Page 21 of Finding Gideon (Foggy Basin Season Two)

Gideon

It wasn’t the couch that moved, though God knew it wasn’t built for two men our size. It was Malcolm. A low, sleepy sigh, then the drag of his arm tightening over my waist like he’d decided I wasn’t going anywhere.

I wasn’t planning to.

We were folded into each other like a jigsaw puzzle someone forced into place—and yet somehow, it fit. One of his legs was wedged between mine. My forehead had ended up tucked under his jaw. I could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against my cheek, his breath warming my hair.

I should’ve been uncomfortable. I should’ve been stiff and aching and maybe a little self-conscious. But all I felt was... settled.

His hand moved again, fingers twitching once before smoothing over the small of my back. He was still half asleep, maybe dreaming, maybe not. But when his palm lingered there, something stirred behind my ribs.

Warmth rose low in my belly, a tide creeping in, pulled higher by the heat of his thigh against mine and the anchor of his presence.

Malcolm breathed out again, a whisper of air across my temple. His lips brushed my skin as he mumbled, “How the hell are we both over six feet and not dead?”

A laugh broke free before I could stop it. “You sure we’re not?”

He chuckled—low and rumbling, the sound curling between us. Then his hand slid higher, grazing bare skin where my shirt had ridden up. I sucked in a quiet breath.

His voice dipped, still rough from sleep. “This couch is trying to kill us.”

“Maybe. But it’s warm.”

“Only because you’re here.”

That slow tide inside me surged. My fingers flexed against his side, drawn without thought. Our faces were close enough that one small shift brought our mouths almost together.

He hesitated. Just enough to make it a choice.

I made it.

Our lips brushed, soft and tentative, then again, firmer. His hand curved around the back of my neck, guiding me closer. My fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt. We kissed like we had nowhere else to be, like the day could wait, like whatever was blooming between us didn’t need to be named yet.

Then our knees knocked, legs tangling in a way that made the whole thing awkward instead of heated. I pulled back with a breathless laugh; he let out a playful groan.

Malcolm pressed his forehead to mine, grinning. “Bed?”

I nodded. “Please.”

His hand found mine, fingers lacing tight. We moved as one, clumsy and quiet, navigating the short hallway like we were still half dreaming. By the time we reached his bedroom, I was wide awake in every way.

His room was dim, the blinds drawn, but I didn’t need to see clearly. I could feel everything I needed to in the way his hand tightened around mine as the door clicked shut behind us.

Malcolm paused by the edge of the bed like he wasn’t sure if he should let go.

I took a breath and stepped closer, resting my free hand on his chest.

“I want this,” I said, quietly but firmly. “I want you.”

He didn’t answer right away. His throat worked, and his thumb rubbed slow circles against my hand.

“Is this okay?” he asked, voice low.

“More than okay.”

That was enough. His other hand cupped the side of my face, thumb grazing my cheekbone. I leaned into the touch like it had been waiting for me. He kissed me again.

I let my fingers wander, slipping under the hem of his shirt, feeling warm skin and solid muscle. He inhaled sharply through his nose but didn’t stop me. He leaned into it, like he needed the contact as much as I did.

His shirt went first. I peeled it over his head, and he let me, arms raised, bare chest rising and falling once it was gone.

We undressed in pieces. Not in a rush, not for show. Just one layer at a time, each one revealing something we hadn’t known before. His skin against mine felt… right. Grounding. Like being pulled fully into the present.

When we were both down to boxers, I took him in—broad shoulders, a small scar near his ribs. All of him.

He hesitated again. His hand hovered near my hip, waiting.

“Still okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.” My voice came out stronger than I expected. “I want to keep going.”

His eyes warmed. “I want that too. We’ll go as far as you want, as long as you want. I’m just grateful to be here with you.”

My breath caught. God, how could words like that feel better than any touch? He had no idea the way his sincerity undid me.

