Chapter 16

16

Max

Eyes closed, I number each of Luke's inhales. He's still asleep, leg kicked between mine and face pressed hard into the space where my neck and shoulder meet. We're so close, we might as well be conjoined. Knowing that any movement on my part will wake him up, I stay as still as possible. He'd come over late—far later than I'd been expecting—and there'd been something off about him. I wish I'd thought to turn on the light and get a good look at his face; a sad Luke is unnatural, but that's precisely the vibe he was projecting last night.

Cracking an eye open, I try to gauge the time by the light filtering into the room from around the blinds. Early, yet, probably not even six. Too early for most college students to be awake on a Saturday, but I've always been an earlier riser than most. I close my eyes, hoping I might get lucky and fall back asleep; if not, lying here in my Luke cocoon is scarcely a hardship .

I doze off, drifting in and out of sleep until Luke jolts. He's muttering incoherently, arm tightening around me as though there is any possibility of us pressing closer together. Opening my eyes, I run my fingers along his arm, barely grazing the fine hair there. When I reach his hand, I pause. Are his knuckles wrapped? Carefully, I trail my fingertips over his skin again, stopping when I encounter the familiar feel of skin tape. What the fuck?

There's no way I can tip my chin down far enough to see his hand, not without waking him up. Now I really wish I'd turned on a light last night. Sliding my hand back up his arm and away from his hand in case he's seriously hurt, I stay silent and still, butterflies erupting in my stomach as I wait for him to wake up. It feels imperative that I see his face. He easily could have gotten hurt at practice, but I feel certain he would have told me about that. Which means something must have happened last night when he was out with his roommate.

When he rolls his hip over mine, stretching his leg out and groaning, I immediately reach for his arm. He turns his face deeper into my neck and groans again, slowly trying to drag himself to wakefulness. I rub his arm, staying well clear of his hand.

"Luke?"

"Mm," he mumbles, lips against my neck. He adjusts his hips again, rotating mine further toward the mattress. Reaching a hand back over my shoulder, I touch the side of his head, brushing my fingers through his hair.

"Luke?"

He murmurs something that sounds like baby against my neck, nuzzling his face into my hair. He's barely conscious, still in limbo between asleep and awake, so I make a concentrated effort to tamp down my nerves and not rush him. There's a sound from the kitchen, and I can picture Marcos making his careful way around, quietly brewing coffee. It dawns on me that he must have let Luke in last night, since it obviously wasn't me.

"Hey, Maxy," Luke whispers, lifting his face enough that I can hear what he's saying. He slides his leg back as though suddenly conscious of how he was pressing me into the mattress.

"Morning. You okay?"

His breath tickles my ear as he exhales. I want to turn over and look at him, but the self-preservation side of my brain is warning me to stay like we are. My hand slides down his arm until my fingers are resting against his wrist.

"I have to talk to you about something," he says, voice still pitched low.

The butterflies multiply. "Something bad?"

"Yeah," he breathes, "something bad."

I let that curdle in my stomach for a minute, biting my lip. I know it can't be anything to do with us or he wouldn't be spooning me right now, lips pressing gentle kisses against the nape of my neck. Instead of wondering what something bad might entail, I let myself fixate back on the fact that his hand is taped. Loosely wrapping my fingers around his wrist, I pull his arm out into my field of vision. Fuck .

Sighing, Luke backs up and puts his hand on my shoulder; immediately, I flip around so that we're facing each other. Fuck .

"So, something bad was you got into a fight?" I ask, touching two fingers to his cheek right below a bruise.

"Yeah, something like that." He adjusts himself, trying to move the pillow awkwardly with his left hand. Gasping, I sit upright and reach for his right arm; it's wrapped all the way up to the middle of his forearm, but bulky enough that it's obvious there is a brace below the bandage. Two of his fingers are abnormally straight as though they've been splinted.

" Luke ."

"It looks worse than it is," he says hastily. I look at him, incredulously.

"It looks broken."

"Well, yeah, it is," he doesn't pull away from me, but lets me rest his busted hand down into my lap. Looking down at him, I perform a visual inspection of his naked torso, narrowing my eyes at another bruise coming up on his ribs.

"Were you—were you at the hospital? Last night, before you came over?"

"Yeah," he says slowly.

"You should have called me," I tell him, frowning down at him. "Jesus, what happened? This doesn't look like you got into a fight, this looks like you beat somebody to death with your bare hands."

"Tried to."

The words don't land. Sliding out from under the sheets, I step a foot off the bed. "I'm going to grab you an icepack and some ibuprofen. Do you have the discharge paperwork?" I look around, zeroing in on his pile of clothing. "I bet you're supposed to change those bandages."

"Max—."

"Wait for me here, I'll be right back," my voice comes out sharper than I'd intended and I work to soften it. "I'll bring you some coffee."

With that, I leave the room and head for the kitchen. As expected, Marcos is sitting at the counter, sipping from his favorite mug and looking at something on his phone. When he sees me, he puts it down, watching as I cross the kitchen to the refrigerator and open the freezer door. Tossing an icepack onto the counter, I pull two mugs from the cupboard.

"Morning," I greet Marcos over my shoulder. "Do we have a first-aid kit or anything?"

"Yeah, I've got one in my bathroom," he says slowly. I glance at him.

"Can I borrow it?"

"Sure." Standing up he takes a couple strides toward his bedroom before looking back at me and pausing. He opens his mouth to say something, shakes his head, and pushes through the door. He's back a minute later, silently handing me a first-aid kit and watching me with careful, questioning eyes.

