Page 59 of Finding Gideon
“Yeah?”
I didn’t know what I was going to say. Not really. Maybe I liked the way his name tasted in my mouth.
But then I spoke anyway.
“I really, really like kissing you.”
His smile softened. “Good,” he whispered, fingers brushing my cheek. “Because I really like kissing you too.”
We kissed again. His hand didn’t stay still—it explored. My ribs. My thighs. My back. My shoulders. Every touch like a question I got to answer in real time.
Heat coiled sharp and sweet low in my belly, my dick, leaving me aching in the best way. I must’ve made a sound, because Malcolm stilled just enough to smirk.
“Wait—did I say that out loud?”
“Yes, you did… and I feel you. Getting hard because of aguy? That’s new.” He gave this little huff of disbelief, almost a laugh. “But with you… it doesn’t feel weird. It feels… right. Andreallygood.”
The words hit me in the chest—low and sharp and stunning.
Because for me, it hadalwaysworked differently.
Not once had I been able to look at someone andwantthem, just because they were hot or flirty or close enough. My body never sparked like that.
I’d gotten off, sure—alone, in private. I knew how to make my body cooperate. But it was never tied to anyone. Never thisalive.
“I don’t let people get this close,” I said quietly. “Not here.” I tapped my chest.
And I meant it. Letting someone in here wasn’t about heat or hunger—it was about trust. Safety. That terrifying, breathtaking thing where someone saw you fully, and wanted you anyway.
Malcolm’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then I’ll take care of the part you let me into.”
His smile softened, and I kissed him again because I could. Because he let me. Because, for the first time in forever, I wanted something—and it wanted me back.
Chapter 19
Gideon
It wasn’t the couch that moved, though God knew it wasn’t built for two men our size. It was Malcolm. A low, sleepy sigh, then the drag of his arm tightening over my waist like he’d decided I wasn’t going anywhere.
I wasn’t planning to.
We were folded into each other like a jigsaw puzzle someone forced into place—and yet somehow, it fit. One of his legs was wedged between mine. My forehead had ended up tucked under his jaw. I could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against my cheek, his breath warming my hair.
I should’ve been uncomfortable. I should’ve been stiff and aching and maybe a little self-conscious. But all I felt was... settled.
His hand moved again, fingers twitching once before smoothing over the small of my back. He was still half asleep, maybe dreaming, maybe not. But when his palm lingered there, something stirred behind my ribs.
Warmth rose low in my belly, a tide creeping in, pulled higher by the heat of his thigh against mine and the anchor of his presence.
Malcolm breathed out again, a whisper of air across my temple. His lips brushed my skin as he mumbled, “How the hell are we both over six feet and not dead?”
A laugh broke free before I could stop it. “You sure we’re not?”
He chuckled—low and rumbling, the sound curling between us. Then his hand slid higher, grazing bare skin where my shirt had ridden up. I sucked in a quiet breath.
His voice dipped, still rough from sleep. “This couch is trying to kill us.”
“Maybe. But it’s warm.”
