Page 17

Chapter seventeen

Elliot

The second our lips met, the world tilted all over again.

Mike made a noise—surprised but pleased, like he had expected this but still wasn’t quite ready.

I barely registered it because—fuck.

His weight pressed me down, pinned me to the floor, and he kissed me like it was something he’d been waiting to do all night.

I slid a hand to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him in because now that I had him, I wasn’t letting go.

And Mike—cocky, teasing, smart-mouthed Mike—melted.

His smirk disappeared entirely, replaced with something softer, needier, and he made a sound deep in his throat that sent heat rocketing down my spine.

And then, just when I thought I had a grip on the situation, he moved.

Just a little—a shift of his hips, a roll of his body against mine.

And I groaned, full-body shuddered, my fingers tightening on his waist.

Mike broke the kiss just long enough to smirk.

Then he did it again.

“You really need to stop,” I breathed between kisses.

“Or what?” the bastard asked.

“Or . . . I’ll forget how I’m supposed to be a gentleman, how I wanted to impress you and make you feel, I don’t know, like you could trust me, like I wasn’t all the other guys in Atlanta who only want—”

“To fuck?” he asked, grinding himself against me as he said the words.

“Oh, God, yes, that.”

I was so hard now, my cock throbbing in my jeans, begging to be free, leaking against denim and probably soaking through to Mike’s—

Oh, damn. He was hard, too. I could feel his head nudging mine.

My brain completely short-circuited, and I forgot how to speak.

Mike’s mouth moved from my lips to my ear. “You make me feel safe, Elliot Hart.”

Oh, holy mother of pearl. How did he know my buttons, much less the perfect way to press—or grind against—them?

“You . . . you feel safe?”

“Very,” he cooed. “Know what would make me feel even more safe?”

Oh, shit.

“What’s that?”

“If you weren’t wearing all these annoying clothes.”

I think I came in my pants right there. My whole body shuddered, and stars flashed against the ceiling. Mike’s hand reached down and gripped my cock, squeezing it like he was checking a fruit for ripeness.

“Mike . . . you’re . . . damn . . . so . . . fucking . . . oh, shit . . . that feels . . . you need to . . .”

“Clothes, now,” he ordered, in a tone I hadn’t thought possible from the nerdy man.

His fingers, colder than an Eskimo’s ass, slid under my shirt and pressed into my stomach.

“Holy shit. Can you blow on those or something?”

He grinned and rubbed them against my skin, as if to warm them.

“Not what I was thinking,” I said, loving every minute of his flesh touching mine.

“Hands over your head, please.”

Disoriented, I complied. He wasted no time, working my shirt up, despite me lying on the floor, finding a way to yank it up and off before tossing it carelessly onto the couch.

“Elliot Hart, damn, you’ve been holding out on me,” Mike said, his eyes owlish as he took in my body. His fingers trailed my chest, outlining my pecs before teasing my nipples. Then he dragged his index finger down the center of my torso, along the line of fine hairs that trailed to my belly button. When he reached that point, he dug his finger in and wiggled it back and forth.

My whole body spasmed.

“And he’s ticklish!” Mike declared in victory, his other hand joining the first, digging into my side with religious fervor.

I tried to curl into a ball, to protect myself, but he still lay atop me, holding me down, keeping me stretched out.

“Mike Albert, you evil fucking sprite!”

The tickling stopped immediately.

“Sprite?”

“You know, as in Puck?”

He cocked his head as only a golden retriever might. “From Midsummer Night’s Dream ? That Puck?”

I nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Oh, God. You know literature, my love language. If you start quoting the greats, you’ll have to fuck me.”

“Fuck you? What?”

“You know, dick up the ass. That sort of thing. I can’t help it. You’re hot, muscular, cook like a beast, and now I find out you know the classics?”

“Well, I don’t know them—”

“You know Puck! It rhymes with—”

“God, you’re such a child.”

“A horny child.” He smirked. “You have two choices. Kiss me again or start quoting and use that power pole you keep hidden in your pants.”

I hesitated, staring into his eyes. Mike wasn’t like the other guys—I knew that—but if we took this to the next level, would things change? I really liked him, liked where this was headed. He was easy to talk to and even easier on the eyes. We laughed and joked more than I had with anyone in a long time, and he made me want to open up and relax and—

“Well?”

