Page 23 of A Man To Remember
Which is a lie.
I'm not sure about much anymore.
Not my sexuality. Not my motivations. And worst of all, not whether I'm about to make the best or worst decision of my adult life.
The only thing I'm sure of is that I want his hands on me again.
That's something, right?
Austin leans in and kisses me, soft and careful, like he's giving me time to change my mind, and the gentleness of it is somehow more overwhelming than yesterday's desperate urgency.
Yesterday felt like drowning. This feels like learning to swim.
I melt into it—there's no other word for what happens to my body when his mouth touches mine. Every muscle goes liquid, and I understand for the first time in my life why people write songs about kissing. Why they start wars over it. Why they throw away marriages and careers and entire lives for the chance to feel like this.
His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I open for him without conscious thought, letting him in, letting him explore. The taste of him is becoming familiar—something I want to catalog and remember. His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, and I hear myself make a sound that's embarrassingly needy.
When we break apart, I'm breathing like I've been running sprints.
"Still sure?" There's something almost vulnerable in the question.
Instead of answering with words, I reach for the hem of my henley and pull it over my head. The cotton whispers against my skin as it comes off, and then I'm sitting there shirtless, exposed in Austin's living room, waiting to see what he does next.
What he does is look at me like I'm art.
His gaze travels over my chest, my shoulders, the tattoo that curls around my ribs, and I've never felt so thoroughly catalogued. So completely seen. His hands follow the path his eyes took, fingertips trailing over my collarbone, down my sternum, mapping the topography of my torso like he's memorizing it.
"You're beautiful," he says.
I've been called a lot of things in my life.
Fuckup. Addict. Lost cause.
Beautiful was never on the list.
"I'm really not," I manage, but he's already shaking his head.
"You are. Trust me, I have an eye for these things."
His hands are roaming freely now, and every touch feels deliberate. Worshipful. Like he's conducting some kind of religious ceremony and I'm the altar.
I'm already so hard it hurts, straining against my jeans. When did this become my new normal? Getting hard for a man?
When Austin's fingers trail down my stomach toward my belt, I actually whimper.
"Easy," he says, lips brushing my ear. "We've got time."
Time. That's right. Because this isn't some frantic encounter in a club bathroom. This is Austin's apartment, his space, and we can take as long as we want. Something about that makes me even more nervous. More aware of my inexperience, of how little I know about what I'm doing.
As if sensing my impending anxiety attack, Austin kisses me again, deeper this time, until I'm lost in the slide of his tongue against mine, in the way his teeth catch my bottom lip. His hands work my belt with efficiency, and I lift my hips to help when he tugs at my jeans.
The denim slides down my legs and suddenly I'm in nothing but my boxer briefs. My cock is tenting the fabric, a wet spot already forming where the head presses against the material. Austin's gaze drops to my lap, and I have to resist the urge to cover myself.
"Christ, Jesse," he breathes. "Look at you."
And before I can overthink it, before I can spiral into self-consciousness, he's moving down my body, pressing kisses to my chest, my stomach, the sharp jut of my hipbone. Each touch of his lips against my skin is like a small electric shock, building toward something I can't name.
His mouth finds my nipple, tongue flicking over the flesh. I gasp like I've been burned. The sensation shoots straight to my cock, making it twitch against the confines of my underwear.
