Page 8 of Protecting his Heart

Evan finished his mouthful, put his fork down and picked up his glass before answering. “It’s been easier than I expected, though there are a few things I’ve struggled with.”

That was the first Owen had heard about it. “There is? What are they?”

Evan sipped his drink and placed it back on the table. “Like eating. It’s a much more social experience in Italy.” He waved his hand towards Sally. “Not that this isn’t social and good, I mean.” She smiled and rolled her eyes. “All meals there are made for socialising. Dinner could take two or three hours or more, depending on who you were with. There was never just one or two courses. It was a feast every single time.”

“Sounds fattening,” Owen remarked, though Sally tapped his hand in reprimand. “Intriguing, though,” he added. “What else?”

“Kisses.”

Owen coughed as the curry he’d just eaten tried to enter his lungs. He covered his mouth and coughed, trying to breathe. A napkin appeared in front of his watering eyes, and he used it to wipe his face. “Sorry about that,” he said, clearing his throat and sipping his drink. “You were saying.” He might be able to concentrate now he wasn’t choking.

“Kisses. Almost everyone in Italy continually kissed others. When they meet, when they leave, in the morning, in the evening, when it’s your birthday, when it’s any kind of celebration. But not only that, but their physical contact completely. They had no qualms of holding hands or arms with random people in the street or inviting them to their homes for dinner, even if they didn’t know your name. They stand closer to each other, too. Here, we apologise if we get closer than two metres to someone. There, you’re lucky if you get half a metre of space, and no one cares. It’s…freeing.”

“That sounds both wonderful and scary,” Sally said with a chuckle. “Maybe we need to start small. Kisses we could do, couldn’t we?” She raised her eyebrows at Owen, expecting an answer, though what, he didn’t know.

“Um, yeah, I guess.” He didn’t look at Evan. How the hell was he going to get used to kissing Evan on the cheek every damn time he saw him when all he wanted was to have the man’s mouth on his every moment of the day?

His mother, thankfully, changed the subject to something about the sights in Italy, even though she’d received probably more photos than Owen had of Evan’s time there. He listened, but he kept his focus on the food until there was nothing left.

“Ice cream?” Sally asked.

Owen smiled and met her gaze. “Takes me back,” he murmured.

She cupped his jaw, brushing her thumb across his cheek. “Everything was better when there was ice cream.”

“Still is,” he said, glancing at Evan, who stared into his eyes as if he held the answers Evan needed. He didn’t. He had no answers at all. Except that ice cream makes everything better.

Especially if it was cookie dough.

“I’ll get it. Do you want any?” he asked them both as he gathered the plates together.

“Yes, please,” Evan said.

“I’m fine, thank you, sweetie.”

He put the plates on the side, intending to clean them off and put them in the dishwasher after he’d dished the ice cream, but Evan beat him to it.

“You get the ice cream; I’ll do the dishes.”

Owen licked his lips and nodded. “Okay.”

They worked in silence, and when he returned to the table with two bowls of ice cream and a cup of tea for his mum, he tried to ignore how much he was waiting for Evan to tell him he could eat. He was a grown man, for fuck’s sake.

“Eat up or it’ll melt,” Evan said, and Owen’s entire body relaxed and then tensed again.

Why was he waiting for permission?

He dug into the ice cream, ignoring them while he ate. He wished he could figure out what was wrong with him. Yes, okay, he wanted Evan. There was no denying that, but apart from that night, when he was submissive as hell without having realised he was until that moment, he wasn’t in his daily life. Why did he suddenly need Evan’s approval? And why did he feel like he couldn’t breathe without it?

He scraped his chair back as he finished his last mouthful of ice cream and put it in the dishwasher. Facing his mother, he swallowed hard. “I’ll be…” He pointed to the door but didn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he jogged to the front door and left the house, dropping to the small stool his mother always left by the front door.

Inhaling and exhaling didn’t help, and he shook his hands out when he saw they were trembling. What the fuck? He threaded his fingers through his hair and closed his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees.

Knees bracketed his legs, a hand gripped his nape and another his shoulder. His head lifted, and he locked gazes with Evan.

“Breathe for me, Owen. Breathe.” Owen shook his head. “Do as you’re fucking told. Breathe,” Evan ordered.

Owen inhaled, oxygen flooding his body, his head spinning. He wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t look away from Evan. His eyes, mesmerising as always, tortured him with their knowledge.

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