Fuck it.

“What if I want both?”

His mouth fell open—but only for a second. A grin parted his lips, and his eyes blazed.

“Guess you should take what you want, then.”

Not trusting myself to think one more second, I gripped the back of his head, threading my fingers in his thick hair, and pulled him into me, crushing our lips together in the sloppiest, most glorious kiss ever. He startled then surrendered, opening his mouth and giving my tongue access. I wrapped my off hand, the one not gripping his head, around his waist and squeezed us together with all the strength I could muster.

God, he felt good. I could smell whatever exotic shampoo he used, and it sent my mind into overdrive.

His hands gripped my arms, squeezed my biceps and shoulders, roamed to my neck before gripping the sides of my head.

“Damn it, Elliot, I’ve wanted to kiss you so bad.”

I licked at his lips, getting a healthy taste of tongue.

“Yeah?”

“Fuck, yeah. Since that first day.”

I froze. My eyes narrowed. He pulled back a bit.

Should have made some kind of joke, some kind of escape.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I stayed perfectly still, breathing way too hard, heart hammering in my ribs like it had just remembered it had a job to do.

And Mike?

Mike just watched me, smiling slightly, his eyes flicking down to my mouth.

“Sit up,” I said.

He pushed himself up, using my chest instead of the floor.

“Oof!”

“Just doin’ what I’m told.” He smirked.

When he was sitting upright, straddling me, I scooted so I could sort of sit up, then gripped the bottom of his shirt and yanked it up. He struggled a moment when it reached his head but quickly lifted his arms and let it fly.

Mike wasn’t muscular. He wasn’t tanned. In fact, he was on the ghost-like end of the color spectrum. But bright red hair curled and swirled across taut, lean muscles in the most delicious way. I reached up and traced a finger through his hair, tentatively, as though meeting a dog for the first time and hoping it wouldn’t bite.

He shivered beneath my touch.

“Mike, damn, I knew you were handsome, but . . .”

His eyes fell away, and I swear he tried to cover his chest with his arms like some terrified kid who hated taking his shirt off at the beach.

“What is it?” I asked.

He still didn’t meet my gaze. “I don’t know. Guess I’ve always been a little shy about my body, especially when I’m sitting on top of a god.”

I snorted. “I’m hardly a god.”

“Fine, a statue of a god.”

I pressed my palm into his chest, feeling his heartbeat. He finally looked down.

“Mike, you’re beautiful.” I stroked his chest, enchanted by how his hair flamed against pearlescent skin. “Seriously, you’re—”

He leaned down and smothered my words with his mouth. His kiss wasn’t hungry or lecherous—or even sexual. It was passion and intimacy wrapped in . . . need.

I pulled his body down so we pressed together again and kissed him gently, stroking his hair and reveling in his touch. We were both still hard as rocks, but this was no longer about our cocks.

Something had shifted, and I wasn’t sure what it was.

When Mike pulled away from our kiss, his eyes brimmed.

I brushed back his hair and let my palm linger on his cheek.

“Mike?”

His head ducked in the cutest way. “No one’s ever called me beautiful before, not in a way I believed, at least.”

How could this be?

This man, his eyes, his body, the heart he wore so openly—everything about him screamed the deepest possible beauty. How was it possible he didn’t see it in himself when it was so obvious to me?

“Can we move to the couch?”

He gave me a tight smile and quick nod, then stood, extending a hand to help me up.

Before he could sit, I grabbed him about his waist and pulled him into me.

“Mike, I don’t know you well yet, but the man I see is amazing. Please don’t doubt that.”

Mike blinked rapidly, like he was about to sneeze—or warding away tears. He ducked his head again and nuzzled his face into my chest. I wrapped my arms around him and held him there, neither of us moving, for the longest moment.

“I’ve got you, Mike. You’re safe with me.”

I don’t know why I said it. Of course, he was safe. We were inside, in my house. No one was threatening us or protesting outside. What a stupid thing to say.

Mike pulled back, tears finally falling, and stared into my eyes.

“I believe you do, Elliot. I believe I am safe . . . with you.”