The pad of my forefinger just meets his cheekbone, and he flinches again. I do too, because it’s heartbreaking to see this man jerking back from a gentle touch, whether it’s mine or anyone else’s. Especially since there was a time when my touch would have drawn him in—a brush of fingers on his cheek had the same effect as grabbing his shirt and pulling him to me. The instant we made contact, we were in each other’s arms.
Now, as my fingertips graze his face again, he closes his eyes and takes slow, ragged breaths, and suddenly he’s not a man on the verge of being drawn into a kiss or an embrace. An image of Ripley from Alien flashes through my mind—sweating, crying, inches from a monster, awaiting the inevitable, horrible outcome.
“I would never hurt you, Michael,” I whisper.
“I know.” He shudders hard. “I’m not afraid of you.”
You’re afraid of who your fucked-up psyche thinks I am.
“You and I are the only ones here.”
He meets my eyes. “No, we’re not.”
Steve, if I ever fucking see you again…
“Do you want this?” I ask. “Do you want—”
“I want everything.” His gaze drops again, and he exhales. “I want you to kiss me. I want you to fuck me.” He shakes his head. “Goddammit, I want to be able to do this without being scared of someone who isn’t here.”
Fuck. What do I do?
I let my hand rest against his cheek and wait until the shudder passes. Until he’s as relaxed as he’s probably going to get. Then, “Do you want to stop?”
“No.” He looks me in the eye again. “I don’t want to stop.”
Sliding my hand from his cheek into his hair, I draw us together, and—
A victory!
He touches my waist. Tentatively, his fingers twitching slightly on top of my shirt, but he’s bridged the gap. When I wrap my other arm around him, his hand curves around to my back, and a moment later, his free hand materializes on my chest. I’m still—even with the other on my back, that hand could push me away, and I give him time to decide if it’s what he really wants to do.
A fraction of an inch divides our lips, and I’m afraid to cross it. I can feel his uneven breaths, and I swear I can feel his heartbeat over my own, and I don’t know if I should move in or back off or—
Michael’s hand tightens around the front of my shirt.
He lifts his chin.
And presses his lips to mine.
My heart stops. Neither of us is moving or breathing. I’m sure he’s going to jerk back at any moment, that the traumatized side of him is going to speak up with all its lies about me and every other man in the world, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t quite melt against me, doesn’t quite relax, but in his own way, he does. The rigidity in his muscles starts to subtly ease. The hand on my back slides up a little, though I can’t tell if it’s a caress or if he’s just resituating himself.
Gently, cautiously, I take over—holding him tighter, I tilt my head and nudge his lips with mine. They’re taut at first, firm and closed, but gradually, they soften. And then they part. He takes in a long breath through his nose as I deepen the kiss.
He tugs at my shirt, and I’m so light-headed, it throws me off balance. We both stumble a bit, but thank God for Michael’s tiny kitchen—his hip brushes the counter, and then I’ve got him pressed up against it, and he’s not pushing me away or trying to stop or doing a damned thing except holding on to me and opening to my kiss. It’s all I can do to keep our hips apart—one thing at a time—because I want nothing more than to press against him, feel every inch of him, and pray like hell that he suggests taking this into the other room. But no, no, not yet. Just this. I don’t want to overwhelm him.
And that’s a risk anyway, because the intensity of this kiss is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Sure, there’s arousal, and relief, and nerves, but there’s something more. A hunger coming from him that I can’t quite put my finger on. He’s trembling, holding on to me and kissing me like his life depends on it. Not like he wants to drag me to bed, but like he’s been waiting for this moment for so fucking long, he doesn’t know what to do with it.
After God knows how long, I come up for air.
When our eyes meet, his are wet, and suddenly that intense hunger not only makes sense, it breaks my heart—it’s the hunger of a man who’s been starved for human affection for way, way too long.
He touches his forehead to mine, and my God, he’s shaking. “That’s…that’s the first time I’ve kissed anyone since…”
“That’s a damned shame.” I pull him into a tighter embrace and stroke his hair. “Anything you want, Michael, just say the word.”
He sighs. “I don’t even know. Where to start. What I can handle.”
“Anything. We can take it as slowly as you need to. Just like when we were kids—kiss a little. Maybe move up to going down on each other before—”
“No.” The sharpness of his voice startles me almost as much as the uncomfortable fidget. “Let’s… I mean…” His voice softens. “Slow, yeah. But oral. That’s…”
I blink. “No oral?”
“No.” He laughs bitterly. “Isn’t that a switch? When I was a kid, I was terrified of being fucked, but totally down with sucking dick. Now I’d rather be dry-fucked than…”