"It's not me," I tell him, thinking that he's probably wondering if I cut myself or something. "Luke hurt his hand. Thanks for letting me borrow this—I'll bring it back once I'm done, okay?"

"All right," he says softly.

Turning, I balance everything as best I can with two hands and make my careful way back to my bedroom. Using my knee to open the bedroom door, I walk in and find Luke sitting up but otherwise unmoved from his position in the bed. He looks a little ill: eyes puffy and a defeated, downward tilt to his mouth.

"Here you go." I put a mug down beside him, watching as he lifts it using his less-damaged hand and takes a sip. He looks up at me as he does, and my stomach clenches at the look in his eyes. I've never seen Luke look so sad. Wanting to reassure him, I sit down on the edge of the bed and pull the icepack toward me. "Here, let's ice it first and you should take something for the swelling. I really need to see that paperwork, though. You do have it, right?"

I smile at him, trying to convey that everything is fine and he doesn't need to worry—I'll take care of him. He just watches me as I carefully wrap the icepack around his broken hand, holding it there unnecessarily—simply because I want to maintain contact with him.

"Discharge paperwork is in the pocket of my jeans," he says. I go to stand. "But actually, Maxy, I really do need to talk to you. Don't worry about this for a second; just come back up here and sit with me."

I comply, a little frightened at the way his brown eyes are flat and melancholy. He hasn't even tried to kiss me good morning, or teased me about my bedhead. Silently, because I can't think past the worry that he might be in pain, I unzip the first-aid kit and find a packet of pain relievers. He takes them without complaint.

"Thanks," he says, after I tip the pills into his hand and he throws them back dry. "I know what happened last October."

I nod. "Right," I agree, because we've already cleared that particular relationship pitfall.

"No, I mean, I know what happened." For a second, his eyes close. He takes a deep breath before opening them and looking at me. "I know who slipped you the drugs and I know who raped you."

Ridiculously, my first instinct is to correct him—they can't prove a rape actually occurred. But then I look at him—really look at him—at the bruises and the banged-up hands. Hands that are a little too beat up for someone who got into a simple fight. And not just anyone, either, but Luke. My Luke, who flirts his way through life, spreading sunshine around with his teasing and his smiles. My Luke is a lover .

I stare down at his broken hand, reaching out to touch his forearm. I suppose I should have known the moment he'd told me he'd gotten into a fight, and that we needed to talk. When I look back up at his face, his eyes are already on mine.

"That's who you were fighting with?"

"Yeah."

I nod, again, feeling strangely distant from this conversation. It's as though I'm floating above it, watching as two strangers discuss something that has little to do with me.

"Who was it?" I ask, when what I really want to know is do I know them?

"Theo—or Theodore, I guess—Cox, and Robert Cruz," he says, and the names mean nothing to me. Luke waits for any sign of recognition before continuing. "Cruz roofied you."

I nod, hearing the rest of that sentence even though he didn't speak it out loud. Cruz roofied you and Theo raped you . Looking back down at his hand, I see that the icepack has melted. Reaching out, I pull it off, gently resting my fingers on the bandage.

"We need to change this," I tell Luke.

"Max—."

"I don't know who those people are," I interrupt him, tightening my hand around the icepack. "Why—why would they…" Luke stares at me helplessly, looking miserable. "How do you know it was this Theo guy, anyway? Did he tell you?"

"Yes."

I rear back from the word as though it's a physical thing. I hadn't meant that as a serious question. Luke continues, speaking slowly and looking as though every word is causing him pain.

"He told me that he slept with you last year—bragged about it. Sloppy seconds , he said. Couldn't remember your name, or maybe he didn't even know it to begin with, I don't know. Either way, he said a lot of things that all add up him being a piece of shit. And then when I was at the police station, Officer Reynolds told me that Cruz was singing like a canary—flipped on his buddy and straight up admitted what they'd done to you."

"Officer Reynolds," I mutter. The name is forever seared into my memory, and immortalized on the police report I keep hidden away in my desk drawer. "Wait a second. Why were you at the police station?"

"Somebody must have called the cops when I was trying to kill the motherfucker. They brought Bryce in too, and I was back in a room for a bit before Officer Reynolds came back and talked to me. He said I wasn't under arrest but Theo was, and that I could leave. Bryce and I went to the hospital and then he dropped me off here."

Carefully, so that I don't have to look him in the eyes, I start unwinding the bandage from Luke's hand. He holds it steady, but flinches slightly when the fabric catches on his stitches. Dropping the soiled bandage over the bed and onto the floor with the used icepack, I look at his hand. It looks awful—his skin is stained yellow from the betadine used to clean the wounds, but even that doesn't disguise the way his skin is inflamed where the stitches have already pulled. I was right about two fingers being splinted, and he's got a brace on that wraps around his thumb and stabilizes his wrist. I touch it.

"Oh my god, Luke," I breathe, unable to look away from the mess.

"It's okay."

"It's your right hand ," I remind him, reaching over to dig through the first-aid kit for something I can rewrap it with. " You—how the hell are you supposed to play baseball without the use of your right hand ?"

I can feel it, the first tendrils of panic. Can hear it in my voice. Luke notices, too, because he bends forward until our faces are inches apart, forcing me to look at him. His left hand comes up and grips the back of my neck.

"I don't give two shits about baseball, or my hand, or being brought to the police station. I care about Theo being arrested for drug possession and sexual assault. I care about you ."

Closing my eyes, I lean forward until my forehead can rest on his shoulder. He bends his own head into my neck and we sit like that, unmoving and silent, for the length of time it takes me calm down. You're not going to cry, or have a panic attack. You're going to take care of Luke, because that's what's important right now. I lift my head.

