Teague looks like he’s swallowed his own damn tongue. I know how he feels. Maybe that would have been a wiser choice than me making this huge revelation about me and not him. I mean, it’s not crazy to ask the question, given that he’s never kissed me before and clearly this possibly demi-thing has been on his mind—a lot—and they happened to occur on the same day? I know correlation doesn’t always equal causation, but come on.

If it does…maybe that means Teague has feelings for me. Maybe he wanted to kiss me. Maybe this enormous crush I’ve had on him since…never mind, the exact dates aren’t important. What’s important is that he might like me back. When does that ever happen? That someone who’s been your fantasy for years, who you’ve pined for and lusted after might actually like you back? Makes me dizzy just thinking about it.

But maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe that was some kind of experiment. Maybe he was going down a long line of people, trying to figure his sexuality out, and I was next in line. That doesn’t sound like Teague, though. He can be an enormous doofus, but he’s usually a pretty considerate doofus. He’s like an actual bull in a china shop. You expect because of how they look that they’re going to trash everything around them, but in reality they’re pretty deft, considerate, aware of their size and how much damage they could do, and they don’t want to do it on purpose. At least, not without a good reason.

My bull is ensconced in his ridiculous couch, looking like he’s going to hurl. Shit. I should’ve asked him something else. Surely he would’ve gotten there sometime. I could’ve drawn him out, made it easier—on both of us. And yet I couldn’t keep my mouth shut this time.

I don’t remember the last time my heart was pounding this hard. Ever? Cardio’s not really a thing I do. I mean, sure, I dance, but that’s about it. So, great. Teague is going to puke, and I’m going to pass out. We’re quite a pair.

He swallows hard, and his gaze is darting all around the room, everywhere but at me. Wow, could I have made this more awkward? I don’t think so. I open my mouth to apologize, to drag us away from this ledge there’s no turning back from. It’s one thing to have a massive crush on your friend and not know if they return the feeling, but it’s another entirely to know they absolutely do not. I could’ve left well enough alone. Pretended that whole kissing thing didn’t happen.

No, that’s not entirely true. At night, alone in my own bed, I’d trace my lips with my fingers, trying to remember what it was like to have Teague kiss me. How big and warm and gentle he was. How perfect. And, yeah, after thinking about it for a while, I’d take it further in my mind. What it might be like to have one of his arms wrapped around me and hold me to him while he opened his mouth for me to explore. Let me inside of him even if he’s big enough to envelope me. Would he unbutton my jeans so he could slide a hand down the back of them? Squeeze my ass, and maybe, god if I was lucky, maybe he’d slip a finger between my cheeks until he reached my hole and rub.

If he says no, though, there goes that pipe dream. A-plus fantasy-ruining, moron.

Finally, though, he looks at me. Looks at my eyes, then my lips, then back to my eyes. I wait for his refusal, a scoff of dismissal, because yeah, right. Out of all the people in the whole world, Teague is going to have a thing for me? I’m not a bad-looking guy—pretty decent, I like to think—but I’m not Teague, who is offensively handsome.

“They, uh, might be related.” His answer reminds me that I asked him a question. Did him kissing me have anything to do with his revelations about his very possibly being demi—which, jeez, we’ll need to spend some time on the internets together because dude could use some resources. Some community. But my syllabus planning has to stop because…

When people say “they, uh, might be related” in that tone of voice, it means that they are most definitely related. Now I just need to know how.

“Might?”

He swallows so hard his whole face contorts, and his throat works like a snake ingesting something it had to unhinge its jaw to swallow. “Possibly more than might?”

It’s like Schrodinger’s kiss in here right now. Either Teague wanted to kiss me—wanted to, and apparently that’s not as common a thing as everyone has thought in the past—which would be fucking phenomenal since I have wanted to kiss him for as long as I’ve wanted to kiss anyone. Or else it was kind of a what-happens-if-I-do-this type thing, which would be way less than phenomenal. Pretty goddamn awful actually. But he said he’s not doing so hot, and if it’s not going to destroy me, then I’ll stick around to help him figure his shit out for as long as I can. And maybe by then, we’ll all be on our way out. Out of License to Game, out of LA, out of large swaths of the public sphere if I have my way.

The air between us is thick with tension, with things as yet unsaid, and god, I don’t think I’ve had so much of my emotional or fantasy or friendship lives all tied up so tightly in one little question before.

I roll my lips between my teeth to wet them, and I can’t help but notice the way Teague stares at my mouth as I do. “How much more?”

He takes a few shallow breaths that make his broad shoulders rise and fall, looking like he’s going to toss his cookies again. At least leather is pretty easy to clean up? He loves this damn couch beyond all reason, and I wouldn’t want to see him ruin it.

