14. Adrian
Adrian
Brendan always seemed so confident, so sure of himself. He was a doctor, after all, a healer of animals and counselor to vexed humans. He was more educated than most people, and his easy way with others was nothing short of art in motion.
And yet, as he took my hand and stepped in front to lead me toward his bedroom, I saw tension in his muscles and felt sweat slicking his palm.
I’m not sure why that made me smile, but my lips twitched at his discomfort.
It also gave me a momentary spike of panic, my heart hammering to the tune of, “What the fuck are we doing?”
My dick, however, harbored no doubts.
Little Adrian was standing at attention like the good soldier he was, pointing forward in the direction of the battle to come.
We passed the bathroom and its open door to the right before coming to the bedroom on the left.
A bedside lamp offered a dim, warm glow, painting the walls with a faint gold reminiscent of classic Florida pastels.
Brendan’s furniture matched the man I knew, simple yet sturdy, reliable, and sensible.
There were no frills or French filigree, only heavy wooden pieces for whom utility was paramount.
Brendan stepped inside, pulling me along, then sat on the edge of the bed. I stepped before him, our hands still entwined, and closed the space between us, his legs to either side of mine. With his other hand, he reached up and placed a palm on my stomach.
“What have I done to deserve you?”
That was the last question I expected. My mouth opened, but no words fell out. All I could do was blink in wonder.
“God, Brendan, I’m the one who should be asking that.”
He snorted, as though I’d said something utterly ridiculous.
I reached down and cupped his cheek, a gesture I was quickly learning to love.
“Brendan, we’re still learning one another, but the man I am coming to know is remarkable. He’s kind and good and cares so deeply. He smiles at little things and makes me want to be better. He makes me want . . .” I choked on whatever I was about to say.
Brendan’s eyes glistened in the lamplight.
“He makes you want what?” he whispered.
I swallowed.
“He makes me want to be worthy of him.”
Brendan’s eyes closed. I could practically see thoughts racing through his head. His hand didn’t flinch or move from my chest. If anything, I felt his fingers grip lightly, as if fixing me in place. His eyes remained closed as he spoke.
“Adrian, I think you . . . no . . . I know you don’t give yourself enough credit. You are so talented, as a dancer and baker and—”
I snorted.
I hadn’t meant to, but comparing my dancing with the work of a man who saved lives?
It was ridiculous.
His eyes opened, and there was hardness to his gaze I hadn’t seen before.
“No,” he said. “You don’t get to do that.”
“What?” I asked, knowing where he was going but, like some petulant child, refusing to admit it.
“Make light of yourself or your talents,” he said, tapping his fingers over my heart.
“You are a good man. Hell, from what I know, you’re one of the rare ones.
You take care of those who need you and work hard to earn what you have.
Whether it’s on the dance floor or in the kitchen, you give everything you are to what you’re doing, and that’s a lot more than I can say for most people.
When you look at me like that—” He trailed off, though his stare remained fixed.
“Like what?” I managed.
“Like I’m the only person in the world. You make me feel things . . . You make me feel alive.”
Something in his words slipped past my walls, and a smile curled my lips.
“Uh-oh,” he said. “Why are you smiling?”
My grin turned positively evil. “Because I haven’t even started making you feel things yet.”
It took a second, but I saw when my words clicked in his eyes, as a smile nearly as wide as my own bloomed on his beautiful face. “Guess we’d better stop talking and start feeling.”