Chapter 20
Twenty
Tucker
I’m such a mess. I can't believe I had a fucking panic attack at a hockey game of all places, and it was set off by seeing Sebastian laid out on the ice like an offering at a fish market.
My rational brain went offline, static crackling and drowning out the sound of the crowd as electrical signals crossed until I was seeing the worst, rather than just imagining it.
Sebastian was as good as gone from my life in that moment, and I’d never given us the chance he’d practically begged for.
I saw my future without him, and it was a bleak wasteland devoid of life or happiness.
I’d shut him out because I didn't want to get hurt again, when finding something special with him was the more likely alternative.
I can't live my life in fear of the worst when it’s only going to keep me from experiencing the best that’s possible.
Maybe that trite platitude of it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all is right.
Regardless, I know without a doubt that I can't push him away because I’m scared of the possibility of things going wrong.
If he still wants me after seeing what a colossal basket case I can be, I won’t deny him again.
I don't argue when Sebastian says he’s taking me home, as surreal as that is. I feel a little disconnected from reality.
I don't put up a fight when Cami takes my keys and the dog, leaving me with Sebastian and a hug that allows her to whisper, “Let yourself enjoy him. Be safe. I love you,” before she walks away with a knowing smile.
I let Sebastian take my hand and guide me through the halls of the arena in a dissociative state until we make it to a parking garage, and I’m in the front seat of his SUV.
It’s a quiet ride, with me in my head spinning through everything I wish I could’ve changed about tonight.
When we pull up to his house, I’m momentarily excused from my pity party because of the glaring reminder of how fucking different we are.
I call Sebastian ‘City Boy’ to tease him about being from New York and looking a bit out of place at my house out in the country.
Seeing his big house lit up with landscaping and soffit lights against the dark evening lets me know just how out of my element I am.
He pulls into a garage and gingerly climbs out.
He’s not wearing the ice pack on his shoulder, but he has limited mobility, so I grab the suit jacket from the back and follow him inside, where I stop dead in my tracks as I take in the impossibly beautiful home.
Shit. He’s been slumming it, coming out to my old farmhouse, which is always a little dusty and has dog hair everywhere, filled with hand-me-down furniture, my grandma’s quilts, and dated appliances. It’s downright ugly in comparison.
Sebastian’s home, on the other hand, is modern, clean, and everything matches.
He actually has a design aesthetic, whereas Callum keeps threatening to throw everything in my house out so he can start from scratch to keep his eyes from bleeding whenever he comes over.
I’ve told him I just collect what I need and don't worry if it matches, since I only require it for the functionality. He nearly cries every time he hears me say that. Now I know why, after seeing what’s possible with Sebastian’s house.
I hastily brush at the dog hair on my flannel shirt and notice my faded jeans have dirt on the knees from kneeling on the floor for so long.
I should probably take off my work boots before I walk across the light wood floors in case I track dirt in.
I look like someone Sebastian would hire to work on something broken in his house, not someone he wants to spend time with here.
“You hungry?” Sebastian asks, breaking through my critical self-flagellation and comparison.
“No,” I answer quickly. “I ate earlier and don’t have much of an appetite now.” My episodes tend to leave me wrung out and queasy, and the last thing I want is to eat.
“Hope you don't mind if I grab something real quick, I’m starving,” he says, leading me into a beautiful kitchen that’s four times the size of the tiny space in my house, and pulls open the giant refrigerator to gather a meal-prepped container and a couple of water bottles.
Even his fridge is spotless and filled with labeled, matching containers, everything organized within an inch of its life.
My fridge, in contrast, has repurposed margarine tubs as my leftovers containers, and there may be science experiments growing in some of them that have been there for a while.
He hands me a bottle without asking, knowing I could use a drink.
He struggles a bit with the lid of his bottle, and I rush to grab it out of his hand.
“Sit down. Let me help you,” I insist.
