Page 47 of Kellan & Emmett
The admission hit me square in the chest. I angled toward him, searching his face. The nerves were there, but also something else—want, threaded with fear.
“Kelly,” I said, careful. “What happened? With your marriage. If I’m going to understand where you are now… I need to know.”
“She caught me. Watching porn. Gay porn.”
His throat worked, words jagged. “It wasn’t just the porn. It was the look on her face. Like everything she thought she knew about me snapped in two. And I couldn’t lie fast enough, couldn’t explain it away. She knew. And once she knew, there was no coming back from it.” Shame flickered over his face. He shook his head once, like he could shake it off, but it stayed. “She’d asked me once, straight out: is there something you’re not telling me? I’d laughed it off, kissed her cheek, told her she was imagining things. And hated myself for the lie, for dragging her into a life that was never going to work.”
I didn’t let it sit heavy between us. Instead, I let a corner of my mouth tilt. “You know, plenty of straight guys watch gay porn. They just won’t admit it.” I leaned in a fraction, voice dipping. “Because it’s hot. But it’s even hotter when you’re not just watching.”
His breath hitched, audible in the stillness. His gaze finally dragged up to mine, eyes dark, searching. For a second he looked like he might laugh, or argue, or run—but then the words slipped out, bare and quiet.
“I haven’t. Not really.” His throat bobbed. “But I want to. I want… you to show me.”
The air between us thickened. His words were still hanging there—I want you to show me—and I swear I felt them all the way to my bones.
I tried to swallow down the rush in my chest, but it came out anyway, rawer than I intended. “Kelly… you don’t have to prove anything. Not to me, or to yourself, either.”
His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “You think this feels like proving?” He shook his head, eyes darting away then back again. “It feels like finally telling the truth. And I’m terrified of it.”
I shifted closer, until our knees brushed. The heat of him seeped into me. “Being scared doesn’t mean you don’t want it.” My voice caught—softer now, confessional. “I’m scared too.”
His brow furrowed, like the idea of me being scared didn’t compute. “Of what?”
“That you’ll regret this. That you’ll walk out like you did before.” My throat tightened, but I forced it out anyway. “And I won’t survive it twice.”
That made him freeze. His hands, fisted in his lap, opened slowly. He turned toward me, shoulders squared, and for the first time since I’d known him, he looked like he wasn’t carrying a helmet or armor—just himself.
“I’m not running this time,” he said, voice hoarse. “I can’t promise I’ll get everything right, but I’m not running.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was electric, waiting.
I searched his face, the flush on his cheeks, the unsteady rhythm of his breathing. My hand twitched on the bedspread between us, aching to close the distance. “Then tell me again, Kelly. Tell me what you want.”
He inhaled sharp, like the words cost him. “You. I want you.”
The words had barely left his mouth—I want you—when I leaned in, unable to hold back anymore. Our lips brushed first, tentative, a test. But the second I tasted him, all restraint broke.
He tasted faintly of mint. His breath shuddered against mine, and when his lips parted, I slid deeper, tongue stroking his in a rhythm I’d dreamed of too many nights to count. He met me with a hunger that stole the air from my lungs, messy and unpracticed but real—so real it ached.
The mattress dipped under our shifting weight, shoulders knocking, knees pressing close. My hand cupped his jaw, thumb grazing the rough stubble at his cheek, grounding both of us. His fists curled tight in my shirt, dragging me nearer like there wasn’t enough space in the world to satisfy him.
A groan rumbled from his chest, low and wrecked, vibrating against my mouth. He broke just enough to whisper, hot and ragged, “God, I want more—” before crashing back in, teeth grazing my bottom lip.
I felt it then—his body straining, hard and urgent against me. My pulse hammered, heat spiking low in my gut. His hand slid, hesitant but determined, down my chest, over my stomach, to my belt.
I caught his wrist before he got there, my palm firm but not pushing him away. I pressed our foreheads together, breathing hard, my voice rough with need. “Be sure, Kelly. Tell me.”
His eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing the blue, and for once, he didn’t look away. “I want to touch you,” he said, voice breaking on the confession. “Been wanting to touch you for years. Can I?”
My throat closed on a sound that was part relief, part ruin. I tightened my hold on him, not to restrain, but to steady the ground we were both standing on. “Yes,” I whispered, every word scraped raw with truth. “Yes, Kelly. I want this too.”[9]
Kellan surged into the kiss again, reckless this time, his mouth hot and searching, like years of restraint had burned away in a breath. His hand tugged at my belt, fumbling with the leather. I covered his fingers, not to stop him but to steady them, guiding the buckle loose. The sound of it snapping free sent heat flooding through me.
We half-laughed, half-gasped into each other’s mouths. His T-shirt bunched under my hands. I pushed it up, and he let me, arms clumsy as he peeled it over his head. His skin was warm, still flushed from the day.
I pressed my palm to his chest, felt his heart hammering against it. “Kelly,” I murmured, searching his face, “we can stop if you—”
He shook his head hard, cutting me off with another kiss. “Don’t stop,” he rasped against my lips. “Please. Just—don’t stop.”
