Chapter 21 #2
He picked up the pace. Leo’s hand found his own cock between them, stroking in time, and the sight of it, Leo touching himself while Dawson was inside him, trusting him with this, open and wanting, pushed Dawson toward the edge faster than he was ready for.
“Close,” Dawson said. “Leo, I’m close.”
“Don’t hold back.” Leo’s voice dropped lower. “Let me see you.”
Dawson came with his face pressed against Leo’s neck, a groan tearing out of him that was louder than anything he’d ever let himself make.
His hips stuttered and Leo held him, legs and arms and hands pulling him in deeper.
Leo followed seconds later with a sharp exhale and a sound that might have been Dawson’s name but was past speaking.
Dawson’s weight settled onto Leo, and Leo took it. Held him there, both of them breathing hard, sweat cooling between them. Dawson could hear his own pulse and Leo’s, the two rhythms out of sync and then not.
He pulled out, careful. Dealt with the condom. Grabbed the T-shirt from the floor because neither of them was getting up, and cleaned them both off. Leo watched him do it with an expression that was so tender Dawson had to look away.
“Don’t,” Leo said.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look away.”
Dawson looked at him. Leo was on his back, one arm above his head, his hair a dark mess against the pillow, his mouth soft. There was a mark forming on his collarbone where Dawson’s mouth had been. He looked undone and happy, and like a life Dawson wanted and didn’t know how to keep.
Dawson lay beside him. Leo rolled into him, head on his chest, one leg slung across Dawson’s thighs. The weight of him was warm and right, and Dawson’s arm came around his shoulders without thinking about it.
“I could fall asleep right here,” Leo said. His voice was loose, lazy. “Don’t let me fall asleep.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not done with you yet.” Leo’s fingers traced idle patterns on Dawson’s stomach. “Give me ten minutes.”
“Take your time.”
Leo snorted. Dawson stared at the ceiling. The house was quiet around them, and for the first time all night, his hands were still.
“Tell me something,” Leo said.
“Like what?”
“Anything. Something nobody knows.”
Dawson thought about it. His thumb traced circles on Leo’s shoulder.
“When I was sixteen, I drove Wyatt’s truck into a ditch on County Road K. Middle of February. Told him I hit black ice.”
“Did you?”
“No. I was looking at a guy walking into the gas station.”
Leo’s fingers stilled. Then resumed. “How long have you known?”
“I think I always knew.” He didn’t admit that he’d gotten his first hard-on the summer before when Wyatt and his buddies were wrestling around in the backyard.
He’d wanted to be the one pinned under Jeff Riemsma, wanted Jeff to pin his hands above his head and fuck him into submission. “What about you?”
“Tyler Posey from Teen Wolf. I saw a picture once where he was biting his bottom lip and I wanted to be that lip.” Dawson was shocked by that admission. He’d have thought it would’ve been a teammate or something.
They lay there. The bedroom was dark except for the light from the hallway, a warm strip across the carpet and the foot of the bed.
Outside, the wind pushed through the trees in the yard.
November. Dawson could feel the cold pressing against the window, and inside, Leo’s body against his was the warmest thing in the house.
Leo’s hand drifted lower. His fingers traced the line of Dawson’s hip, circled his navel, and dropped below it. Dawson’s stomach tightened.
“Already?” Dawson said.
“I’m an athlete. Recovery time is a professional skill.” Leo’s palm slid down, found him half-hard, and wrapped around him. “Besides. I want to return the favor.”
Dawson’s breath caught. Leo’s hand moved, deliberate, and Dawson felt himself thicken in Leo’s grip.
Leo shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, watching Dawson’s face the way Dawson had watched his.
The heat was building again, slower this time, lazier, and Leo leaned down and found the line of Dawson’s jaw with his lips, his neck, the spot below his ear where Dawson’s pulse was climbing.
“Leo—”
Headlights swept the bedroom wall. Dawson went rigid, every muscle locked, the light tracking across the ceiling in the arc of a truck turning into the driveway. The sound of tires on gravel cut through the house like a gunshot.
Leo’s hand stopped. “What—”
Dawson leaped off the bed without a second though.
His body decided for him, thirty-six years of training taking over, the panic overriding everything else in the room.
He grabbed his jeans from the floor and pulled them on.
Found his shirt. His hands were shaking so hard he put it on backward and didn’t fix it.
“Dawson.” Leo sat up. “Hey. Who—”
“Ethan.” The word came out flat. Dead. “Get dressed.”
