Page 83 of We Could Be So Good
Andy had wanted that, too. “You weren’t missing out on much.”
“Bullshit.” He takes one of Andy’s hands and puts his other hand on Andy’s shoulder. Andy lets himself fall into position, his free hand landing at the small of Nick’s back. When Andy steps into the dance, he feels Nick go along with him.
“You’re letting me lead.”
Nick’s voice comes low in Andy’s ear. “A concussion is not what I have planned for the rest of the night.”
Andy shivers, as if he hasn’t already been thinking along the same lines. Nick’s chest is hard against his own, his hand firm onAndy’s shoulder, his frame broader and bulkier than Andy’s, and it’s so different from dancing with a woman that Andy can’t avoid thinking about it. When kissing Nick, even when in bed with Nick, Andy seldom thinks about how what they’re doing is different from his past experiences, probably because he just hadn’t had that much experience before Nick.
But he’s danced with many, many women. School formals, debutante balls, college parties, friends’ weddings, nightclubs. Andy seldom sits out a dance. And so the feel of Nick’s body against his, the stubble scraping against his cheek, the lack of a skirt brushing against his trousers, the fact that they’re almost the same height—the differences stack up until he feels like he’s doing something shocking and brave and new.
“Have you ever danced with a man before?” Andy asks.
“A couple of times.” A few bars of the song pass. “But nothing special.”
The implication is that thisisspecial, which Andy knows, or should have known. Nick’s made it clear that in the past his encounters were mostly quick and efficient, but now Andy wants to hear it again. “Have you ever done... this before?” He trusts that Nick will understand that he doesn’t mean dancing.
Nick shakes his head. “Never.”
Andy shifts his hands and it takes Nick a moment to catch on.
“You want me to lead?”
“Yeah,” Andy admits, not quite understanding why it’s an admission in the first place. He wants to be danced with the way he’s seen Nick dance with other people. He wants Nick in all the ways that he can have him. He kisses the slope of Nick’s neck, feels the answering shiver.
Nick maneuvers them into the living room and, with one hand, switches records, hardly missing a beat. Andy knows this song—“You Send Me.” The hand at the small of Andy’s back pulls him closer, holds him in place, and the dance shifts into something else. Against his neck he feels Nick’s breath, hot and humid.
Andy has to keep repeating the bare facts of the situation to himself, checking and rechecking his math like a baffled child. This is a love song—at the very least a romantic song—and Nick deliberately chose it. He adds this to the other facts: Nick’s pleasure at receiving flowers, Emily’s words on the fire escape. The rest of it—Nick’s perpetual kindness to him, the way Nick looks after him—could all be explained by friendship, couldn’t it? The sex itself doesn’t enter into the calculation: people have sex all the time without this other, softer feeling.
Andy swallows. “I like this,” he whispers, because he can’t say any of the other honest things.
Nick lets out a soft exhale, a sound like he’s giving up, giving in. He lets go of Andy’s hand and holds his hips instead, and Andy wraps his arms around Nick’s neck. The hard press of Nick’s body against his mimics the weight of being pressed into the mattress, and Andy decides that they’ve gone long enough without kissing. He kisses Nick’s throat, his jaw, his chin, and when he finally connects with Nick’s lips, they both gasp.
Andy feels himself being steered backward until he hits the wall, Nick still kissing him, still pressing against him, the record still playing. Andy sucks gently on Nick’s bottom lip and Nick’s grip tightens. He wants to get closer—he needs more, he needs everything, and he doesn’t trust his mind to come up with the words. He hooks his leg around Nick’s hips, and Nick groans, grabbing Andy’s ass and lifting him, until both his legs are wrapped around Nick’s waist. Then Andy’s frantically popping open the buttons of Nick’s shirt, searching for skin, for the warmth of him, for more and more and more.
“Bed,” Andy gasps, and Nick actually starts tocarry him down the hall, which is about enough to give Andy a small, if pleasant, stroke. “Down,” he manages. Nick lets him go with palpable reluctance, his arms tight even as Andy’s feet hit the floor, and it’s a miracle Andy doesn’t sink to his knees right then and there. But he wants whatever’s about to happen next to happen in their bed.
They get there, they even manage to get their clothes off, and then Andy is on his back, his head on the pillow, one knee bent. Nick comes over like he’s a puppet and Andy’s just pulled his string. “I want you,” Andy says, drawing Nick close, between his legs. “Will you?” He’s relying on Nick to get the message, to not make Andy say it.
Andy’s not sure he’s ever seen Nick look so frantic. “You.” His voice is hoarse. “I thought—”
“I want you to,” Andy repeats, more firmly now, but he’s pretty sure he looks as wild as Nick does. “I’ve been thinking about it.” A deep breath, and he puts his arms around Nick’s neck. “Is that something you want?”
“Is it—Jesus, Andy—yeah.” The only light is coming from the lamp still on in the living room, but it’s enough for Andy to see that Nick’s eyes are dark and steady, and he hopes that Nick can see how much Andy wants this, how serious he is.
“Good.” He rocks his hips up, feeling Nick’s hardness with his own. Nick swears and the sound ricochets through Andy’s nerves.
Andy actually has thought this through. He figures that if Nick does it to him first, then the worst-case scenario is that Andy will know what to do if he does it to Nick. But he thinks he’ll like it. Conceptually, at least. A jealous streak he never knew he had will only be satisfied if he has Nick in every way Nick’s been with other men. But more than that, when he thinks about it—Nickin him, having him, enjoying him—it makes his mouth go dry, makes his skin feel a size too small. He wants this.
One of Nick’s hands is cradling Andy’s head as they kiss, the other fumbling in the bedside drawer for what Andy realizes is a jar of Vaseline. He puts two and two together and feels a flush spread across his whole body as desire and curiosity and annoying embarrassment mingle together into one powerful, heady thing. And then—Nick is kissing his way down Andy’s chest, and his mouth, hismouth, Andy will never get enough of it.
He tries not to think about exactly what’s happening and instead focus on the sensations, but he can’t stop thinking about Nick’s hands, his fingers, how things can be lovely and strange and good and too intense all at once, and how there’s probably a metaphor in there, but he’s too worked up to think straight. So he pushes up on his elbows to watch what Nick’s doing.
Nick catches him watching. “Jesus,” he mutters. “Killing me, Andy.”
And then Nick is braced over him, whispering things, talking him through it, slowly, slowly breaching him, tense with the effort of holding back. That’s, maybe, when it starts to feel good, when Andy realizes how much work Nick is putting into being gentle. And that’s what’s always done it for Andy, isn’t it, the fact that Nick is just so good to him. He tries to tell him so, but all that comes out is “so good,” which is also true.
And then things really start to get good when Nick stops being so gentle. After that, it’s Andy’s mouth on Nick’s shoulder, his hand on Nick’s back, the steady thrum of desire coiling inside him. “Sweetheart,” Nick rasps.
