Nash shrugged. “I told you—I’ve been trying not to think about sex. Then you kissed me and blew my fucking wig off.”
“Okay, but one: you’re not wearing a wig. Two: I’ve kissed you since...” The words caught. “I’ve kissed you since you came home.”
Nash nailed me with a look so intense my heart skipped a beat. “Not like that.”
He was right. I hadn’t. As much as me and Orla had joked about sex... aboutmissingbeing that close to each other—toNash—and as much as I’d thought about it, I hadn’t acted on it. Not once. “Do you want me to kiss you again?”
“Is the sky fucking blue?”
It was, actually. Baby blue, like his eyes, sun glittering off the frosty ground. So I kissed him again, building a swelter between us before I let my hand travel to the place he seemed so nonsensically afraid of.
The sweatpants he wore were low on his hips. I eased past them and gripped his cock, squeezing with light pressure, then more as he moaned and grew harder. We were in the garage, doors wide open. I wasn’t about to give him a handjob, but he needed reassurance, and giving it to him was the easiest thing in the world.
Letting go was a wrench to my battered heart. I couldn’t quantify what I’d do to him if we were somewhere else and I had our girl at my side. How we’d worship him until he lost the brainpower to doubt his beautiful body. Didn’t dare, in case it led me to do something rash. Like throw him over my shoulder, cast and all, and fuck him on the bonnet of a nearby car.
I stopped kissing him.
Withdrew my hand.
Nash’s chest rose and fell too fast, but I was less panicked about that than I had been a few weeks ago. My head screwed on better.
I pressed my palm to his heart. “You’re okay.”
He grinned, a happy, worn-out sigh escaping him. “Thank fuck for that.”
His eyes closed as mine drifted to the exposed fibreglass of his cast. Mateo had bought Liliana special pens to decorate it, but most of the drawings were his own weed-fuelled doodles.
The writing was new. I tilted my head to get a better look. “Who wrote that?”
“Hmm?”
“‘Weeping may endure for the night, but joy cometh in the morning.’ Who wrote it?”
“God or some shit.” Nash opened his eyes. “It’s a psalm my grandma used to say if I cried when I was a kid. I hated all the religious fuckery, even then. But I didn’t hate her, so I wrote it on my leg to remind me that everything awful passes on by.”
It was sweet that Nash hadn’t hated his grandma, but I didn’t believe he hated religion either. He had the fuckin’ Lord’s prayer inked on his chest, but I let it go. I let himsleepwhile I stroked my thumb over his cheekbone and tried not to drift.
Folk stuck his head around the door. “All right?”
“Yup.”
He nodded and left me to it.
Rubi came next with tea, but he didn’t linger, and I appreciated that.Don’t lose these moments.I wouldn’t, but I didn’t want to share them either. Not with anyone except Orla.
It was starting to get dark when my phone buzzed with a message from Cam, tome, not one of the group chats.
Cam:Church in 20. I need you there if you can make it.
Locke:it’s fine. i’m already on the compound.
Cam:Stay with him if you need to. I’ll catch you up later.
Locke:u don’t need him at church?
Cam:I’ll leave that with you.
Maybe cos he knew I wouldn’t disturb Nash unless the sky was falling in. But as it happened, the rumble of approaching bikes roused Nash anyway, and I showed him the message, giving him the choice.