Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
TRAVIS
RIP Cynical Travis
Place of Death: Garden Table restaurant.
Cause of Death: Hazel eyes and a smile that should require a permit.
I don’t want to think about how many people I’ve got to apologize to for doubting their insta-love stories.
If it’s not insta-love, this thing with Devin is definitely insta-something. Insta-attraction. Insta-connection. Definitely insta-realizing-this-is-something-different-from-anything-I’ve-ever-had-before.
Brocker criminally undersold how good-looking Devin is. He’s one of the most attractive men I’ve ever met, with stunning hazel eyes framed by long eyelashes that brush his cheeks when he blinks.
When our gazes first met, he just…lit up. Like I was exactly what he’d been hoping for.
Nobody has ever looked at me like that.
And I’ve never had such a physical jolt like the one I had the first moment I touched Devin’s hand. Like a defibrillator to a heart I didn’t realize had flatlined somewhere in the last two years.
Three hours in and our conversation hasn’t faltered once.
He’s not put off by my snarky humor. Instead, he seems to relish in it, bouncing it straight back to me with interest.
We’ve got so much in common, although our personalities are quite different.
But in a good, complementary way. That’s a common theme I’ve picked up in QueerWaystoFallinLove.
Finding someone who complements you, who challenges you to be a better person, who turns your weaknesses into strengths just by being there to balance them out.
And we seem to have this chemistry that operates on multiple channels simultaneously—one is a conversation with words, one is with looks, and one our bodies are conducting entirely without authorization from our higher brain functions.
Now, we’re heading back to my place and there’s a frisson of anticipation between us.
Please, please let us be as compatible in the bedroom as we seem to be in every other variable we’ve tested so far.
But if we aren’t, it’s something we can work on. I refuse to dismiss the perfect guy over a single data point.
Besides, that’s what practice is for. Extensive, repeated practice.
I don’t know about him, but I’ve never been so nervous about a sexual encounter since my first one, which involved a twin bed, a roommate who came back early, and a poster of Neil Patrick Harris silently judging me from the wall.
The Uber ride is mostly silent, but it’s the kind of silence that feels like foreplay.
Every time the car turns, our thighs press together, and neither of us moves away.
When we pull up to my building, Devin practically launches himself out of the car, then stands there bouncing slightly on his heels while I thank the driver.
The lobby feels impossibly bright after the darkness in the car. Neither of us speaks as we wait for the elevator, but he’s vibrating with the same energy that’s making my hands shake as I hit the button for the twelfth floor.
When we get in, we’re the only people in the elevator. And it strikes me that it’s the first time we’ve been alone since we met.
I make the mistake of locking eyes with Devin. The same concept seems to have occurred to him.
He tilts one eyebrow up in a question or a challenge, I’m not exactly sure which one, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s enough for me to close the distance toward him.
Which is only half the distance it was a second ago because he’s moving toward me at the same time.
We collide, and his hands go immediately into my hair while mine grip his waist like he might disappear if I don’t hold on tight enough.
His lips are even warmer and more perfect than I’ve imagined, which is saying something because my imagination has been working overtime for the last three hours.
We kiss frantically, desperately.
This is not just chemistry. This is physics. It’s the fundamental laws that determine how matter works being rewritten to try to prove two objects actually can exist in the same place at the same time if they want it badly enough.
We stumble backward until I’m pressing him against the mirror, and we continue to consume each other.
Our tongues are tangling and Devin’s hands are everywhere.
They move from my waist to my hair to my face before slipping under my jacket like he’s trying to map me through touch alone.
I’m vaguely aware that we’re in an elevator and the doors could open at any moment, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Not when the small, breathy sounds he’s making against my mouth are rewiring my entire nervous system.
The elevator finally dings for my floor, and we break apart. We’re both breathing hard, staring at each other like we’ve just discovered something revolutionary.
The door slides open.
“After you,” I manage to say.
“Such a gentleman.” He gives me a devilish smile, tinged with amusement. Because okay, there wasn’t anything gentlemanly about the way we just kissed.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I leave the elevator.
Fuck. I’ve never seen myself look like this. My pupils are blown wide and my cheeks are flushed. I look completely undone, like someone’s taken all my carefully organized pieces and scattered them across the floor without any discernible filing system.
