Page 82 of The Darkness Within

His breath is a warm caress over the shell of my ear. “Nothing is going to happen unless you want it to. I probably can’t do anything anyways, even if I want to.”

I definitely want to. And I know he wants to. But what about what we should do?

Being alone together, without a house full of roommates with their listening ears and prying eyes, feels like we’re playing outside the rules, like we’re on a hall pass for the weekend. All bets are off, no consequences. Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know, but my manipulative mind loves to find the morally gray area of any situation and twist it to suit me.

The rational part of my mind, the part that has been recovering for the past twelve years, is screaming at me that of course there are consequences to my actions. That I’m being selfish and irresponsible. But if we’re both willing to pay the price, isn’t it worth it?

Damn, right it is. No matter how high the price, just a second of his hands on me or my mouth on him would be worthwhile.

“Let’s go.”

This is a bad idea. A terrible idea.

When we’ve done this in the past, at home, we’re usually wearing sweatpants, and sometimes T-shirts. Nash chose to come to bed in only his boxer briefs. He gave a pointed, amused glance at my sweatpants before climbing under the covers. I felt like a prude virgin, so I ditched the sweats, and now we’re both in our underwear. His leg creeps over the invisible safety line and rubs against mine. The short hairs on his leg tickle my skin. His bare foot feels slightly cool, but not cold enough that I want to pull away.

“Brewer?”

“Yeah?” No matter what he’s going to confess, the darkness makes it feel safe, a false sense of security for sharing secrets.

“You know how I feel about you, right?”

My heart rate triples, and it’s beating so hard I’m sure he can hear it. He can also hear how loud I swallow. “Yeah, I know.” I scoot closer so that our thighs are fused. “I feel the same way about you.”

My connection with him feels so easy, so right, it’s everything else that makes it so difficult. There’s no denying the derisive judgmental looks I’ll receive from my fellow addicts. With over twelve years clean, I’m supposed to know better. I do know better. But I also know that I’ve found the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. I’ve found the one man I’m capable of having a soul deep connection with, that I can trust without question. A man I can tell all of my secrets to, bare my tarnished soul, and still feel worthy of. Is all of that worth shouldering the stigma of a forbidden relationship? Fuck yeah, it is.

No matter what Nash learns about me, I know he’ll still look at me like I’m priceless, like I’m a precious treasure. Like a gift he doesn’t deserve to receive. Which is total bullshit, but I know because it’s the same way I feel about him.

Why should we have to keep waiting? What difference will two more months make?

I know they’ll talk about me behind my back, maybe some even to my face, and that my rationale will sound like defensive excuses and selfish justifications, but I don’t live my life to please them, and I’m not going to deny myself and Nash to appease them. You would think a bunch of hardened addicts wouldn’t clutch their pearls so tightly over who I choose to date, but you would be wrong.

Apparently, recovery makes the immoral very, very moral.

Fuck them. Fuck all of them.

“My plant is still alive. And I’ve got the cat. I haven’t killed either one yet,” he murmurs. His hand finds mine in the warm space between our bodies.

I make a chuffing sound. “That sounds a lot like commitment.”

His index finger traces back-and-forth over the center of my palm in a tender, yet suggestive move. “Like a fuck ton of commitment.”

“Nash,” I whisper, swallowing hard. Damn, I’m nervous.

“Don’t deny me, Brewer. Touch me,” he pleads, sounding as desperate as I feel. His other hand, the one I’m not holding, strokes his cock beneath the covers, and I don’t have to see it to know that it’s getting hard.

The sounds my body is making—my heartbeat, my breathing, the sound of my swallowing, the blood pumping through my veins and my ears—is so loud they can probably hear it in the next room over.

“If I touch you, I’ll never stop.”

“I hope you never stop,” he whispers thickly, turning his body toward mine.

Mirroring his position, so that we’re both lying on our sides facing each other, my fingers curl around his jaw, and I pressed my lips to his, sliding my tongue inside of his mouth. Nash moans, a sound ripped from his throat that I can’t define. Is it agony or relief? He grips my biceps, his fingers digging into my flesh, and holds onto me as if he’s in danger of slipping away.

“You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed of this.”

Yes, I do. One hundred and forty-three days, same as me.

His lips taste my skin, lightly nipping and pecking at my jaw, my neck, igniting every one of my senses. He trails his hand lower, down my stomach, to tease the top of my briefs.

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