Page 47 of Courageous Hearts

Exhaling, I press another kiss to Bo’s abused neck. Maybe I won’t survive, but what a way to go.

Chapter 14

Bo

“Where’d you learn to cook?” I ask as Jameson uses a spatula to fold the scrambled eggs lightly. They look fluffy and perfect. Way better than any eggs I’ve ever attempted to make.

“My mom,” he says with a smile, glancing at me. He’s still shirtless, as well as barefoot, and seeing him in only his sweats in the kitchen is doing something odd and glitchy to my brain. At least he cleaned the cum off his stomach. Otherwise, I’m not sure I’d have any brain power left.

“She cook a lot?” I ask belatedly.

He nods, turning off the burner. “We had mostly home-cooked meals growing up. My mom enjoyed it, and Grant and I would often sit in the kitchen after school to do our homework while she made dinner. I must’ve learned by osmosis.”

I hum, trying to envision a little Jameson doing his homework at the table. I bet he was adorable.

“I never knew my mom,” I say.

It’s only after the words spill out that I realize what I said. I never offer up that information so freely.

I must still be in a post-orgasmic haze.

“No?” Jameson asks, bringing two plates over to the table. He sets one in front of me, and perfect scrambled eggs sit on top, along with a piece of buttered toast.

“No. She left when I was a baby,” I admit, popping a bite of eggs in my mouth. “Did you put cheese in these?”

Jameson offers me a little smile. “I did,” he says, but the question doesn’t seem to deter him. “I’m sorry about your mom, Bo.”

I nod, not really knowing what else to say about it. I know nothing about the woman apart from what she looked like twenty-three years ago when she had me. A picture of her holding me as a newborn still sits tucked away in a box I rarely ever pull out. But I don’t know anything about the woman herself.

And I don’t know why she left. My dad would never tell me, and I haven’t been able to come up with a single good reason over the years that would make her abandonment right.

“It is what it is,” I say, not wanting to linger on the topic. “I’m glad you know how to cook ’cause I’m not very good at it.” Another thing my dad never helped me with.

“We could cook together if you want,” Jameson offers, taking a sip of his coffee as if those words aren’t pretty damn huge. As if we’ll be together enough for sharing meals to be a given.

And yes, we’re dating, so maybe that’s implied. But none of my previous partners have ever offered something like that. In fact, none of my past relationships progressed much past the bedroom. There was never a deeper connection. Never a desire for more.

But with Jameson…

I don’t know. It’s probably too early to hope, but the man researched what it means to be nonbinary. He cuddled with me even before he understood his attraction. He doesn’t seem to mind me hanging around even now, long after the night is gone.

He left his mark on my skin.

Maybe it won’t last. Maybe it won’t be forever. But for now, I’ll hoard every scrap of affection Jameson gives me and stockpile them for the next rainy day.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “I’d like cookin’ with you.”

“That’s settled then,” Jameson says with a smile, pushing his plate away and leaning back in his chair. He crosses his leg over his knee, and my eyes drop straight to his crotch.

“You should prob’ly drive me home now,” I say.

Jameson tilts his head. “Why’s that?”

Because otherwise I’m gonna jump on that big-ass dick.

Even soft, it has a lot of girth. I can see the outline clearly through Jameson’s pants because, of course, he’s not wearing underwear. I can’t say I’ve ever been a size queen, but Jameson’s cock is a work of art. I want him to stretch me. Claim me.

I want him to mark me on the inside.

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