Cuffing and Turkey Stuffing by C.M. Kars

Author:C.M. Kars [C.M. Kars]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: C.M. Kars
Published: 2022-08-08T00:00:00+00:00

TWELVE

“Can I ask you something?” We’re hanging out at his place, and I’ve got a weird sense of deja-vu, and like I’ve slipped into another dimension the way everything is flipped compared to my home.

It feels loaded, the question, because it’s usually followed by another loaded question. I can already feel how Michael tenses, turning to look at me, his face open and calm, if a little curious.

“Sure,” Michael says, shrugging.

I lick my lips, settling deeper into his couch, where we’re currently not watching Disturbia. Michael’s sitting beside me, sure, but he does this thing that he always seems to do where he turns his entire big body towards me, giving me all of his attention.

He has his elbow planted on the back of the couch, head on his fist, and it makes his giant bicep stand out and I have to struggle to focus on what I was about to ask him.

Focus, Vick. You can praise his biceps later.

Much later.

I push in closer to his personal space, and he lets me, until we’re both lying down on his giant couch (a giant couch, for a giant guy), facing each other. I get mesmerized for a few split seconds by his golden-brown eyes, hell, the slope of his nose, the shape of his mouth, the soot-black color of his eyelashes, and how jealous I am at how very long they are.

I lick my lips again, huffing out a laugh when Michael’s eyes track the movement.

“Ask me,” he prompts, golden-brown eyes looking deep into mine.

“I want to ask you about your lip,” I say, tapping against my own upper lip, where an imaginary scar would be if I had had soft palate surgery.

“What do you want to know?”

I lick my lips again, chewing on the meat of my inner cheek before diving right in.

His arm’s wrapped around me, and his face doesn’t show a hint of discomfort. I carefully raise my fingers to his face, the lightest trail of touch along his brow bone, cheekbone, down the bridge of his nose, and as I get closer to his lips, I can feel him tense up.

I drop my hand.

“Did…did someone, or a bunch of people, make you feel ugly because of it?” I ask, watch his eyes slide closed, effectively shutting me out. It hurts, to see him like this. He’s built like a superhero, and he’s super strong; he’s kind to a fault, and conscientious enough that it boggles my mind sometimes. And yet he’s felled over by a question about his lip.

I wonder how much pain he’s carrying about it.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” I say, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Michael’s eyes flash open at that, and his arm is like a band of steel wrapped around me, tugging me even closer. It’s pretty awesome, all things considered, but Michael notices that he’s done it without permission no matter how comfortable we’ve gotten with each other in the past week, and he loosens his grip almost immediately.

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