Wordy Wednesday: An Excerpt from Breathe by Sloan Parker
Last week, I told you about my favorite m/m book. This week, the excerpt is from the book that comes in a VERY close second on my list: Breathe by Sloan Parker.
Lincoln McCaw has recently left prison after serving a sentence for his part in a fatal car accident, and he can't balance his need to punish himself with his want for a man who is the last person he should be involved with.
The kid slid onto the empty stool between them. “Can I bum a smoke?”
With the back of his hand Lincoln slid over his pack of Marlboros.
“Thanks.” The kid picked up the smokes. He dug one out and placed the pack next to Lincoln’s beer. “Uh, you got a light?”
The guy was really killing his buzz. Lincoln fished the lighter from his pocket and tossed it to the kid, who fumbled the catch but saved the lighter from hitting the wood floor. Good thing. Lincoln’s grandpa had given it to him. He didn’t need it scuffed up.
He also didn’t need the kid sitting so damn close. He smelled clean, refreshing after time spent with the jailhouse inmates who weren’t sure how to work the showers or the sinks. The kid held out the lighter, his eyes wide, his lips parted, his chest rising with each shallow breath as he stared at Lincoln.
Lincoln accepted the lighter, as well as the slight press of the kid’s thumb to his palm.
Oh, hell. He’d never had someone come on to him in Sonny’s, not in any local establishment for that matter. Public propositions for gay sex didn’t go over well in a town the size of Edgefield.
Had the kid heard those fuckers from earlier?
Maybe he was toying with him. Maybe he was friends with those guys, and Lincoln was about to get his ass kicked out behind the bar. But it didn’t feel like the kid was fooling. It felt good. To be touched. To be wanted again. His hand clenched as he set the lighter with his smokes.
The kid was staring at the TV again and made no attempt to move back to his previous stool. He played along the length of the cigarette with his fingers before he took another drag. His hands were a bit beat-up, rough, the hands of a man who worked for a living. Yet the kid treated the cigarette as if it were made of delicate tissue paper until his last puff. Only then did he crush the butt into the ashtray with the push of his thumb.
Would fucking the kid involve the same mix of tenderness and roughness?
Lincoln’s dick had hardened more with each play of the long fingers over the roll of tobacco, with each drag between the kid’s lips. Damn. He hadn’t gotten hard that fast in a long time. Not from one look and a touch of hands. This twentysomething kid brought to life needs he’d learned to bury. Would it be so bad to just give in? To feel again?
He wanted a fuck, but could he let himself have even that much of a release?
No. Too soon to feel good. To feel anything.
The relationship between Lincoln and "the kid" is fraught with angst, and there is also the mystery of who is sending Lincoln threatening messages. Sloan will have you guessing until the end whether either problem will be solved.