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“Who said I didn’t want to have sex with you?”
“I said ‘if.’”
Out of nowhere, my dick rises to the challenge. Or maybe it’s because his body is still pressed to mine, and there’s no one on this planet I’ve ever found sexier. “You’re saying we could just be friends? Why? Because we have so much in common?”
“I’d like for you to acknowledge for once that we’re not all that different,” he says.
“How’s that?’”
“Well…we’re both filthy. We both aren’t living the lives we pictured for ourselves. We’re both vain as fuck and we both have major anger issues. And we both know what it’s like to feel unwanted.”
“So we’re meant to be, huh?”
“Maybe…”
“You won’t change your mind about me?” I ask him.
“I really don’t think I will,” he says.
“How do you know?”
“Look, here’s what I can promise you. If I change my mind about you, you’ll see it coming from a mile away. If I stop chasing you across the city to beg you to be with me—that’ll be your first clue.”
“I get it. No one can make promises like that.”
“I mean, I can’t promise it today, because you really upset me by leaving last night, but I might be able to sooner than later if you’ll give me a chance.”
How do I say no to that? Maybe I can’t put into words what the hell we see in each other as well as he claims to be able to, but I’m not ready to let go either. He might feel a little too much like a lifeline, but like he said, maybe it’s time I got out of my head. It’s a dark and muddy place, and the last place I want to be.
This whole exchange makes me think I was too hard on Silas. It’s not like what I’m considering doing isn’t exactly like what he did. Pinning my hopes and my well-being on a man I’ve known for such a small blip of time. Letting someone “keep” me. Is Silas in love, too?
“Okay, shoot your shot, rich boy,” I tell him. I don’t want to fight what I feel for him anymore. I’d rather just lie down and let it have its way with me.
“Are you expecting a grand gesture here?”
“You got one ready?” I ask, my thumbs still mindlessly running up and down his abs.
“No. But I have a thought.”
“What’s that?”
He grins, a wicked glint in his eyes. “What’s your shower like here?” he asks.
“Not like what you’re used to. Why?”
“Because you smell like whiskey sweat and BO, and I’m not saying I mind, but I think we’ll both feel better if we start today off fresh.”
“It’s a pretty depressing shower,” I say. Not because I’m ashamed of it, but because it doesn’t exactly get me in the mood.
“No place I go is ever depressing,” he says.
I give him a long look, falling for his charm and his ego all over again. “We’ll see about that.”
41
OLIVIER
The bathroom Drew shows me in his apartment could probably fit inside my shower, but that’s not a very fair comparison because my shower is absurdly big, built to accommodate three or—if I was having a really wild night—foursomes. I want to call this one cozy, but the beige tile does make it depressing. It’s also obvious that it’s a shared bathroom between men who don’t have a maid coming in behind them once a week. I wouldn’t call it filthy, but my mother would.
