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I clean up quickly—put a shirt on, change my shorts.
I look at myself in the mirror, and I blink impassively. I could be anyone. To him, I pray I am.
At that moment, I remember that I didn’t leave him any clothes. I grab some lounge pants and an undershirt and pull open my underwear drawer. I take out a pack of boxer-briefs. Then I set the new pack back down, grab a pair of laundered ones I’ve worn before, and stride down the hall to leave the clothes on the ladder.
Afterward, I pace the kitchen with an ear turned toward the hall. I can’t retreat to my room. Not before I show him to his.
Nothing happened, I remind myself. Just because he saw me as he finished doesn’t mean he knows I watched the whole time.
I open another bottle of Bunnahabhain, pour a glass and toss it back.
This is what you’ve become. It’s pathetic.
I down another two fingers of scotch. Then he’s at the mouth of the hallway. He’s half shadowed by a potted palm, so I can’t see his face. His long hair has dripped damp marks onto the shoulders of my cotton T-shirt.
I notice it fits him more snugly than I thought it would—almost like it fits me. The pants don’t quite cover his ankles, confirming that he is a little taller. I picture him with his eyes shut, his hand around his thick erection. Then he moves into the light, and we lock gazes.
I’m thrown off, but I’m a practiced performer. It requires almost no real effort for me to keep my face as unreadable as his.
I was walking by, doing some requisite task. I didn’t see him until the moment he spotted me up on the deck. He doesn’t know that isn’t true. Could be he’s the one embarrassed.
“How was it?” My tone is neutral—as it would be if I hadn’t watched.
“How did it look?”
Heat creeps up my throat as my pulse surges. I let a small smirk bend my lips. “Looked like you enjoyed it.”
His eyes hold mine. His handsome face is indecipherable. He murmurs, “Did it?”
“It did.” I turn toward the counter, pour some more scotch. “Nothing wrong with that.” My heart is galloping so fast I can’t draw a full breath. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know a thing about you. Relax.
Then I hear his voice. “Turn around.”
Fear surges through me, raw and primal. But I turn to him because I’m not a coward.
“You were watching,” he says softly.
“You were jerking off on my deck.”
He reaches down so casually that it takes me a second to realize he’s cupping an iron-stiff erection. His fingers smooth over the bulge as I feel my own sex press against the fabric of my briefs.
“You didn’t know I would be.” With his eyes locked on mine, he steps closer. “Tell me why you came up to begin with. What’s your name?”
Oh, God. Does he know?
I step closer to him. When he does nothing, I lean close enough to wrap my hand around his. I squeeze his fingers and then move his hand aside, looking into his eyes as I trace his impressive length with my fingertips.
“What are you implying, Mr. Rayne?”
His eyelids go heavy, and I feel a warm rush of relief, followed quickly by a shot of pure adrenaline. I rub my palm over his sex, caressing him from tip to base.
“You came on deck to watch,” he says, “and you liked what you saw.” He clenches his jaw, rolling his hips so his bulge is pressed against my palm. I cup my hand around him, and his lips part as he starts panting. I can see his pulse thrum in his tanned throat.
I feel a powerful impulse to tell him I’m not gay—as if somehow he might believe I’m playing this for his sake. It’s a thought I entertain until he reaches for me and his broad palm finds me hard enough to rip a hole in my shorts. He wraps his hand partway around me, and I grunt at the onslaught of pleasure.
“I just came so fucking hard…thinking of you, captain. You’ve got beautiful eyes. That big, bulky body.” He runs a hand over my chest, tracing until he finds my nipple through the cotton of my shirt. “And”— he strokes me firmly through my shorts— “I can feel you’re hung just like I hoped you would be.”
The room whirls around us as we work each other. Then his fist closes around my tip, and my knees nearly buckle. I step back, wresting control from him. In doing so, I’m forced to let go of his thick erection.
For a second, everything is blurry but his face. I can’t breathe, and I can’t stop looking at him. He’s undeniably attractive, but he’s rough around the edges—so unlike what I thought I preferred. It’s not just his looks I’m drawn to, I realize as concern moves through his features. His gaze drops down to where I’m jutting straight up for him, and my blood roars in my ears.
