23. Miller

Ryan is visibly shaking, hands and shoulders trembling so hard I can see it despite the low light. He pulls away from me as soon as my dick softens, scrambling to his feet and struggling with his jeans. At first, he tries to pull them up, but when he fails, he kicks his shoes off and hops from one foot to the other until he’s stepped out of his pants and underwear completely.

I reach for him. He recoils and steps back, making a feeble attempt at slapping my hand away.

“I’m fine.” He means to say it with force, but it falls a little flat.

“I’m not.” It’s true. I’m many things—spent, stunned, exhausted, euphoric—but fine isn’t one of those things. I’m scared and filled with concern for Ryan. Where we just went was the last place I was expecting. It was way bigger and deeper than I was prepared for. I’m scared for myself too. I feel unsteady, wobbly on the inside. The thought of being out of his body, being on my own, being away from him, hurts in a way I’m not sure I know how to handle. Big emotions swirl and swell in my chest, rising up and settling in my face. “I need to be held,” I whisper.

I wait for him to laugh, looking down and tensing my back so I’m ready for it.

The laugh doesn’t come. Neither does the huffy sigh or exasperated groan I’ve been trained to expect. Instead, he comes to me. His movements are jerky as he approaches. He’s close. Very close. There’s no more than a sliver of space between us, but he doesn’t touch me. He looks down at his feet for a while, lashes painting black shadows on his cheeks, hair tussled and forming a dark curtain he tries to hide behind. I feel the tension in him as if it’s my own, and I hate it. I hate the space between us. Hate that he’s close but so far away. I don’t move though. Much as I want to, I understand innately that Ryan needs to be the one to close the gap. To take the last step.

At last, he looks up and our eyes meet. Shiny shadows ripple in deep pools. Approaching and retreating. Pulling me closer and pushing me away. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and scrapes his teeth over it, and when he releases it, he leans his head down, resting his forehead on my shoulder. At first, his hands are on my upper arms, but they quickly find their way around my waist, and then it’s not just his forehead on my shoulder. It’s his cheeks and his lips and his tongue too. I wrap my arms tightly around him and start swaying almost immediately from how good it feels to hold him. It feels right. It is right for me. And even though I know he doesn’t know it yet, it’s right for him too. I’d bet my life on it.

When his breathing levels and his heart rate slows, I slide my hands under his T-shirt and gently pull it over his head. He lifts his arms of his own accord and lies on my bed with only the slightest persuasion. I pull the covers over both of us as we shuffle our hips and limbs to find a way to make the small space work for both of us. He’s on his side, facing away from me. A little spoon to my big one. I curl myself around him, molding our bodies together so as much of our skin is touching as possible.

“Ryan,” I say, stroking his hair out of his face, “there’s no part of me that thinks you liked what those dicks did to you.” The hand that’s on my arm hesitates and then clenches tightly. “For some of us, fear and excitement live close together, and they feel like each other. There’s no part of me that thinks you liked what they did to you, you know that, don’t you?” He doesn’t move, not even to breathe. I lower my voice to a growl and say it with meaning. “And you know there’s no part of me that won’t kick the living shit out of anyone who ever treats you like that again, right?”

He doesn’t reply, but he turns his head toward me. It’s his version of an offering. I accept it with my whole heart. I cup his face in my hands and plant soft kisses all over his cheek. I don’t stop until he’s squirming and the flesh I’m kissing is creased into a deep smile. I can tell he’s almost had enough, but I can’t bear for the moment to end, so I make him an offering of my own.

“D’you want to see something cool?”

There’s the deep sigh I know and love. “Will you stop talking if I say yes?”

I feel around on my desk until I find my phone, turning the flashlight on and giving our eyes a moment to adjust before shining it on the back leg of my desk.

“Look,” I say.

I angle my flashlight so it hits the wood just right. Varnish glimmers around childish block letters.

W + A.

The letters have been carved deeply into the wood and are surrounded by a slightly lopsided heart, complete with an arrow shot through it. It’s well hidden. I wouldn’t have found it at all if I hadn’t moved furniture around a few weeks after I got here. I don’t know how long the letters have been here or who carved them. That’s what I love about it. There’s a history, a story, a lifetime lived in this room that we know nothing about.

Ryan extends a forefinger and traces the letters lightly. It’s something I’ve done many times before, so I know exactly what it feels like. Grooves and indentations that can be decoded by touch. A message. A love letter written in braille.

“I wonder if he got the girl? W, I mean. I wonder if he got her?” I ask quietly. “Or if she got her? Or if they got them? Or—”

“—if he got him,” Ryan finishes for me.

“What do you think?”

“I dunno.” His voice is sleepy, fading, but not totally closed off yet.

