Healthy and fit, he was attending classes at the local college—which featured a school of culinary arts and hotel management—while also apprenticing with Yasha Livingston at Bêtise. I’d worried in the beginning because so much of the program necessitated an intimate knowledge of wine and spirits, but as far as I knew he hadn’t run into problems.
As far as I knew.
I smiled when he reached for me.
Did I trust him? That was a loaded question. A part of me would always maintain awareness. Life could be full of danger for someone like him. He was only one pill away, one line, one ground-up, burning bit of dust away from the cliff.
But I believed in him. I believed he’d communicate honestly, do his best, and work hard to maintain his sobriety. We both attended meetings, sometimes daily. He’d been sober for eighteen months so far. Most of the time, I was in awe of him.
“You know what?” he said. “I don’t mind missing this if you want to go home.”
I raised my brows. “Really?”
“I’m exhausted.”
I could see that. He’d done his usual shift at Bêtise and worked all afternoon to help Minerva.
“Okay.” We made our goodbyes to my family, who we were meeting for brunch the following day. “Night.”
Well-wishes followed us across the open lawn.
As we had the year before, we rode his scooter home. This year, home was one we shared—a tiny bungalow we’d asked Ken Ashton to find for us. Close to the beach, close to Minerva’s place, it had been a major fixer-upper. But I knew just what to do, and over the months that we’d owned it, we’d had the most important things repaired or replaced. The big rocks, as Thuong liked to say.
Thuong parked the scooter in the driveway. We took off our helmets and walked together to the front porch. Thuong used his key to let us inside before taking my hand and pulling me in for a scorching kiss.
“I’ve been looking forward to that all day,” he said once he let me go.
I took in a deep lungful of sea air and Thuong’s citrus and amber cologne, along with the fragrance that was only Thuong these days. Butter, sugar, vanilla, cinnamon. Honest toil, baked goods, and clean sweat.
“You smell delicious.”
“Mm,” he moaned. “You smell good too. Beer and barbecue. I could eat you up.”
“I won’t stand in your way.” I let him back me toward the bedroom, where I meant to lean against the door. It wasn’t entirely closed. Comically, I fell backwards, but Thuong was right there to catch me.
“Whoa, easy there, hot stuff.” He gripped me around the waist and practically tossed me onto the bed. “That’s better.”
While I got rid of my clothes one stubborn winter piece at a time, Thuong did the same. It took a minute, a little hopping around, some contortions, but we came together naked, and laughing, and highly turned on in anticipation of the pleasure to come.
Oh, the carrier pigeons had definitely landed.
I lay on my back beneath him as he crawled between my legs and nudged my knees apart. Gently, he pushed me toward the pillows as I strained upwards to kiss him.
“Wanted this all day,” he murmured. “Couldn’t keep my mind on work.”
“Me too.” Knowing it was a sort of anniversary for us, a year since we’d made things official, eighteen months since he’d gotten sober, had kept him on my mind all day.
He reached down to palm my cock, then slid his hands toward my balls, my taint, and my hole. “Okay?”
“Obviously.” I’d started leaking precum on my belly already. My body was ready for whatever Thuong had in mind.
“Shut up, consent is sexy. Say the words.”
“Fuck me, Thuong. Suck me. Anything that strikes your fancy.” Over the months we’d been together, he’d gradually withdrawn from some of the meds he’d been on. His cock was an iron truncheon against my hip as he reached over to the bedside table for lube. “God, I want you.”
“Me too.” His fingers slipped around my entrance to tease me and ease the way. “Gonna fuck you.”
I squirmed beneath his touch, fresh out of anything clever to say because the way he touched me that time—with reverence, and solemnity, and maybe even a little awe—was too profound for teasing.
Sometimes things happened that way.
I loved him. I really, really loved him. Occasionally the gratitude made my throat burn with unshed tears. Emotions I’d ordinarily carry deep within me welled up, and words became unnecessary. Even impossible.
He seemed to sense this and gentled his explorations even more.
He took his time as we breathed together, hearts going fast as hummingbird wings. When he entered me finally, he looked down at me, forcing me to meet his gaze unflinching and look deeply into the brown eyes I loved.
I let go of all the words except you and me, you and me, you and me…
“Love you,” he whispered. “So much.”
I wrapped my hand around his neck and drew him in for a kiss that would hopefully speak where I couldn’t.
Inside me, he moved slowly at first, then faster. Harder. He watched my face intently as he made me gasp and moan for him.
He could be detached sometimes. He could be mechanical and determined—a man who had the skills to pleasure and watched and waited to make sure what he was doing had the desired effect. But he stayed with me every single breath of the way, and as I lost myself, he let himself go too, let himself be as vulnerable as I was to the sensations, to the moment, to the love that seemed to tear us apart and remake us as one. I came with a rush of heat between us. He shuddered and stilled inside me.
You and me… You and me… You and me…
“I love you.” I finally managed. “Thuong, Oh God, sweetheart. I love you so much.”
A brief smile shivered on his lips before he buried his face in my neck.
Our heartrates slowed until we lay there covered in sweat and spunk. Sated and gloriously messy.
I combed my fingers through his silky, shoulder-length hair. He reached between us and pulled out carefully but stayed where he was until the sweat cooling our bodies made us shiver.
He lifted his head. “You’re cold.”
I nodded. “Little bit.”
“You hungry?” he asked. “I’m starved because I worked through dinner.”
“Really?” I had some choice words for Minerva and her band of festival planners. “Why don’t you shower while I make something.”
“Because I’m the better cook,” he said smugly as he rolled off me. “Go. I’ll clean up a little now and shower after we eat.”
We went into the bathroom together, and I stepped into the shower.
Hot water poured over my head and sluiced down my body. While it could erase the evidence of our lovemaking, the burst of happiness in my heart felt permanent, indelible, impossible to scrub away. Gratitude flooded me, for Thuong, for Santo Ignacio, for my family, Katie and Minerva and Muse, and for all the wonderful things that I’d never known I was missing that day I found the love of my life dying in the bathroom of a public library.
In the kitchen, he welcomed me with a wide, white smile. His brows furrowed. “Are you warm enough?”
I nodded, watching as he expertly turned a few eggs and some expertise into an omelet worthy of royalty. He slid it onto a plate and handed me a fork before opening the toaster oven.