“Okay. It’s okay. We’ll just—”
“Get dressed.” Dawson’s voice cut across the room.He wasn’t looking at Leo.
He was looking at the hallway, already calculating.
The front door, the living room, what Ethan would see when he walked in.
The plates from dinner were in the rack.
Two plates. Two glasses. Leo’s shoes by the door. Leo’s jacket on the hook.
A truck door slammed.
Dawson reached for Leo’s shirt on the floor and shoved it at him. Leo took it but didn’t put it on. He watched Dawson with an expression that shifted from confusion to clarity. The worst kind, the kind that meant he understood exactly what was happening.
“Dawson, relax. It’s just Ethan. I’ll come out. We’ll hang out. It’s not—”
“You can’t be in here.” Dawson grabbed Leo’s arm and pulled him off the bed.
The motion was rough, harder than he meant, forceful enough that Leo stumbled, and Dawson shoved him toward the bedroom door.
Not a push. A shove. His palm flat on Leo’s bare chest, putting distance between them with the same hands that had been inside Leo earilier.
Leo’s back hit the doorframe. He caught himself. Stared at Dawson.
The front door opened. Keys on the counter. Boots on the mat. Ethan’s voice, tired and sharp. “Dawson? You up?”
“Yeah.” Dawson’s voice came out normal. Flat. The same voice he used at the shop, at the bar, at family dinners. “Give me a sec.”
He looked at Leo. Leo had put his shirt on.
His jeans were still on the bedroom floor, and he was standing in the hallway in a T-shirt and boxer briefs, his hair tangled, but his face was the thing Dawson would see every time he closed his eyes for the rest of his life.
Beyond anger, past hurt. Recognition. The look of a man who had just been told, without words, exactly where he stood.
Leo pulled his jeans on. Did the button. Ran a hand through his hair. His movements were quiet, precise, the armor clicking back into place piece by piece.
Dawson walked into the living room. Ethan was standing at the counter, jacket still on, running a hand over his face. His eyes were red. Not crying, just tired, the look of a man who’d been arguing for hours and had finally walked away.
“Hey,” Dawson said.
Ethan looked up, saw Leo emerging from the hallway behind Dawson. His face didn’t change.
“Oh hey.” Ethan nodded at Leo. “Didn’t know you were here.”
“Yeah, just hanging out.” Leo’s voice was perfectly even.
“Fair enough.” Ethan dropped his keys on the counter. “Sorry to crash the party. Tara and I—” He stopped. Shook his head. “Whatever. I don’t want to talk about it.” He grabbed a beer from the fridge and went to the couch. Sank onto it with the weight of a man who was done with his night.
Dawson stood by the hallway entrance. His hands hung at his sides and he couldn’t make them do anything useful.
“You want another one?” Ethan held up his beer toward Leo.
“I’m good. I should actually head out.” Leo picked up his jacket from the hook by the door. Sat on the bench and pulled his shoes on. His movements were calm, practiced, the same ease he brought to every room he entered. If Ethan noticed anything off, nothing in his face showed it.
Leo stood. He looked at Dawson. The look lasted less than a second. It was the most devastating thing Dawson had ever seen, not a plea, not an accusation, just a clear, steady acknowledgment of what had just happened and that Leo was going to walk through the door and leave it where it fell.
“See you around, Ethan.”
“Later, man. Drive safe.”
Leo opened the door. November air flooded the entryway, cold enough to bite. He stepped through. He did not look back. The door closed behind him with a soft click, not a slam, and the absence of a slam was worse than anything Dawson had ever heard.
Ethan took a long drink of his beer and stared at the TV without turning it on. “Women, man. I swear.”
Dawson stood in the hallway with his shirt on backward, his hands at his sides, and the warmth of Leo’s body still on his skin. He didn’t say a word.
Dawson went to the bathroom. Locked the door. Sat on the edge of the tub and ground both fists into his eyes.
In the driveway, an engine turned over. Headlights swept across the bathroom wall, the same arc in reverse, and then the sound of tires on gravel faded into the dark. The house settled back into its silence. Ethan’s body shifting on the couch, the fridge cycling on, the wind in the trees.
Dawson pulled his phone out. He wanted to type I’m sorry. He wanted to type come back. He wound up pocketing the phone without sending anything because there was nothing he could say that would make what he’d just done any better.
The bathroom was cold. The light was too bright. In the bedroom, the sheets were still warm and smelled like Leo, and Dawson wasn’t going back in there tonight.