“Catty-go-fuck-us is my new favorite word,” Cully decided. “And I think it suits this house to a T. I think we should rename the cul-de-sac Catty-Go-Fuck-Us, since that’s what it apparently decided to do.”
The breeze hit the tapestry that hung on the far wall hard enough to lift it up and send its ends fluttering, but then it subsided. Well. Served the magic right, Cully thought irritably.
Dante sat on the couch and pulled Cully practically into his lap, and Cully… went. Bonelessly and without resistance. He tried so hard to remember what had held him back all these years, and on the one hand, he knew. But on the other hand, after this last month? Every single argument he had ever dredged up to fight how much he’d loved Dante Vianelli from the start seemed weak and pathetic now.
And given what they’d been through, destructive as well.
But as Cully allowed himself to be held against Dante’s strong thighs, his broad chest, the immediate physical reality of being engulfed by his presence created a whole different dilemma. He felt wonderful. He smelled wonderful. Every inch of skin, every joule of heat, even the breaths of his exhalations, called Cully’s name.
“When was our first kiss?” he asked, his voice small. He didn’t want to hear that it had never happened.
“I remember it at Jordan’s parents’ house,” Dante said thoughtfully. “I remember us alone, watching the sunset, as his grandma got there. It was the first time she showed up to cook for us, and I remember thinking, ‘Hey, I get a grandma again! But this one apparently likes me, and you were sitting next to me. The world was so perfect, and if only you would kiss me back….”
Cully sighed, and for a moment, it was like their first kiss had happened exactly that way. “But no,” he whispered. “That’s not how it happened. Because Jordan stuck his head out and called our names. But it was almost then. Right? We almost kissed then. I wasn’t the only one who thought you should be kissing me, right?”
“Right,” Dante said roughly, his arm tight around Cully’s shoulder.
A part of Cully wanted to weep. This was how they should have been sitting all along. But part of him was celebrating. This was how they should have been sitting all along.
“We should have been kissing all along,” Cully said, echoing his thoughts. He looked up at Dante, wanting to kiss him now. “So when was our first kiss?”
Dante angled his body, and the look in his brown eyes was simultaneously sad and hungry.
“Now,” he murmured. And with that, he lowered his head and brushed Cully’s lips with his own.
And Cully knew why he’d been afraid of this and hungering for it all along.
Wildfire couldn’t have blazed hotter. Nectar couldn’t have tasted sweeter. The ocean couldn’t have moved him, body and soul, with such a powerful force.
Cully, who had worked his whole life to establish himself as an individual, to bow to nobody’s perception of what a man should be, or how a man should dress, was suddenly bowled over, subsumed by the maelstrom that was Dante Vianelli—a larger-than-life man who instilled calm and order and kindness in every situation he encountered.
This isn’t calm!
Cully dug his fingers into Dante’s biceps, clutching him closer, needing him closer, and his body shuddered, blossoming, a sort of existential tightness in his stomach, in his groin, groaning, breathing, unfurling to welcome Dante’s touch. To quiver for it.
This wasn’t calm. Dante’s tongue sweeping into his mouth set Cully’s blood ablaze. His hands, sliding under Cully’s ruffled shirt to palm the skin of his back, made Cully shiver. His soft sighs of need made Cully groan with excitement. He wasn’t a sweet, retiring little man—he’d never been quiet or vulnerable or needy.
He needed now, with a ferocity, a savagery, of hunger denied.
The thought calmed his fear and set him free.
He let out a growl and pushed up against Dante until Dante lay flat on his back and Cully sprawled on top of him.
And the kiss went on.
Every move of their lips, every touch of their skin, felt brand-new, but also old and familiar and right. Cully’s groin was getting swollen, achy, and he arched his back and ground his hips, loving Dante’s growl in return.
Finally Dante pulled his mouth away from Cully’s and spoke hoarsely. “I’ve wanted to do this since we met,” he said. “Why weren’t we doing this?”
Cully pondered for a moment, his position literally on top of Dante giving them some time before the house or the presence or the spiteful magic or whatever tried to split them up again.
“I was scared,” he said, and the silence that settled around them in that moment had a breathless, listening quality to it. He realized that whatever he said now, however he said it, it needed to be the truth. “I… with my dad, I had to pull my weight—you know that. And I had to do it while being me. While wearing the guyliner and the puffy shirts and the… the earrings when I was in high school.”
Dante’s mouth twisted sweetly, and the fingers he brought up to the nearly healed holes in Cully’s ears were warm. Cully captured his fingers and kissed them softly.
“I had to be all those things,” he said, his voice breaking. “And you… you accepted me for who I was. How was I supposed to risk that? How was I supposed to risk having someone who accepted me and helped me and loved me for me, when I knew what it was like to live with someone who loved me but wished with all his heart that I acted and looked like somebody else?”
Dante sucked in a breath, and Cully was suddenly jealous. All their breath should be mingled, and every sentence should be punctuated with kisses. He tasted Dante’s lips again, aware that they needed to talk some more, that Dante had his own explaining to do, but not now. Now, all Cully wanted in the world was to possess his mouth, to touch his skin, to hold his soul in his hands so tightly Dante could never escape, could never become a ghost in the house again.
Dante groaned and took over the kiss, nipping, tugging playfully on Cully’s lower lip. Cully’s arousal grew again, and they arched and rubbed against each other like teenagers. The pressure in his groin, inflicted by Dante’s button fly, increased, and he moaned, not wanting to break the kiss off even for a second.
I have more self-control than this! But he didn’t. He had no self-control. It was like being a teenager all over again, like necking in his buddy’s car when… oh God… one more push, one more bit of pressure…. Just kiss me, Dante. Just kiss me, and keep—oh God—keep pushing right there and—
The orgasm that burst out of him was bright and shallow and adolescent in a way. He’d had sex since he was sixteen. He knew how to make it last, how to make it good, how to make it meaningful.
How to make it to “take each other’s clothes off”!
But it was no good; he couldn’t take the kisses back or the orgasm, and underneath him, Dante let out a long, tearing groan of his own. His back arched, and his fingers bit into Cully’s backside through his linen costume pants, and Cully felt the spreading warmth of both of their climaxes seeping through their clothing.
Dante collapsed back against the couch cushions, and although he kept his eyes closed, he kept his arms around Cully’s waist, holding them together.