Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
SAWYER
I’m not surprised when Preston slumps against me, limbs loose and heavy. After a long day of work, with a full tummy, of course he falls asleep.
I guide him down so his head is on my lap and then cover him with the blanket. He stuffs his hands under my thigh like it’s a pillow and soon his breathing slows.
His eyelashes are a dark fan across his cheeks. His thick black hair is silky between my fingers. His jaw is slack, lips parted. Any second now he’ll start drooling. He’s got a little beauty mark behind his ear and I can’t resist stroking it lightly. He hums contentedly and snuggles deeper into me.
That moment in the kitchen earlier replays in my mind. Preston’s hand on top of mine, both of us holding the wooden spoon. He shuffled forward to close the distance between us and gazed at me with a look in his eyes that I’ve never seen before, that I don’t recognize.
My heart raced, thudding so hard and so loud I swear he must have heard it. His lips were only an inch from mine and the way his head was angled, it felt like he might rise onto his toes and kiss me. Ridiculous, I know. But even as my brain rejected the idea as ludicrous, my body roared to life.
Blood rushed down to my dick and my balls drew up in anticipation. Heat pooled in my groin, in my joints, and ran like lava through my veins. My lips tingled, primed for a kiss. My head spun, dizzy with joy and need and want.
I’m usually a master at keeping my baser instincts under wraps around Preston.
Commendable, I think, considering how physical we are with each other.
But we were having such a good time, cooking together and being so domestic.
Plus the relief that Preston might have gotten over whatever was plaguing him these past few weeks.
All of it combined had me letting down my guard. And he slipped right in.
God, I wanted to kiss him so badly. My imagination played the scene out for me.
Our lips would fit together perfectly. I’d bend him backward a bit to get just the right angle.
He’d cling to me and whimper, and the sound would go directly to my cock.
We’d end up on the floor of the kitchen, tearing at each other’s clothes.
And eventually, I’d sink into the tight heat of his body.
Fuck. I want that. I haven’t let myself imagine sex with Preston in a really long time, and certainly never in quite so vivid detail. I figured out back in high school that fantasizing about my straight best friend to get off might not be the best idea if I wanted to keep him as my best friend.
To be honest, I’m not entirely sure when Preston went from a weird nerdy roommate to a best friend to something more. It happened so gradually, so naturally that now when I look back, it feels like I’ve always loved him.
His amazing brain. The ideas it’s capable of generating go way over my head.
He’s devoted to his work, and he gets so passionate and excited when he talks about his research.
The way he’s adorably hopeless when it comes to any of life's practicalities.
How touchy-feely he is; how he craves physical contact.
I love taking care of him. I love trying to decipher his complicated thought patterns and anticipate his needs before he’s even aware of them.
I love being his support system, handling the basics of life so he can focus that incredible intelligence on more important things.
I love being his source of comfort, making him feel safe and secure and reassured.
I used to think I could get him to return my feelings.
That it was just a matter of time before he realized how well we complement each other.
When Madison broke up with him, I spent almost a year thinking that was my chance.
Without Madison in the way, Preston would finally see how much I loved him, how much I could give him all the things that Madison couldn’t.
But he never did. Things didn’t change between us at all. Madison went from girlfriend to ex to childhood friend in a blink of an eye and Preston went on with his life as if it had always been that way. He never showed an iota of interest in me.
Thirteen years and counting now, I’ve been satisfying myself with being Preston’s best friend.
I still get to be at his side and share life together.
So what if we don’t have sex? We still cuddle.
So what if we’re not a couple? We still live together.
Some days I think the life we have is enough for me, it’s all I need. But then other days…
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I shift carefully to the side to pull it out.
Fitz
You wore me out today.
Attached is a photo of him shirtless, sprawled on a bed. He’s smiling lazily into the camera, one hand teasing a nipple.
Guilt crashes into me, more forcefully than it usually does, and it’s difficult to breathe.
I spent most of the day with Fitz, but I conveniently forgot him the second I got home. My world narrowed to Preston, feeding him, making sure he didn’t hurt himself, forcing him to get some rest. Fitz hasn’t existed in the past few hours—it’s only been Preston, Preston, Preston.
That’s not fair to Fitz. If I’m supposed to be dating him, how can I wipe him so entirely from my memory the moment I’m in the same room as Preston? That’s not normal, right? That’s not how relationships are supposed to work.
Does that mean I need to walk away from Preston to create space for Fitz?
How am I supposed to do that? The past couple weeks, with Preston being all sulky and distant, have been awful.
The thought of that becoming our new normal makes me sick to my stomach.
The idea of pulling even further apart sets off a blare of alarm.
Preston stirs.
In my self-induced panic, I’ve inadvertently tightened my grip on his hair.
He stretches, shifting to lie on his back. “Sawyer?”
