What He Left Behind(9)

“Do you think it could help?”

He seems to mull it over for a long moment, and then half shrugs. “Maybe?” He meets my eyes, and his are filled with equal parts confusion and pain. “Part of me wants to take you to bed right now because I know that for me, you’re the safest man on the planet. If I can’t handle sex with you, then I might as well stay celibate.”

My heart speeds up. “And the other part?”

He swallows hard, and he’s staring at the floor again. “That part is scared to death of breaking that illusion.”

It takes me a second to comprehend what he’s saying, and when I do, my stomach drops into my feet. “You’re afraid I’ll do something to make you feel unsafe?”

“It’s not rational. I know it’s not.” When he looks at me this time, his eyes plead with me to understand. “But that’s the half that can’t let go of the fact that I trusted Steve too.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I know you’d never hurt me, Josh. I know that. But there was also a time when I knew I didn’t really have Stockholm Syndrome, and that Steve really did mean well. It’s kind of like being on a strong hallucinogen. Once you start seeing shit, you can’t trust anything to be real.”

Steve, you bastard.

“How can I prove it to you?” I ask softly.

Michael shakes his head and doesn’t look at me. “If I knew…”

We’re both still and silent for a long time. Then I cautiously come a little bit closer. He flinches, but his feet stay planted.

Slowly, carefully, I bring my hand up, and he’s watching it, but he still doesn’t back away. He’s tense, and I’d bet money that the muscles in his neck are hard as steel right now, especially as I inch closer to his face.

“You can say no,” I whisper. “Say the word, and I’ll back off.”

Still eyeing my hand, he says just as quietly, “Duly noted.”

And he still doesn’t move. Not toward me, not away from me.

The pad of my forefinger just meets his cheekbone, and he flinches again. I do too, because it’s heartbreaking to see this man jerking back from a gentle touch, whether it’s mine or anyone else’s. Especially since there was a time when my touch would have drawn him in—a brush of fingers on his cheek had the same effect as grabbing his shirt and pulling him to me. The instant we made contact, we were in each other’s arms.

Now, as my fingertips graze his face again, he closes his eyes and takes slow, ragged breaths, and suddenly he’s not a man on the verge of being drawn into a kiss or an embrace. An image of Ripley from Alien flashes through my mind—sweating, crying, inches from a monster, awaiting the inevitable, horrible outcome.

“I would never hurt you, Michael,” I whisper.

“I know.” He shudders hard. “I’m not afraid of you.”

You’re afraid of who your f*cked-up psyche thinks I am.

“You and I are the only ones here.”

He meets my eyes. “No, we’re not.”

Steve, if I ever f*cking see you again…

“Do you want this?” I ask. “Do you want—”

“I want everything.” His gaze drops again, and he exhales. “I want you to kiss me. I want you to f*ck me.” He shakes his head. “Goddammit, I want to be able to do this without being scared of someone who isn’t here.”

Fuck. What do I do?

I let my hand rest against his cheek and wait until the shudder passes. Until he’s as relaxed as he’s probably going to get. Then, “Do you want to stop?”

“No.” He looks me in the eye again. “I don’t want to stop.”

Sliding my hand from his cheek into his hair, I draw us together, and—

A victory!

He touches my waist. Tentatively, his fingers twitching slightly on top of my shirt, but he’s bridged the gap. When I wrap my other arm around him, his hand curves around to my back, and a moment later, his free hand materializes on my chest. I’m still—even with the other on my back, that hand could push me away, and I give him time to decide if it’s what he really wants to do.

A fraction of an inch divides our lips, and I’m afraid to cross it. I can feel his uneven breaths, and I swear I can feel his heartbeat over my own, and I don’t know if I should move in or back off or—

Michael’s hand tightens around the front of my shirt.

He lifts his chin.

And presses his lips to mine.

My heart stops. Neither of us is moving or breathing. I’m sure he’s going to jerk back at any moment, that the traumatized side of him is going to speak up with all its lies about me and every other man in the world, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t quite melt against me, doesn’t quite relax, but in his own way, he does. The rigidity in his muscles starts to subtly ease. The hand on my back slides up a little, though I can’t tell if it’s a caress or if he’s just resituating himself.

Gently, cautiously, I take over—holding him tighter, I tilt my head and nudge his lips with mine. They’re taut at first, firm and closed, but gradually, they soften. And then they part. He takes in a long breath through his nose as I deepen the kiss.

He tugs at my shirt, and I’m so light-headed, it throws me off balance. We both stumble a bit, but thank God for Michael’s tiny kitchen—his hip brushes the counter, and then I’ve got him pressed up against it, and he’s not pushing me away or trying to stop or doing a damned thing except holding on to me and opening to my kiss. It’s all I can do to keep our hips apart—one thing at a time—because I want nothing more than to press against him, feel every inch of him, and pray like hell that he suggests taking this into the other room. But no, no, not yet. Just this. I don’t want to overwhelm him.