Page 29 of Buried Past

"Is this okay?"

I nodded, but it didn't feel like enough, so I added, "Yes."

When his lips met mine, it wasn't a shock like the first time. I responded by letting his tongue slip inside while I reached out to touch his chest.

Matthew's tongue flicked against mine, and a soft moan from him escaped into my mouth. It wasn't rushed. It was methodical and intimate.

He settled his hands on my shoulders, his fingers spreading along my collarbones before traveling down my arms. "You're shaking," he observed, whispering against my mouth.

He was right. I'd started to tremble again.

"Good shaking or bad shaking?" Matthew asked, pulling back just enough to study my face.

"I don't know." It was an honest statement. "Both, maybe."

Matthew's thumb traced my lower lip, still slick from our kiss. "We can stop. Anytime."

"I don't want to stop. I just—I need you to know that I don't know what I'm doing. Not with this."

"This?"

I glanced toward the hands on my arms. "Being wanted without expecting something in return."

"You don't have to perform anything. Not for me and not because you think you're obligated."

"That's not—" I stopped, frustrated by my inability to articulate what was happening inside. "I want this. You. I don't know how to want it without expecting it to vanish."

"It doesn't have to vanish."

"Everything vanishes."

Matthew leaned forward and kissed me again. "Maybe, but not tonight."

I poured months of loneliness into the kiss. He matched my urgency, wrapped his arms around my waist, and pulled me closer until we had no space.

"Your room?" I surprised myself with my direct question.

He didn't respond in words. He stood and extended his hand. I accepted it, letting him guide me to my feet and toward the bedroom doorway.

At the entrance, I paused, looking back at the living room where we'd shared meals, conversations, and the gradual, delicate process of learning to trust each other.

"Second thoughts?" Matthew asked.

"No, just recognizing that everything changes after this."

"Yeah, it does."

Matthew's bedroom was sparse like the rest of his apartment—a queen bed with a simple wooden frame matched with a dresser with clean lines. Blackout curtains blocked the city's ambient glow. The only personal item was a single photograph on the nightstand: four teenagers on a beach, grinning, with an older man and woman—Matthew's family.

He guided me to the edge of the bed before stepping back slightly, giving me space to breathe. He sat beside me. "We can just sleep, if you'd rather."

"I don't want to just sleep." A statement of brutal honesty.

Matthew reached for the hem of his shirt. He pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, revealing the broad chest and muscledshoulders I'd glimpsed while he'd tended my wounds. A pale scar bisected his left pec.

It was my turn. I gripped the bottom of my borrowed shirt and then hesitated.

"Hey." Matthew's voice drew my attention. "Whatever you're thinking, stop."

---