Page 76 of The Meaning Of You

Self-recrimination roared through my brain as Nick Fisher’s kiss devastated my heart. I’d expected it to be quick. A taste, a test, and then regroup. We weren’t hormonal teenagers. We were grown men in our fifties. We had control over our bodies. We did. We fuckingdid.

Until we didn’t.

Because there was nothing uncertain about the way Nick claimed my mouth. It was fierce and determined and so fucking overwhelming. A tear broke through my lashes and rolled down my cheek. I wanted to scream. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t show him how much this meant. I couldn’t show him what he did to me.

Be cool. Be grown up. Get a grip.

Another tear.

He groaned and dropped his hands, sliding them around my waist, almost lifting me off my feet as his lips crushed against mine. Bitter coffee, a late night, and sweet need exploded over my tongue. I couldn’t move, I could barely fucking breathe, heheld me so goddammed tight. That had to mean something, right? The fierceness of it. The all-consuming focus. He had to want me. Maybe not the same as I did him, but it was there. I could feel it. Like he couldn’t get enough.

For months I’d wondered, chastising myself, so sure of the recklessness of my craving, the ridiculous notion that Nick would even be interested so soon on the heels of his loss. But with his mouth finally on mine, there was nowhere to hide, our bodies flush, the ache burning in my dick matched by an undeniable answer from his.

Foolish. Dangerous. It was everything I’d imagined kissing Nick Fisher might feel like and more. He filled my head—his presence, the taste of him on my tongue, the scrape of his morning stubble, the soft grumblings of desire that bubbled from his throat. From mine. An ache I hadn’t felt in years.

I fisted his shirt to hold him where I wanted, but I overbalanced and stumbled back against the arm of the chair. It tore our lips apart, and Nick caught me just before I tumbled.

“So sweet, so lovely,” he murmured against my cheek as his hand slid down to cup my arse and pull me close.

Sweet? Lovely? Oh, hell no.I clamped my hands around his face and nipped his nose. “I am not a fucking birthday card.” I shoved him back against the bookcase and he grunted in surprise. Then I kissed him again, this time on my terms. Hard and demanding, a challenge he seemed to relish.

He pulled free and grinned at me. “My mistake.” Then he bit the soft lobe of my ear and electricity crackled across my skin. His hands found their way under my shirt, and I took the kiss deeper, sliding my dick over his, letting him know he couldn’t hide his arousal. His mouth stuttered on mine and a whimper of my pleasure broke his lips.

We kissed until we ran out of breath and the troubles of the world began to filter back. Until the reality of what we’d donewoke our brains up. Until it was time to face the questions we’d been ignoring for too long.

As if we’d read each other’s minds, the pace began to slow, the energy softening until our lips parted. But I stayed in Nick’s arms and he in mine, our foreheads pressed together, eyes closed as we struggled for breath.

Not teenagers? Maybe not. But middle-aged, horny, and with a ton of experience under our belts, we were almost worse. We’d been there enough to know when it worked. When it clicked. When it was going to be fun and maybe a whole lot more. And when it was going to matter.

Nick’s hands remained under my shirt, caressing me gently as they travelled up and down my spine, bursts of pleasure trailing in their wake.

“Well, shit,” he whispered, the rush of his breath warm against my lips. I steeled myself for what came next. Regret. Apology. A fast retreat. Instead, he leaned back and pushed my tousled hair off my face before pressing a kiss to my forehead. “So that happened.” He smiled, broad and devastating. “And no,definitelynot a birthday card. My apologies.”

I shoved him playfully. “Damn fucking right. Sweet and lovely? Jesus, Nick. You’re not bestowing gentlemanly favours on me. I’d rail your arse given half a chance.”

He choked on a laugh, but those big black pupils betrayed the arousal he felt at my words. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

And still we didn’t move. Nick, with his back against all my favourite books. Me, right up in his face. Keeping him there. A line formed between his eyebrows and he lifted his fingers to my damp cheek. His frown deepened.

I shrugged. “Must be your cologne.”

He snorted. “Yeah, I find it does that a lot, even when I’mnotwearing any.”

Oops.

The crunch of tyres on gravel saved me from responding, and we turned in unison to see a car pulling up in front of the house.

“Shit.” Nick blanched and pushed me away. “It’s Samuel. He’s early.”

I tried not to be offended. It was a complicated situation, I got that. But the sigh broke anyway as I turned for the front door.

I hadn’t taken more than a step when Nick’s hand latched around my wrist. “Wait.”

I turned slowly to face him, one eyebrow raised. He had the grace to look a little sheepish, which I’m not ashamed to say made me feel better. “I’m sorry,” he apologised. “I just... this is a lot for me. You’re a lot. We need to talk.Properlytalk. Not like in the studio.”

And there it was. See aforementionedidiot, idiot, idiot. Because no conversation in the history of conversations ever went well after a preface like that. It was inevitably followed by a variation of, it’s not you, it’s me.

But I was far too old for those games and I wasn’t sure my heart wanted to hear it. “There’s absolutely no need.” I let him off the hook. “You’re not ready. You told me as much. I should’ve listened.” I nodded toward the door. “I better let him in.” Again, I turned to leave but Nick’s grip only tightened.

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