Page 91 of Not Catching Love

I turn my head, meeting his greeny-browny-golden eyes.

“So. Fucking. Beautiful.”

That’s it for me. My balls throb, and then I’m coming in my fist, orgasm wrapping tight around me and curling my toes over painfully.

Behind me, Derek cries out, gives two powerful thrusts, then stills, pressed tightly against me as his cock jerks inside my ass.

His rapid breathing is so loud, and when he collapses against me, arm circling my front, I realize he’s sweaty too.

It takes way too long for my heart rate to return to normal.

“What did I tell you?” he whispers, nose by my ear as he struggles to catch his breath. “Fucking incredible.”

And for the first time ever, I almost believe him.

Chapter Thirty

Derek

I’m not convinced that having sex with Xander has helped. At all. Actually, no, I know it hasn’t helped. Fucking him has made everything so much worse.

Whenever we’re together and he laughs, the hairs on my arms prickle. When he brushes against me, my gut swoops. When he’s giving me that cheeky, challenging stare, my blood heats to unreasonable levels.

And whenever he’s unreasonably tired and irritable, this ache starts behind my sternum, and it’s impossible not to hold him and never let go.

Yeah, my dumb ass has gone and fallen for him.

There are days when I question what the point of all this waiting is. We’ve already had sex, I’ve already crossed all kinds of ethical lines, and fuck—it’s been a year. Clearly, nothing predatory is going on between us.

Yet there’s this deep sense of responsibility urging me to take my time. I don’t want to look at Xander as fragile, especially when I know what he’s been through and what he’s capable of, but I get the feeling the wait is good for him too. He’s naturally impulsive, has fuck all emotional regulation, and this, making us both wait, it’s giving me the confidence that we’re in this for the right reasons.

Those reasons get murky sometimes, though, especially when he has his ass hanging out of his shorts or he’s curled up at my side.

For a grown-ass man, I’ve been jerking off worse than a teenager.

Xander lets out a long yawn from where he’s tucked under my arm. We’re watching some mockumentary he found, and while I don’t have a huge interest in professional dancers, I sit through it for him.

“I could never be that athletic,” he says sleepily. “Not like certain football players.”

“Yeah, I don’t classify as athletic either. Playing ball is more about fun for me.”

“You always win though.”

I didn’t think he’d noticed. “Lucky streak,” I say, playing it off while feeling way too good about myself.

He blinks up at me innocently, and it’s one of those days where he isn’t wearing his contacts. Even though he knows I love his natural color, he’s also explained that sometimes, the purple contacts are like armor. On days where he isn’t feeling great, or loveable, or like he’s worryingly close to the edge, he’ll wear them.

Today isn’t one of those days.

“If I was super, super tired and accidentally fell asleep, would that violate our rules?”

“Yes.”

“But—”

“If you think you’re going to fall asleep at four in the afternoon, you should probably head home now.”

He groans, pouting prettily up at me. “But I’m so warm and comfy. You wouldn’t really kick me out, would you?”

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