beneath the fabric before enveloping him in a tight hug, my teeth sinking into the meat of his shoulder. “Or maybe…” I murmured after releasing him from my bite, tongue soothing the sting. “Maybe I just want to hold you.”

Way too fucking close to the truth, Alex, Jesus.

“Oh.” George’s ears flushed and I had no doubt his cheeks were an even ruddier pink. I grinned, hiding against his nape again.

“Maybe I…love holding you.”

You are playing with fire.

“ Alex .” George’s voice quaked .

I didn’t know what that tone meant. It was certainly needy. A plea. Maybe it meant that he needed me to sink to my knees, pull his ass cheeks open and—no. No . He was cooking. With flames. Flames that could hurt him—and he’d already been burned once this week. Distracting him, even with my tongue in his ass, was dangerous. Later . Later I’d eat him out till he cried, one long leg anchored on the counter, my t-shirt shoved up his back.

Except…

Would I?

We only had a few hours before we were due to pick up my dad for Juniper’s rehearsal. And then tomorrow was her wedding—and then…George would be flying back home to New York where he belonged.

I had just over a day left with him at best.

The thought was sobering.

And I didn’t…I didn’t know what to do with it.

Every time I acknowledged it, my chest began to squeeze. So tight I couldn’t breathe. So tight I couldn’t?—

It was better not to think about it.

Definitely better.

I needed to survive this—and at this point, I wasn’t sure I would.

“Breakfast is done.” George’s voice shocked me out of my reverie. I pulled my lips back, amused—and unsurprised—when I realized that in my distraction I’d left a rather dark hickey. My body was apparently as possessive as my thoughts, even subconsciously. George’s whole neck was covered in a myriad of bruises that he’d never attempted to conceal. A painting of our love affair written in varying shades of purple on his sunburnt skin.

These would last longer than our relationship.

Stop it, Alex.

Stop it.

George’s lack of shame was uncharacteristic.

I think…maybe he was proud of them. Or—maybe…just maybe he was as relu ctant to let go of signs of us as I was.

“Hell yes.” I pulled away. Silently, I gathered two dinner plates and tried to ignore the elephant in the room—the timer ticking above our heads. George ignored it too. His focus was aimed at piling our plates high with the prettiest damn breakfast I’d ever seen. George had been modest when he’d talked about his culinary skills. This was a fucking masterpiece.

The smell was almost as good as the presentation, if that was any indicator of taste? I was so screwed. I’d probably ask him to marry me again. Like an idiot. Luckily for me, he’d thought I was joking before—when I really…embarrassingly…had not been.

“I like your kitchen,” George said, as he plopped a few sausages on my tray. “It’s nice. I like…your whole…um—house.”

“I’m glad.” My heart fluttered. I raised my voice and asked Alexa to turn on my show tunes playlist. Immediately, music filled the room, overtaking the silence.

George flashed me a smile, a private smile. So small I knew it was honest. A smile that was meant for me.

I kissed his shoulder and took the plates, bringing them to the dining room table I’d only ever used for work. When I pulled his chair out for him, he arched a judgy brow my way but otherwise didn’t complain. He simply slipped primly into his seat and dug in.

Sweet baby was hungry, apparently.

His bitty little bites had morphed into something more normal-people-sized. Maybe because he was more comfortable here. With me. A lot had changed since the day I’d taken him to the diner. It felt like a lifetime had passed.

I groaned when I took my first bite, fist smacking the table in appreciation. George’s nose scrunched like he was annoyed by the theatrics, even though his eyes said otherwise.

They said, thank you for letting me take care of you.

They said, thank you for not thinking I’m too much .

“You’re an idiot,” he teased, looking way too pleased with himself. “Do you really like it that much?”

“’Course I do. You made it.” I stabbed a bite of buttery egg and wagged it at him. “I love everything you make.” The friendship bracelet on my wrist dangled, proving the truth of the statement.

George cleared his throat, his cheeks flushed once again, betraying him. His lips pressed into a flat line that was more smile than scowl as he shrugged. “Okay.”

That was it.

Okay.

No snarky comment. No denial.

Only…simple acceptance.

