Lucas Collapses the World #2
I stalled him by wrapping both legs around his waist. He blinked down in surprise.
“Please,” I practically whined. “Please.”
His eyes went coal-black, breath stuttering in his chest as his body covered mine.
I confiscated the bottle, coating my hand and taking hold of both our lengths, stroking them together.
I wanted him inside me, I wanted him to infuse every molecule in my body, I wanted to watch each part of his face as he came undone.
It seemed he had the same idea—he never once broke my gaze as he maneuvered my still-slick hand down between my own legs, guiding me open one finger at a time.
My whole body fizzled, my heels grasping for purchase on the mattress.
It was too much, and it wasn’t nearly enough.
“Armand,” I begged, causing him to let out a husky groan in response, “come on.”
“Patience, love.” But he was as pent-up as I was. He finally, finally, slid in with no resistance, and I grasped the swell of his ass to urge him forward. “Fuck—” Armand choked out, starting out agonizingly slow before adopting a world-shattering pace.
If there was a headboard, I would’ve grabbed it, but instead I touched every part of Armand I could, letting the hurricane of emotions from the last few days, the last few months, flow through our linked bodies and dissipate into the universe as we rode through our release together.
We lay in the afterglow for ages, cuddled up and letting our fingers play together above the sheets. Trying to stop time from happening; but the sun had come up, breaking the spell.
“I wish we could start over,” I said against his chest, between little kisses. “Go back to the beginning.”
Armand’s whole body shivered under me. “Aye. I’d like that.”
I eased myself up on one elbow and held a hand out. “I’m Lucas Barclay, nice to meet you.”
He shook it. “Armand Demetrio. Pleasure.”
“Awesome. Now go get an inkwell to step on.”
A cough-laugh of surprise thrummed through him. “Right. Good thing I’m already starkers, innit?”
“Very good thing.”
Armand pulled our hands toward him and kissed my fingers, watching me with an adorable wrinkle in his brow.
“I don’t want this to end.” He said it so softly I worried I’d imagined it.
I blinked at him, sadness throbbing in my throat again. “Me neither. But you were right about me . . . needing some help. I talked it over with Mom, and I think I should probably see someone, but it can’t be here.” I reclaimed our hands, pressing his wrist to my lips.
Armand took a beat, but then nodded against the pillow. “Of course, I . . . I understand. Of course I understand. I want you to take care of yourself, love.”
“I don’t suppose . . .” One more hard thing. It was going to hurt like hell when he said no, but I had to try. “You’d be willing to try long-distance?”
Please say yes. Please say we can make this work.
Armand rolled onto me, levering himself up onto his elbows and dipping down to kiss my forehead, my cheeks, my nose, my chin. In between each, he said, “Yes,” and, “Yes, god, thank you,” and, “I promise I’ll be better at using my phone.”
I laughed into his mouth and then held him still with a hand on either side of his face, dark hair falling over darker eyes. “Think of it like this: we won’t have to worry about the time difference, because for once we’ll both always be awake at the same time.”
Armand chuckled gently. “That’s very compelling.”
I rolled us over again and sat up, needing this part to be crystal clear. “So, we’re in agreement, then? To give this a chance long-distance?”
He sat up too. “I cannot fully express how invested I am in this. In you. In us.” He looked frustrated at himself but still couldn’t seem to stop smiling. “I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth. Or not. As you prefer.”
“Hey, if you want to move to California,” I joked, smoothing the hair out of his face. Then I traced the curve of his eyebrow. “But seriously. We’ll figure this out.”
He nodded, leaning into my hand and nuzzling it. It weirdly made me miss the horses.
“Maybe I could fly you out there now and then—”
“Lucas, I need you to stop buying me things.”
I was taken aback at his immediate response, and it seemed Armand was too. “I mean—” he cleared his throat and continued “—I know why you keep wanting to, er, buy me things—and I do appreciate the thought, love—but I wish you wouldn’t. I can’t reciprocate, so it feels unequal.”