“Sorry.” I comb my fingers through his locks, smoothing them out again. “Go back to sleep.”
He takes a slow, deep breath and lets out a lazy, relaxed sigh. Then he notices the phone in my hand and stiffens.
“Fitz?” he asks, seeing the selfie on the screen.
Shit. I quickly shut the screen off and stuff my phone under a pillow. “Yeah,” I croak, my throat tightening with guilt and shame.
Preston sits up and everything in me screams to pull him back, to rewind the last minute so we can return to the wonderfully idyllic evening we’ve been having.
Preston pushes the blanket off him, leaving it in a pile between us, a barrier that feels much more insurmountable than a mere piece of woolen fabric. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes. “You’re seeing Fitz.” His voice is tight, his tone slightly accusatory.
I feel like he’s caught me cheating on him. I want to drop to my knees and beg him to forgive me. I want to promise that it’ll never happen again. Except, I haven’t been cheating. I haven’t been disloyal. There’s nothing to forgive.
Preston’s sitting on the edge of the sofa, hands gripping the cushion, eyes downcast. Gone is his warm and sleepy expression, and in its place is tension and unease.
“Ye—” I stop to clear my throat. “Yeah, I am.”
Preston nods once and curls in on himself. My heart breaks to see him like this. I don’t like it. I have to fix it. I need Preston happy and relaxed and even a little silly like he was earlier this evening.
“You don’t like Fitz,” I say. I know he doesn’t like Fitz, he hasn’t from the very beginning.
I thought he just needed time to adapt to a new person upsetting his daily routine.
But it’s been over a month now and Preston still get this visceral reaction whenever Fitz comes up.
Could his distance these past couple weeks really be about Fitz?
But why? Why doesn’t he like Fitz? “Is it something at the lab? Is he bad at research?”
Preston is so dedicated to his work he can’t handle even the smallest hint of incompetence. But he gives a minute shake of his head. “No,” he murmurs in a small voice that actually sounds kind of disappointed, like it’s unfortunate that Fitz is a capable lab colleague. “He’s good.”
I try again. “Did he do something to upset you?”
Preston’s bottom lip sticks out. “Not exactly.”
But also not a complete denial. Maybe Fitz was right. Maybe Preston’s moodiness does have something to do with him.
“What did he do?”
Preston curls in on himself even more then turns his head to peek at me over his shoulder. Vivid blue framed by black, the lost, longing look in his eyes hits me deep in my soul. The impact expels all the air from my lungs, and I grit my teeth against the pain.
Preston’s hurting and I don’t know how to make it go away. He’s suffering and I don’t know how to fix it.
I reach for him and for a split second, he resists. In that infinitesimal moment, fear floods every inch of me—am I the reason he’s been hurting? Am I the problem? Am I going to lose him?
I can’t lose him.
But then Preston relents and lets me haul him into my lap. He clutches at me, hands fisting in my shirt. I hold him just as tightly, trembling as the unexpected rush of adrenaline works its way through my system. It was only a second, barely a second, but even then, it was too much.
We sit there, clinging to each other. I feel ridiculous, reacting as if something happened when nothing did. He probably wasn’t resisting anyway, just a little stiff from sleeping in an awkward position. It didn’t mean anything. I’m overreacting.
And yet, in my heart of hearts, I know that’s not true. Something did happen, something important and integral to my relationship with Preston. Something’s changed. I’m just not sure what.
When my pounding heart slows to a reasonable rate, and Preston’s in danger of falling asleep again, I urge him to his feet and send him down the hall to get ready for bed.
I shut off the TV and take our empty plates back to the kitchen. I load the dishwasher, wipe down the counters, and pour two glasses of water to bring back to my room. Preston’s bathroom fan is still running when I start my own nightly routine.
I leave my door cracked open when I climb into bed, and it doesn’t take long for Preston to slip in. He crawls in under the covers, but he doesn’t scoot up against me—back-to-back—like he normally does.
I turn to see what’s wrong and find Preston on his side—facing me. He’s awake and watching me, so I flip over to face him too.
Wordlessly, I open my arms, and Preston burrows right in. His head is tucked under my chin, face pressed against my neck. His feet are all tangled up with mine. My nose is filled with his lavender scent and a shudder runs through me at how good—how right—it feels to hold him like this.
Despite all the cuddling we do, we’ve never fallen asleep like this before.
Wrapped up in each other like we’re desperate to occupy the same space, like I need to be inside him and he needs to be inside me.
My cock fills at the idea and the more I try to make the erection go away, the larger it grows.
But if Preston feels it pressing against his hip, he doesn’t let on.
It doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep, his breathing slowing into a steady rhythm. I press my lips to the top of his head and silently repeat the words I’ll never be able to say out loud.
I love you. It might break my heart, but I love you.