George dried the dishes while I scrubbed. He was meticulous about it, holding each dish up for inspection, hunting for stray water droplets. When he found them he’d squint and scrub each drop to submission before he set them to the side on the drying rack. There was something so seriously adorable about how seriously he took such a basic task.

When I’d finished washing the last dish—and boy, did I need to put some elbow grease into that bad boy—I pulled the plug and let the dirty-soapy water drain. Glugging away, the suds sucked down the pipe while I turned the faucet on.

It was so sickeningly, wonderfully domestic I could hardly breathe.

And the companionable silence was a double-edged sword. Because I could not fucking stop thinking about what he’d done for me yesterday—or what he’d said to me about the masks I wore.

I needed a distraction.

Stat .

After cleaning my hands, I playfully flicked some water George’s way. He flinched, set the pan he was drying down, and swiveled to glower at me.

“Did you just splash me?” George sounded as indignant as he was surprised. Like he simply could not fathom the fact I’d do something so terribly horrible as flicking water at him. Jesus Christ, he was such a cat.

“So what if I did?” I teased, flicking water at him again. “What are you gonna do about it?” It was a challenge, as much as it was a taunt.

He looked so adorably offended, I simply couldn’t help myself. I was, however, not prepared for George’s response. Because he grabbed one of the freshly cleaned spatulas from the counter, raised it above his head—and with an evil glint in his lovely, dark blue gaze, began to beat my back mercilessly.

“Ah!” I gasped, batting him away to no avail. It didn’t hurt. More of a tickle, than anything. The damn thing was plastic, after all. But still. As the sweet crooning of the music on the speakers morphed into something more upbeat, George’s smacking began to match its rhythm.

A metronome of rage.

“Splash me again, motherfucker,” George aimed the spatula at my ass. “See what happens.” Smack, smack. He wanted to see it jiggle, the little slut. I choked on a chuckle that quickly evolved into full-blown guffaws. Skidding away from the never-ending barrage on socked feet, I barely managed to avoid another swing.

George was not deterred.

In fact, my fleeing only seemed to egg him on.

Rather than stop and concede defeat, he gave chase.

What George lacked in athleticism he made up with sheer force of will.

His socked feet skidded on the tile as he stalked me around the center island, spatula raised threateningly. His lean chest heaved with every breath. When he finally caught up to me—I maybe-possibly had intentionally slowed enough to allow him close—he whacked my ass again. A maniacal giggle escaped his mouth, eyes gleaming with mischief as I scurried away and he chased me around the island for a second time.

Five smacks to the ass—that was the price I paid to get my hands under the faucet again. The second my “ammo” had been “loaded”, I began flicking my fingers at George with vengeance.

“You sneaky little shit!” I cackled, flick, flick, flicking away. Pretending like I hadn’t let him catch me because it was more fun that way. “Take that!”

“Gah!” George’s spatula smacked at my chest in retaliation, because of course it did—kinky fucker liked my tits. “Fuck you! You giant titty-ass bitch.”

Flick, flick, flick.

“Giant titty-ass bitch?” I echoed, amused. Was that his idea of an insult? Cute.

I loaded up on more water?—

George abandoned the fight and scrambled away, water droplets slipping down his cheeks and chin, and dotting the collar of his borrowed shirt. Apparently, it was my turn to chase now. Laughing all the way, I stalked after him, dripping fingers wriggling.

“Fucker—” George hissed, slip-sliding on the tile. He bonked into the corner of the counter, a pained hiss escaping.

“Are you okay?” My smile faltered.

“I’m fine!” He grabbed a dish towel and launched it at me, instigating the chase once again.

Around and around and around we went. We made a detour into the living room for a time, scrambling up and over the couch—before returning to the kitchen to finish our battle where it had started. By that point, the water on my hands had long since dried, and my only goal was capturing my wriggling, giggling blond.

My heart was pounding for more than one reason by the time I found success.

“Got you!” I caught George by the hips. His body was quaking with glee—and these snort-y giggles shook his entire chest. They were as endearing as they were attractive. Imperfect in the most wonderful way. Eager to taste his snorts for myself, I yanked him through the air and up onto the kitchen island with a grunt. My hands slid across his cheeks and into his wavy golden hair, holding him captive while I pulled him into a ravenous, lingering kiss.

George tasted like sunshine, happiness, and peace.

