In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(8)

“Stop.” Rex puts his hands over mine in the sink. He dries my hands with the dishtowel, then takes me by the shoulders and turns me around so I’m leaning against the wall.

“You need to calm down,” he says, and his voice is a warm ocean of command. I nod, trying to calm down, but my heart is racing. What is wrong with me? It’s not like people don’t know I’m gay. Hell, I’ve always enjoyed letting idiots bro down with me and then just casually talking about my boyfriend to watch their surprise. It’s obvious that Rex isn’t going to hurt me; if he were, he would’ve done it already. I take a deep breath, his heavy hands weighing my shoulders down, anchoring me.

I look up at him, his eyes the same color as the whiskey I just drank. He steps closer, until I can feel his warmth. I open my mouth to tell him I’m fine, but what comes out is an embarrassingly shaky breath.

“Just calm down,” he says. And then he kisses me.

His hand is so big that when he cups my cheek his fingers trail down my neck, warm and rough. His mouth is soft on mine, but the power of his body behind it makes it clear he’s holding himself back. As one hand strokes my neck, the other cups my head, tangling in my hair. I open my eyes for a moment to make sure this is real, and his are open too, heavy-lidded and golden.

He pulls back and straightens up. He’s tall enough that he had to bend down to kiss me. I wonder if that’s annoying—to have to bend down all the time. Or, I guess if he were kissing someone his same height, he wouldn’t have to, but that’s probably pretty rare. Also, holy crap, Rex is gay! I wonder—

Then I can’t think of anything else because his mouth is on mine again, and this time it’s a real kiss. His hands are on my hips and my head is tilted back against the wall and he’s kissing me, his tongue filling all the empty spaces. I reach up and put my arms around his neck, trying to pull him closer to me. He slides a hand up my side and around to my back, and he hooks his hand around my shoulder, locking me to him. I gasp into his mouth as he pushes his hips forward, his hardness hot against my stomach even through his jeans.

He pulls back, his mouth leaving mine with a lewd smack.

“Better?” he asks, and when he gives me his first real smile, it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. His whole face is transformed. He has dimples and his teeth are a little crooked, one incisor slightly twisted.

I huff out a laugh and grin back.

“Better.” And, actually, I am. I feel calm and boneless. Well, not exactly boneless. In fact, I’m trying to psychically communicate that he could make everything a whole lot better if he’d just release the binder clip barely holding my sweatpants up and take me on the kitchen table, but he doesn’t seem to be getting the message.

He takes me by the hand and leads me back to the couch. He covers me with the flannel blanket, sinks down next to me, and flicks on the TV with one hand while he subtly adjusts himself with the other. When he looks at me out of the corner of his eye, I grin at him. He laughs and shakes his head.

“Just relax.”

He’s channel surfing—more channels than I would’ve expected to find in a log cabin. I think I finally have to admit to myself that I am helpless to control my dumb stereotypes about rural places and the people who live in them. As if he can read my mind, Rex rolls his eyes and points out the front door.

“Satellite dish.”

He stops changing channels at a black-and-white movie, looking totally delighted when he turns to me and points at the screen expectantly. I have no idea what movie it is. I’m not sure I’ve ever even seen an entire black-and-white movie except when I took a film class in college. I don’t even own a TV.

“Gaslight,” he says, smiling. “I love this movie.” He’s still looking at me expectantly; I shake my head.

“I’ve never seen it.”

“Really? Ingrid Bergman. I love her.”

“So you are gay,” I joke.

He fixes me with a smoldering look.

“Were you in doubt?”

“No,” I squeak. He looks back at the screen.

“This version is the most famous, but MGM actually made it only four years after the UK film version. Then they somehow cut a deal so that the UK version wasn’t allowed to be rereleased in the US. I do think this one is better than the 1940 version, though. Mostly because Ingrid Bergman’s better than Diana Wynyard.

“It’s great, although MGM’s corniness ruins it in some parts. And, you know, the Production Code. It’s Angela Lansbury’s first film role.”

He’s speaking absently, as if I know all this, his face animated even as his eyes are glued to the screen.

“You’re a film geek, huh?”

“What? No. I mean, I just like old movies,” he says, looking a little uncomfortable.

“I think that’s awesome,” I say, desperate not to have offended him. “I never saw many movies growing up, so I guess I just never developed a taste for them. It was always sports at my house.”

“Do you still follow sports?”

“Oh, no, I never did. My dad and my brothers, though. Huge sports fans. I think as long as it’s got a ball, they watch it. Well, except soccer. They think soccer’s for pansies. Oh, and golf, because it’s not violent.”

“How many brothers do you have?”