I take the bottle, twisting the lid off before giving it back, then remove the top from his food. I look around and find the microwave, putting the glass container inside to heat up. I turn back to find Sebastian watching me with a soft smile.
“What?” I ask, heat creeping up my neck. I bring my hand up to cover it and rub like there’s nothing wrong.
“I like you in my space. Having you here feels good, but I think your place will always be my favorite. It’s so much more lived-in and comfortable.
It’s peaceful and lets me take deep breaths that do more than fill my lungs.
It restores my soul every time I visit you.
This house still doesn't feel like home. Just a place I’m staying that’s too sterile and empty. Now get over here.”
I fight the shiver that races down my spine at the command in his tone, but inevitably give in and let the rush of need drown out my insecurities. I walk toward Sebastian and stand between his legs, placing my hands on the marble island he’s leaning against that’s bigger than my dining table.
“You wanted me closer?” I ask.
The tension between us is thick and hot, giving the Atlanta weather a run for its money as it makes me sweat even in the air-conditioned house.
My knees threaten to give under my weight and send me crashing to the wooden floor at his feet when I meet his scorching gaze that promises to burn up even more between us.
His dark eyes are hooded as they bounce between my eyes and mouth, flooding me with need that has my dick hardening in my pants.
“Yeah, I did.” His voice is low, offering everything I could want from him.
He reaches up and palms the back of my neck, pulling my face to his as my heart pounds against my ribs.
I follow willingly, chasing the safety he provided when I was most vulnerable, and the understanding he gave me when I was irrationally crashing out.
Our lips connect, softly at first, his kiss feather light and tentative.
He’s never kissed a man before. This has to be awkward, no matter how much he wants it. He doesn't know what he’s been missing.
I’ll show him what he does to me.
I lean into the kiss and moan with the need that bubbles up with the soft contact, intent on deepening it.
My lips part, tongue swiping out over his full lips that I’ve been dying to taste, and I explode with desire.
I step in closer, molding our bodies together, pulling him tighter as my hips roll into his.
I suck his tongue into my mouth, devouring the groan he lets out and still needing more.
The sweet and tentative kiss has quickly caught fire and burned through us, igniting with lust and need.
My lips move over his, our tongues tangling, hips circling, hands roaming.
He tastes like temptation and redemption, like possibilities and risks.
When the microwave beeps, it startles us both. I pull back, watching Sebastian’s dazed expression. I got a little carried away once I tasted him and couldn't stop. It might have been too much all at once.
“Holy fuck,” he breathes, heavy-lidded eyes slowly focusing on me. “What a fucking kiss.”
“That’s how a gay man kisses,” I say, leaning back in to pepper his delicious, full lips with more kisses.
“I think I could live off those alone,” he murmurs against my mouth, blinking slowly as I draw back again to smile at his praise now that I know he enjoyed it.
“But you haven't seen what else this mouth can do. You’ll be missing out if you just want kisses.”
I’m teasing, but if he asked me to get on my knees right now for him, I’d do it before the request was even finished. I lick along his jaw, the rasp of his stubble against my tongue lighting me up before I suck at his pulse point and nip my way to his ear.
“I’m half tempted to say to hell with food and subsist off you alone now that I know it’s a possibility.” His words are breathy. My mouth on his skin must be making it hard to get them out.
I chuckle. “You need to eat real food.” I take a step back, his hands following, grasping my shirt as I turn to the microwave and pull out the dish of chicken and rice with some sauce that smells incredible.
“And this looks better than any leftovers that come out of my fridge, so it should be good.”
“Rudy, my chef, preps my food each week. I just heat it and eat it,” he says absently as he pulls a fork out of a drawer and takes the dish to sit at the island. “Come here.”
Of course he has a chef to make his meals.
And here I was grilling for him and making basic-ass side dishes that he probably doesn't even like if he gets professionally prepared gourmet food daily.
I follow and sit next to him, feeling stiff and wondering how I could have been so dumb to think cooking for him at my house was doing a kindness for him.
God, I'm so fucking pathetic!