Chapter Twenty-Four #2
“You’re doing that on purpose,” I say, my voice low and gravelly. I step inside the room and close the door behind me as he pauses and glances over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised as if in challenge.
“Doing what?” He smirks and arches his back so his shorts stretch even more over his perfect curves. “I’m just getting the bed ready.”
“So innocently.”
“Yep.” He brings one knee up onto the bed, reaching over to, I dunno, fluff his pillow or something.
My dick throbs, and I do my best to hold back a groan as he pulls his other knee up onto the bed, too, so he’s on all fours, his ass right there, taunting me.
It’s not lost on me that we’re supposed to talk tonight. I mean, I’m supposed to start a conversation about California with him. But, damn . . .
I take another step closer, and hell if he doesn’t pause again, glance back at me, and then wiggle his ass in the air with another of those teasing smirks.
“The bed’s allllllllll ready,” he says, grinning. Then he bites at his lower lip, which makes even more blood rush to my groin. “You coming?”
This time, I do groan, loudly, and I shake my head as I close the rest of the distance to the bed. He rolls over, laughing, that beautiful pink tinge back in his cheeks, and he pats the bed next to him, still grinning at me. With a sigh, I climb in and wriggle under the covers.
I’m barely settled when he scoots over toward me, his hand landing right in the middle of my chest. There’s a rush, a thrill, a pulse of joy as his palm flattens against me, and I suck in a deep breath, watching him stare down at where he’s touching me.
He only pauses there for a few seconds, but then there’s a slow transformation as his joy and silliness turn into tension, his eyes narrowing and becoming serious for a moment.
He frowns and looks up at me, his jaw clenching.
I want to say something, because he suddenly looks like he needs some sort of reassurance.
But no words will come. So I just give him a soft smile and lift my hand to his elbow, letting my fingers drift leisurely down his forearm.
He studies me for what seems like a long time, although it’s probably only a few more seconds, and then he purses his lips.
His shoulders relax, and he slowly scoots closer, his hand running gently up my chest to my neck.
When his skin touches mine, I close my eyes with a sigh and slip my arm around his waist, pulling him in tight.
His cheek presses against my chest, and I feel the warmth of his breath through my shirt.
I dip my head with a muffled groan, burying my face into his hair.
He takes a clear, measured breath and then another, each one affecting me just as much as the last. Then he mumbles, “I should probably sleep soon.”
I want to shake my head, slip my hand under the hem of his shirt, tease my fingers along the sensitive skin of his lower back.
I want to hear him gasp or moan or exhale a rough breath, my name on his lips.
I want to thrust my hips forward against him, find some relief, some pressure or friction or whatever the hell else will help.
I’m achingly hard, and my body is screaming at me to do something.
But there’s also something holding me back. Something in his tone, maybe. Or something in the way he’s pressing his hand into me now . . . like he’s about to fall apart and the only thing keeping him together is that contact.
And we still haven’t talked. There’s so much to talk about, and I can’t keep putting it off forever.
So instead of letting myself go and giving in to arousal and lust and all the other things I’m feeling, I breathe a kiss into his hair and allow my fingers to caress slowly along his forearm again. “You’re tired?” I ask.
“Mmm, yeah,” he hums. “But I’m also just really, really fucking comfortable right here.”
That makes me smile, and I press another kiss into his hair. “Good.”
He tilts his head back and looks up at me, his eyes sleepy. I lift my hand and brush the back of my fingers against his cheek, my eyes not leaving his, and he leans into the touch in a quiet approval.
I try to talk, again. Yet I can’t seem to force myself to start the conversation.
It didn’t go well last time, when I tried to convince him months ago to come to California with me, and there’s a huge part of me that doesn’t want to ruin the moment—this beautiful, wonderful moment where I can just feel how much we’re meant to be together.
Dammit.
That thought hits me square in the chest, and all the air leaves my lungs as I continue to hold his gaze. I repeat the touch, caressing his cheek as lightly as I can, and then I close my eyes, lean forward, and rest my forehead against his.
“I like this.” My hand drifts back down to his forearm. “I want this—us—to, um, to be . . . something.”
He tenses, his hand pressing into me and his body going rigid. But he doesn’t say anything.
Why doesn’t he say anything?
My heart’s racing, and not in the good way it was earlier. I swallow hard, and with every ounce of courage I can muster, I continue. “Nico, I don’t want to go without you. To California, I mean. I want . . . I want you to come with me.”
My words are ineloquent, but I hope my intention is clear. And I hope they’ll at least jump-start a deeper conversation—a conversation I’ve been avoiding for too long.
That’s not what happens, though. Instead, he does what I should probably have expected, knowing him as well as I do—he pushes away from me.
He sits and scoots back until he’s up against the wall, and then he pulls his legs in to sit cross-legged, clasps his hands together in his lap, and stares down at them, his hair falling loosely over his forehead.
It’s painful to know that retreating is still his go-to response, even with everything that’s happened in the last few days, and it feels like our conversation from months ago all over again, even though he hasn’t said a word yet.
