Page 16

16

Atlas

Sometimes when I’m kissing Henri, I question whether or not he’s into it. He’s so careful and quiet, and not once has he gotten even semi-hard. If he didn’t tell me constantly, I’d honestly wonder whether he was attracted to me at all. But today, when I gave him one of the least filthy kisses I’ve given anyone, he’s suddenly half-hard and gasping against my mouth.

I tried to play it cool, but inside I was anything but. I feel like someone catapulted me into the ozone, dizzy and shaky as I float back down to Earth. I wasn’t kidding about eating him out or sucking his dick—right now, I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted anyone as badly as I want Henri Vasel.

We kiss in the kitchen while his bread thing cools off, and this time I decide to let my hands roam a bit. Cupping my palms around his neck, I scratch the pads of my thumbs over the stubble on his jaw for a few seconds. Sliding them down to his shoulders, I take a few moments to appreciate just how stacked this guy is. I cannot wait to get him naked one day.

“How do you feel about taking this shirt off?” I ask him, nibbling gently at his bottom lip and earning a lovely intake of breath.

“It is not safe to be unclothed in the kitchen,” he answers seriously. His hands are resting on my thighs, fingers spread wide to cover the most real estate. My dick is extremely aware of the location of those hands and the way he’s standing between my legs.

“Okay,” I allow, because he’s probably not wrong about that. “Do you want to go upstairs? To my room?”

He licks his lips, which is far more indecent than it has any right being. I half expect him to demure and say we need to finish baking first, but Henri surprises me by stepping back and holding out a hand to me.

“Yes,” he says firmly. Putting my palm into his, I hop off the counter. He doesn’t let go of my hand once my feet are on the floor, and I have to resist the urge to physically pull away. I don’t hold hands. Holding hands is something couples do.

Although I don’t usually snuggle on the couch, either. Or invite hook-ups over and let them bake for me. I don’t usually hook up with the same person more than once, and certainly not someone who won’t actually engage in the hooking-up part. I need to cut this off. I need to stop letting Henri’s soft accent and wavy hair turn me into an idiot.

But, not today. Today is the day before Christmas, and for once in my life I want to do something for no other reason than that it will make me happy. I want to not fear the future, or be miserable, for one fucking day. Today I want Henri. Tomorrow I’ll go back to reality.

I tug him up the stairs by the hand and lead him to my tiny room at the end of the hall. Reaching in and flicking on the light, I step aside and let his hand slide from mine as he enters and looks around. The room is barely bigger than the pantry in the kitchen, and with Henri’s wide shoulders and long legs taking up space, it feels even smaller.

“I like your room,” he says, turning to me and smiling.

Following him inside, I close the door behind me. We’re the only ones here and there’s no chance of my roommates coming home, but it feels strange to have the door standing open when I mean to have Henri naked within the next five minutes.

“Thanks.” I pat the wall I share with Nate. “Nate’s room is on the other side of this wall.”

“That is nice.” He thinks about it for a second. “Although, Nate does play his music quite loud.”

“That he does,” I agree. “Country, too. It’s hell on earth around here, some days.”

Checking that my cellphone is on silent, I set it on the dresser before sliding my sweatpants down and off. Leaving them in a heap on the floor, I tug my shirt off and drop it as well. I don’t look at Henri until I sit on the side of my mattress and face him, feeling more self-conscious than I ever have before. The “freshman fifteen” were more like twenty for me, and I can’t remember the last time I set foot in a gym. Soft would be a generous way to describe me.

I don’t say anything for a minute, and neither does Henri. He stands there, in the middle of my room, staring at me with an inscrutable expression on his face. Before the silence becomes too much, he bends over and pulls off his socks before tucking them into the pockets of his sweatpants. Grasping the hem of his shirt, he pulls it up over his head. I keep my eyes on him, watching each sliver of skin that comes into view and feeling heat curl in my chest. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him without a shirt on, but given I’m half-naked, it feels different.

“Jesus,” I mumble, looking at the light dusting of chest hair over his pecs. I hadn’t noticed that before—how did I not notice that before? I want to rub my face on it.

“No, only Henri,” he quips, and then grins as though waiting to see if I get the joke. My mouth is too dry to give more than a half-hearted chuckle, but it seems to please him because he starts pulling down his sweatpants.

When he finishes undressing and is standing in front of me in his boxers, I don’t know whether to send up a prayer of thanks or to cry. He’s devastating. In no universe should a guy who looks like that be interested in a guy like me. My brain is screaming so loudly at me that we are incompatible, I miss what he says.