"Hold still while I replace the gauze and rewrap this," I mutter, "and then we'll get you a new icepack. You should probably put one on your face, too."

Gently, I put a bit of antibiotic ointment on the lacerations before I replace the gauze. When it's wrapped back up, I silently hold out my hand for his other, waiting until he puts his palm against mine. The knuckles on this hand aren't nearly so bad as the other, so I settle for a new layer of antibiotic ointment and a single layer of gauze taped down.

"Do you know this Theo guy?" I ask, still unable to wrap my mind around the fact that he's a complete stranger to me. Luke shakes his head, and I laugh, incredulously. "Why—I don't get it. Why me? Evidently, we've never met before so…was it just random?"

"I don't know," he answers sadly. "Maybe. "

"Fuck," I rub a hand over my face, "I need to take a shower. I need—I'm going to take a shower, okay?"

Luke nods, watching as I gather up the used supplies from the floor to dispose of. I feel dirty, like this Theo guy's hands have been all over me even though it's been over a year. On the way to the bathroom, I pause, glancing back at Luke. He's yet to move from his spot on the bed, sheets coiled around him and bandaged hands resting in his lap. Ridiculous as it is, I can't help but feel like I'm the one who did that to him.

"Will you be here when I'm done?" I ask nervously, suddenly unsure of where we stand.

"I'm not going anywhere," he answers, picking up his coffee mug, "except maybe to the kitchen for a refill."

Smiling to show I'm grateful for the joke, I close the bathroom door behind me and toss the soiled bandages into the trash. Back to the door, I pull my phone from the pocket of my pajama pants and google ‘Theodore Cox SCU'. Immediately, articles about the football team populate, although after a cursory glance through the first couple I'm able to ascertain that they only mention him and don't have a photograph. On the fifth article, I get a picture. Stomach tying itself into knots, I hold my breath and enlarge the photo, sliding my fingers across the screen to try and make his face bigger.

The majority of his face is hidden by a football helmet, but I feel more certain than before that I've never seen him, let alone met him. I've never been to one of the football games here, not having much time beyond hockey and usually using any surplus to support Marcos and the baseball team. I zoom in farther on Theo's face. I feel nothing—he's a stranger to me. Does he look like a rapist? I don't fucking know. Apparently, he is; apparently, he's the kind of rapist who brags about it like it's a conquest to be proud of.

Dropping the phone down on the counter, I press my palms to my eyes. I don't feel better and I don't feel worse, knowing exactly what happened and who was behind it. I just feel like I wish it was over. I'm sick of being this person; more than anything, I'm sick of how this affects everyone around me, like I'm patient zero in a plague. Marcos, Luke, Coach Mackenzie: everyone I love dragged down into the mud with me.

A light knock comes at the bathroom door and I gasp, dropping my hands from my face. I give a harsh laugh that comes out as more of a sob—I hadn't even realized I'd been crying. These days, I have no control over my body. Another knock at the door. I back up until I'm leaning against the counter, rubbing a hand over my chest.

"Yeah?" My voice breaks slightly.

"Can I come in?" Luke asks.

"I'll be out in minute, just going to shower quick," I call back, scrubbing at my face with the heels of my hands.

"The water isn't running," he responds softly, and I choke on another laugh.

Unable to trust my voice, I don't answer right away; he doesn't wait for one anyway, but opens the door and steps inside. He's still wearing nothing but boxer shorts, having brought nothing with him to stay the night. I should tell him to leave a few changes of clothes here, for when he spends the night , I think, just as a fresh round of tears builds in my throat. Luke steps up to me, left hand gentle on the back of my neck, and pulls me into a hug.

"Careful," I warn him, as he wraps his right arm around my waist, "your hands. "

Those are the last words I'm able to get out before I can't breathe, let alone speak, around the sobs wracking my body. Burying my face into the crook of his neck, I wrap both arms around his middle and take what he's offering. His skin is warm through the thin fabric of my shirt, soft where my hands and arms are touching him. I want to tell him that I'm sorry for always crying on him.

Luke's left hand, slightly scratchy thanks to the bandage, rubs my back. I can feel his stomach moving against mine, so I know he's speaking to me even if I can't hear the words over the noises I'm making. Distantly, I wonder if Marcos can hear me.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," I choke out eventually, face still pressed to Luke's skin and words damn near incomprehensible. It doesn't matter—he knows what I'm trying to say. The hand rubbing my back doesn't falter.

"It's all right," he soothes, "let it out, love, just let it out."

I have no concept of how long we stand there holding each other. My tears dry up and my breathing evens, and still I don't let go. Luke doesn't either, nor has he stopped brushing his palm up and down my spine. Every now and then he turns his head toward mine, nose brushing my scalp; I'm not sure if he's smelling me or pressing soft kisses against my head. I don't care. Whatever keeps him here, warm within the circle of my arms.

"Do you want to leave some of your clothes here?" I ask, voice thick with moisture from all the crying. "So that you have something to wear when you spend the night?"

"Yeah, I do."

"We need to get you an icepack."

"I'm all right for now."

"I'm sor?—. "

"Max." He tightens his arm, giving me a little squeeze. "Don't."

Biting back another apology, I nestle my face further into his shoulder. It's been a bit since the tears abated, but I probably still look wrecked—the longer we stand here like this, the more time my splotchy, tear-stained face has to go back to normal. I take advantage of Luke for another couple of minutes, breathing in his skin, before I pull slowly away. He brushes my hair back and gives me a gentle smile.

"Feel better?" He asks softly.

Pushing a single hard breath out of my chest, I return the smile. "Actually, yeah."

