Until I Saw You (Until I Saw You #1)

by Dianna Roman

Whatever. I’m way cooler than glitter man.

I think I’ve made a new friend, one that provides something Daniel can’t. Maybe that’s what I really needed all along, someone kind and alone just like me because together, we’re not alone.

He’s a compass that’s made it possible for me to navigate again.

“I can feel you staring,” I warn to the darkness. “Not cool, man! I don’t watch you lick your nuts. Go in the other room. Daddy needs privacy.”

I know the problem I’m having with his stories now. I want him and me to be in those stories. I want to be the hero, his happily ever after, not some asshole MMA trainer or barista with offensive pens.

Through my self-induced sex fog, I have my answer clear as day. Remembering Harper’s novels, I realize this is the part where the “straight” guy is supposed to freak out and try to reject his “strange” new feelings.

Covered in my warm release like I was drunk while basting a damn turkey, the idea of rejecting what I just experienced is about as appealing as wearing polo shirts for the rest of my life. That rejection part of Harper’s books really sucked. I mean, that would be incredibly hurtful to Harper, if I did that. Wouldn’t it? The thought of trying to convince myself what I feel isn’t real, that I can’t give him these feelings because we’re both men, makes me ill. Fuck that. I’ve never been good at letting anyone tell me what to do. I’m going to write my own damn book.

Why does it matter what other people think? They’re not the one with the feelings. These are my feelings, and…they’re making me smile. Tiny bombs of giddiness go off in little explosions from the center of my chest to every nerve ending, basking in this sensation of bliss. I really, really like what I’m feeling.

Holy shit. Thank goodness Harper’s attracted to guys or this would be the most depressing romance novel plot ever. Wait a minute…it still could be. Shit. I’m an idiot. It takes two, dumb ass.

How does Harper feel? Is a blind, baseball bat-wielding, motorcycle-riding, cheese-addicted, pain in the ass appealing to him? Fuck. Okay. This novel officially sucks.

I swear I’m not imagining the extra attention. Plus, not only have audiobooks become our nightly ritual, he’s…been asking questions. Last night’s was the most uncomfortable. “So…prostate stimulation? That’s…that’s really a thing? Like…what does it feel like?”

Why is it when you realize you’re attracted to someone, every touch of theirs becomes more significant?

He thinks I’m fun. That’s got to count for something. It makes me realize the goal of tonight—it’s an exploratory mission. I’m going to read his every word, his every move like Braille. I know people. I won’t suck at this kind of Braille.

“Sure.” “My buddy,” I begin, nodding my chin toward Harper’s empty stool, “What does he look like?” Tapping my cane where it’s folded up on the bar, in case she hasn’t figured out the obvious, I elaborate, “Can you describe him for me?” “Hm.” She hums. “About six-foot, nice skin, fair complexion, dark-brown hair, dreamy, soulful brown eyes like melted chocolate, a good nose.” “A good nose? What does that mean?” “Okay, how about this. He’s a cross between Zac Efron and Josh Hutcherson.”

Who the fuck is Josh Hutcherson? She’s terrible at this. “Is that good?” “Well, I wouldn’t kick him out of my bed.” Damn. Mental image. Thank you TMI bartender.

“Um, hold up. Do I…look alright?” Chuckling, she pats my hand. “Good enough to eat. You two would make a cute couple.” Guess I wasn’t very subtle. “Oh. Heh. Thanks.” “He’s coming. Look sharp,” she warns. “Hey, I thought you said I already look sharp,” I snark.

I might have grabbed his hand because I was terrified to get out of that bar unscathed, but I’m holding it now because it feels right. His hand was meant to be in mine. It makes sense there. I don’t want it to ever stop making sense.

Another step. How am I not in flames? Following his gaze, I glance down at the brush of his fingers against mine. He’s holding my hand. A touch so innocent shouldn’t make your heart do somersaults.

“No.” “I’m sorry,” he breathes, not kissing, but letting his lips brush mine with his words for a beautiful almost-kiss. “I won’t let go next time.” I could live off that almost-kiss for the rest of my life, but he stays, his breath battling against mine.

“Harper.” The way he whispers my name, it’s half-plea, half-prayer. I break the shortest-lived oath ever made, dusting my lips over his. An almost-kiss is not enough when Riley Davenport is breathing my breath and calling my name like he’s begging me to save him with my mouth.

I should stop. I know this, but the mantra in my head is loud and insistent. I deserve this. I deserve this. I am dying on that hill right now, even if it’s a lie. They’ll have to drag my lifeless body off it, have to pry my fingers from the soil and watch them dredge channels in the dirt as they pull me away. Because this is the kind of kiss you still fight for even after you die.

For some reason, I assumed he’d taste like Better Cheddars, but his nectar is more addictive than his love of those little orange crackers. Sweet with an after burst of hops, my taste buds salivate for more as he closes the final inch between us, pressing my ass against the counter.

“Riley? Are you okay?” “No.” I laugh breathlessly. “I can’t breathe, and my heart is beating fast.” His warm palm covers the clammy skin over my left pec, turning my skin to gooseflesh and searing me all at once. “Do you have heart problems?” “No.” Of course, his assumption is clinical. I hate the reminder that he sees me as a patient, but warm at the concern in his voice. “Does anyone in your family?” he asks, holding my pulse point on my wrist, which makes my heart kick like a mule. “No.” “When did this start?” The second I smelled sugar cookies and heard your nervous voice when I opened my door two months ago?

