Page 58 of A Small Town Spring

“I know.”

I know he does know.We both know what the stakes are.That this could be it for both of us.The pressure is a palpable thing that keeps me from reaching for him yet again.

“What if I mess this up?”I whisper.

“I won’t let you,” he says.And then his mouth’s on mine, his hand cradling my jaw, our bellies pressing together.It’s so good, too good, but I have to trust him.I have no reason not to take him at his word.He’s never let me down before.

I kiss him back.

Twenty-Eight

Kingston

Toby tastes minty.We have waited so long for this; I want to rush, but I hold back.I’m the kid with the marshmallow who knows if I wait a little longer, I can get everything I want and more.

So we kiss, slowly.Thoroughly.We kiss like we’re trying to reinvent it, with our lips and teeth and tongues.With our entire bodies.I’ve been intimate with many people in my life.I’ve had casual sex, intense sex, and everything in between.I’ve been with guys who barely said a word and with ones who wouldn’t stop talking.I’ve been with men who were ashamed of what we did together, ones who wanted nothing but my body, ones who were intimidated by my mind.

I’ve been wanted, desired many times before.

I’ve never been with someone I want as much as Toby.

I thought he was perfect the first time I saw him, so perfect as to be unreal, a caricature of a man, the kind you might find in a romantic novel, the kind that doesn’t exist in real life.

But then he became a part of my life and I know how very real he is.He’s no less perfect for it.Perhaps he’s even more perfect.

Having him in my bed at long last, having him look at me with those liquid gold eyes and tell me that the feelings in his heart echo mine—it’s almost too much to take in.And yet, he’s here under my fingertips, flesh and bone.I stroke his arm from shoulder to wrist, his muscles firm and smooth, and slot my fingers between the gaps of his infinitely clever hands.

Touching him is nothing like I imagined, the times I could bring myself to fantasize about how it would feel.He’s not passive, not pushy.He meets me where I am, allowing me close, while his own hands wander over my body, cataloging and inventorying and turning me on with their explorations.

Making out, touching our thighs and feet, our chests, through the few clothes we have on—it’s so good that I don’t think I could handle it if we were completely naked.Not yet.

Everything with Toby has been a combination of slow and fast.This is no different.My cock is hard, already straining for release, while my head wants to slow down and appreciate every tiny sigh, each patch of skin and brush of hair.My hand grazes over the front of Toby’s boxers—accidentally, I swear—and I feel the tip of his engorged cock.It brings me back down to earth in an instant.I yank my hand away and grip the sheets instead of him.God, there’s so much I want, and I don’t know how to start.

Toby seems unaware of my struggle.“Kingston,” he murmurs into my neck.“You smell like honey.”

“Honey,” I repeat, dredging up the memory of my father calling my mother honey once upon a time, perhaps picked up from one of our southern relatives.I make the connection—I’ve been wrong all this time; his eyes aren’t amber, they’re honey.“Like your eyes.”

“My eyes?They’re brown,” he says, sounding distracted.I love being his distraction.

I snort.“Hardly.My eyes are brown,” I say.“But yours are golden.Like honey.”

“If my eyes are honey, then yours are toast.You know that really dark sourdough after it’s been through the toaster oven and slathered with butter?”

I laugh, long and deep.“My eyes are toast and yours are honey?”

“Mmm.”He kisses my lips.“Toast and honey are a good combination.”

“You are—” I’d say cheesy, too much, and sentimental as hell, but they wouldn’t be criticisms.I happen to like all of that.“Never mind.Toast and honey are a good combination.”

“Now I’m kind of hungry,” Toby says.

I laugh harder, roll onto my back and pull him on top of me.He settles easily but keeps his crotch away from mine, slightly conspicuously.“You want a snack, honey?”

“Honey?”He bites his lip, and I know he’s deciding if he likes the endearment or not.

“Yeah,” I say, not backing down.“We can get a midnight snack.”It’s an out of a sort.

He searches my face with his honey eyes, bites his plush pink bottom lip.“No, I don’t want a snack.I want—” His hand hovers over the front of my pajama pants.“We don’t have to do anything… complicated.But can I touch you?”

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