"Me, too. All last night I was, like, frantic to get over here. I needed to see you—refill my Max tank, and hold on to you for a minute or ten."

"Your Max tank?" I repeat, and the smile comes easier this time.

"Yeah, you know, some people need food to function, I need Max." He shrugs. "Science."

Laughing, I rub a hand over my dry eyes. I feel like I could go back to bed with him and sleep for a week. But I've got a game tonight, which means I need to get my head on straight. Luke, too, was supposed to have a game; glancing down at his hands, I grimace—I don't envy the conversation he's going to have with his coach. He catches the look and hooks a finger under my chin.

"Don't worry about me," he says. I shrug.

"Goes both ways, Luke. You worry about me, I worry about you. That's how it works. And while I appreciate what you did for me and why you did it, I can't help but feel like shit that this is the outcome," I brush a gentle caress on his forearm, well above the damage. "I feel like all I've done since meeting you is cause you trouble."

"Jesus, Max, no . All you do is make me happy. You've never caused me trouble, not once."

"You got arrested last night," I point out, and he scoffs.

"I wasn't arrested. And you know what? Even if I had been, it would have been worth it. Put aside the fact that it was you —beating the shit out of any rapist is worth getting arrested for."

"No, you're right. I just—I would have hated for something to happen to you because of me. That's all."

"Right," he nods. "And I hate the fact that something did happen to you. Something that I can't fix. But maybe now he'll get what's coming to him, and that's worth a couple of broken bones."

"We could go around and around on this all day, couldn't we?" I muse, and he laughs. Palm on my cheek, he kisses the opposite side twice before doing the same to my mouth. I sigh, pulling him closer to kiss him deeper. "You know what the worst part about you having a broken hand is?"

"What?" He asks, kissing my neck.

"No fooling around. You need to be careful of the stitches."

He looks offended. "Please, Maxy. Do you really think a couple broken bones and some stitches will keep me away from all of this?" He rubs a hand salaciously from my chest down my stomach, before hooking his fingers into my waistband. "You underestimate me."

Laughing, I hook an arm around his waist and lead him back into the bedroom. "There's something I want to talk to about, actually. In regards to…that."

"Oh?" He sits down on the bed, leaning back on his less- damaged hand. I look away. His stomach is distracting. Walking to my closet, I pull out a few clothing items that will fit him and toss them to him.

"Not today, though. Not the right mood."

Not the right mood , as in not the right mood to have a conversation about you topping me. It's something I've been thinking about for a bit now; before this year, I'd been more flexible about roles in bed—open to try new things and explore. I like bottoming, and most of the time I prefer it. I trust Luke, and I want this part of me back. I want it with him .

"Oh?" He says again, tugging on my sweatpants.

"It's nothing bad. I just wanted to run something by you and…well, today just isn't the day." I hold a hand out to him as he tugs my shirt down over his chest. "Come on. I have a feeling Marcos is waiting to have a talk with us."

The following week seems to creep by, all of us feeling as though we are waiting in limbo. Every time my cell phone rings, my body feels like it's been doused in ice water— is it the police? Luke reminds me that Officer Reynolds said it would take a few weeks for the DNA results to come back from the rape kit, and that we don't really need it anyway. We know what happened. Even so, we wait. The last piece of the puzzle, and it's the one that has to wait in line for more important cases. I wonder if it will be Officer Reynolds who tells me what the results are and who they belong to; I wonder if he remembers me from the hospital, so many months ago.

"Hey, Max," Marcos calls, letting the front door close behind him and dropping his bag to the floor with a thump .

"Hey." I'm in the kitchen, standing at the counter as I wait for a couple pieces of bread to finish toasting. Marcos pokes his head around the wall. "How was practice?"

"Eh." Grimacing and jerking his shoulder in an irritated shrug, he pulls a Gatorade from the refrigerator. "We're scrambling a little bit, trying to replace Luke. Nobody we've got on reserve is quite as good."

"Oh? So we're a Luke fan now, huh?" I ask mildly, smiling when he snorts so violently it sounds painful.

"Don't get carried away," he says, watching as I butter my toast. "Is that all you're eating?"

"I'm not that hungry."

"You need protein. Want me to make you some eggs?" He's already making his way back over to the refrigerator. Breakfast for dinner is our usual go-to.

"Really, I'm fine for now. I just needed a snack. I think I might go over to Luke's tonight—do you have any plans?"

"Nah." Snagging one of my slices of toast, he takes a bite out of the corner.

"Dude."

Smirking, he puts it back on my plate. "Hey, all joking aside, I'm happy for you, you know that, right? I'm glad you and Luke are so good together. You deserve to be happy. So does Luke, even though he drives me up the fucking wall."

He touches my shoulder—a quick, barely there brush—and leaves the kitchen before I can reply. I watch his back as it disappears into his bedroom, the door clicking quietly closed behind him. Though he'd never say it to my face, I have a feeling he's still taking the Theo situation hard. He'd sat on the couch and listened to Luke's story in stony silence, hands clenched on his knees and shoulders stiff. He'd asked questions I hadn't thought to ask, questions about jail time and testifying. Dread had stiffened my spine; none of us knew the answer to that question. Let's not worry about that until we hear about the DNA results , Luke had suggested, bandaged hand resting across my leg.

I could still see it on Marcos' face, when I glanced at him and caught his expression before he was able to adjust it—the guilt of being the one who brought me to the party and left me alone. The regret of not being the one who'd gotten to beat out his anger and frustration on the perpetrator. No amount of reassurance from me about how nothing that happened was his fault would heal the wound; time was going to have to be responsible for that one.