“I don’t expect you to reciprocate,” I explained as kindly as possible, stroking his cheek that was nestled in my palm. “It makes me happy to get you things you need, or want, and since I have the means—”
Armand gently pulled away. “I get that, and I know you don’t mean it this way”—he struggled, wrapping an arm around his torso—“but it feels like you’re buying me.”
It hit like a brick to the chest. “Is that what he used to do?”
Very slowly, Armand nodded.
This whole time I’d thought I was showing care and affection, I’d been triggering him. That explains a lot. “Shit. I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”
Armand chuckled. “Well, to be fair, how could you? I never said anything.”
A tremulous smile pulled at my lips. “No more secrets?”
He nodded and reached for my hand again. “No more secrets. Er.” Something sobering flickered across Armand’s face. “On that front, how do I . . . tell people?”
I didn’t follow. “Tell people what?”
Armand looked as if he were in physical pain. “About all of it.” He took a deep breath. “Right now, the only thing that creepy git could do to me, to us, is expose me, or whatever.” He sighed. “I’m tired of being frightened of him. Of being outed as an addict. A former dancer. All of it.”
Pride glowed in my chest. “Wow, okay. How would you want to do it?”
Armand gripped both hands in his hair. “I am open to suggestions, love.”
“Well,” I began slowly, carefully, “we could start by having you talk about recovery, destigmatizing it. Is there—” I paused to rub a hand between Armand’s shoulder blades “—is there some kind of call to action you want to give people? Some way for them to show support?”
Armand stiffened. “Yes. Er. The Innana Alcohol and Drug Recovery Center, they were good to me. Are good to me. People should know about them.”
“Now we’re talking.” I grinned. “You want to give them a plug?”
Armand looked lost.
“Do you want to raise money for them?”
Now he looked lost and a little bit horrified. “I can do that?”
He was beyond cute. I laughed, then had a sudden stroke of genius. “Yeah, I mean, if they want you to, you could become their spokesperson. Do interviews, do radio spots to bring awareness. Be the face of the center.”
“Lovely.”
I poked his cheek. “You have to admit, you give good face.”
Armand blushed, and I was struck wordless at how immensely I would miss seeing him every day. At least in person. I worked to stay on task. “Do you have any of your Surrogate Goose original prints? Like rough drafts or something?”
“Er,” Armand said, clearly a few steps behind, “yes. They’re in the office.”
“Excellent.” I yanked the covers off us, reveling in his startled squeak. “Do you think I could look at them?”
Armand, though clearly still confused, agreed and led me into the inner sanctum that was his workroom.
Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t made much use of the desk I’d bought him, but I still felt better knowing he wouldn’t get buried alive under it.
Papers were scattered everywhere, the way he’d spread out on the floor of our California apartment in the main living area.
A tornado of allegedly organized chaos. A slapdash pile of pages strewn by the trash can caught my eye. “What are these?”
Armand appeared at my side as I reached for the nearest paper. “Mistakes. Scratch paper I was throwing away.”
They were Surrogate Goose sketches, in various stages of inking, and at first glance they seemed pretty normal—but upon closer inspection there would be a continuity error, or a weird lopsided eye.
It was a gold mine. “Are you kidding? Don’t throw them away, these are gonna be worth even more than the nearly finished ones.
We could auction these off for the center!
People’ll pay good money to see an artist’s castoffs. ”
Armand curled both hands on the back of his neck, hunching where he stood. “I guess I’m putting all my mistakes on the internet.”
“That’s what the internet is for, Armand.
” I leaned over to kiss his cheek—with him hunched we were nearly the same height.
“Now, I’m gonna text Lakshmi and tell her about your wonderful idea.
” I went to retrieve my phone, trying not to notice my suitcase I’d stashed in the corner of the living room months ago.
One more job for the social media guru Lucas Barclay.
It was the least I could do.