Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
NILS
There’s something incredibly appealing about watching Oliver’s fair skin turn blotchy and flushed, hearing the crack and strain in his voice, and feeling the release of tension from his body.
I’ve got a hell of a memory, but even if I didn’t, I doubt I could ever forget the words he said or the way he said them.
My knees start to ache—or at least I become aware of the pain that was already present—when Oliver pulls back.
I lick my lips, chasing the taste of him and already missing the warmth of his palms cupping my face.
Nobody has ever touched me or spoken to me the way he did.
Shifting, I try to relieve some of the pressure on my knees, grateful at least that Oliver had the foresight to toss a pillow down.
“Here,” he says, voice rough as though our positions were reversed and his mouth was the one that was full, hand held out to help me up.
I grasp it, snagging the black lace off the floor on my way.
I have half a mind to keep them, but the other half—the smarter half—wants them back on him.
The delicate things are made to be seen, not removed or hidden.
Oliver’s cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, and bottom lip swollen and bitten to hell.
I lean forward and kiss him again, finding it a little hard to stop now that I’ve started.
He makes a soft mmphf noise and smiles against my mouth.
When I lean back, I dangle the panties between us and watch the blush spread.
“Back on, then?” he clarifies, pulling them out of my grasp and leaning over to slip them over his feet. I want my shirt back on him, too, but I’ll settle for the lace for now.
Snagging the pillow from off the floor, I strip the case off and toss it into the hamper. Oliver, standing in the center of the room watching me, lasts only until I open my dresser for a pair of boxers before he starts humming. I smile, glancing back and meeting his eye.
“It’s always a little awkward…afterward,” he says, gesturing randomly with one hand, the other flat on his belly like he wishes he could cover up.
His insecurity pops up at the oddest times, poking holes into things he’s got no business feeling embarrassed about.
I approach him, picking up his shirt on the way.
“Also, sorry about…not giving you enough warning before I came. I didn’t mean to do that. It would have been better to ask beforehand, but I didn’t think of it, and then we were a little busy. But yeah, I’m sorry. I’ve got much better manners than that, I promise.”
I hand him my shirt, watching as he smiles and slips it over his head.
His hair is still a little damp, the waves more pronounced and the color darker than it usually is.
I’ve got no idea why coming in my mouth is where his worry is snagged—I wanted him to and in fact stopped him from pulling away. He tried. I wanted him to stay.
“I liked it.” But judging by the look on his face, he doesn’t. I wait, tugging the shirt straight. I never have to beg Oliver to share things.
“So do I, usually. Although sometimes people are kind of rough about it, and, like, hold your head down and stuff. Which I also don’t mind sometimes, but that’s what I mean about manners—you have to ask and not just go right in for it.
” He pauses when I stroke a hand down his side, unable to be this close and not touch him.
“Once, someone came all over my face, and that I did not like. I think it’s supposed to be sort of sexy, like marking your territory or whatever, but it didn’t feel sexy.
It mostly felt dirty and also rude. He also sort of slapped my cheek now that I’m thinking about it, which was another thing I could have lived without. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
He laughs, shaking his head and sinking his teeth into that still-swollen bottom lip.
Nobody could ever accuse me of knowing what’s sexy and what isn’t, but hitting Oliver would never have crossed my mind.
Seeing someone slap him would probably send me into a murderous rage, not arousal.
Frowning, I stroke a thumb over one of those cheeks.
Oliver, like he always does, plucks the thoughts straight from my head.
“Not that I think you would do that. But you can’t always know how people will act, and the only way to find out sometimes is to just do it, you know?
You don’t have to worry about me doing that.
No slapping or degradation here. Although”—he perks up a little bit, eyes dancing and mouth tilted—“I will always let you know when you’re doing good. ”
Now, that was something of a surprise. I hadn’t realized there was a button there to press, but hearing Oliver slur good boy in that low, sultry voice had felt like an electric shock. In that moment, I didn’t think I’d ever wanted, or could want, anything so badly as I wanted to be good for him.
