Page 103 of We Could Be So Good
He doesn’t know why having admitted that he loves Andy ought to matter; they’ve both known it for a while, haven’t they? It shouldn’t feel like a confession. Nick can’t look away from the truth, and the truth is that he feels for Andy every goofy thing anyone’s ever felt about anyone else.
And it’s just more proof that his brain has gone rotten that when kissing in the kitchen turns into stumbling toward the bedroom, Nick finds that he wants to take it slow this time; he wants to make it nice and sweet. But they wind up pulling all their clothing off in a desperate hurry like always, and Nick, in a dizzying rush of clarity, supposes they’ll have all the time in the world for nice and sweet and slow. Tomorrow, next month, next year—Jesus. He gets on the bed and tugs Andy over him. He presses his mouth against the soft skin of Andy’s neck and murmurs, “I want you to do it to me this time.” He can’t believe he’s primly avoiding rude words, the way Andy does.
Andy opens his eyes. “You want me to fuck you?”
The word ripples through Nick’s body, his hips hitching toward Andy’s of their own volition. “Only if you want.”
“Yeah—God—of course I do.” Andy’s looking down at him, eyes dark and intent, the color in his face high and hectic. “You’ll talk me through it,” he says, not a question, just a soft statement of fact. “You sure about this?”
“I want every first with you,” Nick says, because he can’t shut up. It’s like all that honesty earlier has loosened his tongue and now he’s going to say every stupid thing that never needed to be said out loud. He’s dead sober, but he feels like he’s been drinking. Or like he’s been cursed by a witch to babble.
But the look Andy’s giving him is... hungry, almost, like he wants to hear Nick embarrass himself some more. “Yeah?” He reaches for Nick and strokes him, as if he’s ready to reward Nick for talking.
And fuck if Nick can’t give Andy anything he wants. “Everything feels like a first with you anyway. Every fucking minute, and that’s just because—because it’s you.” He’s saying this all wrong, and there’s a petulant note in his voice that doesn’t belong there, and it’s all Andy’s fault. “Fuck, this is the stupidest I’ve ever been.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Andy says, and Nick pinches him.
And maybe all they have to do to make things nice and sweet and slow is to put Andy in charge, because Nick finds himself taken apart with patience and gentle hands and a crazy-making lack of urgency. Andy is always, always so eager to please, and Nick can’t help but bask in it. Sometimes Nick will whisper something along the lines of “you’re so good” and Andy looks like he’ll die on the spot. Andy’s always been sweet, so it’s no surprise that he’s sweet in bed. And they’ve always had fun together, so it’s no surprise that sex is fun—and sometimes silly—in a way that Nick couldn’t have guessed he’d find appealing. And—fine—they love one another, so it’s no surprise that this comes through in bed, too.
What is a surprise is this urge that Nick sometimes has to just turn his body over to Andy and let him do whatever he wants. And now, with Andy kneeling between his legs, that’s how he feels.
Nick has never particularly wanted to do this, but he wants to watch Andy do it to him, he wants to feel Andy do it to him. If there’s a contradiction there, then that’s just going to have to be okay. Sex with Andy is full of contradictions, anyway: a little clumsy but always easy; a little rough but always tender. When he’s buried deep inside Andy, he feels exposed, but also as safe as he’s ever felt.
And it turns out that when Andy’s inside him, he feels the exact same way. “This okay?” Andy asks about fifty times, asking again even as his rhythm falters and his breathing goes ragged. One of his hands has found its way to Nick’s, clasping it against the mattress. Nick can’t stop watching his face, can’t stop watching the emotions play out over it—pleasure and concern and love. Nick pulls him closer and kisses the triangle of birthmarks at the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t leave,” Nick says later, when Andy is half on top of him, boneless and sweaty.
“Not going anywhere,” Andy mumbles into Nick’s shoulder. “Can’t make me.”
“I mean, forever.” He’s not sure he made that crystal clear before, and besides, he’s on a roll with saying embarrassing things.
Andy lifts his head a little bit to look at Nick.
He smiles, as if he’s slowly realizing that Nick is in the palm of his hand, and Nick never could have imagined that this would be a good feeling. “There’s nowhere else I want to be,” Andy says.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It’s sheer bad luck that Nick happens to run into Mrs.Martelli on the stairs. “Let me get those,” he says, taking a string bag from her hand and giving her his arm.
“God willing I’ll only have to do this a few more times,” she says when they reach her door, making the sign of the cross.
“You moving to the ground-floor apartment?” If you ask Nick, that’s what she should have done years ago.
“I’m moving to Long Island,” Mrs.Martelli says. “I’d have thought your nice young man would have told you.”
“Andy? What does he have to do with it?” Nick asks, pretending he didn’t hear the part about Andy being his young man.
“He’s made an offer on the building,” she says, as if talking about the drains or the water heater or something, not Andy buying abuilding.
Andy isn’t home yet—he has some top-secret dinner with the editors—so Nick has plenty of time to turn this new information over in his mind. Andy knows that Nick isn’t keen on the idea of Andy being his boss—why on earth would he think being Nick’s landlord would be any different? And that doesn’t even touch onhow ridiculous it is that Andy has the kind of money where he can justbuy a building. What’s Andy going to do with a building, anyway? Is he going to fix people’s broken windows and leaky sinks?
Nick pours himself a glass of bourbon and settles irritably on the couch. Toward the bottom of the glass it occurs to him that it isn’t like Andy to do something that he knows would bother Nick without at least giving him a heads-up.
That’s the thought that finally settles him down. Itisn’tlike Andy. So either Mrs.Martelli has her facts wrong or Andy has his reasons. If it turns out that Andy’s lost his mind and impulsively bought a building, Nick knows perfectly well that Andy would sell it if Nick asked.
And Andy’s always been rich enough to buy a building—the fact that he actuallydiddoesn’t make his wealth any more annoying than it already was; it’s just proof that, until now, Andy’s been making sure that his money keeps a low profile. Nick can’t actually expect Andy to keep his money hidden away in a savings account or a shoebox or wherever rich people keep their money the whole time they’re together—and at that thought, the implications of their time together stretching out indefinitely, his stomach gives a little lurch that’s halfway between nausea and happiness.
Nick’s on his second drink by the time Andy gets home. He flops onto the couch beside Nick, planting a kiss on his cheek, then takes his shoes off, launching them in the direction of the door.
