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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