I stagger after Devin, fumbling for my keys, which seem to have disappeared from my pockets.
“Performance anxiety?” Devin asks, leaning temptingly against the doorframe in a way that should be illegal.
“My motor skills are temporarily compromised,” I mutter, finally finding them in my jacket pocket.
Devin looks pleased by my admission. “By one kiss?”
“That was not just one kiss. That was like…fifteen kisses pretending to be one kiss. A kiss consortium.”
He laughs, and it’s a bright, delighted sound. “A kiss consortium? You’re such an engineer.”
I finally get the door open, and we tumble inside. I should give Devin a tour, offer him water, do something host-like. Instead, I press him against the closed door because, apparently, I lose all social programming in his presence.
It’s been two years since I’ve had someone pressed against me like this. Two years of rusty social skills and forgotten rhythms. I should be panicking.
But I’m not. With Devin, my body seems to remember what my brain forgot.
I’d forgotten how good it feels to want someone so much it overrides everything else.
“Hi,” he says, grinning up at me.
“Hi,” I reply, and then we’re kissing again, slower this time, like we’re trying to memorize the technique. He tastes like the chocolate from dessert, and I absorb every detail—the soft drag of his lips, the way his fingers curl into my hair, the small sound he makes when I change the angle.
He eventually draws back, breathing heavily.
“Nice place,” he says, though he’s not looking at anything except me.
“You haven’t seen it yet.”
“I’ve seen enough.” His smile is wicked. “But maybe you should show me around? Start with the important rooms?”
“The kitchen?” I suggest innocently.
“Travis.” The way he says my name makes my brain short-circuit. “Unless your kitchen has a bed in it, I’m not particularly interested right now.”
“A bed in the kitchen would be unhygienic. And a terrible use of space.”
“Oh my god, you’re analyzing my sexy talk.” But he’s smiling, stretching up for another kiss.
This. This is what gets me. The way he laughs at my weird brain instead of being put off by it.
He nips at my bottom lip, and every logical thought I’ve ever had exits my brain in an orderly single-file line. This kiss deepens so fast it makes my head spin.
I almost can’t breathe from the weight of anticipation bearing down on me.
I pull back, panting.
“Bedroom,” I say. “Now.”
But when we make it to my bedroom, everything shifts from frantic to intentional.
It’s like we both know this moment is significant. Like we’re about to run an experiment that will change all our baseline measurements forever.
I watch Devin take in my bedroom with its precisely made bed and geometric duvet cover, the stack of engineering journals on the nightstand, the single framed photo of the Golden Gate Bridge that I took myself.
Suddenly, I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with the clothes we’re about to remove.
“I like your room,” he says softly, like he can read my sudden uncertainty. “It’s very you.”
I’m not sure if that’s a compliment, but the way he’s looking at me makes it feel like one.
When Devin touches me again, the urgency is still there, but now it’s focused, deliberate.
He undoes the buttons of my shirt, his hands shaking slightly. This confident, bright, impossible man is also nervous.
Something in me settles. If he’s anxious, then my own racing pulse isn’t a weakness. It’s just proof that this matters. To both of us.
I cover his hands with mine for a moment, steadying them, and he looks up at me with an expression so open it makes my chest ache.
He slides the fabric off my shoulders with a reverence that makes my throat tight, letting it fall to the floor. I’d normally pick it up, but I’m too busy watching his expression change as he takes in my body.
“Okay, this is just unfair. You can’t be smart and have a chest like this. Pick a lane.”
I chuckle and pull him closer by his belt loops. “I’m an overachiever. It’s a character flaw.”
My fingers find the buttons of his shirt, and I’m grateful to discover my fine motor skills have returned. Each button reveals another inch of warm skin.
He gives me a slightly bashful smile as he steps out of his pants. I let my gaze travel over him slowly, taking in every detail like I’m committing him to memory. Which I am.
The slope of his shoulders. The trail of hair below his navel. The goosebumps rising on his skin from my attention alone.
He’s lean, all long lines and soft skin, and I want to touch every single part of him.
He watches me watch him.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“I’m appreciating,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”