52. Indy
FIFTY-TWO
INDY
I wake up, slowly blinking my eyes open.
It’s so early that it’s not even light outside yet.
The air is silver with predawn glow. I’m so warm and comfortable, and it takes me a moment to figure out why.
I’m nestled against his chest, his chin resting on top of my head, and his arms are wrapped around me tightly.
One of his hands is spread across my back, holding me close like he’s afraid I might disappear during the night if he doesn’t.
I wish it was real. I wish it was real so hard it hurts.
That finally wakes me up enough for some hard truths.
I need to get out. This is masochism. Nothing more, nothing less.
I try to roll away, but his arms only tighten around me. I let out a frustrated exhale.
“It’s not even morning yet, Blue,” he mumbles into my hair.
I freeze.
“Blue,” he says again, and I look up.
His eyes are sleepy. His hair a mess.
“Blue.”
He slides his hands up my back, fingers slipping into my hair. My body is still impossibly tight against his, my chest pressed against his chest.
“Blue,” he says again. He cups my cheeks with both hands, and I can almost pretend there aren’t years between us.
He tilts my face up.
“Blue?” he says.
“Yes?”
His eyes search mine. “I’m going to ruin our friendship in about two seconds.”
I let out a shaky exhale.
And I give up.
“We were never fucking friends anyway.”
He tightens his grip and our mouths crash together. I surrender to his demanding lips without any hesitation. Our tongues tangle in an openmouthed kiss full of desperation.
He’s warm and firm, and one of my hands finds its way to his nape, where I grip him maybe a little more tightly than necessary, but I need to know he’s here, and I’m not imagining it.
My skin sparks with electricity everywhere his hands roam, and this twisting sensation in my stomach is getting almost painful, and Jesus, I’d forgotten anything could feel this way. This intense. I try to think, but my mind is a vast expanse of nothingness.
There’s no room for thoughts. There’s only him and me after all these years, and I’m pressing my body closer and closer to him because I need this.
I need him.
I’ve only ever needed Nick.
He makes a sound; a low, thick, helpless noise in the back of his throat, and my breath catches over and over again.
He’s pressing our foreheads together and breathing into my mouth, and then he’s biting down on the bend of my neck, sucking the skin between his teeth, and there’s a sting of pain. And my whole body jolts, fingers twisting in his hair.
His hips press into mine, rubbing against me.
The desire is a tidal wave, a thousand times more powerful than anything else I’ve felt in the years he’s been gone.
For so long, I’ve been searching for this feeling, chasing it in strangers and brief sparks of attraction. In late nights and bad decisions and people who were never going to matter.
I convinced myself that once I found it again, I’d finally be okay.
Because if I could want someone else like this… If my pulse would once again race, and my breath could catch, and the world could narrow down to just that one person standing in front of me, then maybe what Nick and I had was never that special after all.
Maybe it had only felt special because we were so young, and he was my first.
Maybe I’d built it into something bigger than it was.
Maybe if it wasn’t unique, I could survive losing him.
Turns out, I’ve just spent years lying to myself.
Whatever brief encounters there have been over the years, nothing has ever been even in the same universe.
He’s moving, rocking against me. A moan escapes my lips, and it makes him groan into my mouth, his hands sliding down to my hips, pulling me a few inches up the bed until our bodies line up perfectly. The rock-hard cock against mine makes my body light up like it’s filled with sparklers.
There’s no gentleness or finesse in wanting him.
I’m desperately pushing against him, shoving my body into his, hands in his hair, lips crushed against his, my tongue in his mouth.
When he suddenly pushes his hand between us and shoves my hips back I cry out with sheer desperation.
“Blue,” he says in a choked voice, like I’m his only tangible contact to reality. He jerks the sweats down my hips, low enough that they tangle around my knees. Blood roars in my ears. His hand is big and strong, all warm palm and long fingers circling my length.
Why does it feel so much more intense than every other time in the past six years?
I already know the answer.
I kept telling myself I was searching for this feeling.
Just this feeling.
I wasn’t.
I was searching for him.