Page 18

18

Atlas

Losing my mind wasn’t so much a gradual thing for me. Rather, it was a full-tilt sprint off the edge of a cliff. Agreeing to go on a date was my first strike, and from there the evening has only gotten worse and worse. Holding hands, sharing food, and smiling more than I can ever remember smiling in my life. Hell, we were damn near playing footsie underneath the table. I’ve loosened my grip so much, my control has been obliterated.

I don’t do this sort of thing. I don’t choose people when I know they’ll never choose me back. Love and pain go hand in hand—invite one inside, the other comes along. I bar the door to both and good riddance. I was doing fine before a big, goofy, floppy-haired German brought me an apple.

Now, Henri is driving us back to his dorm after I gave him a goddamn sob story about my family forgetting my birthday. I swear there is something wrong with me. I don’t need to pump the brakes so much as slam on them .

Henri drives us back to the dorms with a small smile on his face, and his fingers tangled with mine. The boundaries I worked so carefully to establish have been destroyed in a single evening, and I have no idea how to bring us back to stable ground. I’m not done with this—with Henri—and even though I know it’s a foolish mistake, I can’t help but let myself be a little selfish. I need to break things off, but it doesn’t have to be tonight. Tomorrow. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.

Once we’re parked in front of Henri’s dorm, we walk silently together up the stairs. When we get inside his room, I stop him from turning on the overhead light and instead click on the lamp he keeps on his desk. Turning around, I see Henri standing in the middle of his room, watching me.

I always let him lead when we’re together, mindful of how easy it would be to push him too far, too fast; to coerce him into doing something he’s not in the mood for, or doesn’t like. Regardless of the joke he told at the restaurant, we’ve only had our clothes off one time together. Mostly, he tends toward not being into it, and thankfully, he hasn’t yet had a problem telling me that.

Stepping close to him, and tilting my face upward to keep my eyes on his, I dip my fingers into the pocket of his khaki pants.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” he answers automatically.

“Can I touch you?” He nods. I jostle my hand that’s still tucked into his pocket, making it clear I’m talking about below the waist. “Here?”

“Yes.”

Already, my dick is chubbing up at the mere proximity of him and being in a room with a bed. It’s possible I’m a little bit of a slut for Henri Vasel. Glancing down, I notice he’s not having the same issue just yet. He rarely has a physical reaction when we’re kissing.

“I will do what you want me to do,” he whispers. I shake my head immediately. Blind obedience is the opposite of what I want.

“No, Henri, not that. Let’s just see where things go? If you aren’t feeling it, you’ll tell me and we’ll stop.”

He nods again and reaches up to the collar of his shirt to pull it off. I step back, letting him go through the motions of undressing and putting everything in its proper place. When I shed my own clothes, I leave them in a pile on his desk chair, figuring that’s a middle ground between his own neurotic cleanliness and my more casual kind.

Because he’s far more methodical about it, I’m undressed way before Henri. Crawling onto his bed, I tuck an arm behind my head and just watch him as I wait. The low lighting was a good call. It gives us just enough to see by, while also throwing shadows across every dip and curve on his body. And boy are there a lot.

Until now, I’d never given much thought to what my preferred type of guy might be. I’ve always known I was bisexual, but had never actually found myself in a position comfortable enough to act on it. Women, for me, were safe. Men, on the other hand, felt less so. Particularly as I am well below average height, and pretty weak after years lacking in physical fitness. Henri, with his wide shoulders and thick thighs, probably wouldn’t have been my first choice if I was just going off of body type alone. He’s too big, too strong—too much man.

But the reality of Henri is different. He’s tall and built, yes, but he’s also gentle and kind. Of all the options in the world, he is the safest.

“If your clothes are in a pile like this, they will get wrinkles,” he tells me, finally finished with undressing and walking over to join me naked on the bed. I glance over at my clothes, sitting on his desk chair.

“And what a tragedy that will be,” I respond dryly, eliciting a soft chuckle.

The bed creaks as he lies down next to me. At Christmas, Henri let me have my way with him; tonight, I want the same thing. Putting my palm flat on his chest, I carefully brush my hand over the smattering of hair across his pecs. Why that is so hot, I can’t even explain to myself. Henri’s heart beats a steady, slow rhythm beneath my palm—not a trace of nerves in sight.

