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“Then get on your knees,” I dare, trying to keep a lid on my urge to just throw him and all his bullshit out the door.
He won’t do it. There’s no way that he’ll do it. I’ve been duped by my self-discovery of craving adoration and a heartbreaking story that’s all lies.
It’s a good thing I do have the cameras rolling. When he realizes he’ll have to put action to his words, I’m going to gloat at the real confession he gives me, gloat all the way to Randy’s office that I foiled their sting operation. The nerve on these bastards, trying to ensnare staff in fraternization.
Rising from the couch, he looks as nervous as a kid on his first day of school in that stupid shirt. Why is he walking over here?
He’s so close now, I can feel his body heat. I’m about to back up when he invades my bubble, but he drops to his knees. He’s… on his knees. Why is he on his knees?
Oh, God. He’s staring at my crotch.
When is he going to give up the ruse? How far does this have to go, and what the fuck did his brother threaten him with or promise him to get him to do this?
I stand like a statue, my drink in one hand, the other in my pocket. His fingertips alight on each of my thighs, but I resist the urge to move, too flummoxed and committed to my hard-ass persona to stop him. Chest rising and falling, he stares at my fly, just stares at it.
I’m grateful for his hesitation. It proves his lies, which means I was right about this being a farce. Except, rather than feeling victorious, my heart feels heavy with disappointment. For a second, I almost think I’d have let him explore. I was so snared by the prospect of being desired in a way I’ve never experienced. That tells me it’s been far too long that anyone has touched me besides myself.
I want to shift so badly to ease the sensation of blood that’s rushed to my cock from this entire bizarre ordeal. The last thing I needed with all that I have going on this time of year was for someone to awaken a ridiculous fancy that I get off on being physically desirable. I don’t. I absolutely don’t, and now I kind of hate him for planting that seed.
“Well?” I dare in my frustration, so he’ll finally end this cruel game.
Lifting his gaze to mine, it feels like time has stopped as he looks at me. I’m so damn angry. I want to shove his shoulder and watch him tumble back onto his ass. I’m not a violent person, but what a crock of shit. This is an insult to men who are attracted to men. How can he paint such an innocent look on his face?
As he lowers his gaze back to my fly, I hold my breath. Any second now, he’ll come clean. Then I can tear him a new asshole when he admits this was all a despicable ruse. How further humiliated will he be when I tell him I’m straight? I have a freaking date tomorrow for crying out loud. Not one I’m looking forward to, but now I’m grateful for the alibi, if only to help make the Fairways look even more ridiculous.
His head moves forward. His fingertips grip my thighs tighter, and… he buries his face in my groin.
What in the hell is he doing?
A puff of breath floods out of my starved lungs, and every one of my muscles locks up. Is he serious? I’m about to run through another round of treacherous names to call the Fairways at seeing just how far this guy would go to get an employee to dally with him, but then I hear a sound. An inhale.
He’s… Holy fuck, he’s… breathing me in.
A soft sound rises, an anguished little moan. I’ve never heard that sound in my life, but I know immediately that it’s a sound of relief. It’s the sound of someone who was starving for a meal of forbidden fruit. Starved for me. He’s… enjoying this.
The pressure on my groin increases. His face burrows deeper against the fabric of my pants. My skin heats where his hot breath is infiltrating the thread count. His nose brushes against the side of my cock and the V of my thigh as he shifts his face slowly back and forth, nuzzling me. He’s…nuzzling me.
The sight of his sandy head pressed against the most intimate place on my body is unreal, but it’s his reaction that’s mind-blowing. It’s nothing short of reverence, a man grateful for the simple act of touching another man. I stare at him in both shock and awe, unable to move. Each of his whimpering, muffled sounds of need shackle me further in place.
I should… say something.
Anything.
A sound even. Or I should move, but something makes me feel it would be as wrong to interrupt him as it would be to remain frozen like catnip. My jumbled predictions from earlier taunt me with their new verdict—Cameron Fairway is definitely gay. That realization makes his list of wants hit me with a renewed perspective.
He said he wants to hold hands. He wants to go to dinner. I know what else he said, but those two requests twist something inside my heart. They’re innocent, couple-y things. Things people do with an everlasting love. Things people who have scruples do. And he thinks I have scruples. A gentleman—that’s what he called me.
I don’t know why I’m flattered. Maybe I’m just proud of him, which is ludicrous since I barely know him, but it’s a small bit of sunshine in the world, discovering that there’s at least one Fairway who strives for something admirable.
Says the man letting Cameron Fairway plough his face into his crotch. I feel nothing like a gentleman at the moment, with the exception of my stupid suit, sans shoes.
His head draws back, the heat of his breath subsiding. Those eyes, full of wonder, glance up at me. They’re half-lidded now, like my body or my scent is a drug that intoxicated him. A shiver runs up my spine at the sight he makes. Why does it make me feel so damn powerful? I don’t crave power. I’m not Randy or John fucking Fairway.
His teeth sink into his lower lip, and he glances at my waist like he’s contemplating something. I can feel each slow expansion of my lungs as though we’re in our own blip in time with everything reduced to slow-motion.
His first ‘anything’ with a man, he said. That’s the only explanation I can think of for why my body still doesn’t dare move a muscle. If I did, I’d be shattering something precious for a nervous young man who wants to hold hands with another man no matter what his father would think of him. It seems a guy with that much fortitude should get his reward.
I know I shouldn’t be standing here like a sex doll, but I don’t want John Fairway to win. Who the fuck is he to make his own child reluctant to divulge his hand-holding fantasies? My parents accepted me, broken in the head and all from the time I was a toddler, lining all my trucks up in a precise manner.
