“Recycling, please,” I say, and then immediately regret it. Because he turns his gaze toward me, the sheen of beer lingering on his lips.
I force my mouth to stay silent and watch as he turns around, bends over, and grabs the bottle from the trash can.
I blink at the way his jeans stretch across his ass. A very nice ass.
My cheeks heat as he tosses the bottle into the recycling.
“Better?” he asks, clearly annoyed with me. But I don’t have time to care about his feelings. This is self-preservation right now.
I stare at my Kindle once more, only peering over once to find him watching me intently, his head cocked, his hands on his narrow hips. His nipples are hard under his shirt. I can see them.
Fuck. Me. I wish we could both pretend the other doesn’t exist.
“Well, I’m heading out then. For a fun night of trivia.” He draws out the last word, and I clench my jaw, my breathing growing shallow.
“Good,” I reply, forcing myself not to look at him.
I wish he’d just leave.
But then I see movement in the corner of my eye, and I can’t help but look over. He’s pulling his fucking shirt off. Again. Those hard nipples, the piercing through one of them. My cheeks turn red. I know they do.
He sees it too because he flexes, his abs popping out.
How a man can have eight of them is unreal. I despise it. I fucking hate it.
Caleb smirks a little and walks by slowly, my gaze trailing over him. I’ve lost control of my eyeballs. They’ve gone rogue.
He disappears into the bedroom, and I feel my pulse in my throat. My hand quickly sneaks down to my cock, and I adjust it. It jerks at the touch, and I realize it’s been a while.
This must be the reason I’m looking at my very straight roommate this way.
There’s no other explanation.
I fish my earbuds from my pocket and shove them in my ears. Maybe if I close my eyes and drown him out with some music, he won’t talk to me, and I can pretend he’s not there.
It’s only minutes later when I blink my eyelids open and realize he’s gone.
I let out a long breath of relief. My head falls back against the chair, and I set my Kindle down. My gaze moves to the closed door as I pull the earbuds from my ears.
I listen intently, not moving, barely even breathing.
I need to make sure he’s not coming back.
When it’s been ten minutes, I stand up and lock the door, moving to the bathroom and closing the door. I stare at the lock and tell myself not to. But my wrist flicks it anyway.
I stare at myself in the mirror, my pink cheeks obvious when contrasted with my pale skin.
My hands land on the cool countertop, and they curl slightly, trying to tell myself not to do this.
Don’t fucking do it.
But I can’t help myself.
I undo the button of my pants and debate opening that drawer, pulling out some lube, and stroking. It would be easy. I can close my eyes and imagine things.
Blue eyes.
Muscles.