I just touch him for a bit, slowly testing the waters and trying to tease reactions out of him. His hands stay flat on the bed, fingers clenching and unclenching steadily until I realize he’s waiting for permission.

“You can touch me,” I tell him. I should be annoyed at always having to provide approval, but mostly I find it endearing. I like that he waits for consent, instead of just assuming he’s got it.

“Oh, good,” he murmurs, and immediately reaches up to thread his long fingers through my hair.

I go back to what I was doing before: leaving my fingerprints on every inch of his body. When I move so that I’m situated above him, I lean down to kiss him slow. Heat simmers between us as Henri runs the tips of his fingers down my back, the light touch trailing shivers down my spine. We kiss until I feel the first stirring of Henri getting hard against me, and then kiss some more—a bit more urgently—as I wrap a gentle hand around him. Pulling my mouth away from his in case he wants to talk, I slide my lips across the scruff of his jaw and allow him a second to decide if he wants me to stop.

“Atlas,” he says, and I remove my hand from him immediately, sliding my palm up his stomach until I can rest it on his chest.

“Henri.”

I wait, face still resting alongside his, nose brushing his ear. His hands gently cup my ribs, before ghosting over my shoulder blades. He doesn’t say anything else, but I don’t immediately go back to jacking him off. Instead, I detour back to what I know he loves—kissing.

Slow as molasses, I move down his body, smiling when he brushes his fingers through my hair. He jolts when I lick his navel, my mouth having found its way down to his belly. I laugh against him.

“Ticklish,” I muse, peeking up at him through my lashes. He teases a hand through my hair again, fingers playing with the strands.

“Apparently so,” he agrees softly.

I glance up at him again. He doesn’t sound quite right. Sitting up, so that I’m kneeling next to his hip, I brush my hand over his hip bones and up to his chest. He looks at me and I raise an eyebrow at him, watching as his cheeks flush pink.

“I am sorry,” he tells me.

“What’s wrong?” I’d noticed he wasn’t getting hard, but that doesn’t mean much where he’s concerned. Unlike me, who can pop a boner practically on command.

“Nothing is wrong,” he says quickly. “I would like for you to enjoy yourself. ”

I frown at that. Not exactly the turn of phrase I was hoping for. It’s easy for me to enjoy myself having sex—I’m not worried about me. I want him to enjoy himself.

“Well, I don’t like that,” I muse. My hand is still on his stomach, so I give a few gentle strokes with my thumb, watching his face closely. He looks embarrassed, a little bit shy, and something else I can’t quite pinpoint

“I am sorry, Atlas,” he repeats. “But I do not think I want to do this.”

I yank my hand off him so fast, my wrist pops. He sits up, putting his face close enough to mine for me to finally figure out the expression: shame.

“You’re supposed to tell me that,” I hiss, feeling unreasonably angry all of a sudden. Jesus Christ, was he just going to lie there and let me have my way with him? I open my mouth to tell him I don’t want to fuck a sex doll, but snap my jaw closed just as fast. No. I need to remember who it is I’m with right now. He’s the king of people-pleasers, but he’s also honest. I’d been hoping the latter would trump everything else.

“It is your birthday,” he says, as though this is a valid explanation. I shake my head in mute disbelief.

“You promised to tell me if you wanted to stop,” I remind him.

“I did not mind! I like it when you touch me. I wanted you to do…” He flutters his fingers in the direction of his waist, apparently unable to put into words exactly which direction things had been headed. Maybe he didn’t even know, which gives me yet another thing to worry about. Ignoring that internal voice that wants to remind me this was a mistake, I slide a little closer to Henri and put a hand on his upraised knee .

He looks at me, a pair of curls catching on his eyelashes as he blinks. Discomfort sits heavy in my stomach—I hate this sort of thing. When I do hook-ups, they’re quick and dirty and there is none of this emotional shit. I don’t have to talk. Henri smiles, apparently happy with my silent scrutiny of his face, and reaches out to trace a finger under my eye.

“I am very fond of this,” he tells me softly. “The way you are looking like you’re wearing eye makeup.”

