If It Flies (Market Garden, #3)(34)

“All of that scares the hell out of me. That’s . . . that’s why I left.

And I’m sorry for that.”

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Spencer rubbed his face. Nick’s intensity was turning him on. Hell, Nick would never fail to turn him on, even hurt as he was. Had been. He had no idea what he was anymore, just that he believed Nick, and that some part of him was damn near screaming with tension.

“All because of a kiss?”

Nick nodded. “Yeah, well. I don’t kiss. Sometimes I do. I mean, it’s not that ironclad a rule. With you, it was that I liked it too much. I’d known from the start I’d have to keep you at a distance because it would’ve been just too easy to tell you those things. The . . .” He circled his hand, grasping for words.

“What I felt. You just weren’t like the others—you never played power games, never second-guessed me, just rolled with it from the start. You trusted me completely. And when you asked me if I date, and I thought, you, maybe, and that thought kept coming back. And that’s dangerous, Spencer.

That’s really bad news in my job.”

Spencer flinched. There was that, wasn’t it? Nick’s job.

The conclusions they came to at this table wouldn’t change how Nick paid his rent.

Spencer looked down at Nick’s arms, which were tightly folded on the table again, six tense inches away from his own.

It was too much. Too fast. He’d come in here to forget about Nick, and now . . . now this.

“Give me something, Spencer,” Nick whispered. “Throw me a bone here.”

Spencer still didn’t move. He didn’t understand what was happening. Or what he was supposed to do with it. The only thing he did understand was this deep, raw relief that they were finally having this conversation. No matter how much it confused him and had his heart pounding, the relief was there, and he couldn’t ignore it.

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But Nick had ditched him.

But Nick was, and would remain, a prostitute.

But he’d f*cking disappeared for two bloody weeks and— Spencer reached across the table. His hand hovered over Nick’s arm for a moment, then settled on the back of his forearm.

Nick exhaled.

So did Spencer.

Now what?

Nick slid one arm out from under the other and placed his hand on top of Spencer’s. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t understand this any more than you do.”

Not a consolation, no, but honest. Spencer could take honesty.

His mouth was dry. He cleared his throat. “What do we do now?”

“I’m thinking—” Nick watched his fingers slide between Spencer’s, capturing his hand one vulnerable spot at a time.

“—that we both suck at this.” His eyes flicked up again. “So maybe we should go someplace where communication comes a little more . . . naturally.”

“Is that a good idea?”

Nick’s hand tightened around Spencer’s, gripping firmly but not uncomfortably. “At this point, I don’t even know which way is up, never mind what’s a good idea and what’s not. But I don’t know what else to do. And—” He pulled in a deep breath. “—walking away just isn’t an option anymore.”

A shudder ran through Spencer, all the way down, and he hooked his foot around the chair leg as his toes curled inside his shoes. “If that’s the case, maybe we should go.”

Some of the tautness in Nick’s expression eased. Then a little more. Finally, he smiled, and Spencer’s bones liquefied.

God. Yes. Getting out of here was a good idea.

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Chapter


eleveN


he click of Spencer’s bedroom door seemed to echo for Tmiles.

He leaned against the door. Nick held his gaze. They were a few feet apart now, but that void seemed narrower— infinitely more passable—than the sliver of space that had separated their arms on the table at Market Garden.

Nick set his shoulders back. He pointed at the floor in front of his boots. “On your knees.”

Spencer hesitated, like he had that first time.

Communication? Or launching immediately into the most intense exchange they could have? He took the step and knelt, though he wished he didn’t have these thoughts whirring in his head, the conviction that they’d resolved nothing and were only plastering over the break.

Nevertheless, kneeling at Nick’s feet felt good. It felt right.

And—oh. Nick’s hand on his hair. That he knew. That made sense. That was perfect. He pushed his head lightly into Nick’s hand. Nick rewarded him by trailing his fingers over Spencer’s hair.

It also meant that Spencer wasn’t supposed to speak, just feel, just respond, just answer questions if they came.

Nick’s hand slid down to Spencer’s shoulder. He crouched next to him. His face seemed oddly open, and he came even closer, and the kiss was deliberate and tender, and even more intense than last time because they were both calm, the tension wasn’t blinding them, they were both sober and aware and under control. This felt more like a promise than 115

a mistake. Spencer reached up on impulse, but hesitated, not sure if he was allowed to put his hands on Nick.

But Nick was kissing him. He could.

So he grabbed Nick by the shoulders and pulled him closer, still, he hoped, respectfully, but he needed to touch him now, and if that meant he’d get the snot beaten out of him, that was worth it.