24. Matthew

24

MATTHEW

D espite the cane, the limp, and the slightly asymmetrical nutsack, Fischer is egregiously sexy. And it's not just his wild hair or his silvery eyes, which are a major factor, but he's got this low voice like an audiobook narrator, and that round ass on his slim frame is one of the best I've ever seen.

No one in the world acts like he could give less of a fuck. Unless he wants something, and then he becomes need incarnate.

Bottom line? It's impossible not to be attracted to him. I've genuinely tried over the last few months—and more than once over the last eight years with varying degrees of success. But sometimes when I see him walking through the lobby of the Eastmoor, I'm barely able to stop myself from following him into the elevator and mauling him.

Ever since I watched him jerk off in the club, he's been the only one my body wants—the only one who has a chance of relieving this constant ache.

His pale blue sweater turns his eyes the exact same shade. The smell of him keeps wafting toward me—sweet and evergreen. A combination that makes me think of trips to Lake Winnipesaukee growing up. Trips Fischer never went on with us because he always claimed to have other plans. Anything to avoid the family.

Stepping out of his way, I gesture him inside my loft for the first time. His cane moves first, followed quickly by his damaged left leg and then his right until he's standing in the center of the wide-open space.

My loft is big. Formerly a kid's dance studio, it has high ceilings and windows lining the back wall, bringing in a ton of light during the day. The floors are sprung wood. The walls are exposed brick. My bed is against the rear wall, in the center beneath the windows. There's a sitting area off to the right, and to the left is the tree sculpture, my workshop, and the kitchen. The bathroom is big, and it's in the back right corner above the stairwell.

Fischer points at the tree. " That? "

"That's it."

"Holy shit, Matty. Holy shit ."

Honestly, I don't want to talk about the tree. I'm happy for him to finally see it, but I don't want it to distract from what's been building between us all day. I want him naked, all his scars visible at once, and then I want to make up for lost time and fuck him until he's sobbing with pleasure. That's what I want. To bury all my sleepless nights and insecurity and fear about our future inside him.

He glances back at me and points at the sculpture with his cane. "May I?"

"If that's what you're here for," I say.

He gives me an exasperated look. "Hit pause, Casanova. This is a big deal."

I remain a few paces behind him, feasting my eyes on the way his ass curves into his upper thighs.

I try not to look at his face as he examines my art. Like I said, it's not a deeply personal piece, but it is personal.

He bends forward, ass to me, and gets a closer look at some of the facial etchings on the glass shards. I have a nearly photographic memory for faces, but I have his memorized down to the pore. "This is…" he begins softly but doesn't finish, straightening up and taking in the tree as a whole from beneath the glass leaves arching overhead. "My God…" He clears his throat and casts a quick glance back at me like he's clocking my location. "Does it have a name?"

"Not yet."

"What does it mean to you?"

I don't like that question. Not tonight. But I tell him as best I can. "It's kinda like…a memoir."

"Is that all you're gonna say?" he asks with a smile of incredulous disbelief.

"Do you like it?" I ask.

"It's fucking incredible. I can't believe you made this. I didn't realize how much glass…" he turns to take in the scope of it again.

"You know what I think people are gonna say about it?"

"What?"

"That it's a pretty tree."

"It's way more than that," Fischer argues.

"To me. And maybe by extension to you, but aside from some of the details—it's basically a giant Tiffany lamp."

"Matty—It's extraordinary. Don't self-reject."

"But I'm really good at it."

"Yeah. Too good at it."

"Wanna know what else I'm good at?" I ask, dropping my voice.

He pivots to face me and smirks. Fucking smirks , and it's one of the sexiest things his face has ever done—and I've seen him come twice.

I rub the back of my neck, my nerves taking center stage. I've never been intimate with someone I know this well. But Fischer and I are nothing if not intimate, which changes everything about how I feel about what's likely coming.

I'm about to make a joke about how this is probably the farthest we've ever stood from each other in the same room when he walks over to me and tugs at the hem of my shirt. "This shirt's driving me fucking crazy. I almost can't stand looking at you in it."

I look down because I can't even remember… I make a mental note—he likes henleys. "Was the kiss that good?" I ask him.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've never looked at me like this before."

He cocks his head. "Haven't I? Do you doubt my intentions?"

"Maybe."

"Don't," he says. Running a hand through my hair, he wraps a hand around the nape of my neck. "I promise I'm here for the right reasons."

"Meaning it didn't just suddenly occur to you that we could have sex with each other?" I ask.

"No. It's occurred to me plenty."

"When?" I need more information. I need to know this means something to him, too. I don't need for him to have pined for me for years the way I've longed for him, but I do need to know this isn't born of some fear of losing me. Whether I'm allowed to have his body or not, I know I've got his heart, which has always been enough—I can still come back from this.

"We slept in the same bed for nine months," he says.

I nod.

"And you saw me completely broken."

I hold his gaze, remembering everything.

"It never even occurred to me you could want me after that."

"I wanted you then, too," I tell him.

His brow furrows. He shakes his head.

"I think you might underestimate how addictive you were," I say.

"Addictive or just addicted?"

"Addicted to me maybe," I say.

He presses his lips together. "Maybe."

I take a deep breath and make another confession. "I would have done more than spoon you if you'd wanted it back then. If you needed it. If you could have handled it."

"Matty…"

"Did you ever?" I ask.

His breath catches as he inhales. He hesitates for just a moment and then he nods, surrendering the rest of his need to me. I take hold of his face and press my mouth to his.

He opens with a gasp, his cane falling from his grip as my arms gather him up. He goes liquid in my embrace, and I drink him in. "I still want you so fucking bad."

Breathless, he nods again, and again his mouth comes for mine, but I hold back and say, "Are you gonna give it to me?"

Another nod, another lean of his head, chasing my lips. I give him the softest, wettest peck. "Anything I want?"

"Yes."

"It's a lot. You think you can handle it, princess?"

"I hope so," he whispers.

I ask the more important question, keeping my voice low and my tone curious. "You think you can take my cock?"

He shudders and groans, winning the distance battle and kissing me deeply. Teeth and lips clash as we tug at each other's mouths and readjust.

"I don't know," he breathes. "I don't know. I've never?—"

"I know you've never," I say, walking him to the bed without sacrificing an inch between us. "But I'm gonna be with you every second. And you like that, don't you?"

"Yes. Fuck ," he says, his hands making a wreck of my hair. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too." For what feels like forever. I pull up his sweater and strip it from his body. I run my hands over his shoulders, down his arms, up his chest and take hold of his face. "And I've got you."

He looks at me, dazed, with wet panting lips. "I can take it."