Free The Art of Hero Worship by Mia Kerick Page B

asked.”
    “Well, consider yourself asked.”
    “I’m not sure there’s a clear cut answer.”
He turns all the way toward me and he lifts one arm to the back of
the couch.
    “I want it anyways.” I’ve never been so
persistent in terms of getting the information I want from a
reluctant person. Usually, I allow people to unfold at their own
pace, in terms of telling me what they want me to know about them.
“So tell me.”
    “I’m much better at showing than
telling.”
    And with those cryptic words, where he fully
avoids the subject of his dating history, he leans forward and
kisses me squarely on the lips. It’s a chaste kiss filled with the
promise of more that will be far less innocent. But he pauses a
moment, probably waiting to see if I’ll punch him out or shove him
away because he made his move. And when I do neither—not because
the urge to shove him is absent, but because I’m so tangled in
confusion regarding my very sexual identity—he places his hands on
either side of my face and leans forward to kiss me again.
    This time his kiss is soft and moist and
unrushed. He pulls back just slightly before he cocks his head and
comes at my mouth again from a different angle. I have no idea if
I’m responding or if I’m merely doing what I do best: riding the
wave. But thoughts of Ginny, of Lola, and of the first girl I
kissed in grade school behind the town baseball dugout, are
swirling around haphazardly like hurricane winds in my mind. And
when I notice the scratch of his beard against my chin, the single
word gay surfaces in my brain
    Gay. Gay? Gay! Gay….
    I’ve never before seen myself this way. Even
the night he got me off at the hotel hadn’t made me feel as gay as
sharing this kiss with Liam. And I want so much to deny it, but I
can’t—tonight, at least, I want to keep going in this “gay”
direction. And in the morning I’ll likely blame my actions on the
booze or the trauma or the loss of my girlfriend or a serious case
of hero worship, or on anything that comes to mind when I decide
it’s time to make my straight escape. But, right now I’m determined
to go along with this. I lift my hands to the sides of his bearded
face and pull him closer.
    Liam establishes his dominance the very
instant I let him know that our kiss is okay with me. To be honest,
his control of this situation thrills me in a way I quickly realize
is a game-changer. The abandon with which he’s kissing me now—the
sureness and direction and desire he’s struggling to reign in—leads
me into pleasure, without allowing for the kind of second thoughts
or doubts that have previously inhibited me. He leads, I follow. It
actually is that simple.
    I’ve never felt comfortable in the sexually
aggressive role that’s expected of me as a “healthy, red-blooded
American man.” I struggled with Ginny to find the place I wanted to
be when in bed. But Liam seems to already know this, as I’m
currently living my secret passive fantasy in his arms.
    “You need to lie flat beneath me and be
still,” Liam tells me when our passionate kiss finally comes to its
breathy conclusion. “Because I want to take in every inch of you,
and I can see you better when your body isn’t moving so much. You
will do this for me?”
    I’m surprised at how easy it is to lower my
eyes and nod.
    Liam pushes me down flat on the bold,
flowery fabric and studies my fully clothed body. I can’t remove my
gaze from his face, as he’s so totally absorbed in me. It’s more
than flattering; it’s addictive. Then without a hint of hesitation
he reaches for the hem of my white T-shirt, and wordlessly enlists
my cooperation as he pulls it cleanly over my head. My chest is
bare and exposed and I feel vulnerable, so much so that I try to
cross my arms in front of me, but Liam pushes them to my sides.
When his lips, surrounded by the scruffy bush of his beard, brush
the skin on my ribcage, the rush of arousal makes me gasp.
    “Stay still… and take