“I’m not great at math, but roughly like 317 percent more?”

“Okay…” Three-hundred-seventeen percent is a lot. I’m glad he asked me to come in and shut the door, because if I pass out from lack of oxygen, at least only Teague will be around to see it.

“I didn’t know what would happen if I kissed someone I actually wanted to kiss. Someone who turns me on.”

Stars are swimming in my vision, all blue-ish white sparkles on a field of navy so dark it’s almost black, and the only other thing I can see is Teague’s face. His eyes that seem a brighter blue, his hair shinier than usual, and his expression more pleading than I’ve ever seen it. I swallow my own lump of fear, because even though I may have launched into the atmosphere and am now woefully short of oxygen, I can move us a step closer to each other.

“Do you know now?”

I swear I would have an easier time breathing if there were an elephant on my chest. Or maybe a Teague. No, no no no no. I really can’t, shouldn’t give in to that line of thought until he tells me, confirms my fondest hope or dashes my dearest dream. There’s a song or six in here if I can distance myself enough to find it.

And Teague looks so goddamn scared. Like he’s standing in the middle of a desert, thirsting so hard, but there’s an army of scorpions between him and an oasis.

It feels like forever until he speaks, even longer before he says something intelligible. He starts and stops so many times, most often with only a choked-off syllable out before he shakes his bull head and starts over again.

“Hey.”

He clamps his mouth shut, and I’m pinned to the couch by how intense his gaze is.

“No matter what you say, it’s okay. I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, and we’ll figure this out together. Just like always. Whatever you say next isn’t going to change that.”

His features soften; still blocky and like he could’ve been carved out of marble and the sculptor didn’t quite have the chance to smooth him out, but not looking like he’s going to shatter.

“Okay. All right.” He nods, psyching himself up, and then he’s looking at me, our gazes locked across the eight or so feet between us. “Then, yeah. Now I know.”

I’m not sure what to expect when I’ve made my confession. Maybe Christian wrinkling his nose and being all, “Well, that’s awkward. Maybe we could find you someone else? Eh?”

But, no. Christian looks as stunned as I feel, and then there’s a smile creeping over his face, a slow dawning of delight. He’s really goddamn beautiful.

“Would you have any interest in doing it again?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Who in their right mind wouldn’t? I’ve finally figured out what everyone gets so freaking excited about sex for, and would I like to experience that again? Yeah, it feels a little like I’m walking into the ocean and might get swept away, and it’s intimidating and scary as hell, but it’s also exhilarating. And there’s no ocean I’d rather walk into than Christian.

I don’t move because he gets to make the call this time. He didn’t have a say earlier, and that was shitty. If he beckons for me, I will be over there faster than he can blink, but he pushes off the couch and takes a few steps to close the gap between us.

All the game I’ve ever had deserts me. Which seems unfair, given that I haven’t needed it before. Not really. Now there’s a guy in front of me who I’d actually like to impress, seduce, and I’ve got jackshit.

Lucky for me, Christian is facing no such issue. He straddles me, settling himself so that we’re not pressed completely together. Which frankly is too far. I want him as close as possible, but I’m not going to manhandle him after what I did earlier.

“Is this okay? Too much? I thought since you’re like eight feet tall—”

I poke him in the side and glare. “Six foot seven. No need to make me more of a freak than I already am, thanks.”

He doesn’t even acknowledge me, but keeps talking. “—and I’m practically a jockey next to you—”

A poke to his other side. “You’re five ten, asshole. Average.”

“—this might be easier than trying to kiss standing up, because no one wants a crick in their neck from making out.”

“We’re going to make out?”

“That was my plan, yeah. But if you don’t want to, we can find something else to do. You got that new Xbox game, right?”

I definitely want to. Like a lot. But I want to make sure of one thing first. “You’re sure this is because you want to, right? Not because you feel bad and are indulging me? Because if that’s it, I’d really rather you not.”

“Pfft.” Pfft, he says? He can say that all he wants, because he’s creeping on his knees closer to me, setting his hands on my chest, watching them like he can’t believe he’s getting to touch me, and before I can let out a breath, he slides them up my shoulders and my neck, skimming thumbs over my cheeks. “I am not indulging you. Not by a long shot.”

He hesitates like he’s going to say something else, but then leans down and kisses the corner of my mouth and it’s so sweet I want to die. He kisses the other side, lets his tongue dart out to suggest something filthy at the seam of my lips, and I try not to toss him on his back and ravage him. Also, I’m getting short of breath, so I may not be able to pull off my usual feats of strength without passing out.