His hands were warm, exploratory, mapping me with care. He watched every reaction I had—my breath hitching, my muscles tensing, the sounds I didn’t mean to make. Like it mattered . Like I mattered.

I touched him too, learning the shape of him, the texture of his skin, the way he arched slightly when I ran my fingers along his side.

The low, quiet sound he made when I kissed the hollow of his throat.

His breath came quicker when I traced a line down his stomach.

He whispered encouragements— that’s it, feels good, keep going —and each one settled deeper into my chest.

This wasn’t about what came next. It was about being . Close. Seen. Accepted.

Suddenly feeling emboldened,I hooked my thumbs in the waistband of his boxers. My breath stuttered, but I didn’t stop. The sound of fabric sliding down his legs seemed too loud in the quiet room.

And then—there he was.

It was the first time I’d ever seen another man like this, without a locker room’s quick glances or the blur of a changing stall. No filter. No distance. Just him, aroused and unashamed.

I felt my pulse slam in my throat, not from shock, but from the fact that I was the reason for this—him hard and leaking, his breathing gone uneven. Something low and heavy settled in my belly.

Malcolm’s eyes flicked to mine. “You going to stare all night, or…?”

A startled laugh escaped me, and I dragged my own boxers down. His gaze caught, held—like he was cataloging me the same way I had him. Not measuring. Just… seeing.

“Guess we’re both new to this,” I said, my voice rough.

“Guess so,” he murmured. His smile softened. “And I like what I’m seeing.”

I didn’t know what to do with the warmth that rose at that—part embarrassment, part pride—so I stepped closer until we were chest to chest, skin on skin. My own arousal brushed his, and my knees nearly buckled.

We made it to the bed in a tangle of limbs and muffled laughs, collapsing into the mattress with him above me. His weight settled, heavy in the best way, and when he rocked forward, every nerve in my body lit up.

Our bodies aligned like they’d been waiting for this—like they knew what to do before we did.

We moved together slowly, a gentle press of hips, the heat of skin meeting skin, dick meeting dick. I gasped—more from surprise than anything else. The friction was new, electric. But not overwhelming. Not too much. Just right .

Malcolm exhaled sharply against my neck, his breath hot and unsteady. My hand gripped his waist, anchoring us together as we found a rhythm.

It wasn’t about getting somewhere fast. It was about feeling . Nothing that we were doing in his king-sized bed was performative or choreographed. It was touch and heat and breath. It was us being us.

The rough drag of his dick against mine, the smooth slide of sweat-slicked skin, the way our bodies responded in real time—every shift, every stutter, every grind.

My fingers dug into his back, and he groaned, low and deep. The sound sent a jolt straight through me.

“Gideon,” he murmured, voice wrecked and reverent. “God…”

I clung to him, to the moment, to the sheer vulnerability of it. Our foreheads bumped, noses brushed, mouths finding each other in sloppy, breathless kisses as we moved.

His body was heavy and solid against mine. Mine was shaking. But not from fear. From want . From being so completely here, in this moment, with him .

It started low, a slow coil tightening with every shift of our hips. Movements grew rougher, hungrier—hips grinding harder, legs tangling, hands clutching at skin and fabric, pulling each other closer.

I felt him chasing it. Felt myself chasing it too. The world shrank to the slick slide of our bodies, the heat blooming between us, the sharp sound of his breath—and the helpless sounds spilling from me in answer.

The pace climbed, each shift and pull pushing us higher until there was nothing left but the rush, the thrum, the cresting edge we were both about to go over.

I came first, stars bursting behind my eyes, my entire body arching into his. My voice cracked on his name.

He followed, not a second later, with a hoarse cry muffled against my shoulder. His whole body shuddered, arms wrapped tight around me, holding me through it.

And then we stilled.

Our chests heaved, sweat cooling on our skin, the room filled with nothing but our breathing and the soft thud of his heart against mine.

He didn’t let go and neither did I.

I’d never felt more exposed in my life. Or safer.