Page 58 of Without You

“I’ve felt like this all weekend,” I admit, rubbing my hand across the back of my neck. “And for someone who has never even glanced at another man, what I’m feeling has already lasted too long.”

Feeling inundated with nausea, the confession slides out of my mouth, like vomit; with no warning, and just one big mess to clean up.

Surprising me, he steps forward with an air of confidence I didn’t expect. He tilts his head up slightly, raising his eyes—filled with longing—to mine. “So do it,” he says forcefully. The quick rise and fall of his chest is the only tell that I’m not alone in feeling this way. “Do. It.” He enunciates.

I feel myself swaying, teetering on the thin line of indecision. Toward him? Or away from him?

“Deacon,” he commands, taking a fistful of my jacket into his hands, and dragging me to him. “I want you to do it.”

I let him pull me close, my eyes searching his. “Do you really?”

Pools of desire stare back at me. “More than I should.”

“It could go very bad.”

He snickers. “It will more than likely go very. Very. Bad.”

I don’t heed his warning, instead I roughly circle his wrist with my hand, gripping him tight. “I’ve never—”

“I don’t care,” he rushes out, cutting me off.

It’s then I realize neither do I. Maybe after the fact. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow. But right now, I want nothing more than to crush my whole body against his. To meld my mouth with his and find out if his lips taste as good as they look.

Throwing caution to the wind, I don’t know which one of us moves first. He tugs on my clothes, pulling me to him, while my hand curls around the back of his neck, bringing him to me.

Unceremoniously I slam my mouth to his, extinguishing any second thoughts, and pressing pause on all of the confusion. I expect to be thrown off by the unfamiliarity of kissing another man, or for the trepidation that comes with the unknown to slow me down, but the gravitational pull I feel toward him is too strong.

His lips are unexpectedly soft, but his kiss is hard. It’s a balancing act of push and pull, want and need, yes and no. It’s a frenzied rush of frustration and desire, as we both fight for control.

Control over our bodies. Control over our minds. Control over each other.

His hands slip from between us, finding my hips, and dragging me to him. I wait for the anxiety to hit, I wait for the shock of feeling myself hardening painfullybehind my pants for another man to make me want to stop.

But both the word and the notion cease to exist as my body eagerly complies. Without an inkling of hesitation, I’m cradling his stubble lined jaw in my hand, and deepening the kiss.

I sweep my tongue over the seam of his mouth, wanting more, wanting to explore. Groaning, I lean into him, pushing him against the window, sizing up the way masculinity feels underneath me.

How I can taste it with my tongue.

How I can touch it with my fingers.

How I can feel it with my body.

How come I didn’t know a kiss could feel this good?

A loud cacophony of laughter spills out of the open store beside us, and I feel reality begin to settle in. I can’t believe I just mauled him in public.

Reluctantly we pull apart. Foreheads pressed together, our bodies still touching, every breath between us is heavy and labored.

The sounds around us become louder, and I find the energy to drag myself away from him, and find the courage to face the consequences of what we just did.

I’ve given up on expecting myself to freak out, but I don’t know why I didn’t anticipate that he would.

His eyes dart around, looking at anything but me, while the guilt written all over his face stirs up my own. This was so much more than the straight guy kissing the gay guy. But in that moment, it was all I could think about. It was all I wanted, just to prove to myself that I wasn’t going crazy. That what I was feeling wasn’t all in my head.

“Julian,” I start. “Julian, please look at me.”

“I’ve got to go,” he blurts out.

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