Chapter 11 #2
“Come on,” I grunt, leading him to the bathroom. “Once I lay you down, I won’t be able to get you back up again. Do what you’ve got to do, because if you piss on my furniture, I’m going to be mad.”
“You’re already mad,” he points out, the words surprisingly clear.
“Yeah, well, I’ll be even more mad, and you won’t like that.”
“No,” he says with a somber, sad shake of his head. “I won’t.”
With the uninhibited confidence of someone three-sheets-to-the-wind drunk, Dmitri leans his palm against the wall, steadying himself as he drops his pants and underwear. His toned, bare ass is on full display.
I try not to stare.
Quite unsuccessfully.
Once he's done, he yanks his clothes back up and turns to face me, and my tiny bathroom is suddenly claustrophobic with both of our large bodies shoved inside. His eyes land on my mouth with such force that the impact knocks my chin back. A gulp works my throat as I retreat a step.
“Come on,” I say as I move into the living room, needing to put space between us before something combusts.
My couch is covered with equipment. Laptops and keyboards, a random guitar, and at least three notebooks filled with a dizzying mix of song lyrics and notes from my latest troubleshooting sessions.
I groan at the mess. "Give me a minute to clear this off so you can crash here.”
“No, it’s so late,” he argues. “Go to bed and jussss… throw me a, uh…. uh… what’s it called?” He thinks, hard, for a solid twenty seconds. “A pillow.” He looks quite pleased at himself for remembering the word, and a crooked, dopey grin spreads across his face, flashing me that goddamned dimple.
Even drunk, his smile is blinding. I avert my eyes before there’s permanent damage.
“Alright, I’ll get you a pillow and blankets,” I agree, walking toward my bedroom. Dmitri trails along, pinballing off walls as he clumsily makes his way behind me.
“Eric,” he rumbles, a husky dip to his voice that speeds my pulse to a sprint.
“Hmm?”
“Lookit me.”
“Nope.” Once we make it to my room, I reach for a pillow, ready to lock him in the living room and leave him to fend for himself.
Strong hands grip my waist and tug me backwards. “Eric,” he whispers as his fingertips dig into my hipbones, “please look at me.”
The world blurs as he spins me toward him, throwing both of us off balance. My arms land on his shoulders for support, and somehow we both stay upright.
For approximately half a second.
My weight makes his unsteady legs give way, and he crumples to his knees before me in a very familiar stance. He curses under his breath, then leans forward to rest his forehead on my hip. My cock bucks in my jeans, and I panic.
“Get up, Dmitri,” I bark, but he shakes his head, and the friction causes me to thicken to full mast in a rush. “Please,” I beg, tugging at his arms.
His hands move upwards, and at first, I think he’s reaching for me to help him stand, but my momentary relief is cut short as he grabs the hem of my shirt.
He lifts it and drops his mouth to my bare stomach.
“Always loved this,” he mutters, dragging his tongue along the slight bulge of my belly that pushes over the waist of my pants.
Heat flares across my body, burning my cheeks and neck and spreading across my groin. “Fuck, stop,” I beg. “You’re drunk and you don’t know what you’re saying.”
Defiant eyes meet mine as he looks up my body, and my cock surges again at his position. “Do too.” His lips sink back to my stomach, drawing the soft skin between them. “This teeny belly. S’always been so fucking sexy.”
“Dmitri, you’re going to be really embarrassed in the morning if you keep calling my gut sexy. Stop.”
He doesn’t.
He thumps his pointer finger against his head, still wearing that goofy grin. “I won’t be embarrassed if I can’t remember.”
My brows furrow, but then he dips his fingers beneath my waistband, and rational thought dissolves. He drops kisses across my stomach as goosebumps erupt on my skin, but I grit my teeth as I step back.
“No more.” My palms land on his cheeks, forcing him to look up at me. “You’re drunk.”
“And you’re hard,” he counters with a salacious smile.
Wrapping his arms around the backs of my legs, he jerks me forward until my cock is pressing against his cheek.
My breath comes in wild, jagged pants as he rubs his face against it and then looks up at me, all sexy smiles and promising eyes. “Want me to help you with that?”
“No,” I insist.
He sticks his bottom lip out in a pout that shouldn’t be so goddamned adorable. “You don’t want me?”
I grip his elbows and put all my strength into hoisting him to stand, and he immediately bows his head and leans in to kiss me.
This test of willpower will be the fucking death of me.
My hands land on his chest and I tilt my head back, so his lips find my neck instead. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, and moans quietly as he kisses his way up the column of my throat.
“Dmitri, please stop,” I whisper, my self-control eroding the longer he’s touching me. “You’re drunk and I won’t take advantage of you.”
My words finally make an impact, and as he slumps against me, my arms circle his waist to keep him from collapsing. He throws his arms around me and squeezes me to him, cuddling into me and burying his face into my skin. I stand rigid, not knowing what to do with my hands.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into my hair.
“It’s fine, you’re drunk—”
“No, not this. I’m sorry for… for before.
” I freeze, but his hands continue to glide across my back as he slurs a long apology in my ear.
“I’m sorry for not knowing what I did, and I’m sorry that I hurt you.
Dante says… he says I broke your heart, but that’s not right.
That can’t be right, because you shut me out. ”
He pulls back and stares at me with hazy eyes that scream his every unfiltered thought, forcing me to hear the pain in them. They bellow into the night, too loud, too fucking candid for this cramped apartment, but he doesn't stop.
“But you… you broke my heart, do you know that? Ripped it right into pieces when you left.”
Pain like I haven’t felt in years slices through my chest and grows stronger with every word. “Dmitri—”
“It killed me,” he whispers, a single tear scorching his cheek. “Fucking killed me, Eric.”
Emotion clogs my throat and I slide my hand over his mouth, trying to make him stop.
I need him to stop.
“Dmitri, we can't—”
“Just tell me!” he shouts around my fingers. “Tell me what I did!” The sound he lets out is somewhere between a hiccup and a sob, and it breaks my resolve.
“Not while you’re in this condition.”
“Then when?” His head drops to my shoulder as he hugs me to him once again.
With a golf ball-sized lump in my throat, I take a deep breath and decide that it’s time to confront the conversation I’ve been avoiding for seven long, lonely years. “In the morning, when you’re sober, we’ll talk.”
He lifts his head off my shoulder and grabs my cheeks, putting his face flush against mine. His eyes are glassy and skin streaked with tears as he stares at me.
“Promise?”
I nod, mesmerized by the crystal teardrops clinging to his thick lashes, sparkling like tiny diamonds this close.
“Yeah, I promise.”
He leans in and presses a salt-tinged kiss on my lips and then drops onto my bed, shoes and all.
I watch as he curls up on his side, my mouth hanging open in a mix of astonishment and mild outrage as soft snores roll from his nose.
I let out a choked laugh, then sigh as I remove his shoes and tuck him under a blanket.
Indecision wars with logic as my eyelids droop in exhausted protest, but my fatigue wins. I change into a pair of shorts and circle to the other side of the king-sized bed.
As I curl under the covers, I take care to avoid any physical contact with his body. Despite the night’s chaos, the soothing sound of his soft, rhythmic breathing calms me, and within minutes I’m pulled into a deep, dreamless sleep.