Chapter 18 #2
“Eating isn’t self-care, Ewan. It’s required for you to be alive.”
“Hey, be nice to me,” he complains, sounding so put out that I laugh. Fuck, but I’ve missed this.
Nothing ever felt easy with Roy. I was always a step behind, out of sync with him and floundering through things that should have come naturally.
I would have felt silly and clumsy trying to shower him the way I just did with Ewan.
Hell, he probably wouldn’t have let me and laughed if I’d tried.
Roy isn’t a bad guy, but he’s prickly and aloof, and ninety percent of him is kept secret.
Two years of dating hadn’t yielded more, and I was horribly aware of the fact that my partner was pretty much a stranger.
I never felt like I belonged, and because of that, I never felt like he belonged either.
As much as it hurts to think of myself as the kind of person who’d do so, I wonder if he was right in what he’d said—that he was only holding space for Ewan.
Maybe he was more perceptive than I’ve ever given him credit for.
Maybe I also owe him another apology. I hate to think of how lonely it must have been to feel as though your presence in someone’s life was destined to be temporary.
“I missed you,” I tell Ewan, voicing the only part of my thoughts that is appropriate for this bedroom.
“I missed you, too, even though it might have seemed like I didn’t,” he whispers back.
I don’t have anything else to say, and neither does he, apparently.
When I turn my head to look at him, his eyelids are lowered, lashes a dark crescent moon on pale skin.
When I click off the light and roll over, trying to figure out the best way to sleep on a new slice of the mattress, he sighs.
The minute I settle, Ewan touches my back, fingertips sketching the knobs of my spine.
I fall asleep with my back to him and wake up the same way.
As dictated by my bodily alarm, my eyes open well before the sun is set to rise, and certainly well before Ewan.
He’s asleep—deeply so, if the rumbly little snuffles of air against my shoulder blades are any indication.
I smile into the dark room, staying still.
His sleep schedule since he’s been here has been both sporadic and nonexistent.
He needs more rest, and he needs more food, and I want to provide them.
Closing my eyes, I decide to try my best at falling back asleep.
Except now that I’m awake, I can think of little else than the proximity of the man behind me.
Close enough for the finer hair on my skin to be standing at attention, straining for him, but far enough away that we’re not touching.
I think about how much I’d like to fall back asleep and wake up to him pushed up against the back of me, sliding inside, hand wrapped around my dick as he takes what he wants.
I want it so badly my body throbs with the desire, blood flooding southward, my cock achingly hard.
I could slide back half a foot and press my ass against Ewan, could wordlessly ask for something that might open the door to a conversation about what I really want.
Before I can make the decision for myself, Ewan moans in a way that’s sleepy and yet somehow sexy enough to have me reaching beneath the covers and cupping myself.
I’m pretty sure jacking off in the same bed as him while he sleeps would be embarrassing and inappropriate in equal measure.
Sliding a leg out from our warm nest of blankets, I only get so far as thinking about sneaking off to the bathroom when an arm is flopped over my middle and hair tickles my back as Ewan snuggles closer. Fuck.
“Mm.” He hums when I give up on my escape plan and slowly—very slowly—move back into bed.
His hand is very close to my dick, and my ass is very close to his.
This is so close to the fantasy I was just indulging in, it’s almost funny.
If he were awake and I asleep, I’d be living my dream sex-with-Ewan scenario that has resided rent-free in my brain since my teenage years.
“Ewan.” Exasperated, I mutter at him when he wiggles his hips even closer.
If I didn’t know he was asleep, I’d think he was being a shit on purpose.
I grab his wrist and tug his hand up my chest when his movements bring his fingers perilously close to my groin.
I’m still hard—getting harder by the minute, honestly—and none of this is helping right now.
“Is so dark,” he mumbles, and I nearly cry with relief. If he’s awake, I can roll him over and kiss him and maybe expel some of the pressure in my body. Now that I’ve had a taste of Ewan, I’m hungry for more and worried there might be a time when I’ll be starving again.
I kiss the palm of the hand I’m still holding. “Morning.”
“Too much morning,” he replies sleepily, which makes me laugh.
“You can go back to sleep.”
“Mm.” I feel a cool press of lips against my shoulder, and his hand flexes where I’ve got it cradled to my chest. I let him go, and he slides it down to my belly, stroking gently. After a few silent moments of sweet kisses to the back of my neck, he adds, “Cold.”
Carefully, I roll over. Moonlight filters through the gauzy window covering, but the room is mostly in darkness. Ewan, with his black hair, is visible in part only thanks to his pale skin. I touch his face, not needing the light to find it, and he breathes in sharply.
I’ve always loved the early mornings for how quiet and sacred they are.
That transitional time when black bleeds into navy and only a few of us are awake is my favorite time of day.
It’s not lost on me that I typically enjoy peace and solitude at this time, and yet waking up with Ewan so easily within reach has tilted my reality enough to show me I was wrong.
This is better. This—Ewan’s skin warm and smooth beneath my hands, his words sleepy and sated, kisses slow and honeyed—is better.
He makes small, needful noises in his throat, hands coasting over my chest and stomach and thighs.
When he scratches his fingernails around my navel, I know he’s awake enough to be a tease.
I kiss him a little harder, but not much.
I like this sedate, loving pace we’ve set.
It feels right for the moment, and right for how I want to treat him.
I wrap my fingers around both of us, stroking slowly, hand pressed between us as our bodies naturally try to move closer, lips meeting and retreating in a smooth dance.
Time ebbs around us, Ewan a solid anchor against the tide of desire.
Having started early, I come quicker than he does, the burn simmering back down to a comfortable heat but not dissipating fully as Ewan gasps his way through his own release.
The drum of his heartbeat is violent against my hand when I touch my fingers to his chest, and the cooler air of the room feels good on my shoulders where the blanket slipped down.
I use it to wipe my hand off and tug it back up, remembering Ewan’s earlier complaint and his propensity for getting cold.
He sighs, a deep, contented sort of exhale that brushes past my cheek. His fingers follow, scratching through my beard and down my neck. It tickles a little bit, but I don’t ask him to stop. When he’s silent for an extended period, I can’t help but laugh softly.
“Did you fall back asleep?” I whisper, just in case he really did.
“No.” He huffs, another warm breath of air tickling my ear. “But I could. You’re not getting up to go haul, right? It’s too early and too cold.”
“This is the normal time, and it’s not too cold. It’s April. Shit was a lot colder a month ago.” Another huff, this one paired with a little incredulous snort. “And no, I’m not getting up. Today is a day off.”
Ewan gasps. “You take days off? For shame.”
“Okay.” Since he can’t see my face, I make sure to play up the tone enough that he can hear an eye roll and visualize it himself.
“Does that mean we’re going to stay here and dirty up these sheets all day? Fuc—make love,” he corrects immediately, remembering what I’d said last night, “eat, and then do it all again?”
I smile. “I have no problem with that plan.”
“Excellent. Now let’s clean up and go back to sleep.” He doesn’t get up, though, instead shuffling closer and pulling the blanket up as though to tuck us in.
I should probably tell him the likelihood of me falling back asleep is very slim.
I’m not built for idleness. I can’t even remember the last time I slept in or “wasted the day,” as my father would call it.
But it’s hard to think of this as any sort of waste—Ewan so close I can smell the mixture of sweat and soap and me on his skin, shared warmth below sheets in a cold room, the promise of more to come with the sun.
No. A day spent just like this could never be considered a waste. I close my eyes.