“I don’t need you around. I want you around. There’s a difference. All you had to do was say you didn’t…” I huff in frustration. “I’m a grown man. I can take it.”

“Was that…a pity kiss?” I manage, wondering if I’ve just been treated to more sympathy. The breath from his scoff ghosts my skin. “Did it feel like pity?” “I’m not sure. Maybe you should show me again.” “That was a you’re-my-boss-but-I-can’t-help-it-any-longer-kiss. I’m sorry. I know you don’t need me. I was…trying to be a good employee.”

“Are you…living one of my romance novels vicariously through me?” he asks, playfully, but I sense it’s a veil for more of his doubts. “Maybe that’s what you’re doing to me,” I tease in return. “No, Riley,” he whispers. “Nobody could write you.” I may have lost the dog lottery, but I think that comment means I just won the man lottery. I’ll take it and count my blessings. Patting his hip, it’s hard to hold back my proud grin.

Cheese. Cheddar cheese. Taking a bite, the familiar taste of my favorite cracker explodes on my tongue. “Did you…put Better Cheddars in the popcorn?”

“Yeah. It’s perfect.” He’s fucking perfect.

“Hm. Just as I thought,” Riley says, withdrawing his hands. “What?” Daniel asks. “Hideous,” Riley murmurs over the lip of his coffee cup. “Fuck off.” Daniel cracks up.

Fuck. I want him to devour me, and I thought I’d never want to be touched again. I thought I’d never want to touch another person again, but it’s been all I can do to keep my hands to myself these past weeks since that first kiss.

“What?” “You smell like sugar cookies,” he says, his lips trailing up my neck. “Drives me crazy.”

Of course, he’s trying to devour my neck. The man loves his snacks. I’m a snack.

Fuck. How can you be dizzy when you can’t see? Resting my head in the crook of his neck, I absorb the sounds of us both catching our breath. I just made my man come. My man. Huffing on a laugh, I nuzzle his pulse, delighting in its speed against my lips.

His breathing evens out against my chest, and my eyes grow heavy at a sense of wholeness I’ve never known. Going blind might have been the best thing that ever happened to me. It brought me Harper.

How have I fallen for a straight man who’s a gay Don Juan? Whatever liquid he wants me to be, I’m a puddle on the floor.

“How tall are you?” Riley asks him. “What the fuck? Get your hands off me, prick,” Dallas snaps, batting his hand away. “How tall are you?” Riley prods, his brow furrowing. “What?” Dallas sputters in amusement. “Are you fucking blind?” “Yeah,” Riley concurs, holding his jacket lapels open to expose his bat shirt. “Can’t you read, moron?

“Six-three? Right?” Riley asks, feeling for Dallas’ collarbone. Why does he keep touching him?

“About six-three?” Riley repeats. Smirking, Dallas unloads another wicked peal of laughter. Practically shouting like Riley is deaf, he lets out arrogantly, “Six-four. Right here, buddy.”

“Aw, Harper,” Dallas murmurs, running his hands over Riley’s hips. “You got me a present.” “Six-four,” Riley mutters under his breath like he’s talking to himself and nods. Then louder, to Dallas, he says defiantly, “No, but I did.” His hands clamp onto Dallas’ ears. It happens in a flash. Him tugging Dallas’ head forward into his. Him bashing his forehead into Dallas’ nose. The crunch sound of something breaking.

“Oh my God. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he coos, glancing from me to Riley. “Yeah,” I agree breathlessly. “Yeah, it was.”

“Wait a minute,” he murmurs. His fingers tug at the elastic of the mask. I didn’t even realize I still had it on. Sliding it up, his green eyes meet mine, mischief in them. “Freak,” he mutters.

Larry’s chestnut fur glows under the morning light, spilling in through the patio doors. ​Larry. I can fucking see him.

I see him. I can see him. Harper.

overlay in my vision like rain on a window, I take in the sight of the face I’ve dreamt about, the face I’ve longed to see. He’s gorgeous, so fucking gorgeous.

Eyes watering, I strain, staring at the bulging vein that works up to the head of his cock. There’s a freckle there, one lone freckle. I want to taste it with my tongue, claim it, let it know that I saw it and that I’ll remember it forever.

sheet, I settle back down on my pillow and watch his sleeping face. Peaceful. Happy. Gorgeous. Mine. As all those images fade and blur, as my head pounds beyond reason, I take comfort in knowing that when everything is black again, they’ll still be true. Peaceful. Happy. Gorgeous. Mine.

Head lowered, it almost looks like he’s…looking at his cock. He’s supposed to be mixing up the icing for the cinnamon rolls. When he turns around, I’m greeted with a proud smile and…an icing covered-cockhead. Pinching my eyes closed, I press my fingertips into them, telling myself not to smile. “I think I might need some help with this after all,” he says, gravely. His mother needs a medal. I swear.

Squeezing my shoulders, he bares his teeth impishly. “I know, so we have thirty minutes alone.” “No,” I try to sound firm. “I’ll come really quick,” he reassures me. “Like so quick, you won’t believe it.” “That’s…the least sexy thing I’ve ever heard.” “I’m serious.” “So was I.”

“Uhn. Come on. I don’t want to be walking around with a hard on the entire time my parents are here and knocking shit over with it.” “You have a really high opinion of your…image,” I deadpan.

“This is totally your fault, by the way. You smell like cookies and then threw cinnamon rolls in the mix. I didn’t stand a chance.”