I kiss him in thanks, hoping I don’t have to tell him how I feel about that out loud, and lead him toward the bathroom.
He hums around his toothbrush when we start getting ready for bed, occasionally bumping his hip into me and grinning when I meet his eye in the mirror.
The shirt, which is just long enough to cover all the important bits, catches on his underwear every time he lifts his arm, offering little teasing glimpses of lace before hiding it from view once more.
“So, which side of the bed do you sleep on?” Oliver asks, yawning and lifting his arms in a stretch.
The shirt rises all the way up to his belly button.
“There’s all these studies about what your side of the bed says about you.
Like, if you sleep on the left, you’re more cheerful, and if you sleep on the right, you earn more money. ”
I snort, looking at him in a way that makes him laugh. I reach for the covers, and he mirrors me on the opposite side—the right side, I notice, which apparently means he’s a non-cheerful moneymaker.
“I’m serious, Nils. It’s science,” he adds gravely. “Left-side sleepers are the creatives, and right-side sleepers are the analytical ones. I don’t make the rules!”
Smiling, I slide into bed on the left side and wait to see if I feel more creative. Oliver, doing the same on the right, hums as he scoots his hips down until he’s lying flat.
“I can literally feel the logic flowing through my veins,” he whispers. I laugh again, trying to remember a time in my life when I’ve ever done it so much. Maybe when I was a child, in those few blissful years before I learned the easiest way to get through life was in silence.
Reaching over to the switch next to my bed, I dim the lights in the room.
Oliver makes an appreciative sound, fabric rustling as he moves around and gets comfortable.
When I turn over to face him, he’s on his side, pillow scrunched beneath his cheek, eyes on mine.
Perhaps he’s onto something with the sleeping arrangements.
Right now, I’d love to have the kind of talent needed to pick up a pencil and draw him.
“Your bed is comfier than mine. And your sheets softer. You’re really good at decorating, you know that? I don’t even want to finish my house; I just want to move in here.”
His eyes close as soon as he says it, as though he’s disappointed with himself.
Honestly, I sort of wish he lived here, too.
Even before we started dating, I don’t think I’d have said no to having him in my guest room.
He spends probably half of his time here, and the half that he’s gone feels empty.
Nothing smells good, nobody is singing, and only one pair of hands tends the chickens.
It’s funny, but I don’t recall ever feeling lonely before I met Oliver.
“I’ve actually lived with quite a few people,” he continues, talking a little faster as though trying to cover up the slip.
“But not really romantic partners. I had a roommate who I eventually got romantically involved with, though, and boy, did that end up being a mess. It didn’t work out, and then we were locked into a lease, and the whole thing was so awkward. ”
I watch his face as he talks, listening intently.
Sometimes it seems like Oliver has lived a dozen lives.
It also seems like he’s got quite a bit more dating experience than I do.
Which isn’t saying much, since almost everyone does.
It’s curious to me that someone as vibrant and beautiful as him could have so much trouble finding a person they want to spend their life with.
If even the perfect people are struggling, it doesn’t look great for the rest of us.
“Have you dated a lot?” I ask him, not really caring about the answer so much as the way he’ll say it. It doesn’t really matter to me how many people he’s been with, but his earlier comment about not liking how someone treated him does matter.
“Mm, sort of, I guess.” He scrunches up his face a bit, thinking. “Depends how you define dating. When I left home and went to school, all of a sudden, I had so much freedom, and all I wanted to do with it was, well, touch dicks.”
I snort, and he smiles at me sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders where they’re tucked under the blanket.
“I don’t think I was very good at picking guys, though.
I just sort of…went along with anyone who was nice to me, to be honest. Learned a lot, though.
And did a lot of things that I would prefer not to do again.
Like bottoming. I really, really don’t like to bottom.
But there was a solid two years where I swear I did nothing but.
I’ve been told I have a confusing vibe, and I doubt the lingerie helps.
I’ve never had like a super-long relationship, though.
Six months is my record. I’m just a lot, I think, so guys get exhausted and sick of me. ”