Chapter Thirty-Four
Alex
I wake up to a face full of dark hair, a hot breath on my neck, and a heavy weight sprawled on top of me.
One of my hands is already under his shirt, my palm resting on his low back, and he’s got his fingers threaded through my hair.
He sighs, mumbles in his sleep—something quiet that I can’t understand—and shifts slightly.
And the sweetest sear of arousal burns through me as his thigh slips between my legs, my semi-hard dick pressing against his hip.
I have no idea how or when he ended up in this position on top of me, but I love it. It’s perfect. He’s perfect. This is perfect.
I muffle a groan into his hair and open my eyes halfway. The room is dimly lit—the first light of morning just barely peeking around the edges of the closed shutters—and the comforter is mostly pushed off of us, bunched up down past Nico’s ass.
Even my view is perfect.
With a sleepy grin, I smooth my hand low along his back, gentle and light. His shirt tugs up slightly, exposing pale skin and a tease of his light-gray briefs just under the top of his sleep shorts. I close my eyes again and breathe him in, letting my hand rub back and forth slowly.
“Mmm . . .” Nico inhales deeply as he wakes up, turning his head so his lips brush my neck.
Heat pulses through me—a throb of want that rushes straight to my cock—and he hums again as one of his hands slides down my side to my hip.
“Good morning,” I murmur, failing to keep my voice level as he shifts his position just enough for me to feel his erection rub against mine. “Holy fuck.” The words slip out of my mouth with a rough groan, and Nico laughs quietly.
“Mmm, I love it when you curse like that,” he says sleepily. His lips press into my neck again, and his hand sneaks just barely under my shirt so he’s skimming his fingers along my bare skin. “You sound so fucking needy.”
“I feel needy,” I admit with another groan.
He lets out another laugh, just a puff of hot air warming my throat, and then his other hand lowers from my hair, his fingers tracing down along my throat to my side, under my shirt, settling just below my waist.
“Is there something you need?” he teases, both of his hands gripping my hips. He grinds into me with a slow, deliberate motion, his quiet moan sending a shudder through me.
“You,” I force out, my heart pounding in my chest. “Need you. Want you.”
“Mmm.” He rolls his hips into me again with a delicious slowness, his hands countering the motion and holding me down.
I shudder and whine and writhe under him, my whole body now awake and buzzing, aching for more.
I remember last time, how his hard cock felt in my hand, how he’d nearly begged for me to touch him, the sweet pressure and the overwhelming relief as I came.
Another surge of desire pulses through me, and I moan.
Fuck, I am needy.
“Nico,” I breathe, my voice rough. I let my hand slip down under his sleep shorts and briefs to cup his ass, and when he grinds into me this time, I squeeze encouragingly as I tilt my hips to meet him.
With a groan of approval, he kisses my neck again and then shifts one hand from my hip to the bed to prop himself up. But he suddenly pauses with a sharp grunt and drops his forehead to my chest, his shoulders tight. “Goddammit,” he hisses.
My hand stops on his back, my arousal immediately melting away into concern. I lift my other hand from the bed to his shoulder, but as soon as I touch him, he flinches, hissing again in pain. I pull my hand away.
“Shit, sorry,” I say, worry twisting my gut. I don’t know what to do, so I stay as still as I can and lower my voice. “Wh-what . . . I-I mean, um, are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay.”
He shakes his head, although I’m not sure exactly what he means. He seems to try to move again, to push himself sideways off of me, maybe, but he immediately freezes, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth.
“Can I help? What hurts?” When he doesn’t say anything, I bend forward to kiss the top of his head. “Here, lower back down onto me. Is it your shoulder?”
This time, he nods, and then he does as I suggested, taking the weight slowly off his arm and allowing himself to settle back on top of me. “S-sorry,” he says quietly. “I wanted . . . to make you feel good. I didn’t think . . .”
“It’s okay,” I reassure him. I wrap both my arms around him—very carefully—and kiss the top of his head again. “Are you okay now? It doesn’t hurt anymore?”
“Yeah. Kinda.”
I close my eyes and just hold him there for a moment, letting my heart slow back down from the double rush—first from arousal and then from worry. “Your left shoulder?”
He nods again.
“Alright.” I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing, but I keep holding him on top of me as I start shimmying over toward the wall, figuring that maybe I can shift him onto his right side next to me if I make space on the bed. Or something like that.
