Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Every time she came she told Charlie that he was doing a good job. That his parents would be proud of him.
“You okay?”
Rye’s voice was soft and he dropped onto the couch next to Charlie. Charlie focused on Rye’s eyes, quicksilver limned in kohl. He’d never met anyone with truly gray eyes before. He’d known people with blue-gray eyes and brown-gray eyes and eyes that really light blue—like Simon’s—that they looked almost gray in some lights. But never someone with eyes the color of Rye’s.
“Charlie?”
They almost glowed. Like a church window with sun streaming through it, only this light seemed to come from inside Rye himself, blazing out—
“Charlie. Where’d you go?”
“What? Nowhere.”
Rye’s eyes were closer to him now, and they looked concerned.
“‘M fine,” Charlie said.
He was fine. He’d bought this couch so it would be big enough for him to lie down on. He’d painted the walls of the living room a warm cream color so it wouldn’t look too stark against the pine flooring. He’d hung a painting from Jack’s first book, There’s a Moose Loose in Central Park, over the mantle because it reminded him of what an amazing artist Jack was. How proud he was of Jack’s success at turning his passion into a career.
“I’m gonna do the dishes,” he said.
Rye followed him into the kitchen and hovered in the doorway.
Charlie concentrated on the familiar task. Rinse, scrub, rinse, dry. A few dishes in, Rye came over and started drying. He was humming to himself, a song that Charlie thought he recognized from the album Rye’d been playing while they were cooking dinner.
“You have a really nice voice.”
“Huh? Oh, thanks.”
Rye dried the final dish and Charlie put the lasagna pan to soak in the sink.
“You wanna watch Secaucus Psychic?” Rye asked.
Charlie nodded, glad not to have to make a choice, and followed him back into the living room, the scent of dish soap clinging to his hands.
Rye hopped over the back of the couch and collapsed gracefully onto the cushions. He stretched to grab the remote off the coffee table and handed it to Charlie. He said it was annoyingly complicated to use.
He was so beautiful.
He must’ve stared a beat too long because Rye’s eyelashes fluttered and he flushed.
“Charlie. Were you okay with what happened the other day? Because you seemed okay at the time, but you haven’t mentioned it. So I just wanted to check.”
“You haven’t mentioned it either,” Charlie said.
“I know. But I’ve thought about it a lot.”
Charlie’s breath caught. He had thought about their encounter at least ten times a day since it had happened, trying to commit it to memory in case he never got the chance to touch Rye again.
Those quicksilver eyes heavy-lidded with desire, his body shaking with need; the tiny gasps of pleasure when Charlie slid fingers into his long hair; the final shudder and jerk of orgasm while Rye was pinioned between Charlie’s body and the fist in his hair.
He swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean for you to think I didn’t enjoy what happened between us. Because I did. I really did.”
Charlie sat on the couch next to him and Rye drew his knees up, curling into the cushions.
“Then why hasn’t it happened again?” Rye asked.
“You’re the one who made it happen,” Charlie said without thinking. “I never would have.”
“Oh. Never?”
Was that hurtful to admit? Charlie wasn’t sure. He never would have initiated anything because he never did—never had. He wouldn’t have had the first idea how.
“Probably not.”
“Why?” Rye didn’t sound hurt, just curious.
Things to do with sex... Charlie had never talked about them with anyone.
Well, there had been Dickens, whom he’d met online and talked with for a while. Dickens had been an easy confessor, being completely anonymous and possibly on the other side of the world. Charlie—or JanesDad as he’d called himself on the site (he’d chosen the moniker while Jane lay on his stomach, making biscuits on his chest, so hush)—had spilled truths as he’d never imagined doing in real life.
He’d never needed to before. Now...
“Are you dying?” Rye whispered.
Charlie snorted. Rye’s mental leaps were something.
“Ah, not that I’m aware of?”
Rye looked slightly relieved.
“Then what?”
“Did you really think the most likely reason I hadn’t put the moves on you was that I was dying?”
Rye scowled. “No! I... Just making sure.” He rolled his eyes. “Fine, I watched a show the other day where this guy knew he was dying so he pulled away...never mind, anyway.”
He curled up even more and called for Marmot. Naturally, Marmot being a cat, nothing happened. Rye scowled again.
“I knew you could work the remote if you wanted to,” Charlie said absently.
Rye ignored that.
“Charlie, what’s up? I can’t stop thinking about it. If you’re not into me, that’s fine. If you’re not into guys, that’s fine. If you’re not into sex, that’s fine. It’s all fine, just please fucking tell me.”