Page 46 of Finding Gideon
He kissed like we were both learning the same language at the same time—cautious at first, then braver, letting instinctcarry us when experience ran out. And God help me, I didn’t want the lesson to end.
Every second pressed deeper into memory, down to the way my pulse beat hard enough to feel in my fingertips.
When he finally drew back, our foreheads brushed, breath mingling in the inch of space between us. Neither of us moved for a long moment.
My lips still tingled. My chest still ached in that way it did when you’d opened something you weren’t sure you could close again.
Malcolm’s gaze flicked over my face like he was memorizing something he might need later.
“Malcolm, I think?—”
“I didn’t mean?—”
We both stopped, an unspoken understanding passing between us.
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow?” he said finally.
I nodded. “Yes, tomorrow.”
“Goodnight, then.” He turned for the house, his gait easy, unhurried, leaving the faint scent of cedar and something warm in his wake.
And me—standing there with a new ache in my chest and the sense that he’d walked off carrying a piece of the armor I’d been wearing for so long.
The only thing I knew for sure was that nothing about my first kiss felt insignificant and I’d remember the exact taste, the exact heat, the exact feel of it for the rest of my life.
Chapter 15
Malcolm
Nothing made me second-guess my footing quite like sitting in a kitchen with two married gay men, wondering if last night had stirred feelings I’d always kept buried.
Christian passed me a mug of coffee without a word, and Noah slid a plate of something crumbly and golden toward me.
“Peach scones,” Noah said. “Baked yesterday. Christian claims they’re too sweet.” He waited a beat, eyes glinting. “He’s wrong.”
“You still married me, though,” Christian muttered, settling across from me.
I gave them both a faint smile and wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the heat soak in. I’d come here to talk—to ask, maybe, what it meant that I couldn’t stop replaying the feel of Gideon’s mouth on mine.
But now, with sunlight spilling across their kitchen table, one of their dogs, Stormy, sleeping under it, and a puppy worrying a blanket corner like it owed him money, the words felt heavy in my throat.
“Are you okay?” Noah asked, gentle but not prying.
“Yeah. I figured I’d check in.”
“On us or the zoo?” Christian asked, nodding toward the faint jingle of more collars in the next room.
“Both,” I said. “How’s Stormy? Still eating you out of house and home?”
“Like it’s her calling,” Noah said. “And Sable’s figured out how to open the bottom cabinets, so… boundaries are a work in progress.”
“Glad I don’t have kids,” Christian muttered.
“You literally told me last week you wanted a baby goat,” Noah said.
“That’s different. Goat kids don’t need preschool.”
Their back-and-forth loosened something in me. Just enough.
