Page 74 of We Could Be So Good
“Not yet,” Nick mumbles, and pulls him down so their bodies are pressed together. “Wanna touch you for a bit. Missed being able to do this without getting sneezed on.”
Apparently what Nick has in mind is lazy kissing combined with some groping and the sort of murmured praise that makes Andy feel like he might dissolve into a puddle. It turns out thatsweetheart, when said by Nick, low and rumbly, sends all thoughts fleeing from Andy’s brain. Which is fine, because Andy doesn’t need thoughts at the moment. Or his brain, for that matter.
Andy’s paid attention to the things Nick likes, so now he rubs a thumb rough over Nick’s nipple and follows it with his mouth.Nick bites off a curse and Andy feels himself respond, Nick’s urgency feeding his own.
When Andy lightly bites Nick’s lower lip, he feels Nick’s hands slide down low, past the waistband of his pajama pants, cupping his ass.
And that’s—Andy doesn’t know what to think about that, even less so when Nick lets the grope turn downright filthy, his fingertips dipping low. Letting them linger.
Nick will stop if Andy asks him to, or even if Andy just doesn’t give him the go-ahead. And so instead, Andy pushes back into his touch, just a little, just enough to make Nick suck in a breath.
He feels exposed, and not only physically. Every time he discovers something new about Nick that he likes, something he can’t get enough of, he feels like yet another brick comes down from a wall that he hadn’t known he was hiding behind. And this, Nick’s hands on his body, the stubble of Nick’s jaw rasping against his lips, their hardness pressed together—this isn’t even the worst of the exposure. The worst is when Nick saysAndy, sweetheart, and Andy says nothing at all because the only words his mouth could possibly form areI love youand he can’t say that.
That’s the thing about walls. They don’t tend to appear for no good reason; they’re either closing something off or holding something up, and you can’t just wish them away.
“Feels so good,” Nick groans when their bodies rock together. “Why is this so good?” He says it like it’s an actual question, like he doesn’t know the answer, when to Andy it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He doesn’t know how anything between them could be anything but good.
But he can’t say any of that, so he asks Nick for more.
Later, when they’re lying side by side, Andy stares at the ceiling and steels himself. “Do you want—well. I know we haven’t. Butwe could.” He clears his throat. “It’s just—you mentioned that you did. And so. We could.” He’s pretty sure there isn’t a single coherent thought in that mess, but maybe Nick can sift through it and find some sense.
Nick rolls over and searches his face. “You’re talking about... fucking.”
Andy nods in relief that he isn’t going to have to draw a diagram or act out some kind of pantomime.
“So,” Nick says slowly. “I’ve only ever done it the one way. And it’s not the way I think you’d be interested in.” He pushes Andy’s hair off his forehead. “I’ve never been fucked. I’m not against the idea; it’s just never come up. I’d give it a go, though.”
Andy does not know how Nick manages to say that sort of thing and not die on the spot. “You would?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs and gives Andy that lopsided smile that makes his insides feel like they’re melting. “People seem to like it.”
He means that men like it when he fucks them, and the thought makes Andy feel like he might explode right then and there. “Let’s table that issue.” Andy is so grateful that Nick doesn’t laugh at him—not at his inability to get the words out or his reticence or his need to change the topic.
“Okay.” Nick drops an arm over Andy and presses close.
***
The truth is that other than detective stories, Andy doesn’t read much fiction, never really has. He isn’t sure why anyone would want to, when news exists. But he’s been reading that book, the queer one Nick got from Mark Bailey, just a few pages at a time, waiting for something to happen.
And the thing is, it’s queer. It’s queer from the jump, andunapolegically so. Andy expected something vague and gauzy, at most a couple longing glances.
“The guy in this book gets mistaken for a rent boy twice,” Andy calls out from the sofa. Nick’s in the kitchen, frying something for dinner.
“How do you even know what a rent boy is?” Nick calls back.
Andy doesn’t roll his eyes, but only because Nick wouldn’t be able to see him do it. “He gets mistaken for a rent boy and doesn’t seem to mind. Everyone in this book knows he’s gay. Which stands to reason, because all he does is ogle the boring pretty one and stay out too late with the dashing one.”
“They’re all going to wind up miserable at the end.” Nick appears over the back of the sofa, still holding a cast-iron frying pan and looking like he wants to grab the book from Andy’s hand.
“No, they won’t. I read the final chapter.”
“You did what?” Nick sounds scandalized.
“I’m not wasting my time on things that make me sad.” He learned that lesson withOld Yeller, thank you very much.
“Andy, you publish a newspaper. It’s the saddest thing anyone could want to read.”
Andy makes a dismissive noise. “Anyway, the book ends up with one couple happily together. Not ecstatically happy, mind you, but England’s being blitzed, so that’s a factor.”