Like someone who cared too much, who loved too hard, who needed to be accepted just as he was. He tasted like the kind of solid, loyal love I’d stop believing in—like short-shorts in the summer, shared pleasure, and domesticity.

Suffice to say, he tasted amazing.

So amazing my goddamn toes curled, the heat in between my legs simmering, then climbing high, wrapping tight around my dancing heart.

George’s giggles softened, the heavy bursts of his breath growing quiet as he moaned into the kiss. Delightfully strong fingers curled in the back of my matching t-shirt, tugging me closer. His heels dug into the back of my thighs. I growled. Deeper, deeper, I licked, unable to get enough of him.

We didn’t stop kissing.

Not when I yanked him into my arms. Not when I walked us up the stairs to my bedroom. Not when I laid him down on the sheets, crawling between the sprawl of his long, bare legs—the place that had quickly become my personal slice of heaven.

There was no need for foreplay.

No drive to play the games we both normally enjoyed.

Without anything to hide behind there was nothing but raw need between us. A mutual desperation to get as close as two people could possibly get. To be bare with no walls or obstacles in our way.

The lube was close, which was a relief, because even the brief separation from George’s pouty mouth felt too long.

Too long to be away from him.

George was fully naked when I returned from gathering lube in the nightstand. I settled back inside the space between his legs. His t-shirt had been tossed haphazardly at the end of the bed along with the too-large boxer briefs he’d borrowed.

His hands were demanding when I leaned into his space, lube bottle in hand. He wasted no time yanking my shirt over my head, and my underwear down my legs so that we matched, skin against skin.

Once more, with enthusiasm, he parted those lovely legs for me—welcoming my touch. I pressed into him, an undeniable sense of rightness settling over me as our hips slotted together. George’s hole was fluttery and inviting as I stretched him with lubed fingers, sipping kisses from his lips with open desire.

“Enough,” George murmured a few minutes later, voice vibrating with need. “It’s enough. I need?—”

“Me too.” I scrambled to do as I was told.

When I finally pushed my dick inside, he gasped. That was it. A simple, glorious gasp. A gasp I tasted—along with the butter from our breakfast. It wasn’t perfect by any means. We were still sleepy and sex-rumpled from the night before. Sweat-damp from our impromptu battle with dark circles beneath our eyes. I wasn’t the perfect male specimen I always attempted to project myself to be.

I wasn’t a son.

Wasn’t a brother.

Wasn’t a wallet.

Wasn’t wearing a mask.

Wasn’t pretending to be someone else—simply because I needed to.

Wasn’t scrambling to fit in, or stick out, or please—or perform.

My barricades demolished, all that was left was…me.

Alex.

Sweaty, imperfect , needy Alex.

And George still wanted me.

George who was—who was everything I’d written off as a fantasy .

Welcoming, warm, and icy when necessary. He invited me behind his walls, not because they weren’t important, but because he trusted me not to betray him. He welcomed me into his body like it was a privilege to have me there. Like he wanted me as desperately as I wanted him. Like our need for one another was equal.

And as I filled him, my heart filled as well.

I’d never understood when people called fucking “making love.” It seemed like such a silly, cheesy, stupid term. I’d had enough relationships to know that it was a myth, right along with love at first sight. Experience had taught me my lofty dreams of the romantic were naive and ridiculous. I’d written off the term entirely.

And yet…now I was a believer.

Because as George and I shared breath. As our two became one, as I held and cherished and caressed him. As his nails raked down my back, heels at my hamstrings, I could acknowledge that this …this was not “fucking”.

It wasn’t.

As ridiculous-awful-fanciful-naive as that sounded.

And in that moment, we weren’t two star-crossed lovers, destined to part. We weren’t a summer fling. Weren’t “practice boyfriends”, a fond memory—something that would eventually fade into sepia, with disintegrating, well-loved edges.

Here and now, my world started and ended with Georgie.

My Georgie.

As we made love.

For what might be the only time.

And for the first time in almost a decade, I let myself be naive. I let the romantic in me awaken. I let the young man who’d been crushed by disappointment again and again break free from the walls where I’d shackled him.

For this one perfect morning, I let myself believe that there was nothing wrong with dreaming of happy endings.

The romantic in me could die tomorrow.

But today, I’d let him live.