I give myself a second and then another, my heart aching as I try to decide what to do. I could give him space, offer to go sleep on the couch or in the extra room. Or I could backtrack, tell him not to worry, we can talk about it another time. Or I could double down. Gently, of course.
When he screws his eyes and clenches his jaw so hard I see the muscles in his neck tighten, my decision is made for me.
I can’t back away from this. And I think I don’t actually want to, anyway.
We need to talk, even if it’s just me letting him know exactly where I stand and what I want and how important he is to me.
Slowly, I push myself up and then shift so I’m right in front of him, also sitting cross-legged. Then I reach out and gently cover both of his hands with mine. He’s tense and shaking, which fills me with a sadness I don’t even try to deny.
“Nico, I meant what I said this morning and just now,” I start.
I squeeze his hands lightly and force myself to continue, needing to get everything out in the open.
“I care about you. A lot. Romantically or whatever, yeah, but also, you’re my best friend.
Even if you didn’t like me back, I . . .
I still couldn’t imagine leaving you here.
I know we talked about this before, but I just can’t .
. . I can’t leave you here, I can’t leave without you, especially now.
And I don’t want to. Whatever it is, whatever reason you’re unsure, we can figure it out.
Or we can at least talk about it . . . Please, Nico. Please, let’s talk about it.”
I finally stop my stupid ramble, and I wait for any response from him. But he’s still tense and silent, just staring at our hands in his lap. And with each second that ticks by, another sharp pain stabs through my chest.
Hell, maybe I’ve read this all wrong.
Maybe he doesn’t want what I do. Maybe he’s not as into this as me. Maybe he hates the idea of moving to California so much that he’s willing to give this up.
Or maybe I’m not wrong at all. Maybe he just can’t see a future, no matter how hard he tries.
When he still stays quiet, I try not to hurt, not to pull away myself. But it’s hard, especially when his smile from just a few minutes ago pops back into my head. Bright and joyful and teasing, like I hadn’t seen in so, so long.
I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have taken away that light and happiness both of us worked so hard for.
With a rush of guilt, I hold his hands tighter and blurt out, “I-I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to upset you. We were having such a good time, and—”
“Don’t apologize,” he cuts in, a familiar edge to his voice. He pulls his hands away and covers his face, muffling a few curse words. Then he shakes his head. “You shouldn’t apologize. Nothing is your fault. It’s me. It’s that I just can’t—”
He stops himself, and I can actually see him trembling now. I reach out toward him, wanting to comfort him, but he shakes his head again and shrinks back away from me.
“I’m . . . I’m doing that stupid thing where I start to get anxious and then angry,” he mumbles. “And I really don’t want to snap at you, because that’s not fair to you. I don’t know how to stop it, though. I want to stop it. I want it all to just fucking stop. I—fucking hell, I hate this.”
He moves suddenly, pushing away from the wall and scrambling past me off the bed. I twist around, watching as he heads straight for the door, his shoulders hunched and his whole body stiff.
“Nico, wait, wait. Please,” I call out, jumping to my feet. I stumble after him as he throws the door open and starts toward the stairs.
God, this wasn’t what I wanted. Not at all.
While I’m pretty sure he knows that, at least on some level, I also know he’s not able to really think straight when he gets like this. Which is why I can’t let him just retreat this time. Something feels different, too. More urgent.
I make it through the doorway just in time to see him pause at the top of the stairs, and I hurry over and stop at his side, facing him.
He’s staring down the narrow stairway, darkness passing over his face.
For a second, I track his gaze down the steep flight of wooden steps that disappear into blackness, and my stomach drops.
“I want it all to just fucking stop.”
No. No, he’s not thinking what my brain is telling me he’s thinking. He wouldn’t think that. He wouldn’t . . . he wouldn’t do that.
Would he?
In an instant, my hand shoots out, my palm flattening right against the middle of his chest.
I’m wrong. I have to be. But something tells me that I can’t just ignore this.
I press my hand into his chest harder, and he lifts his eyes to look at me. He hasn’t really been crying, but his eyes look red and puffy in the dim light of the hallway. I shake my head gently.
“Nico, don’t . . .” I hesitate, fear rattling me, taking my voice. “Please,” I force out, and I physically push him back a step. “Please don’t.”
He narrows his eyes at me for a second, and I can almost feel the moment his simmering anger starts to fade. Then, with a sharp breath, he backs up another step. “I-I wasn’t going to.”
I nod and step in front of him, though I can’t seem to get myself to breathe right.
“Please don’t, ever,” I whisper, my voice now hoarse and rough with emotion.
The fact that he knew what I was thinking suggests he was thinking about it, too.
And maybe that’s what has me shaking now.
I slip my arms carefully around his waist, and he doesn’t object as I pull him up against me. “Please don’t, ever.”
On my repeated words, his whole body shudders, and he collapses into me, shivering and shaking his head and mumbling something else I can’t understand.
I’m really not sure what just happened—whether his mind really went to the place I think it did—but I hope to hell I never see that look in his eyes ever, ever again.