“What?”

“I wonder if it would be okay for me to join you on the bed? I am a little embarrassed to have you staring at me,” he admits sheepishly. The admission makes me lose some of the tension I’d picked up as he undressed.

“Sure, yeah, of course.” He sits down next to me, thigh brushing mine, skin to skin. The contact obliterates my brain-to-mouth filter. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, though. You look like you were fucking airbrushed. I’ve seen Men’s Health cover models with less definition than you.”

“Thank you, Atlas. That is a nice thing to say, although a little strange.”

I laugh, bringing one knee up on the bed and turning to face him more directly. This means I’ve lost contact with his leg, so I rest my hand there instead. The brush of coarse hair against my palm is oddly sexy. I’ve always liked how soft and smooth girls’ skin was, but I can see why this has its merits. I’ve never been so glad to be bisexual than I am at this moment. He stares down at my hand, and I’m just wondering if he wants me to remove it when he puts his on top, completely dwarfing mine.

“Atlas,” he repeats. I honestly don’t know how I could ever have thought the way he said my name was annoying. He says it so often, and each time is like a little treat for my ears. Ah-tlas —it’s fucking sensual.

“Yeah?”

“I think you were probably making a joke earlier about the blowjob, but I would like to do that.” He trails his fingers gently over the prominent vein in my arm, stopping when he reaches my elbow.

“Okay, cool.” I grab my pillow and go to stand up, meaning to crouch down between his spread legs. I’ve never done this before, but I’m counting on years of porn, daydreams, and raw enthusiasm to help me. He stops me with a hand tight on my forearm.

“But I am not sure…”

“That’s okay,” I rush to say. “I’ve never done this before, either. Even playing field.”

He nods gratefully. The truth is, I wouldn’t say it’s a totally even playing field. He’s a virgin, and while I’ve never been with a guy before, I’ve had a lot of experience with women. Sex means nothing to me, and I know for a fact it will mean something to him. Looking down at the pillow still clutched in my hands, I toss it back to the bed.

“New plan. You lie down.” Bending over, I pat the head of the bed. It takes him a solid minute of staring at my hand before he decides to comply. Sliding back, he crosses his ankles and rests his hands on his stomach. He’s looking up at me as I’m staring down at him, and I feel another brick crumble away from my carefully built wall.

Shit.

Slowly, he raises one hand to trail his fingertips gently over my leg, just below the hem of my boxers. I want to climb onto the bed and get his dick into my mouth, but I can’t seem to move. His soft blue eyes are pinning me in place, tingles zipping across my skin in the wake of his fingers.

“You are so pretty,” he mutters, accent thicker than it was five minutes ago. “Like a sculpture.”

“So pale, I look like marble,” I say dryly.

“Do not joke, Atlas. I am being romantic,” he scolds. I snort a laugh, and move his hand away gently. Bending over, I rest my own fingers on the smooth skin just above the waistband of his boxers.

“Can I take these off?”

I never know just how carefully I need to tread with him. He’s painfully honest, so I don’t think he’d just lie there and let me do something to him that he didn’t like, but he’s also completely inexperienced. He doesn’t even like watching porn. The odds of him not knowing the steps of this process are pretty high.

“Yes. Thank you.”

I snort, tucking my fingers into the band and drawing the fabric down his legs. He lifts his hips to help, and I’m not proud of the way my mouth waters like I’m the Pavlov’s dog of dicks. My first view of him confirms that he’s just as perfect everywhere as his face suggests. Tossing his to the side, I pull my own boxers off and fling them behind me.

“Manscaper,” I note, planting a knee on the bed and rubbing my thumb over his hip bone. He huffs a laugh.

“It is the polite thing to do,” he tells me .

“Had this in mind, did you? Blowjobs and bread for the holidays?”

“You are too much,” he jokes, smiling widely. I look away, unable to face that much affection aimed in my direction.

I look back at where his dick is lying soft against his leg, any trace of earlier arousal gone. Leaning down, I kiss his stomach right above his belly button. Henri’s breath hitches, so I do it again. And again. When I reach his pecs, I put a hand on that patch of chest hair.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” I instruct firmly. “If you change your mind, or…or you decide you’re no longer in the mood, you have to let me know, okay?”

“I will,” he promises.

“All right. Cool. Don’t judge me on my dick-sucking prowess—I’m new here.”

He laughs, but cuts off sharply when I lean down and put my mouth on his neck, sucking gently.