“I didn’t either,” he admits. “Not at first. Not for a good while. I knew you made me feel like my blood was on fire and my heart was incinerating my chest, like I was battling this consuming feverish something that I felt only for you. It was so easy to call it hatred for your gain while I lost, to fixate on my resentment and envy of you, to never look too close or too long. When I finally had to, when Coach shoved us together and forced me to face you head-on, and I realized, God help me, what I was up against, I buried those feelings like I’ve always buried uncomfortable, unclear shit.”
I remember what he said that night in my house, when both of us admitted how badly we wanted each other, when I was almost as stunned and surprised by his admission as I am now:
I am very, very good at hiding what I want and feel and need.
“I wanted you, too,” I tell him quietly, twirling a soft, dark lock of his hair around my finger, spinning it, savoring how close he is, not just his body, but his heart, all of him. “I have. For so long.”
His eyes search mine, cautious, hopeful. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say through the knot in my throat.
“I know I’ve given you reason to doubt me, Oliver, but I promise that’s behind us. I’m here. I’m yours.” He brings my hand to his chest. “I promise it all—my body, my soul, my life, for you, everything for you, to care for you and love you, if you’ll let me. You’re the fucking sunrise of my heart, love. All I need is to wake up beside you, to hold your hand and keep you steady when you need me, to watch you with pride and admiration, to give you hell for not being more selfish on the field and too generous off of it. I love you. Do you believe me?”
Nodding, frantic, I tell him, “Yes.”
I pull him close, kiss him soft and slow, and he kisses me, too, his mouth firm, smooth, so gentle, remembering mine. “I love you,” I tell him. “I love you so much.”
Air rushes from his lungs as he wraps me in his arms. “God, Oliver, I want you. I want to make you happy. And I want to be happy, too, or at least, not completely miserable.”
I smile against our kiss, running my hands through his hair. A groan tears out of his throat as he presses me against the tree. “I’ve missed you,” I whisper.
“I’ve missed you, too,” he growls. “After that awful press conference nonsense, I couldn’t get here fast enough.”
A contented sigh falls out of me as he kisses me again, the corner of my mouth, my cheek. “You’re really here.”
“I’m really here.” Dragging his hands down my waist, he clutches my hips.
I bury my hands in his hair, kiss him, feverish, hungry. “I love you,” I tell him. “And I’m terrified.”
He pulls back only enough to meet my eyes and search them. “Of what, love?”
I swallow roughly. “Of how much.”
His eyes soften. He nods. “Me, too. I’m rubbish at this. But I’m learning. I’ll be better. You’ll be able to count on me, Oliver. I’m not going anywhere. Do you trust me?”
“I trust you.” And I do. I trust him. I believe in him. Because when Gavin Hayes sets his mind and heart to something, he does it without reservation, pouring out everything he has. Somehow, I became what he set his mind and heart to. Somehow, I’m the one he loves.
Gavin smiles, tender, adoring, a rare spark of light in those dark eyes, only for me. “Now, what do you say we go back,” he says. “And this time, you show me your bed?”
29
OLIVER
Playlist: “Young and Beautiful,” Glass Animals
Standing at the threshold of my room, Gavin frowns at the twin bed. “Hmm.”
I laugh, biting my lip. “Yeah.”
“Never mind.” Taking my hand, he drags me out of the room, down the hall. He’s slow down the stairs, careful. It makes my heart pinch, worry collapsing my chest.
“Stop fretting,” he says. “I’m fine. Well, I will be.”
“You’re hurting.”
He glances over his shoulder, still holding my hand as he walks us down the hall to the first-floor bedroom. “I’m always hurting. I probably always will be.” Slowing to a stop, he turns and looks at me, guarded, concerned. “If that’s—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” I tell him, bringing his hand to my mouth, kissing it, holding it to my cheek. “That’s not coming between us, not going to scare me off. It hasn’t before, and it’s not going to, now or ever.”
Gavin swallows roughly. “Okay.”
I search his eyes. “Do you believe me?”
His mouth tips faintly with a new, tender smile. “Strangely…yes. Seems I do.”
“Good.” Clasping his hand tight, I take the lead and guide him through the bedroom to the bathroom.
I tear off my shirt, lean into the shower, and yank on the water. Before I can turn, I feel him behind me, the firm, warm skin of his chest, pressed to my back. His mouth drifts along my neck, my shoulder as his hands trail down my sides, twine up my torso, until they rest over my heart. “You’re perfect.”
I lean back and steal a kiss. “So are you.”
He smiles against my mouth, turning me toward him. My hands cradle his face, as our mouths meet, slow and decadent. A quiet groan rolls from his throat. “Get naked, damn you.”
I laugh, stepping out of my shoes and clothes. Gavin stares at me, eyes dark, pupils blown wide as he drinks me in. “Fuck.”
I stand, proud and still, letting him look, soaking up the desire and appreciation heating his gaze. This is his first time fully seeing me. I had a full glorious view of him that morning at his house, in his bed, but I stripped underneath the blankets, depriving him of the same pleasure.
Staring at me still, Gavin yanks off his clothes, then walks us right into the shower. His mouth parts mine, his tongue glides slick and hot. Our breaths are rough, loud enough to be heard over the rush of water as I run my hands over his broad chest, the fine dark hairs dusting hard muscles. I kiss the scar on his collarbone, the birthmark on his neck, the freckle at his temple.
He wrenches me close, hand on my jaw, crushing our mouths together, wet, warm, hungry. I wrap my arms around his neck, press our chests together, our bodies where we’re hard, throbbing, pinned together. Our mouths fall open as he moves against me, the water smoothing our way.
“Come here,” he gruffs.
“I’m here,” I laugh.
He walks us further back until we hit the shower wall, his hand tight around my waist.
“I want you,” I whisper as he runs his hand over my ass, rubbing it appreciatively.
He groans against my neck, kissing the hollow of my throat. “I’m yours.”
I take his hand that’s still massaging my butt affectionately and guide it lower until he feels me, a grunt punching out of him. “You want me here?” he says.
“So bad. I don’t always, but that night in the kitchen, when your hand went wandering, I almost died, almost came so close to begging you for it. I’ve gotten myself off so many times since then, imagining that.”
“Shit,” he mutters, pressing himself into me, kissing me deep and slow. “I haven’t in so long. I’ll come the moment I’m inside you.”