I blow out a hard breath. That’s the problem with hook-ups, though. None of those people are Henri. God, what have I done , I think sadly, trying once more to get rid of the gloom that constantly tries to pull me under.

“Shall we—perhaps maybe we could do a little more kissing,” he asks tentatively, fingertips stroking down my neck. “If you wish.”

I snort a laugh. He’s delusional if he thinks there is ever a time when I don’t want him. I’ve never been the kind of person who would forgo an orgasm in exchange for fucking kissing , and yet I’m happily going to agree to just that. Kissing Henri feels better than anything ever has.

“I am in so much damn trouble,” I mumble, before cutting off his reply with my lips.

Carefully, I put a hand to the center of his chest and press him back to the bed. He goes easily, automatically spreading his legs so I can fit myself against him. My dick, having softened during our intermission, begins to perk back up. You will not hump him , I tell myself firmly, as every brush of his skin against mine has my groin burning with unreleased pressure.

I slide my fingers into his hair, licking deep into his mouth like I’m trying to fuck him with my tongue. Henri, who’s always remarkably self-contained, groans so deeply in his chest I swear I can feel it in my bones. It feels like invisible fingers plucked a guitar string inside me, my body reverberating with the echoes.

By the time we stop, I feel almost lightheaded—floaty, as though the oxygen has all been sucked out of the room. Having a difficult time thinking around how painfully hard I am, I sit back on my heels. Henri drags his forearm across his eyes, muttering in German, before sitting up and reaching for me. He pulls me in by the back of my neck, pressing his mouth to mine in an almost frantic kiss. I splay my fingers across his abdomen, close my eyes, and try to let go of control.

“You good?” I ask, confident now that he won’t bullshit me after our earlier conversation.

“Yes,” he answers immediately, without pausing to think for once. Tightening his grip, he brings me in again for another kiss, this one soft and barely more than a brush of lips. I should pull away. I shouldn’t let this evening spin further out of control. But I’m so fucking tired of fighting this, and he’s right here, and he wants me. You can have this one thing , I think to myself.

“I need to use the bathroom,” I tell him, fisting my hands in the sheet to keep from reaching for my dick. I have never needed to come so badly as I do right now.

“Okay. But then you shall come back here, yes?” He pats the bed, eyes wide and beseeching. Say no, Atlas. You don’t spend the night with other people, I remind myself.

“Sure,” I agree, like the fool I apparently am. He smiles and watches as I slide off the bed. If he knows I’m going into the bathroom to jack off and not take a piss, he doesn’t let on.

I take care of myself in seconds, probably breaking land-speed records with how fast I come the moment I put a hand on my dick. Washing my hands, I splash a little water on my face as well, trying to cool myself off.

We switch off once I leave the bathroom, Henri brushing a hand across mine and smiling as he passes. I try to return it, but don’t manage more than a half-hearted grimace. My emotions are teetering unsteadily between happiness and doom, and the ongoing battle is exhausting.

Sitting back on the bed, I scrub my hands over my face. This isn’t a friends-who-fool-around situation any longer—it’s a relationship. I tried so hard to avoid one, I’d somehow missed all the signs and ended up in one by mistake. I’m unsure exactly how it happened, but I like Henri Vasel. I fucking like him. I like his cute, floppy hair, and his adorable accent. I like the way he talks like an actor in a period drama, and how selfless he is. Most of all, I like the way he likes me back: genuine and unconditionally. Despite all my efforts to push him away, here he is. I can’t even pretend I’m not happy about it.

But I am worried.

I’m worried about when he inevitably decides this is too much work; when he finds someone worthy of him. Because that is the crux of the matter—I’m just not good enough for someone like Henri Vasel. He deserves better than the scraps of affection I’m able to pluck out of my loveless heart. I have never been—nor will I ever be—someone’s first choice. He’s going to break my fucking heart, and because I knew better, it’ll be nobody’s fault but my own.

He walks back into the room and I jolt, shaking my head and trying to bring myself back. Right now is not the time for an existential crisis about my inability to love or accept love in return. Not when Henri is looking at me like that: blue eyes soft and warm, a pleased smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he crawls in beside me and kisses my bare shoulder. Again, my entire body thrums with pleasure. I’m a tuning fork vibrating at his frequency.

