Thirteen
THIRTEEN
TAYLOR
E arlier this morning, when Taylor looked in the bathroom mirror before brushing his teeth, he knew instantly that that kiss wasn’t a dream. He’d done it.
Oh, he’d really done it .
There was a light redness above his upper lip. He has intensely sensitive skin—barely a hint of facial stubble ever—so what appeared there in the mirror was unmistakably the pesky scratch of another person’s beard. Even one as fresh-smelling and soft as Ethan’s.
I’d suffer for that scratch again. That sentence races through his mind as he sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table. There’s a wicker basket in front of him filled with the faux grass that comes out at Easter and all the luxuries and necessities Samara’s friends will need for a full weekend of birthday fun.
Three finished baskets sit to his left and the thirteen yet to be touched sit on his right. An unlucky number. Let’s hope it’s not an omen.
Because as much as he would like to kiss Ethan again, he can’t. He loves his job. Kissing Ethan again would be a swift, certain kick to the end of the unemployment line if Amy caught wind of it.
The front door lumbers open. Ethan tumbles inside as Nana skirts around him, already off her leash and jetting toward Taylor. Taylor greets her with open arms and gentle pets, though he could do without the lolling, dripping tongue that is ruining some of the sparkly tissue paper.
“Nana, heel, girl.” She dutifully follows Ethan’s instructions. “Sorry about that.”
“All good,” Taylor says as Ethan slips off his coat and hangs it on a hook by the door. “No more mishaps today?”
“Managing a resort is almost all mishaps,” Ethan says. “But no more major ones. Thank you for your help with Gus earlier.”
Taylor waves that away. Too many other irksome thought-flies are buzzing around him at the moment. He stands and brushes his joggers clean of glitter. He’s going to need to run the vacuum several times tomorrow, but that’s not the current priority. “In the chaos earlier, I didn’t get to apologize for what happened last night.”
“No need,” Ethan says, already bounding across the room to fill Nana’s bowl. As if this conversation were a gas station bathroom he needs to exit as quickly as possible for fear of contracting some sort of disease.
“ I need, though,” Taylor says, cringing at the plaintive way it comes out. Still, it does the trick. The clang of kibble landing in a plastic bowl stops and Ethan stands to face him head-on. “To clear the air, I mean. I’m sorry I kissed you last night.”
“Hmm.”
Is that a grumble of acceptance? Dissent? Taylor rambles on without any further hints to go off. “It’s no excuse, really, but I was half-asleep. Part of me thought I was dreaming. We can forget about it. Simple as that.” It’s a feeble offer when Taylor’s brain has already committed every millisecond of that kiss to permanent memory.
A gulf-like silence stretches between them. Then, Ethan says contemplatively, “Is it really that simple?”
The question is a powder keg plopped between them. Taylor’s unable to form words.
Ethan goes on, “I don’t kiss people often, so when I do kiss someone, I don’t easily forget. I’d be happy to move past it if that’s what you were suggesting, but only if you answer a question first.”
“Okay,” Taylor manages to say.
Ethan’s voice is as steady as a metronome at rest when he asks, “Did you feel anything?”
This has to be a trick question. All kinds of caution tape have been torn down by four seemingly harmless words flung carelessly into the air. Taylor has zero seconds to catch those words because he’s too busy building a courtroom-worthy defense. If even a fraction of truth flies out, his massive, inappropriate crush is sure to surface next. “It was late. I’m honestly not sure. I wasn’t fully awake to consider it.”
Okay, so he’s no Erin Brockovich.
“Are you awake now?” Ethan asks.
Another four words. Another powder keg. Another reason for Taylor’s heart to combust from overwork.
Without thinking too hard about it, he nods. The only possible answer to the question when his throat is this tight. When his wants are staging a mutiny against his rationality. When was the last time he allowed himself to have something he really wanted all to himself?
“I could kiss you this time to get us to a proper answer,” Ethan says.
Taylor doesn’t process Ethan crossing the room. All he’s aware of is the blue-gray of Ethan’s round eyes, which remind him of the ocean at Moonlight State Beach at sunrise.
There Ethan is. In kissing distance. Looking handsome and rugged and needful. Want is a fearsome wave Taylor intends to surf to shore.
“Kiss me,” Taylor recklessly whispers.
The hazy memory of last night is overwritten by this. A full-body press. Pillowy lips that don’t quit. A tongue that sneaks out of its cave for seconds of tantalizing exploration.
Taylor gasps at the rush. Finds himself clasping Ethan’s forearms for support, so he doesn’t faint from the sharp spike in blood pressure. It’s like his cardiovascular system doesn’t know where to send the blood; his nervous system doesn’t know how to compute any of these sensations. His body is at delicious war with itself.
And he likes it. No, he more than likes it. He could live inside this sensation forever and a day and never grow tired of it. Because he likes Ethan’s business acumen and his buttery laugh and his neurodiverse mind. This kiss is all the evidence he needs of that.
“I feel something,” Taylor admits when Ethan breaks off the kiss. You can’t cross a line that’s already been erased, right? The truth can’t topple any carefully preserved restraint at this point.
“Me, too,” Ethan growls. Really growls. “It’s against my leg.”
Embarrassment knocks Taylor backward until he stumbles into the couch. His overexcitement is showing . This is one hazard of going commando all the time.
“Please don’t be embarrassed,” Ethan says. Less of a growl, more of a groan. “I’m showing my feelings, too.” He bows his head, which Taylor takes as permission to look. The front of Ethan’s jeans is spectacularly full and growing more so by the second. The millisecond, even. There’s a nearly imperceptible twitch that makes Taylor gasp.
