He could inhale and exhale without needing to apologize. It was near the bathrooms, and he heard the toilet flushing every five minutes, but he could at least stretch out his arms and legs and not ruin another man’s hard work. Halfway through the flight, one of the flight attendants had taken pity on him, or on the businessmen, and guided him to an empty row in the back. Years of football and ranching had only hardened his raw strength. He was born big, and he was destined to be big. He’d apologized the first few times, but unless he held his damn breath for the entire flight, he was going to move now and then.
If he shifted at all, he jostled both men, from their shoulders to their knees and definitely their elbows, type-typing away. He’d been squished in the middle seat between two businessmen who both wanted to work on their laptops, and both shoved their elbows into his eighteen-inch seat space until he felt like he couldn’t breathe. CHAPTER ONE One Week Earlier THE FLIGHT to Paris was long and loud, the engines like a drill through his skull for the entire nine hours over North America and then the Atlantic. But there was no route for this, no pattern. It was like he was looking into the stadium lights. Wes waited, his vision dazzled by the lights winking in Justin’s eyes, the glow tangling in the strands of his honey hair. Or, at least, the first one that counted. One week in Paris, with Justin, and here he was, ready for-aching for-his first kiss. Twenty-one years of ignoring himself, of looking down when he wanted to look up, drink a man’s body like he was a cold glass of water under the Texas sun. A hum in his head, an itch beneath his fingers, and it didn’t matter what he did, he couldn’t get rid of this because it was already so deep inside him. His past, his future, and even his now, reaching for a kiss based on one week of stolen glances and sideways looks and a frisson underneath his skin he couldn’t scratch away. And when Justin’s gaze flicked to his, Wes leaned in, eyes open, until their lips were millimeters apart. He waited, watching the lights dance in Justin’s eyes, in and out of the curve of his smile and the dimples in his cheeks.
He stepped forward and cupped his hand around Justin’s cheek, then stroked his football-calloused thumb over Justin’s sharp jawline.
Shouldn’t his heart be pounding? Shouldn’t his hands be shaking? Where was the earthquake in his soul? Why wasn’t his mind screaming at him to stop? He didn’t want to stop. He’d always thought kissing his first guy would be harder.
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