Chapter 47
Ezra
Steam swirls and sticks in a sheen of dew over the glass. The hot water cascades the length of my back, loosening the tension off my shoulders, traveling down and unknotting the deeply rooted aches. Regardless of how divine it feels, my heart is on fire.
There’s the hesitant pattering of footsteps on granite tiles.
I turn my back to the shower door, ass exposed, eyes concentrated on the granite before me and the showerhead above.
My heart patters, patters, patters an inharmonious beat.
At any moment, it’ll burst out of my chest, present itself in all its bloody glory for Conin to see.
“Ezra? Is everything . . . okay?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Um—”
I want, no, I need his proximity, his closeness, the intimacy of our naked bodies. Someone to ease the staggering loneliness and quiet the thoughts that roar and roar and roar and won’t shut up. If this is selfish, then so be it.
“Can you . . . come in?”
The soft rustle of clothes falling to the floor reaches my ears despite the rush of water.
The glass door opens and shuts quietly. I stare at the wall, nerves shot to hell.
My scars, my body, everything that I’m not, up for display—up for judgment.
My arms wrap tight around my abdomen, grazing the foundation of scars healed long ago.
Conin’s dick is hard as he presses his stomach into the small of my back.
There’s a noticeable difference in height between us; I’m several inches taller, but Conin rests his chin perfectly near the nape of my neck. He kisses me softly, kindly, lovingly.
“Is this, okay?” he asks.
It’s more than okay. It’s all I ever wanted, but my insecurities claw and rake forward, loud and destructive in their approach.
I attempt to quell them, beg for them not to ruin the moment.
It requires every ounce of energy I have, but I manage.
They’re suppressed at the sidelines for now.
This is okay. Conin wouldn’t do anything I didn’t allow him to.
“Yes,” I whisper.
The shower sprays over us as Conin trails kisses down my neck. Spine-chilling, but warmth blooms after each contact.
“Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
He turns me around, my ass planted on the tile wall. Conin kisses me fervently on the lips. They’re soft and knowing, his grin magnificent as he carefully explores. It sugarcoats my mouth, imparting a lingering sweet tang.
Spray runs in rivulets off his wet curls.
Conin searches for my acknowledgment, then leans in to press our mouths together again.
They glue against each other—fitting perfectly in their interlocked embrace.
I graze his tongue, peruse his teeth with my own.
He groans, a deep noise from his belly. I press a finger to the soft bulge of his stomach.
My eyes open in want for the invitation.
He opens his own as well and leans his head back.
“C-can I?” I stutter.
“You like that I’m fat?” he asks as if he doesn’t believe me.
“I love it,” I say.
“Okay. Yes.”
We’re back to discovering our mouths and the directions they take us.
My hand cups his belly, where wanting fingers press and feel this vulnerable part of him only I have permission to uncover.
My fingers search for the skin, the tufted happy trail, the hair on his chest, and the spots that freckle it.
Conin drinks in my image, my body, the scars that run up and down, twirl, and slash, the lacerations forever etched into my canvas.
Conin inches closer. His thumb brushes over a scar that gashes through my navel.
I recoil. He reels back, watches me for permission.
He won’t hurt me. He couldn’t ever do that.
I tilt my chin up as an offering. He kneels, then presses his mouth on the scar, which memory is difficult to recall. I’m grateful for this.
“Your scars are beautiful, Ezra,” he says.
They’re painful reminders.
“I love them because they’re a part of you. I love everything about you, Ezra Gray.”
“I—”
“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “You don’t need to say anything. Just tell me if I need to stop.”
He tests the waters, exploring while I discover what feels okay, what’s more than sublime, what I never want to do again.
In the whirlwind of pleasure, I am oblivious to the dizziness settling in, and the heat amplifying it.
I tell Conin and he smiles, then we wash each other of the dirt, blood, and grime from yesterday.
He’s tender and I reciprocate his attentiveness.
Conin’s all smiles, barely able to hold his glee.
Once we’re toweled off, naked and bare, Conin laces his fingers with mine and leads me to the bed.
We are canvases—our hands, the paint. In flushed pink strokes, we trail and brush in technicolor.
Our hearts beat like metronomes, a rhythm that far outpaces any possible tempo: Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons, calm then abruptly chaotic the next.
I hear the trill of vibrato. The echoes of strings.
The beginnings of a symphony. Call me dramatic, but I know the lyrics to my song now.
I know what needs to be said. It’s there, tipped on my tongue, ready to be sung.
Does he know? Can he hear them already?
We resume our expeditions across the planes of our figures.
The sunlight wanes in the sky. Golden hour is upon us.
The city, the Vegas lights. As the day transitions into night, I feel everything in me relax, and a sense of safety takes shape.
The world around us falls asleep. We’re masked in the dark and seen only by the eyes that matter.
My heart thrums excitedly. The subtle luminescence from afar glows.
It surges, flashes, and casts kaleidoscopic colors onto the sea of white and the paleness of our skin.
Conin traces a thin scar. He plants a kiss on my lips, displaying love along the laceration.
I freeze as a phantom pain jerks awake a ghost of the past. Lukeman Gray’s brutal hands and his belligerent stare.
The insults rolled off his tongue as each became more natural than the last. Years and years of practice were evident in their creativity.
They were the precursors of what came after.
Thax’s cruel blade and its unrelenting nature—the planes he destroyed—the innocence snatched and the sacrifices it had cost.
“Ezra? Do I need to stop?”
I blink.
“I can stop,” Conin whispers in the dark.
I see his dull outline, the bleak edges, and make eyes only for Conin.
“Where are you?” he asks because he would know.
He always does.
“I was lost there . . . for a moment,” I answer truthfully.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. The apology is sincere, broken with guilt. “I went too far, with your—”
“I’m happy you did,” I say. The truth, again. “I never loved that part of myself. It feels ugly. Wrong. You made me feel good.”
The pain or hatred might never go away, but right now, this is okay.
“I will never forgive them for what they did,” Conin says, “and if I hurt you in any way—”
“You’re not them. You’re you. You love me and I . . . I love you, too.”
His irises are glassy. He blinks the tears away and digs his nose against my flat chest. Conin plants his cheek there and a solitary drop splatters my tattered skin. I caress my hand through his wet hair, trying to exude every bit of love I can. There’s that smile again. Progress.
“Fuck. I love you—”
And for a moment . . . for the briefest moment, all is right in the world.
How did we get here, Conin? From childhood friends to . . . what does this make us? Boyfriends? Are me and Conin boyfriends?
“Come here.” He listens.
I find his mouth. He meets me halfway. For our first time, it’s better than I could have ever hoped for.
It’s later in the night when we finally succumb to sleep.
His heart is quiet underneath all this muscled flesh.
Our limbs tangle. I dream of a boy with wild hair.
I dream of his effervescent smile, the swing set in the sweltering sun, sweating ice cream cones in hand, and a future of limitless possibilities. Conin Bresshet—I dream of you.