“I think he did.” He hums his agreement or amusement at my ridiculousness. I can’t tell which, and I don’t mind either way. “Ry,” I stroke his back softly, “I know you like planning shit, and your anxiety doesn’t like surprises, so I’m going to tell you something. You don’t have to say anything. I’m only telling you so you have some time to get used to the idea.”

“Mm?”

“You’re not leaving me tomorrow.”

“I’m not?” I’ve almost lost him to sleep. It’s close, but he’s still with me. A foggy, relaxed version of him who’s a lot less inclined to argue. The perfect version of Ryan Haraway, in other words.

“No. You’re not.” I kiss the back of his neck and nestle my head into my pillow. “You’re not because I’m not letting you go. Gonna make you stay by any means necessary.”

Ryan looks unreal this morning. He always looks good, but this morning especially, he looks so hot I can hardly stand it. He’s a picture of rage with ragged sleep lines etched into his face. A big, beautiful nose. Electric eyes that are drenched in confused fury at finding himself in my bed.

“You’re so pretty,” I say, handing him his coffee quickly to neutralize the effect I know my words will have on him.

His eyes blacken and roll to the ceiling.

He’s blindingly attractive, absolutely blinding, but he’s more attractive from some angles than others. Maybe that’s why he can’t see it in the mirror.

He puts his glasses on, shoving them roughly up his nose, and takes a careful sip of coffee, doing his damnedest not to look too grateful.

Oh God. He’s so sweet.

“Ry.” I take hold of the sheets and start easing them down his chest and away from his lap, exercising the caution history has taught me I need. I take his thickening dick in my hand, aware that the threat of an errant mug of coffee hurtling my way is low but not zero. “D’you remember what I said last night?” He blinks slowly as my hand slides up his cock all the way to the head. I circle my fist around it, tightening it until his eyes bulge slightly and I’m positive I have his full attention. “D’you remember what I said about you leaving today?”

“You said I’m not, but I totally am,” he mutters in a monotonous tone.

“No, you’re not.” My hand slides down his now fully erect cock, sinew and muscle pulse, and he leans back against the wall as if to escape the torment.

“I am!”

“Nope.”

“I am. I’m going home. I’m leaving today. I’m stopping over in Cleveland, and I’m driving the rest of the way tomorrow.”

“Nah-uh, you’re not. There’s no fucking way you’re driving that piece-of-shit truck all the way to Chicago. I won’t allow it.”

Oof, that pisses him off big time.

He shifts his hips, straightening up to get ready for a fight, but he’s going nowhere. I have him by the root, after all.

“I have a proposition for you.”

There’s a slight lull. “Not interested. I have money. I don’t need your—”

“Mm-hmm, you have a little money, sure. I know that ‘cause I’m the one who gave it to you, but do you have a nice, reliable car? No. No, you don’t. And you need one. That truck is a death trap.”

The outrage is epic, grand, and larger than life. His thick brows knit together as he bares his teeth at me. “Don’t be fucking ridiculous, Miller! That’s goddamn stupid, even for you. I know you’re richer than fuck, but don’t you dare try to tell me you have nice-reliable-car kind of money lying around.”

“Sure I do. I have birthday money and Christmas money and—”

“Birthday money is fifty dollars! It’s a hundred here, two hundred there if you’re very, very fucking lucky.” He’s yelling now, and he’s not even trying not to. I love it. It makes me so happy to see him like this. “Please tell me you understand that. I swear to God, I’m going to have a heart attack if you don’t tell me you understand that.”

I lean down and take his swollen head in my mouth, sucking it into my mouth and releasing it with a lecherous pop and then carefully massage my saliva all into his crown.

“Sure, baby,” I say reasonably, “I understand. Birthday money makes you mad. I won’t mention it again, I swear.”

“Don’t call me baby,” he snaps, shuffling in his seat and using his free hand to give the hand I have on him a halfhearted slap.

I tighten my grip and pick up the pace.

“Okay, baby. I’ll stop. I promise. But only if you promise me something too.” His head drops back against the wall and the mug in his hand tilts precariously as a soft, tortured groan leaves him. “You have to promise you’ll never stop slapping me away.”

I kiss his tip sweetly and lick a broad stripe up his slit, tasting the sweet saltiness of him and waiting for him to look at me before adding, “Don’t ever stop, okay? Not even when we’re old and married.”

He moves quickly. At first, I think he means to slap me away for real, but he reaches around and grabs a handful of the hair at the back of my head instead, fisting it so tightly my scalp stings. He howls in fury at what I’ve said. At least, I think he does. Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t. It’s hard to tell. His dick is buried to the hilt in my throat, assaulting my vocal cords, and my air is all but cut off from the vigorous skull fucking he’s giving me.

What I’m trying to say is that even though he’s definitely angry, there’s a decent chance he’s howling in pleasure.