Pulling my phone out of my back pocket and taking a bite from the toast that Marcos had sampled, I text Luke. He responds immediately, as though he'd been in the process of reaching out to me at the same time.

Hey, how's work?

Too much decaf, not enough Maxy.

You want a visitor?

Meet me at home instead? They're sending me early. Slowwww as shitttttt tonight. I've only made two friends.

Should I be worried?

Oh yes. You absolutely run the risk of being replaced by two octogenarians.

Snorting, I chuckle around my mouthful of toast and shake my head. Leaning a hip against the counter, I slide a foot up and down the opposite calf, idly.

All right, what time can I come over and start earning your favor?

Now. If you get there before me, just wait for me on the bed.

Naked.

Still laughing, I finish off my toast and slide the plate into the dishwasher. After brushing my teeth and grabbing my backpack, I call out a goodbye to Marcos and jog to my car. Luke ends up beating me to his house—I can hear the shower running through his open doorway as I walk down the stairs. He's whistling a jaunty tune, making me smile as I lean against the wall and listen. I think about joining him for a few seconds, before deciding against it. I want to speak to him and having so much wet, smooth skin at my disposal wouldn't be conducive to talking.

While I wait, I walk around his room and tidy. Luke's clothes always seem to leave his body in a minor explosion: pants on the floor, shirt thrown over a chair, socks trailing toward the bathroom. I pick up everything he'd been wearing at work, checking the pockets of his jeans before tossing them in the laundry basket. Before throwing the shirt in after them, I press it to my nose and inhale. I have become increasingly aware that what I had before been labeling ‘obsession' might actually be tipping over into ‘love' territory.

The water shuts off and the whistling becomes sharper now that Luke doesn't have to contend with the noise of the shower. I'm sitting on his bed when he steps out of the bathroom a minute later, towel tied across his hips and brown hair in spiky disarray from running a towel over it. My insides perform a chaotic shimmy at the sight of him, stomach clenching as his face breaks out into a wide smile. Might as well pitch a tent and call ‘love territory' home.

"Hello, you," he says, crossing the room and running a hand over the top of my head before kissing me. I circle my arms around his waist so he can't get away, or, god forbid, get dressed.

"Hi." I kiss his stomach as he brushes his fingers through my hair. Trying to contain the butterflies erupting in my stomach, I let myself take a small detour along the ridges of his abs.

"Oh," he sighs, long and breathy, and I look up through my lashes to see him tip his head back, eyes closed. More kissing—lower now, along the edge of his towel. I'm chasing water droplets across his skin with my tongue, ghosting my lips across him in a slow crawl. His fingers tighten in my hair; loosen, and tighten once more.

"I need to ask you something," I say, mouth against his bellybutton.

"Anything you want, it's yours," he concedes immediately. I laugh, lifting my head and resting my chin on his abdomen so I can look at his face.

"So easy to manipulate," I tease, as he catches my face between his palms and keeps me from picking up where I left off.

"What did you want to ask?" His voice is soft, punctuated by slow strokes across my cheeks with the pads of his thumbs.

I take a deep breath. "I wanted to ask if you'd be comfortable being with me if I was on the bottom and you on top. It's not how we usually do things, and I didn't want to assume you'd be okay with changing things up since…" I stop, taking another deep breath and feeling my cheeks re dden. "It scares me a little, is all. Not you , but being on my back or my stomach, and having someone on me… Not you, though, I'm not insinuating that you scare me. I'm saying this all wrong."

I laugh shakily, embarrassed. Luke doesn't join me, staring down at me seriously and holding my face still.

"You're not saying it wrong," he soothes. "Why do you want to do this, if it scares you? There are so many things we can do—why choose something you know makes you uncomfortable?"

"Because it didn't used to. Because I prefer to bottom—I always have. But now it freaks me out, and I thought I'd be okay with keeping things as they are between us but I want you so bad , Luke. I want this with you. I want you," I squeeze him a little tighter, "to fuck me."

"No, love," he says tenderly, "I am not going to fuck you."

The flush that had burned in my cheeks travels down my neck and chest. It is, I realize, unreasonably hot in this room. He pulls me to standing, eyes traveling appreciatively over my chest even though it's hidden in a baggy shirt. His hand creeps inside and comes to a stop in the groove above my hip.

"Take this off?" He asks, just like he does every time we do things like this.

"Yes," I answer, just like I do every time we do things like this.

He's got the shirt up and over my head, tossed aside onto the floor in seconds. This time, the look he gives me trails over my naked chest; it makes my skin feel two sizes too tight. He hums a low noise in the back of his throat as he puts his hand flat at the base of my throat and draws a line to my waistband.

"This isn't the first time I've had my shirt off around you," I remind him. His eyes flick to mine, amusement dancing to life above the heat.

"Can't a man appreciate his boyfriend in peace?" He asks, exasperated. I smile.

"As you were, then."

For a time, he does nothing more than touch me. Only the top half of my body is unclothed, but he makes no move to finish undressing me; instead, his fingertips dance across my skin, tracing each line like an artist with a paintbrush. When he finishes with the front, he turns me around and does the same to the back. Closing my eyes, I breathe in deep. Behind me, Luke chases the lines of my ribs before flipping his hand and smoothing his knuckles down my spine. When he gets to the base, he grips my hips and presses his thumbs into the dimples on either side.

"Fuck," he whispers.

"What?"

"I am really fucking obsessed with you," he says, palms now smoothing up and down my sides. Still facing away from him, I smile. A kiss lands between my shoulder blades and he turns me back around. I open my eyes.