Christian’s moved on from the corners of my mouth to the corners of my eyes and the peaks of my brow bones. His kisses are gentle and soft, but firm—so perfect they make me want to cry. Like he’s dropping bits and pieces of love all over my face to drip down and coat my body.

I want to soak in them, but also reciprocate somehow. Before I can figure out how to do both—or even one because I’m only vaguely functional right now—he’s kissing me on the lips and scooting even closer, so close that our chests press together and it knocks my breath straight out of my lungs. Which is when it occurs to me that I’ve been sitting there like a scarecrow with my arms at my sides and not taking advantage of Christian having climbed on top of me. I want to now, especially since it’s not going to interfere with the kissing.

It’s easy to find his knees, set my hands there at first and then slide up to his hips, thumbs tracing along the inner seam of his jeans, and then I’m grasping his hips, followed by wrapping my arms around him to hold him. Delicate and slim, but strong—that’s how he feels—and he’s definitely the one setting the speed for how we’re kissing.

There’s no tongue yet, which is fine. I’ve never really understood that whole thing. Swapping spit? It doesn’t sound like something that would be on anyone’s hot one hundred, but enough people are into it, maybe I’ve been missing out on something. Maybe I’ll feel differently when I’ve kissed Christian that way. Maybe not. One thing I do know is that everyone likes different stuff in bed. And just because I’m suddenly getting a taste of this whole sex-being-a-thing-that-actually-sounds-awesome, doesn’t mean I’m going to like it all. I have to keep telling myself that’s okay. It’s okay.

Christian tips his head, and that’s when he does it. A coaxing dart of his tongue like an invitation against my lips. Let me in, let me try, let me show you. And fuck, yeah, I’m going to let him because I want to know. From the dexterous way he strokes my tongue, you’d think he was some sort of woodwind player, maybe brass. Something, definitely, that has to do with lips and tongues and teeth and not a drummer. There’s no rhythm to this, only a seeking pleasure that’s making it difficult to breathe.

Now I get it. It’s not only a suggestion of sex, which was obvious even to me because of mechanics; it’s an intimacy thing. The liquid heat of your partner and how they move, all of their pieces and parts figuring out how to fit with yours.

It makes my dick throb, my hips thrust against him because all I can think about is wanting to be inside him in as many ways as possible and having him inside me, too. I want, want, want it bad. So bad I must be mauling the poor guy and I need to slow it down, dial it back before my brain overheats.

I turn my head to escape but clutch his hips tight so he doesn’t get the wrong idea. My head is buzzy and hot, like I’ve got a fever, and if this is what lust feels like, well, no wonder it makes people do some really stupid shit.

“Christian…” I’ve said his name a million times, but never have the soft hushes of the syllables felt so sensuous in my mouth. Maybe it’s that I’ve barely got enough air in my lungs to get any sounds out at all. “I don’t want to stop, not at all, and I’m sorry because I know this is like child’s play, but it’s…it’s a lot for me. Right now. With you. And I can’t…”

It’s hard to explain, or even try, to someone who must have no idea what it’s like. To have been walking around in a parallel universe from everyone else and suddenly be thrust into theirs.

“Hey,” he says, his gaze flicking over my face, his palms cupping my jaw while his thumbs stroke my cheeks. “It’s a lot for me, too. I don’t want to do anything either of us isn’t cool with or isn’t ready for. We’ll take it slow, draw it out. There’s no reason to rush.”

“You don’t think it’s stupid? Or find it frustrating? You know how many people I’ve slept with and now the one person I really want to sleep with, I can’t. It doesn’t make any sense.” I scrub my hands through my hair and regret that it makes Christian drop his hands, but only until they land on my chest. I like that. A lot.

My eyes are closed, so I feel his shrug rather than see it. “It’s definitely not stupid. Is it frustrating? Yeah, but I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. I want you, you want me, and we’ll get there. If anything, it makes me feel special. Exceptional. I fuck you up so badly you have to change your usual MO.”

My laugh reverberates in my chest, and though I’m trying to keep the smile off my face, I’m sure he can tell. I open my eyes if only to glare at him. “You think I’m fucked up?”

“You said you were!” I answer his protest with tickles to his sides, and he squirms on my lap. It is awesomely horrible. I need him to stop immediately, but also move like that forever.

“Yeah, you fuck me up pretty good.” I stop tickling him so I can stroke up his back, my hands spanning his ribcage, fingers separated only by his spine. “Thank you. For understanding. For not being a dick about this. If it makes a difference, I’m really glad it was you. If I had to pick someone for this to happen with, I couldn’t have picked any better.”