He doesn’t answer right away, but he shifts closer, his fingers tracing my chest. “Yeah,” he whispers.
He’s blushing slightly, still curled up against me and it feels so good. But then, he glances toward the door and swallows harshly and I know I’m going to hate whatever comes out of his mouth next.
“I should probably go,” he says.
My stomach clenches but I let out a low breath, already knowing the deal. “Yeah,” I say with a laugh. “Before they start asking why the shower’s been running for thirty minutes without you in it.”
He huffs out a laugh and sits up, glancing around my room where our clothes are thrown everywhere. I lean up on my elbows, watching him grab his clothes, shoving them back on, erasing the evidence of what just happened here.
He fixes his hair with one hand, smooths out his clothes like if he gets every wrinkle right, no one’ll notice that his lips are still swollen, or that he looks like he just got his soul sucked out of him.
I stay where I am, not reaching for him again. Not saying what Iwantto say—like, stay. Fall asleep here. Or, fuck it, let me hold you until I get enough of you.
But I don’t. I just watch him as I grab my own clothes and start getting dressed.
He hesitates at the edge of the bed when he finishes getting dressed and just watches me. There are about a million different expressions crossing his face, and I wish I knew what all of them meant.
I don’t really have time to think about it, though, because he closes the space between us, cups my face and kisses me. It’s so slow and soft, and I want so desperately for it to mean something.
He pulls back, his eyes flicking across my face and doesn’t say anything before he turns, opens my door and walks out, the door closing behind him.
I fall back on my bed and stare up at the sock spinning on the fan, still tasting him on my lips, still feeling the way he curled into me like he didn’t want to leave. I sure as hell didn’t want him to. I wanted him to stay, to kiss him again, to just look into his eyes until I fell asleep.
I groan into my hands.
God, I am so fucked.
20
NATHAN
I’ve been sitting at my desk for so long, my back’s starting to ache, but I’m too focused to move. I twirl my pencil between my fingers, glancing down at the panel I’ve been shading for at least fifteen minutes… maybe longer.
I’ve planned it out, been working on it for weeks, and yet I can’t stop second-guessing the scene, the angles, the face of the character, and the fact that it looks a little too much like someone.
The noise from downstairs bleeds through my headphones and I let out a chuckle, knowing it probably means someone missed a shot.
Usually, I’m right down there with them, but tonight I just wanted to get this piece done. There’s no real reason for it; it’s not like I’m under a deadline or anyone is waiting for this, but once something sticks in my mind, it stays there until I can get it done.
I focus on the scene and shade in the stubble of the main character, my mind flicking to the one thing I’ve had a really hard time not thinking about.
Not that I’ve tried. I don’t want to. The memory fills my head, and I zone out, remembering the heat of his mouth, his voice in my ear, whispering things that still make me tense up just thinking about them. The way I had my fingers twisted in his hair and came harder than I ever had from having his mouth on me.
I close my eyes, exhaling slowly through my nose, and my jaw tenses as I flex my grip around the pencil.
A knock interrupts the thought, and I pause the playlist and tug my headphones off, glancing toward the door just as it creaks open.
My pulse kicks up the second I see him push open the door. My fingers tighten around the pencil without meaning to when his eyes meet mine.
“Hey,” he says, casually, like he didn’t have my cock in his mouth three days ago. He leans against my door frame, his arms crossed over the Colton U tee that clings to his chest. And of course, he’s got his signature smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he already knows he’s in my head.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “Hey.”
“The game’s starting,” he continues, slipping into the room. “The guys asked if you were coming to watch.”
“Maybe later,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair.
He steps farther in, gaze dropping to the pages scattered across my desk, and I quickly shut my sketchbook. “What are you doing?” he asks. “Watching porn?” He flashes me a teasing smirk that makes me shoot him a dry look.