Page 53 of The Best Parts of Him
“Oh shit, sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“Ow, fuck.” Eyes squeezed closed, Dabbs patted the counter, perhaps looking for a towel as orange pumpkin guts dripped down his cheek.
Struggling to control his laughter, Ryland took him by the elbow and guided him around to his side of the counter and to the sink, where—because this was apparently the comedy of errors—Dabbs tripped over the kitchen mat and landed hip-first against the counter.
“Fuck, sorry.” Ryland sniggered. “So sorry.”
“I thought you were supposed to be my nursemaid,” Dabbs grumbled, though there was amusement under the pissy words. “You weren’t supposed to take the title of naughty nursemaid so literally.”
“Sorry. Really. It’s just—ahhhh!” Ryland dissolved into giggles. “It’s the same sound you made when you thought I was going to murder you in the woods.”
Dabbs cracked his good eye open and grabbed the washcloth off the sink, wiping pumpkin off his cheek. “So glad I could entertain you.”
“I really do feel bad.”
“I can tell.”
Ryland swallowed the next gurgle of laughter. “I can be amused and contrite at the same time. Both things can be true,” he said, using Dabbs’ line from when they’d been at The Striped Maple in Maplewood. “Here, give me that.” He took the cloth from Dabbs and gently cleaned around his eye, then grasped his wrist and walked him to the bathroom. “Flush it out with cool water.”
Dabbs did so, bent over the sink, slitting the affected eye open enough to check for pumpkin under his upper and lower lids. His eye was viciously red.
Ryland’s amusement fled. “Jesus, Kyle. Does it hurt?”
“Stings a little. The water helped.” Dabbs squeezed his eyes closed and blinked them open again. Blink, blink. No wincing. “It’s not bad. It’ll be fine in the next couple of hours.”
“Let me see.” Ryland turned him around, leaned him back against the counter so their heights were more evenly matched, and stepped into the V of his spread legs. Gently, he tugged Dabbs’ lower lid down, double-checking that it wasn’t still pumpkined.
Dabbs’ hands landed at his waist, traveled down to his hips and around to his lower back before he tugged Ryland into his chest.
Ryland gasped at the contact, his gaze flying to Dabbs’, one reddened from being pumpkined, the other darkening from gray to the color of a summer storm.
“Aren’t you going to kiss it better?” Dabbs murmured.
Heart threatening to leap out of his chest, Ryland framed his face. “Since you ask so nicely.” He brought his lips up to Dabbs’ eye, kissing one, the other, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth.
Dabbs let out a muffled grunt that sent pleasure zinging into Ryland’s chest. Dabbs’ hands drifted down, fingertips dipping into the waistband of Ryland’s jeans. Ryland trailed his own hands over Dabbs’ strong shoulders, kissing his way across the bridge of his nose to the other cheekbone.
Until Dabbs made a noise of annoyance and caught Ryland’s lips with his own.
Christ. Yes.
Dabbs kissed like he played hockey—with confidence and skill. He tasted like nothing Ryland could put his finger on—something uniquely Dabbs—and he felt like comfort and home and raw pleasure all mixed into one.
Ryland wanted to devour him. Taste every inch of him. Suckle his skin and draw out moans of pleasure.
Dabbs’ tongue brushed his, and Ryland groaned deep in his chest. Jesus H. Christ, the feel of Dabbs’ beard on his jaw was a potent turn-on he hadn’t expected.
Why hadn’t they been doing this for months?
Pulling back, he thwacked Dabbs in the chest.
“What was that for?” Dabbs asked, laughing.
“Why didn’t you let me kiss you when we were in Maplewood? We could’ve been doing this—” He waved between them. “—this whole time.”
“Ah.” Dabbs nuzzled his neck. “But the anticipation makes it all the sweeter, doesn’t it?”
“No,” Ryland protested weakly, his senses buzzing at the scratch of Dabbs’ beard. “It doesn’t.”