“Must be hard to take care of your feelings with your hand still busted up,” Taylor says. The words are coming faster than his brain filter has any fighting chance of keeping back.
Ethan honest to God chortles. “Yeah, you can say that again.”
Again. A tantalizing idea drapes cozily across Taylor’s shoulders. “I’ve been your right hand before…” The grilling. The archery. Third time’s the charm?
“Are you suggesting…?”
Some tucked-away confidence slinks out of its hiding spot. “Yeah.”
Two steps and ten million heartbeats later, Ethan’s lips land on Taylor’s again. Taylor sags against the back of the couch, scooting up to sit on it. It wobbles slightly, so he grabs tight to the thick, scratchy flannel of Ethan’s shirt. Ethan doesn’t even flinch.
Ethan’s immovability only heightens his attractiveness. Firm chest, soft belly, strong arms. Stable. So fucking solid.
If Ethan Golding wanted a rag doll tonight, Taylor would comply.
But Ethan’s persistent kisses say otherwise. They say, Slow . They say, Sweet . They say, I may look unbreakable but I’m not. His still-bandaged but healing hand is proof of that.
Taylor strokes Ethan’s beard to signal that he’s up for the game no matter how Ethan wants to play it. The rules are completely theirs to make.
“Let’s get more comfortable,” Ethan scrapes out.
Taylor starts toward the hallway, but Ethan tugs him back. “Stay here.”
Taylor can’t complain about the discomfort of couch sex when Ethan is unbuttoning his shirt with his unharmed left hand, exposing his thick neck inch by inch, which triangles down to broad shoulders. On one, there’s a tattooed compass. On the other, a bow and arrow. Between those trunk-like arms is a hair-covered torso. Two perfectly pink nipples stand out against the dark, brushed fur that Taylor itches to run his fingers through.
“Your turn,” Ethan says, nodding down at Taylor’s hoodie. It slips off so fast it’s as if he were never wearing it. He flings it across the room, uncaring of the baskets and supplies he knocks over. He’s afraid if he loses eye contact with Ethan that they’ll both put a stop to this.
For now, sense has been banished outside to the cold Catskills night; its breath fogs up the glass of the nearby window as it disapprovingly watches this heady moment unfold.
The room grows hotter as Ethan struggles to undo his jeans. “Let me,” Taylor offers. He slides across the couch cushions, ignoring the slight static shock against the bottom of his joggers, and pops that troublesome button out of the way. The sound of Ethan’s zipper parting sends shockwaves through Taylor’s body. Instinctually, he reaches out to plunge his hand into the depths of the plaid cotton boxer shorts that do nothing to contain Ethan’s cock, but Ethan’s calloused hand comes down over Taylor’s to halt him.
Gently, Ethan’s right knee finds purchase on the couch between Taylor’s spread legs. With a searing kiss, he tips Taylor onto his back until they’re both horizontal and parallel, their bare torsos grazing each other. Desire sinks its vampiric teeth into Taylor’s neck.
“You don’t need to be gentle with me.” Taylor swings his legs around Ethan’s waist, uses his calves to tug Ethan closer. Flush. A grunt escapes Ethan’s mouth as Taylor nibbles on Ethan’s bottom lip.
Something about that thrust. That nibble. Those eager actions in quick succession break the spell.
Ethan’s eyes snap open, and Taylor is helpless, lying there as Ethan retreats to the other side of the couch. His unbandaged hand swipes down his face.
Taylor’s stomach drops. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I—I liked it.”
“Then why are you all the way over there?” Taylor suddenly feels like he should stand and grab his hoodie from the floor. Cover up. What if Ethan can see how fast his heart is beating through his chest?
“Because I need you to be gentle with me .” This is a voice Taylor hasn’t heard before. It reminds him of a guitar string plucked and then distorted by a too-loud amplifier. “If you want to continue, I mean.”
“Yes. Absolutely. Whatever you need. I had a moment. It won’t happen again.” Taylor’s chest grows tight as he says this. He hates how his selfishness can lead to impulsiveness and impulsiveness can lead to this, the hottest man he’s ever had the pleasure of kissing feeling the need to withdraw from him. He wants to pour cement into the fault line he’s accidentally created between them through unabashed neediness.
“Because I haven’t done this in a while.” Ethan’s confident posture closes in.
“I understand.”
“And it was a lot at once.”
“I totally get it.”
“And you’re so sexy.”
Taylor’s overtaken by a full-body blush that makes his dick pulse. “Thank you. So are you.”
“Appreciate it.” A side smirk weasels up onto his face. “It’s just been me and my—” he holds up his bandaged hand “—well, claw right now…for some time, so I need a bit of rev time to settle into the pulling and the biting and the roughness.”
Taylor sits up, levitated by an idea. “We could start there. You could show me what you do when you’re alone, when your hand isn’t a claw.”
Ethan lets loose a nervous laugh. “Would you…like that?”
Taylor’s nod is almost involuntary. “So much.”
Ethan freezes for a moment. A thousand thoughts whiz through his eyes before he leaves and comes back with a towel and a bottle of water-based lube. He throws Taylor a glance that reads, Are you sure about this?
Taylor nods encouragingly, hiking up his joggers and crossing to the corner where there’s an armchair angled for the best view. Ethan shucks his jeans and socks. His wide, bare feet are kicked up on the coffee table. Unlike the palms of his hands, the soles of his feet are smooth, inviting. Taylor’s cock responds in kind, standing at attention, ready for one hell of a show…