Page 146 of These Secret Years

“How’re you doing?” he asks.

“I’m okay.”

“And my singing? How was that?”

“Also, just okay.”

He smiles, and it’s so bright and beautiful I can barely stand to see it, but I stare at it anyway.

“You loved it,” he says.

“I did love it.”

A long silence here as we both register what neither of us has actually said but feels like this whole other person between us. This love.

And finally, him, “I think I’m just gonna say it.”

My heart thumps a thousand times in a second. “Okay.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Okay, good. So that’s done.”

I cup his face and give him another long, closed-mouth kiss. “By the end of the week, maybe we’ll be engaged.”

The hand on my waist squeezes. “I’d say yes if you asked.”

Settling my head on his bicep, I say, “Then let’s just pretend I did.”

“You okay if I touch your cheek?”

I nod, my gaze never leaving his.

For the next I don’t know how long I lie there with him on the couch, listening to the Beatles, while he traces every line, shape, and shadow of my face.

I get good at little spoon faster than I thought I would after that disastrous first time. On Tuesday, I woke up in Knight’s arms and had a minor anxiety attack, needing to turn over to face him, but by Wednesday morning I’m waking up in his embrace with his full morning wood trying to fight its way between my thighs, and I don’t panic. Today my goal is a little different, but progress is progress, and if I’m going to keep making it, then one foot needs to keep stepping in front of the other.

I turn in his arms, and he startles. “You okay?” he blurts like a reflex.

Not my favorite reflex of his. He deserves better. Someone he doesn’t have to ask that question to over and over again.

I press my lips to his cheek and slide my hand down his bare chest, beneath the sheet, and over the hard bulge in his shorts.

His hips rut up, seeking the pressure. He groans. “Wait.”

I kiss his ear and whisper, “You don’t want it?”

“I do—I—no, I mean—I’m okay.”

“Me too.” I grip his outline and plant kisses along his jawline as he clenches it and slightly arches his neck.

“Fuck, that feels so good.” There’s an ache in his voice that somehow matches exactly how much I’ve been wanting to touch him like this. I don’t know why I waited so long. This is the simplest thing I could have been doing. It’s just my hand. He doesn’t even need to touch me. I’m in complete control, and I’m safe with him.

I put my palm up to my mouth, spitting into it before reaching into his shorts and finding his dick. He’s pouring precum the way only Knight can, I swear, and my slightly slippery fist closes over his shaft and works its way up, down, and around it in a practiced movement I’ve used on way too many guys to count, but I don’t want to think about that either.

He lets out a harsh breath, and his hips move, mindlessly fucking into my fist.