Luke's eyes snag mine, their dark, lovely brown filled with trepidation. "We don't have to do this," I tell him, heart fluttering in panic. I'm not sure what the panic is for: the thought of going through with this or the possibility of him backing out.

"I'm nervous," he admits. "I haven't been nervous about having sex since I was a virgin."

"Sorry," I reply, because there really isn't anything else to say to that. He frowns.

"It's nothing to be sorry about. You have to tell me though, exactly what you want. How do you want to be positioned? How do you want me positioned? Where can I touch you, and what's off limits?"

I drop my forehead down to his shoulder and his hand comes immediately up to cup the back of my neck.

"I don't know," I admit, "I hadn't thought that far ahead. I was mostly concerned with asking if you'd even be amenable."

"Oh, I'm amenable," he mutters, tugging gently on my hair to get me to lift my head. "You have to tell me, Maxy."

"I—can we just do missionary? I don't want to be on my stomach or on all fours." My heart beats a little quicker at the thought, and my stomach lurches. Luke's expression tightens for a moment like he knows, before he relaxes once more, nodding. "And you can touch me anywhere, that hasn't changed."

"All right," he agrees.

"I don't want to do anything from—from behind," I say, my voice coming out strained. Now that I'm really thinking about it, I feel a little sick. Apparently, he was right to push me for an answer on this. "I don't mean like what you were doing just now—that's fine—but I don't want… I just need to be able to see your face, that's all."

"All right," he repeats.

"I think that's it," I finish weakly. As usual, I've completely ruined the fucking mood.

"Missionary, it is. That's my favorite, anyway," he says, grinning as though I've done him a favor. His right hand lands on my hip, taped fingers scratching lightly across my skin.

"So, anyway, you ready to bang?" I joke, and am rewarded with a laugh. "Sorry, didn't mean to put a damper on the proceedings. "

"I'm the one who asked," he reminds me, dipping his thumbs down below my waistband. "Off?"

"Off." I nod, and wait for him to slip my pants down my legs before stepping out and kicking them to the side. Pulling his towel off, we let it fall to the floor at our feet. He gives me a gentle push back and I slide backward onto the bed, lying flat and linking my fingers together on my stomach. Luke whistles softly as he pulls out a bottle of lube and condoms from the bedside table. By the time he climbs onto the bed and stretches out beside me, I'm halfway worked up into a nervous state.

Lying on his side, head propped on his hand, he looks at me while running his fingers gently over my arm. It's a small miracle that I feel comfortable enough to even lay here with him, completely naked; the thought bolsters me. Reaching up, I tug his face down and his lips press against mine. He sighs, and another wave of bravery washes over me. I can do this.

Sliding my arm underneath him, I apply enough pressure to indicate the direction I want him to go. Slowly, without breaking his mouth away from mine, he climbs over me. He's hovering above me in an elevated plank, nothing touching me except his lips.

"Come down here." I run my hands up and down his sides, waiting for him to lower.

"Okay?" He breathes, after letting me take some of his bodyweight.

"I'm fine."

I know he can feel the way my heart is pounding, like it's trying to broadcast the lie in my words. This isn't all that different than what we've already been doing together, though, other than the position reversal. You're fine—Luke will take care of you. You can say stop anytime.

Luke's mouth finds its way down my neck, sucking on the delicate skin there before continuing its southern journey. Tipping my head back, I just enjoy the sensation of being worshipped. He takes his time, crawling backward down the bed as he follows the line of my body. The only part of him I can reach any more is his hair—I thread my fingers into the soft strands and brush through.

Hands planted on either side of my hips, he takes my dick into his mouth and sucks so forcefully, my hips come off the bed. Gasping, I tighten my grip on his hair, only to loosen it once more, afraid of hurting him. Bobbing his head, he takes me deep into his throat and swallows around me until he gags. A low, broken moan builds in my chest. Luke smiles around my length, eyes flicking up to mine as he pulls back just long enough to take a breath before deep-throating me once more. I let this go on for as long as I can—enjoying myself too much to ask him to stop. I'm teetering right on the edge of coming when I tug on his hair.

"You have to stop or I'm going to come," I tell him, already sounding wrecked. He pulls off, but doesn't move back up toward my head like I'd expected. With swollen lips, he kisses across the seam of my hip and up the inside of one thigh. I don't even remember bending that knee up. Glancing up at me through watery eyes, he nips lightly at the tender skin.

"I'm going to take my time with the prep," he says, voice muffled where he's now bending low again, lips grazing the underside of my dick. "Do you mind if I use my mouth, as well?"

It takes an embarrassingly long time for me to realize he asked me a question. I'm so focused on the proximity of his face to my crotch, and his breath warm on my balls that it takes until he looks at me, questioningly, for me to figure it out.

"Sorry—what?"

"When I'm doing the prep," he repeats, smirking, "is it okay if I use my mouth, as well?"

"Oh. Oh. " I flush, and not from embarrassment, for once. "Yeah, that's fine."

"Are you okay?"

Again, it takes me a second to work through the question. He traces his nose across my taint and waits patiently for me to gather the few wits I have left.

"I'm okay," I answer, finally. "How are you?"

I bite my lip so hard I nearly draw blood, when he chuckles and it vibrates across my balls. I'm no longer touching his hair, but have both hands twisted up in the blankets beneath me. Somehow, both my knees are now raised, and Luke is settling himself down on his stomach, palms pushing gently on the backs of my thighs. Obediently, I draw my legs back and watch his dark head as he ducks down and licks across my hole.

"Oh, fuck," I groan, as he does it again, pressing harder this time.

