Page 30 of Flash

“Then stay.”

Chapter 10

LEWIS

Arrow searches my face for a second. There’s something in his gaze that feels like he’s stripping me, not just out of my clothes but out of my skin too, seeing all the way down to my squishy, vulnerable insides. I resist the urge to retreat, to curl up like a hedgehog so all of my emotional weak spots are protected by a spiky exterior.

He takes the glass from me and throws back the equivalent of probably two shots in a couple of quick swallows, his throat bobbing. I gulp down about half of mine, feeling the burn of the alcohol on my tongue and all the way down my throat. It settles heavily in my stomach and makes my head swim almost instantly.

“How’s your hand?” I ask, lifting the ice pack off so I can look at it. I can’t remember if I already asked or if I just started subtly grilling him about what happened. If I did, I don’t think he answered.

He looks at it, his knuckles even more red now, either from the ice pack or the swelling, I’m not sure. Arrow curls his fingers slowly into a fist and then relaxes them just as carefully.

“I’ll live.” He leans forward and sets his glass aside, then he takes the ice pack from me and puts it down next to his empty glass. “So, what are we watching?” He nods at the TV.

I frown. I completely forgot the TV was even on. My god, it says a hell of a lot about Arrow that he can make me forget about David Tennant. I take another small sip from my drink and shift around on the couch, so instead of facing Arrow, we’re shoulder to shoulder. I prop my feet up on the coffee table next to his.

“You’ve never seen Good Omens?”

He shakes his head, lifting his arm to splay it across the back of the couch, not quite putting it around me, but not exactly not putting it around me. Jesus, Lew, get it together, this isn’t middle school. Arrow lets his arm slide down until the full weight of it finally does land on my shoulders and I give a little internal squeal.

A totally chill, in control squeal, obviously. I’m definitely not mentally doodling our names inside of a big cartoon heart. Does that even sound like me?

I put my hand on his thigh and give him a rundown of the show. Lucky for him, I started a re-watch yesterday, so I’m only on episode three tonight. Even still, I sound batshit crazy trying to summarize this show. Arrow listens though, smiling and nodding.

“I have big envy for Crowley’s indoor green space, but I don’t love the way he yells at his plants.”

“Because you prefer to talk nicely to your plants,” he concludes.

“Exactly.”

Arrow purses his lips like he’s holding something back.

“What?” I ask, sliding my hand up his thigh a little more, feeling the heat of his body through the denim of his jeans. I really should be kissing him or trying to undo his pants instead of talking to him about my favorite show or my plants. That’s how I always end up getting attached. My dumb ass is trying to bond while he’s just here to get laid.

He runs his fingers softly over my arm.

“I was just wondering if you ever sing to them,” he says.

My face heats and I laugh. “No.”

“You’re lying. You sing to your plants.” Arrow squeezes me a little tighter and chuckles. “What do you sing?”

“Nothing,” I scoff, sliding my hand up and cupping the soft bulge between his legs.

The amusement shining in his eyes sizzles into something hotter, but he puts his injured hand over mine to stop me.

“Sorry, you don’t have to tell me. I’m pushing. I was just curious… about you.” He lets go of my hand again, but now I’m not sure what I should do. “I do this. I push too hard with guys who aren’t half as interested in me as I am in them.” Arrow lets out a wry laugh, moving his hand from my arm to rest on the back of my neck. The way his fingers press into my skin feels claiming and possessive, lighting a fire in the pit of my stomach. “Clearly that’s a lesson that still hasn’t sunk in,” he finishes with one last humorless chuckle.

Uh… what?

I blink and shake my head, my hand still resting on Arrow’s dick while I open and close my mouth like the idiot I always manage to be in front of this man. I understand each of the individual words he’s saying, but together they don’t make any sense. He’s curious about me? He has a tendency to fall harder for guys than they fall for him? My heart beats faster, and no matter how hard I try to figure out what to say, all my brain is willing to provide me with is a grinding sound like a broken garbage disposal.

Arrow’s fingers tighten against the back of my neck again, and he takes pity on me, pulling me in for a kiss. The warm, firm feeling of his lips on mine settles the tornado of panic and confusion that his words unleashed, and I sink into it. This is simple. The stroke of his tongue, the drugging rhythm of his mouth moving against mine, the harshness of our breathing drowning out the sound of the TV—it’s all easy to understand. No one gets hurt when this is what we focus on.

Right?

Why do I feel less sure about that than I did earlier?

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