“Hello, B?rchen,” he says, and my stomach swoops dangerously.

“Hey,” I whisper back.

“I am thinking you should stay here this night,” he tells me. “It is too late, and too cold to be going back outside, yes?”

Snorting, I slide down in the bed until I’m lying flat and pull the sheets up around me. Watching me burrow in, Henri’s eyes light up and he does the same—tucking himself in and reaching over to fit the sheet more firmly around me. Again, my stomach performs an acrobatic maneuver. I want to tell him not to do things like that—not to treat me so tenderly—while at the same time being desperate for it to continue.

We end up on our sides, facing each other with as much distance between us as the small bed will allow. The lamp is still on behind Henri, sending shadows slashing across his angular face. Not even the dramatic lighting could disguise how happy he looks, though, eyes bright and face crinkled as he smiles helplessly at me. Relaxing down into his pillow, I smile back, but can’t seem to hold on to it. I feel impossibly sad, all of a sudden. Dragged under by the weight of inevitable heartbreak.

“We’re going to hurt each other, Henri,” I tell him quietly. “This isn’t going to work.”

He ponders that for a moment, fingers gently tracing the line of my collarbone. “You might be right, but you might also be wrong, yes? Sometimes, things work out.”

“Not for me.”

Another pause, this one going on so long that I doubt he’s going to reply at all. He’s still touching me, almost mimicking the way I did earlier to him. Reaching out, I thread my fingers into his thick, wavy hair and slide my hand along his scalp. His hair, where it falls over his forehead, has a curl to it. I play with the strands for a second, enjoying the way the curl holds its shape, before sliding my fingers back along his scalp. Soft and lemon-scented—two things I will now always associate with Henri.

He sighs, eyelids fluttering closed as I knead gently at his scalp. I keep at it, enjoying the way he just melted into the mattress at the touch. If he were a cat, he’d be arching his back and purring.

“You are happy now?” he asks quietly.

I should lie to him. Crack a joke. I’m only setting myself up for pain if I tell the truth now. I pause.

“Yes,” I whisper back. His eyes open. I circle my thumb in the soft hair behind his ear.

“Perhaps it is your turn to be happy, after so many years of sad.”

“I wasn’t sad,” I argue, but the words are flat and hold no weight. It’s exhausting, keeping my elbows locked and feet planted; everyone held at arm’s length. I almost laugh as Luke’s words from months ago float unbidden to the forefront of my mind: I didn’t go looking for a relationship, but one found me anyway. Apparently, Luke owes me an “I told you so.”

“Maybe a little bit sad,” Henri teases, scooting a little closer and leaning his head into my touch. I knead a little harder, rubbing at his scalp and eliciting a small groan. “But now you are happy, because you have me.”

“Jesus—kiss one man and suddenly you’re full of yourself, huh?” He laughs, his face close enough to mine that his breath puffs across my cheeks. “I’m serious, Henri. This won’t last. You’re too good for me.”

“I wish you would not talk this way.”

“What, tell the truth?”

“This is not the truth, Atlas,” he says, voice suddenly losing the sleepy, satisfied quality of minutes ago. “The truth is you are just right for me. You are worrying too much about the future, I think.”

Not believing him, but also not wanting to ruin the night by arguing, I stay silent. Love is conditional. Nobody, not even Henri, can love someone selflessly forever. Eventually, he’ll leave, too. Everyone does. People change and it’s not always for the better.

“Let us go to sleep, Atlas. Perhaps in the morning you will realize that I am right, yes?”

Snorting, I give his hair another stroke before dropping my hand back to the bed. Sliding back from him as far as the small bed will allow, I watch as Henri reaches over and turns off the lamp. The dorm plunges into black, with barely a sliver of moonlight illuminating the room through the window. I wait to see if Henri decides he wants to try his luck and snuggle, but he settles on the other side of the bed and I can breathe a little easier.

Closing my eyes, I try not to think too hard about the fact that this is the first night I’ll be spending in someone else’s bed.

“Happy birthday, Atlas,” Henri murmurs into the dark, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the sudden pain in my chest. Nothing good can come of feeling this good.