I'm having trouble keeping track of all my limbs, and almost kick Luke in the shoulder when he does something with his tongue that has electricity shooting down into my toes. He laughs again, running the tip of his tongue around my hole before licking across it with the flat.

"Oh, fucking hell," I mumble, helplessly rocking my hips as he pushes his tongue inside me, swirling it around before pulling it back out again. He repeats the motion again, and again. "Jesus, that feels good. So fucking good. "

He keeps at it, hands pressed to the backs of my thighs to remind me to keep them pushed back, and my own hands twisting in the bedsheet. He's fucking me with his tongue, the feeling so unbelievably good I've forgotten to be nervous. Needing to release some of the pressure that's building in my body, I wrap a hand around my dick, smearing the precum down as I jack myself. Luke groans, either from the sight of me touching myself or the taste of my ass; I can't believe this is just foreplay and not the main event—how the fuck could anything be as good as this?

I almost sob when he stops, pulling his mouth away with a final parting lick. Resting my feet back on the bed, I raise a hand and run it through my sweaty hair. Luke, reaching for the lube and coating a finger, watches me.

"I'm okay," I say, answering the question before he has a chance to ask it. "I'm okay."

In fact, I'm better than okay. I feel fucking fantastic after that, and nearly ask if we can flip around so I can do the same to him. He separates my cheeks again, and presses his lubed finger where his mouth just vacated. Already stretched from his tongue, he slides easily inside, and my eyes flutter closed on a small gasp. Rotating his hand, he brushes the pad of his finger across my prostate.

"Luke," I say, just as he does it again. It's been so fucking long since somebody has touched me like this—since I've wanted someone to touch me like this. I feel full from a single finger.

"Maxy." His soft voice has me opening my eyes and meeting his eyes. He's watching me, barely moving his hand as he slowly stretches me open. "Does that feel okay?"

"Yes. Yes. God, yes," I chant nonsensically. The only thing that could make this better would be for him to kiss me .

He adds a second finger painfully slowly, swirling and separating his fingers in a languid dance, brushing across my prostate repeatedly. Again, I have to reach down and give my dick a few quick pulls. Don't come, don't come, don't come , I chant, as my release crests and recedes. More lube, cool against my skin, and a third finger is pressed inside. The pressure mounts, centered around my pelvis, and I keep my eyes on Luke's beautiful face.

I'm prepped. Luke knows it, and I know it, but neither of us make a move to take things further. Pumping his fingers in, spreading them, and pulling them out slowly, he bends down and takes my dick back into his mouth. I arch upward, accidentally pushing myself deep into his throat and gagging him.

"Sorry," I gasp, "I'm sorry."

My apology sounds more like a moan as he presses against my prostate and licks across my tip. It feels so fucking heavenly, my eyes practically roll back in their sockets.

"That's all right," he murmurs, pulling off me long enough to speak, "you can thrust."

As though my body is being controlled by a puppeteer, I arch my hips again, fucking myself into Luke's mouth as he hollows his cheeks. I am dangerously close to coming, and as good as this feels, I want him inside me before that happens.

"Luke, Luke," I pant, each syllable timed with a slow thrust of his hand. "Luke."

He lets my dick slide from his mouth and looks up at me, brown eyes heated and skin flushed. His hand has stilled.

"We don't have to go any further," he tells me, swiping the pad of his finger over my prostate. "Whatever you want to do."

"I'm ready. I want to keep going. "

He nods, pulls his fingers carefully out and leans down to kiss the top of my knee. My throat feels tight, all of a sudden, and the wild urge to tell him I love him nearly overcomes me. Now is not the fucking time, Max . Breathing deeply, I reach out and touch my fingertips to Luke's chest, watching as he rolls on a condom.

Immediately, as though some internal switch was flicked, my heart rate picks up to abnormal intensity and lead fills my stomach. He leans over, looking between our bodies as one of his hands presses against the back of my thigh again. I catch his face with a hand, bringing his eyes back to mine. Come up here, please. Come kiss me .

I'd meant to say the words out loud, but can't squeeze them past the tennis-ball-sized lump in my throat. He doesn't need to hear them, anyway. Surging forward and planting his elbows on the bed by my ears, he kisses me. It's a tender kiss, slow and loving. It doesn't make it any easier for me to breathe.

"Hey, baby." The words are murmured straight into my mouth. "How are we doing?"

"Fine," I manage to squeeze out. Luke lifts his face far enough back to get a good look at mine. Like earlier, he's holding his weight off of me completely.

"Maxy."

"I'm okay."

"We can stop for today, this is enough" he says, and I close my eyes against the tears of frustration that threaten to spring up. Reaching down, I curl a hand over the curve of his ass; distantly, I realize that hand is shaking.

"Please. Keep going." My voice is nearly inaudible, but even if he hadn't heard me, the pressure I apply to his hip would have been answer enough. Please, keep going .

He doesn't resist as I pull him closer, nor does he go any further than to resume kissing me. A lazy caress of lips and tongue, coupled with the hand he slides into my hair, fingers brushing across my scalp. I breathe through my nose, working to lower my heart rate. Lifting my feet and pulling my knees back, I use my grip on his ass to pull his pelvis forward once more. The silent request can't be interpreted as anything other than what it is.

"Please," I say again.

Turning my face to the side with his nose, he kisses across my jaw and whispers a reminder: "You can tell me to stop."

I nod, tucking my knees further back into my chest and watching as reaches down between our bodies. Cupping my hands high up on his ribs, I stare up at the ceiling and desperately try to relax when I feel him press against my entrance. A drop of sweat runs down my hairline, tickling my skin. I count slowly down from a hundred, trying to distract myself from the pressure of Luke slowly pushing inside.

