Page 81 of Holding Out for a Gyro
“Yeah, we’ll check again.” Bas waved at the other Nick as we left the basement. “Hey, Nick.”
“Hey, Bas.”
He seemed to realize I’d hit maximum saturation. Instead of taking me to the kitchen, he asked, “You wanna see my bedroom?”
“Definitely.”
We climbed another flight of steps, and he opened the door onto a high school museum. I ran my eyes over all the documented evidence Bas had once been a teenage boy. The requisite trophies and ribbons and comics lined his shelves.
I loved this preserved history. When I’d left home, my mom told me to remove anything I wanted to keep, then she threw the rest away. My room was now storage.
Bas leaned against the doorframe. “Dinner won’t be ready until forever if they’re still making the bread. I can get you some coffee or—”
I saw a yearbook on a bookshelf and made a beeline for it. I sat on his bed, flipping pages. “Oh, this should be good.”
He jumped beside me. “Hey, no, no, no.” The mattress sprang, up and down, as he frantically reached around me to try tosnatch the yearbook, but I hunched over the pages while I scanned the names.
“I found you!” I giggled. “Oh, is this your senior year?”
“Give it.” His arms surrounded me from behind as he attempted to wrest the book from my grasp.
Triumphant, I turned around to face him. “Weren’t you a little hottie?”
Then I saw the look on his face. We were sitting on his childhood bed, and his arms practically enveloped me. My laughter dropped like a stone. “Oh.”
He sat, tensed, like he might be accused of a crime he hadn’t committed. It was written all over his face that he hadn’t planned this. I should have gotten up right then, but he was right there.
All of a sudden, it was like the past month had never happened, like we’d never taken sex off the table. My heart beat double time, and I felt like I was breathing through water.
His movements slowed. His eyes fixed on mine, dilated, and his hands on my arms tightened, held me fast, drew me to him. I didn’t tell him to stop. He didn’t ask me if he should.
I could have run, but I didn’t. My hesitation must have read like permission.
He hadn’t bothered to shave, and a shadow of scruff covered his strong cheekbones. The need to touch his soft-scratchy skin overwhelmed me, and of its own accord, my hand lifted to his cheek and traced his jaw. My thumb dragged slowly across his lower lip, caressing that small part of him I fantasized about endlessly, wanting more than anything to kiss him again, wanting to cross the line we’d drawn.
His mouth opened, inviting, and his tongue ran sensuously across the tip of my finger, loosing a million butterflies. God, I’d missed this.
My free hand slid around to touch the tantalizing muscle onthe side of his neck. My grip tightened, kneading his skin. With both hands, I clawed his hair, twisting my fingers in, forcing him closer to me. Then his mouth was on mine, sucking my lips, scorching my entire body with need. He whispered my name, like a wish.
His hands sprang to life, exploring the fabric of my shirt, searching for an opening, and then he found his way inside, along the edge of my bra, under the lace, his thumbs on my nipples, and I moaned.
I shoved him over and ripped his shirt free of his pants, pants that now prominently strained below his zipper. The moment I laid my hands on the dark line of hair pointing straight into his pants, a voice called up the hall.
“Basil!”
“God dammit,” he groaned.
Flustered, I took control of my breathing and laughed. “Yeah, God dammit.”
He sat up and adjusted his pants. “Someone’s going to knock on that door any minute. I’m sorry.”
I bit my lip. I was also sorry and very, very frustrated.
He stood up and muttered, “Fuck me.”
“Now?” I joked.
I’d never seen his eyes so dark before. I wondered if mine matched.
