Rhys closed his eyes and mouthed a silent curse. He could taste Beckett’s sweat against his lips, and he went still. The only thing he could hear was the sound of his own heart beating, not his breath, not even Beckett’s breathing.
“You think?” Beckett asked quietly.
Rhys adjusted his weight so he wasn’t resting on Beckett’s chest. He sat on the edge of the bed, wincing at the lingering memory of the rough penetration. What had he been thinking? Clearly nothing helpful because, of course, he loved Beckett. How could he not? But he didn’t need to say it out loud. He didn’t need to ruin everything so soon.
“Yes,” he answered.
Rhys stood up and grabbed his underwear off the floor, taking it and the soiled condom into the bathroom. He stepped into his briefs and braced himself on the counter, staring at his reflection. His face was red and splotchy from the exertion, and his chest shined with sweat. Rhys’s cum was matted against his stomach, and he turned on the water and waited for it to run warm.
He imagined Beckett gathering up his clothes and sneaking out, but Beckett appeared in the doorway instead, wearing his underwear and a t-shirt.
“You’re not acting like it.” Beckett leaned against the doorframe, and Rhys busied himself trying to wipe the dried cum off his skin.
“I shouldn’t have said it.” He turned and raised Beckett’s shirt, using the clean side of the rag to wash his stomach next. “You don’t have to say it back.”
“What if I want to?”
Rhys choked and looked up, the washcloth falling out of his hand. “What?”
“What if I love you too?” Beckett asked.
“Then you’re a fool,” he whispered.
“Then I’m a fool.” Beckett hooked his hand around the back of Rhys’s neck and pulled him close. He stepped on the discarded washcloth, glaringly aware of how the terrycloth felt against the bottom of his toes and the way the water squeezed out onto the tile floor.
“Beckett.”
“Then I’m a fool,” Beckett said again, enunciating the words clear as crystal before slanting their mouths together and ending any other protestation Rhys may have had. Beckett kissed him in a way that made the idea of being loved by him seem logical and reasonable, and he kissed Beckett back hoping to say the same.
“God,” Beckett breathed the word against his mouth. “I feel like I’ve been waiting forever to say that, and I know that’s ridiculous.”
“No,” he interrupted. “It’s not.”
The doorbell rang, and Beckett startled, his face turning red as he stepped away.
“That’s probably the food,” Rhys said, heading back into the bedroom to get dressed, the sanctity of the moment severed. He pulled out a white undershirt and gray joggers from one of the drawers in his dresser. He’d just tugged the shirt into place in time to open the door and collect the bags of groceries from the delivery service.
He set everything on the kitchen counter and turned to find Beckett staring at him, a puzzled expression on his face.
“What?”
Beckett twisted his mouth into a grin and shrugged. “I’ve just never seen you in anything other than a suit. Or the pieces of a suit.”
“You’ve seen me naked,” he corrected.
“I’ve never seen you in sweats.” Beckett’s stare dragged down his body, lingering between his legs.
“Is it a problem?”
“No. Quite the opposite.”
“Did you want to start dinner?” Rhys cleared his throat, still fighting down embarrassment from his post-coital confession. It wasn’t his fault that Beckett had him head over heels and unsure of which way was up. The call he’d fielded from Jeremiah earlier hadn’t been much help either, and the longer Rhys was not inside of Beckett, the more he thought about the problems he was about to run into when it came to planning his future.
“Sure. You don’t need to help.” Beckett made his way into the kitchen and started to take all of the supplies out of the bag.
“I didn’t want to.” Rhys laughed. “I know that’s probably miserable of me, but cooking doesn’t interest me.”
“Honestly, it’s a relief. I hate to share the kitchen.”
