Follow the River

Really happy.

More than I should be, literally sleeping with the enemy.

If that’s where I’d even slot him these days.

Clearing my throat, I start handing him more lights. “Don’t be sorry, I don’t mind,” I tell him, and it’s true. It’s not like I don’t call him baby, though it’s usually in a taunt or in some sort of heat-of-the-moment kinda thing. “I guess I wasn’t expecting it is all.”

He keeps stringing the lights, not meeting my gaze, but he lets out a strange noise somewhere between a laugh, cough, and groan as a blanket of uncomfortable silence settles over us.

Shit.

We keep working, and after all the lights are on the tree, Rain finally speaks as he digs out some ornaments, starting to place them sporadically around the tree.

“At least you aren’t making us listen to fucking Christmas music while we do this.”

I laugh, but inside I’m actually surprised. How the hell did I forget that piece of tradition? “Thanks for the reminder, baby,” I smirk, gripping the back of his neck and kissing him again. The em on the word baby makes him shake his head once we pull apart, but at least the ice has broken once again.

Still holding his neck, I call out to the Google Home on the kitchen counter, asking to play a Christmas playlist. A few seconds later, she’s blasting some good ole “Frosty the Snowman”.

Biting my lip, I chance a glance at Rain, who is glaring daggers at me.

Damn, he really isn’t into the Christmas spirit.

His palms grip each side of my face and I’m actually a little scared he might go all Game of Thrones on me and squeeze my brain into mush through my eyeballs, The Mountain style.

Moving his mouth forward to hover over mine, he whispers, “This is one of those moments when I really wish I still hated you,” before latching his lips onto mine in a possessive kiss that curls my fucking toes, not letting my mind linger on the fact he inadvertently admitted to not hating me anymore.

His kiss is fierce and bubbling with desire and unspoken promises. His tongue thrust into my mouth and I groan when it makes contact with mine. We’re desperate, fucking each other’s mouths with greedy stokes, begging to dive deeper.

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to kissing him, tasting him. Just him.

But goddamn, I want to. Part of me hopes I never lose whatever this is with him. That same part of me is dreading each and every passing day.

I realize this line of thinking is dangerous, damn near insane. We’ve been messing around for only a hand full of days and I’m already finding myself far too attached for comfort.

And honestly, how could I not be concerned?

Ciaráin Grady was tailor-made for heartbreak.

And apparently, I’m the idiot who volunteered as tribute, putting my heart and body on the line, allowing Rain to test drive where he falls on the “gay spectrum”.

As if there is such a thing.

Sure, there is a difference between being gay and bi and straight. But it ends there. You can’t be kind of gay or sort of bi. You can’t sometimes like fucking a guy’s ass or a dude’s lips wrapped around your cock like you would sometimes like mustard on a hotdog.

Yes, sexuality might be extremely fluid as a whole, but there are no gray areas when it comes to this.

You either like cock or you don’t. You are into guys or you fucking aren’t.

The way he responds to me when I touch him, kiss him, fuck him with my hand and mouth and tongue? Jesus, it tells me everything I need to know.

He likes it. And he is.

I feel the ridge of his erection pressed into my leg as our lips continue devouring each other. His hand slides down to cup me through my pants, but it only serves to remind me of the shit we need to get done. Namely, Christmas tree decorating.

Sex can wait another hour, after all.

Wrenching my mouth from his, we’re both left breathless, panting like we just completed a marathon in record time. If it were possible, I’d say I could hear his damn heart beating at a rapid pace matching my own.

“We need to finish this up,” I point out, stepping from his hold quickly before he manages to suck me back into his orbit.

I’m not quick enough though, because he drags my mouth to his for a final, chaste kiss before allowing me to step away. “Fine, but only if you turn this shit music off until after I get to fuck you.”

I’m pleased to a

Okay, well not completely, but I’m going to take credit where it is due here and just be grateful he’s no longer bitching about the Christmas music or the decorations or generally anything pertaining to my favorite holiday.

Glancing up from the pan of this cheeseburger casserole Rain wanted to try, I spot him coming down the hall with an oversize envelope in hand, slightly larger than a four by six photograph.

Setting down the glass dish on a potholder and slipping off the oven mitt, I nod to the envelope. “What’s that?”

Rain shifts on his feet before setting it on the stone island counter, biting his lip. He stares at it for a good minute like it’s a damn bomb about to detonate, completely ignoring my question.

“I, uh…” he starts, clearing his throat. Twice. His whiskey eyes raise to meet mine and he sighs. “Look, Riv. I…fuck.” The curse comes out in a harsh bite before his hands fly to his hair, tugging at the strands before he takes a seat at one of the bar stools. Hands slipping from his hair to cover his face, he shakes his head.

What the hell…?

I start to move over to him, but I barely take a single step before Rain holds up one of his hands.

“Please don’t touch me right now. I’m fine. Just give me a minute.”

But he looks anything but fucking fine. His skin is more pale than a ginger who has never seen sunlight and he looks like he might legitimately toss his lunch right here on the kitchen floor.

Even still, I don’t move a muscle. Hell, I don’t fucking dare to breathe.

Because if I’ve learned anything about Ciaráin Grady in the past few months, it’s in moments like this, if you push his buttons, you’re in for the fight of a lifetime.

And his wrath is not the kind you want to be at the receiving end of.

That doesn’t mean I’m not practically dying to ask him what’s wrong. I need to pull his head from his hands and look into those eyes that entrap my every waking thought to figure out what’s wrong.

How I can make it better.

Instead, I wait. Biting the inside of my cheek so hard blood coats my tongue. I watch as one of his hands reaches out to play with the envelope in front of him, fingering the corner and spi

I realize then it’s not a piece of mail. There’s no address written on the outside and the seal looks to be unbroken.

Meaning…what, exactly?

“It’s for you,” he mutters softly, as if reading my thoughts. Hell, at this point, I wouldn't put it past the guy. It would explain why, even when we were at each other’s throats, we always managed to stay in sync.

I open my mouth to ask…what, I’m not sure. But it doesn’t matter because he cuts me off before I even have the chance to make a sound.