Page 63 of Courageous Hearts

“Fuck, I really love the way you say my name,” he repeats, leaning back and wrapping his fist around my dick.

I gasp, nearly flying off the bed as my orgasm slams into me with the force of a sledgehammer. Jameson curses, his pace faltering as I squeeze around him tight. My cock unloads over my stomach and the silky fabric of my negligee, and Jameson drags his thumb through it before bringing my release to my lips.

With the same wicked grin he was giving me during our cooking lesson earlier, he husks out, “Taste.”

Groaning, I grab his hand and wrap my mouth around his thumb. As I taste myself on his skin, Jameson shudders, his fingers digging into my hip almost painfully as he grinds his way home. He shakes and gasps as his cock swells, unloading inside the condom. It seems to last forever, time folding in on itself as Jameson works out his aftershocks, thrusting into me shallowly, my name on his tongue.

When his head drops beside mine, I release his thumb, and Jameson’s breath rushes past my ears. I go boneless, utterly wrung out and sated, content to lie under his weight.

“Stay,” I ask before he even has a chance to move. “Please.”

I love the feel of him on top of me. All that mass, pressing me securely into the bed, and his cock still inside my body, trapping me exactly where I want to be.

Dee once told me I’m touch-starved, and maybe she’s right. But I don’t want every person I meet to smother me—comfort me—this way. With Jameson, it’s always felt right.

He nods at my request, hair tickling the side of my face. “As long as I can with the condom.”

I guess that’s as much as I can ask for.

“We’re gonna do that a lot,” I tell him, squeezing around his cock.

Jameson groans, although there’s laughter in the sound. “Looking forward to it.”

Sighing, I let my fingers drift along his back. “I’m glad those two people fell in love, Mr. Wright. I’m glad they brought me you.”

Jameson is quiet for a moment, but then he turns his head, pressing his lips to my cheek. “Me, too, Blue. Me, too.”

Chapter 19

Jameson

“That’s some smile,” my mom says, eyeing me from across the kitchen table. She’s gathering sprigs of cut thyme into bundles to dry, and the herbal scent wafts my way.

“Is it?” I reply distractedly.

“Mhm. Want to talk about it?” she asks, nodding her head toward the twine. I unroll a length and cut it, holding it flat so she can place the thyme on top. She takes the ends of the string and thanks me, tying the twine into a quick knot.

My thoughts drift back to Bo. To their Snow White complexion and beautiful blushing cheeks. To the way their lips were painted red at work yesterday—not an uncommon occurrence—and to the memory of them in my bed just this morning, peaceful in sleep with their mussed hair spread atop the pillow.

They’ve been staying over a lot, and I like it. I like spending the mornings with them before work. I like being with them, period. Each new day is exciting, and it reminds me of something my dad once said while we were sailing. We’d do that on occasion, take out a little dinghy, just Grant, me, and our dad. And there was this one time when I was maybe thirteen or fourteen when I asked him if he missed the Navy. If he missed traveling and adventure.

He told me, “Adventure isn’t a place, son. It’s a feeling.”

I didn’t really understand that at the time because to me, adventure was going. It was doing. It was exploring the woods, jumping the creek, and imagining I was in Narnia, discovering some magical land.

But then I grew up, Dad passed away, and I realized he was right. Magic could be found most everywhere if you looked for it. And adventure was a song inside my chest. It was that guiding feeling—an invisible compass—that kept me close to the things that mattered most. It kept me close to my mom, to Grant, and, eventually, Sophia.

Bo feels a lot like adventure.

I clear my throat. “Uh, well. I’m seeing someone.”

My mom gasps a little, her entire expression brightening as she sets her kitchen shears aside. “Tell me all about her.”

I huff a little chuckle. Here goes. “Actually, they’re not a her.”

“Oh,” my mom replies, her eyebrows flying high. “Him, then.”

Another huff. “Not a him, either. Them.”

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