Page 34 of Catching Flynn

“You’re strangely well-versed in geriatric living.”

“My nana.” Flynn’s expression softened. “She practically raised me. She loved squishy hugs. Just means hugging a little tighter.” He played with a beltloop on Zavier’s jeans. “Can we change the subject?”

Zavier had been trying to make a point about what gave life meaning. Companionship, comfort, being understood, and how love defied aging. His mate had understood. He’d just answered in Flynn language.

“I would die of mortification—which I vehemently believe can happen—if I ugly cried in front of a rizzler.”

“Rizzler?”

“You.” Flynn flapped his hand to encompass Zavier’s entire body. “Charisma, charm, magnetism, gorgeous. Do I need to break it down into subcategories? And you’re a cat, because somebody is clearly an overachiever.”

Zavier’s cat purred in satisfaction.

Flynn glanced up. “Now that sound is obvious. I thought my house was purring. Would I have to scratch the walls for tummy rubs?”

Zavier was pretty sure his mate was assembled from caffeine, poetry dust, and nana hugs.

“It’s still unclear to me what a squishy hug entails. Maybe a demonstration would help.”

Flynn’s lips twisted to the side. “Smooth. If you want a hug, just ask.”

Before Zavier could answer, Flynn scooted closer on the couch and wrapped both arms around him. Warm, slim, all lean lines and sleepy heat, he fit against Zavier so fucking well it nearly made his teeth ache. A playful growl rolled out of his chest on instinct.

Flynn laughed softly, breath warm against Zavier’s jaw, and then kissed him.

Everything in Zavier stilled.

For one suspended moment, Zavier only felt. The soft press of Flynn’s lips. The faint taste of morning dew. The little hitch in Flynn’s breath when Zavier cupped the side of his face and kissed him back.

Slowly, carefully, Zavier turned into it. He kept one hand at Flynn’s jaw and let the other settle at his waist, feeling the slim line of him beneath the thin fabric. Flynn fit against him with an ease that knocked the air from Zavier’s lungs. Soft, warm, and right.

Flynn made a quiet sound into his mouth and kissed him again, deeper this time, more certain. Zavier followed, easing him back against the couch cushions for another few breaths, exploring instead of taking. Their mouths parted and met, parted and met, each kiss lingering longer than the last. Flynn’s fingers curled in his shirt, then slid up into his hair, a little clumsy and eager.

“Squishy hug,” Flynn murmured against his lips, voice gone breathy.

A smile tugged at Zavier’s mouth. “That what this is?”

“Handsy demonstration.”

Zavier kissed him again before he could say anything else. This one turned hungry too fast. Flynn opened for him with a soft gasp, and Zavier tasted him properly. Tongue, breath, the wet heat of his mouth. A low moan caught in Flynn’s throat, and hearing it nearly snapped the last thread of restraint Zavier had left.

He forced himself slower.

At Flynn’s back, Zavier’s hand spread wide, drawing him closer. His mate was all narrow hips and lean muscle, a slim body that made something possessive and reverent burn under Zavier’s skin. He touched Flynn gently, wanting to learn every line with his palms. The warm curve of his ass. The flat plane of his stomach. The slight tremor that ran through him whenever Zavier’s hand slipped under his shirt.

Breaking the kiss long enough to breathe, Zavier dragged his mouth to Flynn’s cheek, then to his jaw. “Bed.”

Flynn swallowed, green eyes dark and blown wide, and nodded once.

They made it there in a mess of hands and half-stumbling steps. The bedroom smelled like Flynn—that woodsy scent Zavier had grown addicted to. Lamplight washed the room gold. By the time Flynn sat on the edge of the mattress, his hair was mussed and his lips looked kissed raw.

God.

Zavier stepped between Flynn’s knees and pushed the hoodie up, then off. His gaze dropped and stayed there. Slim torso. Smooth skin. Small nipples already peaked. Flynn looked up at him with color high in his cheeks, trying for bravado and missing by a mile.

“You’re staring.”

Because he couldn’t stop. Zavier brushed his fingertips down Flynn’s sternum, over his stomach, feeling the quick flutter of breath beneath his hand. “You’re beautiful.”