He stops, suddenly, when I hiss out a pained breath. My fingers are clenched around his ribcage in a way I know is too hard, but I can't bring myself to loosen the grip. I need to hold on .

"Max, baby," Luke runs his nose up the side of my face, kissing my cheekbone, "look at me."

My eyes flick to his. He's stationary—suspended above me, dark hair fanned around his face as he gazes down at me.

"Breathe, love, you've got to breathe," he reminds me. I take a deep breath in through my nose and it's like knives in my chest; I hadn't even realized I'd been holding my breath.

"I'm sorry." Deliberately, I loosen my fingers. "I'm sorry. I just need a second. I can't fucking relax."

Leaning down, he kisses my collarbone, gliding his tongue over the prominent bone. One of his hands slides down my abdomen until his fingers can wrap loosely around my dick, hand rotating idly. Closing my eyes, I take this as the gift it is; he's trying to help me relax. Every now and then he whispers a reminder to breathe and I dutifully take a deep inhale.

"Okay," I tell him, "okay, you can move."

He doesn't right away, other than to roll his palm over the head of my dick and back down to the base. When he does push his hips incrementally forward, I'm not expecting it. He's able to tunnel forward and almost bottom out, stretching and filling me until the pressure is almost too much. I pull him forward again, and with another small roll of his hips he's all the way inside. It's a lot, and not nearly enough—I want more.

"Max," he says in warning, when I rock my hips upward in an effort to bring him closer. His voice is strained, the only indication of how hard he's working to hold himself still. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," I answer, and even I'm surprised by how sure and unwavering my voice is. He sighs, blowing out a relieved breath, and leans down to kiss me as he rocks his pelvis against mine.

I can feel every inch of him—every move he makes—as he pulls out and pushes back in, locking in a slow and steady pace. I don't remember ever being so aware of my body during sex before this; every move Luke makes is catalogued in my skin. He's watching me, the sort of eye contact that might be too intense for some, but only makes me feel safer. My lovely Luke.

We fall into a rhythm as though we've been doing this for years and not for the first time. It's slow and gentle, and exactly what I needed. Sliding my hands up and threading them through the hair above his ears, I guide him down, panting into his mouth as I kiss him. When he groans, I can feel the vibration in my teeth.

"Come here," I gasp, pulling on his lower lip with my teeth and desperately trying to convey that I want him on top of me. "Come here."

Thrusting deep, he carefully lowers down to his elbows and tucks one hand behind my sweaty head. Flush together, our chests slide as he rocks steadily into me, hips angled perfectly to hit my prostate and send shivers tingling down my spine. I kiss him deeply—trying to convey every emotion raging through my body right now. He kisses back, just as hard, because he understands.

With the change in position, his abdomen rubs across the sensitive underside of my dick; the friction, coupled with the prolonged, steady pressure against my prostate, has me coming before I'm able to get a warning out. Luke groans again, low in his chest, and shoves his tongue so far into my mouth he might be looking for my tonsils. My grip on his hair allows me to keep his head there, kissing him with everything I've got as he continues to thrust into me, looking for his own release.

The sound he makes when he eventually comes is one I'll remember until the day I die. Face buried in my neck, he rolls his hips lazily, working himself through it. Probably without meaning to, he's collapsed fully on top of me, his heavy body pressing me into the bed. I wrap my arms around him, defiantly keeping him there.

My entire body is trembling and covered in a sheen of sweat; I feel like a towel somebody has wrung dry. Except, apparently, for my tear ducts, because naturally I feel like I might cry again. Squeezing my eyes shut and digging my nose into Luke's damp hair, I try to take calming breaths. No more crying, Max, what the fuck is wrong with you?

A hand reaches up to cup the side of my face. "Maxy?"

"Kiss me," I gasp, "please."

Luke lifts his head, holding me in place with a thumb hooked under my jaw, and kisses me. Oh, thank god , I think, before I apply myself to the serious business of kissing Luke and trying not to cry.

"Max," he tries again, a short time later, pulling his swollen lips away from mine and trailing them along my jaw. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," I say automatically, as I smooth a palm down his back like he does to me. He stiffens, body going rigid as he realizes how we're positioned.

"I'll get off of you," he says, pushing up and away from me before I can grab ahold of him and keep him near me. "Sorry. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking."

"No, it's okay. Really, I'm fine."

He stares down at me, eyes flitting over my face and down my chest. I watch him, unable to help the smile that spreads across my face as I look at his hair—shiny with perspiration and absolutely wrecked. He answers with a smile of his own, but still slides off to the side and stretches out beside me on the bed. He compromises by throwing a leg over mine and pillowing his head on my shoulder.

"You're okay," he says. I don't think the words were for me, but I respond anyway.

"That's right." He shifts. Tilting my head down, I watch as he pulls the condom off, ties the end of it and drops it over the side of the bed, muttering something about getting that later . "Is your hand okay? "

"Yeah, it's fine. Honestly, I completely forgot about it." He shrugs. "I might need to retape the splint, later."

"I'll help you." Arm wrapped around his shoulders, I brush his hair flat and lean my face against him. "You're going to need another shower. You got all sweaty."

"Let's stay here for a bit and rest. Then we'll take a shower together, because you got sweaty, too." He lifts a hand to my hair, chuckling when he immediately hits a snag.

"Deal. And we'll fix your splint. Can I stay here, tonight?"

"If I ever answer ‘no' to that question, I want you to take me out back and shoot me."

Laughing, I tighten my arm and bring him closer to me. He presses his face back into the crook of my neck, half his body warm on mine. It's not close enough—not nearly close enough—but it will do for now.