Love In Slow Motion by E.M. Lindsey

Author:E.M. Lindsey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: E.M. Lindsey

As his gaze took in the morning sun, Ilan groaned and rolled onto his side, his body aching the way it always did when he didn’t sleep. But the very idea of closing his eyes and letting his subconscious have its way with him after what happened in Fredric’s kitchen…there was no way in hell he was taking that risk.

It had taken all of his self-control to finish out the evening, and he cursed himself for showing up there at all. The day had been going well. Preston picked him up and took him to a nearby bar, and they had drinks on the rooftop patio and watched the tide start to come in. The sun began to sink lower, and Ilan felt himself relaxing and even laughing. And just when they were about to order dinner, his phone rang.

Don’t, he told himself as he stared at Fredric’s name on the screen. But Preston had given him a sweet smile and motioned with his hand to go ahead. So, he did.

He didn’t know if he would have—if he’d had a single clue what was going to happen less than an hour later. Would he have shot this date in the heart for a simple touch? Would he have set fire to any chance he had at falling for someone else for a single moment of Fredric’s hands on him? Would he have ruined a chance for a future with Preston over an almost kiss that could never, ever be real?

That morning, with the sun forcing him back to the present, he knew the answer.

He’d have given all that up—and more. It didn’t matter if the moment was shattered by Fredric’s date. It didn’t matter if Fredric’s face had fallen like it was the worst mistake he’d ever made. It was worth it.

Ilan could still feel those palms, those delicate, careful fingers tracing up the front of his throat, dragging over his mouth, holding him like he was worth being held. He could still feel the warm rush of air from Fredric’s sigh as his lips parted.

He could still feel that single, perfect moment of anticipation as Fredric leaned in.

And he could still feel the pain as that moment shattered.

He’d been a fool for suggesting it. He was filled with self-loathing as he laid there staring up at his ceiling fan. Fredric had panicked—Ilan had been able to see it in the way his fingers faintly trembled for the rest of the night. But he’d begged Ilan not to pull back, and Ilan had made him a promise—not with words, but with dragging him into the kitchen and standing beside him as he walked him through the shakshuka recipe his mother used to make for him Sunday mornings.

Their hands bumped in the bowl as they crushed the stewed tomatoes. Their elbows never ceased touching as Ilan guided him through the spices and the herbs. His hands closed over Fredric’s to show him just how much greens to add and then where to crack the eggs.

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