Page 52 of On the Edge

His cheeks are tinged with pink as he turns his face away and fiddles with the remote, turning on the subtitles. I swallow down any further comments about how that little bit of kindness makes me feel, knowing how uncomfortable it would make him. Instead, I put my arm around him as he settles back against me, giving him a small squeeze.

We’re side by side with legs and hips pressed together. A few minutes in, he relaxes his head, cheek resting against my shoulder and arm draped across my thigh. I am not sure if he realizes it, but we are absolutely cuddling right now.

We mostly stay silent through the movie, but every now and then Atlas chuckles dryly. It makes me smile every time. After forty-five minutes have passed, I sigh regretfully and loosen my hold on him.

“I must go put the bread in the oven,” I tell him as I extricate myself. “Stay there, I will be right back.”

I move a little faster than I usually would, worried that he’ll be seated on the opposite side of the room once I get back, and there will be no possibility of further snuggling. Luckily, he’s right where I left him. Retaking my seat and sliding as close to him as I can, I set a timer on my phone and rest it on the coffee table.

“About half of an hour,” I tell Atlas, who simply restarts the movie in silence. This time, when he lays his head on my shoulder, I rest my cheek against the top of his head. Apparently, his lips are not theonlysoft thing about him.

“Can you imagine how uncomfortable all that makeup would be,” he murmurs, eyes on the screen. “And the prosthetics.”

I eye Jim Carrey’s furry green face and nod. “Indeed. I would not be liking it, I think. Atlas?”

“Mm?”

“You smell like a cinnamon roll.”

He snorts, adjusting his head, which rubs his hair across my face and sends my pulse skittering in paroxysms of joy.

“All the body washes and shampoos at the store are holiday scented. I think it’s meant to smell like Christmas, not a pastry.”

When the timer goes off, I leave him once more on the couch and head into the kitchen to finish the bread. I’m surprised when Atlas trails after me, hopping back up on the counter and watching as I prepare the toppings.

“That smells fucking bomb,” he compliments. I smile at him and he returns it, very slightly.

“We shall have to let it cool for a little while, before we put the glaze on.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, fisting a hand into the front of my shirt and tugging me to stand between his spread legs. I look up into his face, hands on the counter bracketing his hips. “What shall we do while we wait?”

16

Atlas

Sometimes when I’mkissing Henri, I question whether or not he’s into it. He’s so careful and quiet, and not once has he gotten even semi-hard. If he didn’t tell me constantly, I’d honestly wonder whether he was attracted to me at all. But today, when I gave him one of the least filthy kisses I’ve given anyone, he’s suddenly half-hard and gasping against my mouth.

I tried to play it cool, but inside I was anything but. I feel like someone catapulted me into the ozone, dizzy and shaky as I float back down to Earth. I wasn’t kidding about eating him out or sucking his dick—right now, I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted anyone as badly as I want Henri Vasel.

We kiss in the kitchen while his bread thing cools off, and this time I decide to let my hands roam a bit. Cupping my palms around his neck, I scratch the pads of my thumbs over the stubble on his jaw for a few seconds. Sliding them down to his shoulders, I take a few moments to appreciatejust how stacked this guy is. I cannot wait to get him naked one day.

“How do you feel about taking this shirt off?” I ask him, nibbling gently at his bottom lip and earning a lovely intake of breath.

“It is not safe to be unclothed in the kitchen,” he answers seriously. His hands are resting on my thighs, fingers spread wide to cover the most real estate. My dick is extremely aware of the location of those hands and the way he’s standing between my legs.

“Okay,” I allow, because he’s probably not wrong about that. “Do you want to go upstairs? To my room?”

He licks his lips, which is far more indecent than it has any right being. I half expect him to demure and say we need to finish baking first, but Henri surprises me by stepping back and holding out a hand to me.

“Yes,” he says firmly. Putting my palm into his, I hop off the counter. He doesn’t let go of my hand once my feet are on the floor, and I have to resist the urge to physically pull away. I don’t hold hands. Holding hands is something couples do.

Although I don’t usually snuggle on the couch, either. Or invite hook-ups over and let them bake for me. I don’t usually hook up with the same person more than once, and certainly not someone who won’t actually engage in the hooking-up part. I need to cut this off. I need to stop letting Henri’s soft accent and wavy hair turn me into an idiot.

But, not today. Today is the day before Christmas, and for once in my life I want to do something for no other reason than that it will make me happy. I want to not fear the future, or be miserable, for one fucking day. Today I want Henri. Tomorrow I’ll go back to reality.

I tug him up the stairs by the hand and lead him to mytiny room at the end of the hall. Reaching in and flicking on the light, I step aside and let his hand slide from mine as he enters and looks around. The room is barely bigger than the pantry in the kitchen, and with Henri’s wide shoulders and long legs taking up space, it feels even smaller.

“I like your room,” he says, turning to me and smiling.

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