But he couldn’t, he was noisy, he’d break from the kiss to beg him to touch him, for fuck’s sake, and Theo whispered in his ear, “No, you fucker, you’re going to come like this, right here, where anybody could see, and I’m not going to do anything but ride you and kiss your stupid mouth and tell you what a filthy bastard you are, how much you want it, how much you’re gagging for it—”

Jack latched on to his collarbone and groaned and shook, and Theo followed him over, pushing into that rough hand twice more before he came. They were damp and hot and breathing hard, and Theo dropped his head to that honeyed place at the juncture of Jack’s neck.

Jack started to laugh. “I guess you did fuck me on the bench.”

He leaned his head back, and Theo looked down at him, both of them wet and messy, and he kissed him then, one more time, and it was sweet.

And then—it was like they’d been waiting to do this all along, maybe even before they had ever met, because wherever they went—the club, or The Thirsty, out for a quick dinner, any available alley, or on one memorable and mortifying occasion, the butcher counter at the local market—Jack would grab him, touch-starved, and kiss him until he could barely breathe.

And sometimes—sometimes Theo would push him away, just for a moment, because he had so much more practice being cruel and removed than being intimate. Sometimes Jack would kiss him and then pull back, scared. Disgusted with himself, maybe, just for a second, before he relaxed and kissed Theo again.

But they always ended up here, faces pressed together, and he didn’t know if, now that he had Jack’s lips and tongue and little hurtful noises, he could survive without them.

Now, in the dazzling sunshine, he just breathed in Jack’s smell and Jack’s smile and Jack’s taste, and it was as fresh and ripe as golden apples from the tree.

A year and a day later, Theo packed his suitcase, turned off the lights in his apartment, left the keys with Cathal.

It had been eleven months since he’d last kissed Jack.

He wouldn’t do it again for almost twenty years.

Chapter Seventeen

Jack stood in the middle of his new apartment, paperwork signed, a last ugly but victorious look from Genni Dumont, and Theo was—somewhere else. He hadn’t come back to watch the sale go through. Why would he? They had exchanged phone numbers, Theo’s face blank and tight, just—just because they might need to talk about the kids. But Jack hadn’t had the courage to call.