Chapter 18 #2
“It feels too much like leaving for Florida all over again,” I admitted. “Me going, you staying here. I know it isn’t the same because you’re hurt, but part of me still wants you to want this badly enough to find a way to come.”
“I do want you.” His voice roughened like he hated that I doubted it. “I want tacos and beaches and kissing you at sunset. I want to be there with you, doing normal couple shit without feeling like we have to hide in your room. I just can’t get on a plane right now.”
I wanted to believe him, but all I could see was that I was going back to Tampa and he was choosing to stay in Sacramento. “It still feels like you don’t want it enough.”
His free hand moved to the strap of his sling. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then tell me what it is.”
“I don’t want to go there like this. I don’t want you watching every move I make, waiting for me to hurt myself.
I don’t want you rearranging your life because I’m sore or tired or pissed off that everyone around me can train and I can’t.
” His hand dropped back to his lap. “And I don’t want my time there with you to be about my shoulder. ”
“I wouldn’t care.”
“But I would. I’m not staying here because I don’t want to be with you. I just don’t want to visit you under these circumstances,” he added.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I’m trying to.”
He reached across the console and touched my arm. “I want to come. I need you to know that.”
I looked down at his hand. “But you don’t know when.”
“Exactly.” His fingers curled around my sleeve. “I’m not going to promise you a date and then let my shoulder make a liar out of me, but I want to see your life there.”
I covered his hand with mine. “Can I finally kiss you already?”
The moonlight coming through the windshield gave me enough light to catch his grin. “About damn time.”
I leaned across the console and kissed him before either of us could say anything else. The kiss started carefully because of the sling and the space between us, but his good hand caught the front of my hoodie and pulled me closer.
Talking wasn’t going to change anything tonight. Keaton still wasn’t coming to Florida yet, and I was still leaving Sunday. But for a few minutes, I could stop thinking about all of it and focus on the way his mouth felt against mine.
“Back seat,” he whispered against my mouth.
I pulled back. “Your shoulder.”
“I’ll tell you if it hurts.” His hand stayed gripped in my hoodie. “I promise.”
I climbed out first and checked the road. There were no headlights, no voices, only the river beyond the trees and the cold settling around us.
Keaton opened his door and got out slower than he would’ve before, but he didn’t ask for help, and I didn’t offer.
“Lube?” I asked.
“Console.”
“You keep lube in your car?”
“What? You wanted me to keep it in my pocket so your parents could see the outline of the bottle?”
I bit back a laugh. “That would’ve made dinner interesting.”
I took the small bottle and sat in the middle of the back seat with my legs spread as much as the space allowed.
Keaton followed, careful with the sling as he got one knee onto the seat, then the other.
When he settled over my lap, facing me, there wasn’t enough room for anything except him.
For a second, neither of us moved. His thighs bracketing mine, his good hand clutching the back of my neck, and his body over mine again reminded me exactly what I’d been missing for the past month.
Then he kissed me again, and I felt how hard he was through his joggers.
I groaned into his mouth and held his hips. “Fuck, baby.”
He rocked against me, slow at first, and the drag of him through our clothes made my head drop back against the seat.
“Still worried about my shoulder?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He rolled his hips again, harder this time, and my grip dug into him.
“Maybe worry less.”
I kissed him before I could say anything else.
He opened for me, and I let myself have him—his mouth, his breath, the way his body leaned closer—for a few seconds.
Then I slipped my hands under his hoodie to touch the warm skin above his waistband as I dragged my mouth down to his throat.
He tipped his head back enough to give me more room, and the sound he made went straight to my cock.
My fingers moved lower, slipping beneath the elastic of his joggers, and he pushed into my hand before I could even get a grip around him.
That was all the permission I needed.
I shoved his pants down enough to free him, and he cursed as I fisted him, his forehead dropping to mine while I stroked his shaft. His hand stayed on the back of my neck, fingers moving into my hair, and every slow grind of his body made my dick ache behind my zipper.
“You’re so fucking hard,” I breathed.
“You’re taking too long.”
I laughed, but it broke when he reached between us and palmed me through my jeans. “Still funny?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He kissed me again, and it turned messy fast, all teeth and tongue and his hips grinding against my palm while his good hand dragged over my stomach and hooked at my waistband.
He couldn’t get my jeans open with one hand, but the frustrated sound he made against my mouth did enough damage on its own.
I helped him because I was seconds from losing my mind, and as soon as my zipper came down, he slipped inside and wrapped his hand around me.
“Fuck.” I tightened my hold on his hip. “Baby.”
“Yeah.” His mouth moved against mine. “That’s what I wanted.”
I stroked him while he rubbed me, both of us too cramped and too turned on to care if any of it was smooth. The windows fogged around us, the old seats creaked under his knees, and his breathing grew rougher each time my hand moved over him. Every sound he tried to swallow made me want another one.
I hooked a finger in the collar of his hoodie and tugged it aside so I could kiss along the side of his throat—remaining careful around the sling—then bit softly where his pulse beat beneath my mouth.
His hand tightened in my hair. “Ro.”
“I’ve got you.”
“I know.” His hips jerked into my grip. “I want you inside me.”
“Good.”
I pushed his pants down over his hips, just far enough to get my hand on his ass. The back seat didn’t give us much room, but he lifted enough to help, his good hand holding my shoulder while I worked the fabric lower.
Then I grabbed the lube from the pocket of my sweatshirt and slicked two fingers. He stayed facing me, his mouth inches from mine, our foreheads almost touching and his breathing uneven as I slipped my hand behind him and worked one into him.
“Okay?” I asked.
“Yes.” His voice was rough. “More.”
I gave him more. Slowly at first, then deeper when he rocked back on my hand and took it.
He gripped my shoulder, then the seat beside my head when he needed more balance.
Every time my fingers pressed into him the right way, his body responded, his cock leaking over my knuckles while I stroked him with my other hand.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Right there.”
I did it again.
His mouth fell open, but no sound came out at first, only air and need and the restraint I wanted to rip right out of him.
“You look so fucking hot like this,” I told him.
His eyes opened. “You can’t say shit like that with your fingers in my ass.”
“I can say whatever I want.”
“Then say you’re going to fuck me.”
I stopped for half a second. He smiled, all heat and challenge, and I was gone.