Page 63 of King of Hollywood

“Then bend down here, so I can reach.”

I bent.

And Felix kissed me.

He kissed me and the world ended. Everything I’d ever known whittled away to nothing but scraps. The soft brush of Felix’s lips sent me spinning. I moaned.

It was a chaste kiss.

No tongue. (Thank God. I wasn’t ready to be French, just yet.)

There were only soft, flickering little brushes as he parted his lips and coaxed me to do the same. I knew I was too rigid. That I was stiff as a board—but I’d never done this. I’d never wanted to do this. I didn’t know how.

There wasn’t time to worry that my inexperience would be ill received. Because Felix’s lips never ceased teasing mine, sweet and patient. Tender in a way I didn’t know kisses could be. I ached, pressing into him with a hungry sound that made Felix shiver.

“That’s it,” he urged, his words fluttering between our lips. His voice vibrating my palm where it still encased his throat. “Relax for me, Marshall.”

I relaxed.

As if it had been that easy all along. As if all I’d needed was Felix’s gentle command to do so. Something settled inside me then. A screw that had been knocked loose so long ago I’d forgotten it had happened at all.

With a sigh, I pressed harder against him, holding his throat captive with my palm as my fingers gently pinched. Greedier, rougher, our lips slid together. Over and over, a mating dance that caused shivers to run up and down my spine.

His mouth was cool and slick. The longer we kissed, the warmer it became, almost like he was stealing my heat again. Like we were sharing it between us. And that thought—that something I exuded could become one with him was just…

“Fuck,” I hissed out, pulling away, panting.

My chest was heaving and I couldn’t seem to get it to stop.

“Not today,” Felix countered, voice low, as rough as my own. His eyes were dark. The pupil had swallowed them whole. “But…”

“But…?” My pulse skittered. I squeezed his neck tighter, watching his lashes flutter as a needy little moan left his lips. He melted, like butter in my grip. The tighter I squeezed, the more docile he became.

“Soon,” he croaked, lashes fluttering.

Soon was now my favorite word.

Felix and I danced. We danced for hours. Well past my bedtime. The stars flickered outside his living room windows, the lamplight from the street casting an orange, homey glaze around his living room as I led him through steps I’d memorized years ago. Back and forth, swirling, dipping, gliding.

The way my mother had taught me back when I’d been young and anxious and needed a guiding hand.

We went through Felix’s entire record collection. Through the old rock music he favored, through the symphonies, through Sinatra.

The cats watched us curiously, like they didn’t know what to make of what we were doing. They attempted to trip me once—the bastards—but for the most part, left us alone.

And by the time I went home—dear God, who was I? Staying up this late!—I’d been touching Felix for so long his body was warm. He’d looked dazed as I paused on my way out his front door, twisting to say goodbye.

There’d been a single, awkward moment when I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to kiss him again. But he quickly remedied it. Hopping onto his tiptoes, Felix pulled me down by a gentle fistful of my vest and answered my unspoken question by kissing me soundly.

“Goodnight, Marshall,” he said, eyes alight.

“Goodnight, Felix.”

If he noticed it was the first time I’d used his first name, he didn’t say.

I didn’t either.

Some things didn’t need to be said out loud.

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