14. George #3
Our faces end up too close for this to pass as casual. I’m looking straight at him, holding it there, not giving him a way out of it.
Lance stills, his mouth parts slightly like he forgot to close it. Breath catching low in his throat. Tongue flicking out, dragging over his bottom lip before he seems to remember himself. It’s subtle, but I see it. I feel it.
He shifts on the couch like he’s just trying to get comfortable.
But he leans back into the cushions at the same time, chest angling open, throat exposed for a second too long before he tilts his head and drags a hand through his hair.
One leg moves, crossing over the other, bringing him just a fraction closer instead of away.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, like the word belongs there more than anything else does right now.
It does something to the space between us. Tightens it without either of us moving properly.
Then, because he’s Lance, he ruins it.
“What if you’re secretly a psychopath and I just don’t know it yet?”
The tension cracks just enough that I almost smile. “If I was going to murder you, I would’ve done it years ago. You’re the most annoying person I know.”
“That’s really touching.” He gives me a small, crooked smile, but it fades into something more serious. “We should have rules though, right?”
“Rules,” I echo.
“Boundaries. Consent. Communication. Either of us can stop anytime, no questions, no hard feelings.” He sits up straighter, the way he does when he’s trying to regain control.
“And no expectations. This doesn’t have to mean anything more.
I don’t want to weigh you down with all that… emotional stuff.”
Weigh me down. The words land like a gut punch, but I keep my face neutral. He has no idea. “No expectations,” I say it out loud, because I think he needs to hear it.
I can see him turning it over in his head, weighing the risks against whatever he’s hoping to gain. His cheeks are still faintly flushed.
“What do we start with?” he asks.
“Not sure. The basics?” My voice has gone low and rough. “Whatever you want to try.”
“Kissing.” His eyes drop straight to my mouth. “I haven’t kissed a man before. We should probably start with….that.”
I freeze, suddenly feeling breathless. “Okay.”
Neither of us moves.
The apartment falls silent except for our breathing and the low hum of traffic outside.
He’s close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off his body. He just said he wants to kiss me, and every muscle in me is screaming to close the distance, to finally taste him. But I stay rooted, terrified that if I move too fast he’ll see how badly I’ve already been craving this.
“I mean, no pressure. Not tonight,” he says finally, voice softer. “You’re hurt and all. Gotta let you heal.”
Fuck healing. “Okay.”
“But soon,” he adds.
How fucking soon? “Whenever you’re ready.”
He nods, and the tension in his shoulders eases slightly. “I’m going to delete that app.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” He picks up his phone, opens it, and I watch him find the app and delete it. “There. Done.”
He sets the phone down. “It might be fine for some people, but if I’m doing this, I think I want to do it with someone I trust.”
Eventually I stand to leave. Lance follows me to the door, staying close.
“You can crash here, you know. Can you even drive with that hand?”
“Yup.” I’d rather drive with this busted arm than stay here tonight and test every limit I have with him this close—like trying the basics right here, right now.
He glances at my wrapped hand, then back up at me. “Thanks for listening. And for not making it weird.”
“No need to state the obvious,” I mutter. “We just agreed to fool around with each other.”
“Okay, but you know what I mean.”
I head for my truck with him trailing behind me.
“Lock up,” I say.
“I always lock up.”
“You left it unlocked in April.”
“One time,” he shoots back.
I snort, digging my keys from my back pocket with the good hand.
He clears his throat, then asks, “By the way…when we were leaving, what did you say to Elliot?”
I turn to face him. He’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, eyes trying to read me faster than I’d like.
“Told him to go home. Not talk to you again.”
“That’s not all of it,” he says, clearly not buying it.
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
He holds my gaze for a moment. Decides not to push it. “Great. You just scared off my one prospect.”
Prospect, my ass.
“Go home, G. Rest the hand.”
I wave him off and climb into the truck.
What I told Elliot was not even close.
Told him if he can’t keep up with a man like Lance, sharp-tongued and fucking impossible, all heat and no brakes, he shouldn’t be taking up space beside him. And if he ever meets someone worth getting hit for, that’s what it looks like.
You don’t hesitate. You show up. You don’t ask permission for it.
I just didn’t mention I’ve been doing it without thinking. And never in the way I just described to Elliot.
At least tonight, I got away with calling it something simple. A friend stepping in when it went sideways. Nothing more complicated than that.