Page 68 of Himbo Hitman
Big, sweet, and beautifully dopey. I have no idea why my body has decided it’s suddenly obsessed with him, but I guess this is the torture I’m dealing with until further notice.
“St. Clare?”
Was he talking? “Yeah?”
“Do … do you want to know what that is?”
I have to kick-start my brain to remember what he said. “The thing you want to do before you die?” I internally cringe at the way I word that, but fuck it. My brain is at half capacity, and I’m glad I have the sheets pulled up over my waist because the tent I’m pitching would be enough to poke out his eye.
“Yeah.”
“What is it?”
His hand tightens around mine, and he looks half-terrified, half-hopeful as he says, “I’ve never kissed a man before.”
“Oh.” The confession steals all the breath from my lungs.
“And I’d really like to kiss you.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
PERRY
My gut is churningwith the seas of a thousand nerves. I’ve never felt like I could simultaneously cry and throw up, but as I send myself light-headed waiting for his response, I’m dangerously close to either one of those things.
St. Clare’s pretty bowed lips have parted enough to see where his bottom lip is shiny with spit. I want to lean in and taste it. To run my tongue over that lip before pushing into his mouth. I’ve been in this position before—this consuming, lustful state—but never with another guy, and finally being on the edge of the experience is a relief as much as it is terrifying.
All it took was my potential murder to get me here.
I’m half-hard and hopeful. Sort of want to beg, but I won’t because that would be weird. Probably. But as St. Clare goes on for longer and longer without an answer, the urge gets stronger. I’m just one man, dammit.
“You want to kiss me?” he finally asks.
“Ah, yeah. I think so.”
“It’s more of a yes or no answer, Perry.” His voice has deepened and sounds raw, as raw as I feel.
“Y-yes.” I can’t stop the way my voice shakes. I really, really do want this, but admitting I want it is hard. The familiar instinct tosuppress is strong, and I’m fighting that as much as I’m fighting the urge to get on my knees, ready to see his dick one time.
It’s hard to know if I’m even ready for that when my heart is beating so hard in my throat that I’m close to coughing it out.
“You’re breathing really fast,” he says, and it feels like he’s closer, but that also could be my, you know, complete and utter panic fucking with my perception. Good panic though. Definitely good. The bubbly high filling my head, the clammy hands, the urge to stand up and shake out my whole body, it’s so, so good. The little jolt that spears through my gut every time we inch closer. Good.
It’s all so fucking good.
“You want to kiss me because you think you’re going to die?”
“Actually, I want to kiss you because you have a very pretty mouth, and that gets my dick hard.”
His lips kick up with an unintentional “Heh.”
“I want to do itnowbecause it’s a teeny tiny bit possible I could die tomorrow.” I’m still holding on to my stubborn denial that it won’t happen, obviously, or there’s no way I’d be able to go through with it, but at least if we do this, it’s one thing crossed off my list. One curiosity answered.
Will I like it?
St. Clare reaches up, fingers sliding over my jaw in a way that makes me forget which way I’m breathing. His palm finds my cheek, and oxygen eventually finds my lungs, and I’m breathing through my mouth in an intense state of expectation.
“Perry?”
