Page 49 of Hot Doggin'
“Thought I’d find you out here.”
Stiles doesn’t turn on a light or try to pull me to my feet. He just sits down beside me in the dark, shoulder-to-shoulder against the cabinet.
“What’s going on inside your head?”
I want to reassure him that I’m not stuck in the past, in a flashback that makes me dangerous to myself and to him, but I also don’t want to tell him I’m thinking about us. If he thinks,even for a second, that I regret what we did, he’ll blame himself, and I’ll never forgive myself for putting that doubt in his head.
Stiles doesn’t deserve that. This is all my fault. I’m the one that pushed and pushed for this, that couldn’t let it go. I dared him to kiss me.
“Everything.”
He grunts, like he understands. Bending his legs, Stiles braces his arms on his knees and leans his head on my shoulder, eyes closed.
The fact that he’s seeking comfort from me or reassuring me instead of freaking out or second-guessing everything between us reminds me how solid we are.
Ride or die.
Tears burn my eyes and I fight to hold them back. I can’t believe I threatened our foundation because the idea of kissing him thrilled me so much.
What in the ever-loving-fuck is wrong with me?
This is Stiles. He’s straight. He kissed me, he sucked my dick, and maybe he liked it, maybe he didn’t, but he would do it again just because it’s me. Is he even capable of saying no to me? Why am I taking advantage of him?
“Stiles, I—” I choke on the words, my voice sounding like I ran it through the garbage disposal.
“Don’t,” Stiles murmurs, not even opening his eyes. “I know you liked it. You fucking loved it. Don’t pretend like you’re sorry. I know you’re not.” He lifts his head and looks into my eyes, and even though the kitchen is dark, I can see what little light there is reflected in his dark eyes. “And neither am I. Tonight was… eye-opening. I laid awake in bed for a long time running shit through my head.”
“Yeah? What did you come up with?”
“I don’t want to do this again.”
I knew it. I fucking knew it!
“At least, not as casual friends,” Stiles explains. “There’s nothing casual about us, or about what we did. The next time I put my mouth on you, you’ll know it means a whole lot more than friends helping each other get off. Deal?”
More than friends? “Fucking deal.”
His lips find mine, and I lose my battle with the tears I’m trying to hold in. They roll down my cheeks as my tongue slides along his, sealing our bargain.
More than friends. We have our whole lives ahead of us to work on the rest.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
STILES
That first sipof coffee in the morning hits just right, like a warm hug, or a fresh breath of air. I sip slowly, nestled into the couch, and watch Mac move around the apartment as he gets ready for his day. Watching him is my new favorite hobby. Not that he does anything fascinating, I just can’t take my eyes off of him. And that stupid haircut. He looks good in spite of it, though. He looks good in anything.
Mac grabs packages of bologna and cheese from the fridge, bread from the cupboard, and a frying pan. He frowns when he realizes he’s down to his last slice of bologna, shrugs, and grabs a hotdog from the fridge to substitute it. This is the kind of shit about him that fascinates me. If I ran out of bologna, I would just make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or a grilled cheese.
Not Mac. He‘s set on meat, and he improvises with another variety. I assume he’s making two because one of them is for me, but if he thinks I’m going to eat that fried hotdog sandwich, he needs to think again.
Minutes later, he offers me the fried bologna sandwich, which also fascinates me because is it really a breakfast food?According to Mac, it is. Then he moves to the bathroom to brush his teeth, sandwich in hand. How can you brush your teeth while you’re still eating? It defeats the purpose. The man is an enigma, a total contradiction, and entertaining as hell.
“Don’t forget,” he calls out around a mouthful of toothpaste and hotdog. “We've got group this afternoon. Let's hit the gym first.”
Suddenly feeling lonely without his presence, I follow him to the bathroom. I close the lid on the toilet seat and cop a squat. He rinses out his mouth, takes the last bite of his sandwich, wipes his greasy fingers off on his shorts, even though there’s a working sink right in front of him, and starts to fluff his hair into a redneck wave of perfection.