“Alex, what the hell are you—”
“Shh. Just . . . trust me,” I cut in. When I’m far enough over, I tighten my hold on him slightly—mindful of the bruises on his back, too—and I pause. “Tell me if I need to stop.”
He swallows hard, but then keeps his head buried against my chest as I turn us and lower him to the bed on his right side. I slip my arm out from under him, keeping my other hand securely on his lower back.
His breathing is still strained, and I lean in and kiss his forehead as I give him a moment. Then, softly, I ask, “Better?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Well, yes. But . . . but also no.”
His tone sounds almost pouty, and when I pull back to look at him, he’s frowning, staring unfocused at my chest. His dark hair falls across his forehead, messy and also begging for me to brush it out of the way.
So I do, letting my fingers comb back through his soft, loose curls. He closes his eyes.
“That feels good, though.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He pauses, then tenses a little as he shifts over slowly, grimacing, until he’s lying flat on his back, his left arm resting at his side. He brings his right forearm up to cover his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, all the teasing and happiness gone from his voice.
I don’t have to ask him what he thinks he needs to apologize for. But I hate that he thinks it’s his fault at all that we were interrupted.
I scoot as close to him as I can, settling my hand on his stomach, and I lightly kiss his shoulder. It’s his good shoulder, but I’m still glad when he doesn’t flinch or move away. “Can I get you Tylenol?”
He hesitates, then lowers his arm and turns to look at me.
His eyes are beautiful in the soft light of early morning, though there’s something in them that worries me, and I’m not sure why.
I smile gently, bring my hand up to touch his cheek, and then lean over and kiss him—a slow, deep kiss that I hope shows him how much I care.
When we part, he takes a breath and then nods. “I’ll take the Tylenol.”
He doesn’t say anything more, so I steal another kiss—a shorter one this time—and carefully crawl over him off the bed to head downstairs. It’s early enough that my mom’s not up yet, and so, less than a minute later, I’m back with two tablets of extra-strength Tylenol and a glass of water.
With a grimace, he sits up, and I hand him the glass and then the pills, which he pops into his mouth. He takes a long sip or water, swallows, and places the glass on the nightstand.
“Thanks,” he says. He glances up at me and tries for a smile, but it’s strained and brief.
Tentatively, maybe as though he’s trying to convince himself it’s okay, he reaches out and brushes his fingers up my forearm to my elbow in invitation.
“Come back to bed? I . . . um, I think I’ll be okay if we’re just careful. ”
I hesitate. The last thing I want to do is hurt him, of course. But when he lets his fingers continue up higher on my arm and then flattens his palm along my bicep, there’s a renewed rush of heat and arousal to my groin.
“You’re sure?” I ask, my voice rough.
“Yeah,” he says with a small nod. His hand drops from my arm as he slowly shifts over on the bed and starts to lie down on his back again.
“Okay, uh, but wait,” I say softly. When he stops, I lower myself onto my knees on the bed, crawl over toward him, and push the comforter all the way back off his legs. My hands find his hips and slide under his shirt and up a little. “Before you lie down . . . ?”
I hope he understands my question, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he dips his chin, and his cheeks turn pink. Without a word, he reaches back to remove his shirt, pulling it off over his head with just his right hand.
He’s all lean muscle and smooth skin, and my dick throbs as though waking back up after our sudden interruption.
I swallow hard, watching his muscles shift as he tosses the shirt onto the bed next to us.
I have seen him shirtless before, a bunch of times, actually.
But this feels different. Maybe it’s because this time, I don’t have to hold back.
This time, I get to worship his body like I’ve always wanted to.
This time, I get to touch him, kiss him, taste him.
“Nico,” I whisper, which is enough for him to glance up through his thick lashes.
I slowly lean in as my hands graze up his sides, and my lips find his.
We kiss—deep, tender, loving. Somehow, I find myself kneeling between his legs, my mouth still on his, my tongue tasting him.
One arm wraps low around his waist, and I help him slowly lower himself back onto the bed.
Then I drag my lips away to flutter tiny kisses along his jaw.
I pause just under his ear. “You’re gorgeous.
Perfect,” I murmur against his skin. His hand lifts up, and he runs his fingers through my hair, which feels incredible.
I groan and continue on a lazy path with my kisses—down his neck, back up, alternating kissing and licking and sucking.