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Still watching him carefully, Thorne took a bite of muffin. His face lit up as he chewed. “Wow, this is so good I don’t even care if it’s healthy.”
“It’s not that healthy, but it does have carrot and zucchini in it.”
“Trying to get all my veggies in me at once?” Thorne asked.
“Something like that.”
After breakfast, Thorne helped Dash load the dishwasher, something Dash hadn’t expected. “You cooked for me,” Thorne said, obviously thinking that was explanation enough.
“Doesn’t the personal chef usually do the cooking and the cleaning up?”
Thorne shook his head. “I’d have the maid do the cleaning, but since mine’s not coming today, I’ll just have to get my hands dirty.”
When they finished, Thorne stood at the counter, sipping coffee. Dash came up behind him and circled his waist. “Have you got time for some distraction?”
Thorne glanced at the clock on the stove. “I wish, but I really need to tackle some work. Although…”
“What’s that dirty mind of yours cooking up?” Dash stepped closer and palmed Thorne’s cock.
Thorne groaned and placed a hand on top of Dash’s. “I need to send some information off by noon. How much of the day do you have free?”
“I don’t have to be anywhere until three.”
“Stay. Watch TV or whatever while I work and then…”
“And then?” Dash asked, wanting to hear him say it.
“And then I’m going to fuck you.”
Dash shivered. “That’s exactly what I hoped you were going to say.”
“I know I’ll need to pay for the day. I’m good with that.”
“Sheila will bill you. I’ll send her a message.”
“Okay. I’ve got about five hundred channels if you want to chill by the TV or—”
“TV sounds good. I should rest up for later.”
“Yes, you should.”
THORNE GLANCED UP from his laptop every few minutes. He couldn’t stop watching Dash. How did he manage to look so damn hot lying on the couch watching television?
A flaw in the open floorplan of Thorne’s apartment—which wasn’t usually a problem since he rarely had anyone there—was that he couldn’t avoid Dash unless he went into the bedroom and shut the rarely-used door. But he didn’t have that kind of self-discipline. How could he deny himself the view? Dash was wearing a truly tiny pair of shorts and a white T-shirt that clung to his shoulders and pecs. He appeared utterly relaxed as if he’d become one with the couch.
“You need to relax.”
Dash’s words echoed in his head. He wasn’t sure he was capable of just lying around like Dash could, except right after Dash fucked the hell out of him.
He’s good for you. That obnoxious voice inside again, the one that fought the rigid schedule Thorne usually enforced on himself.
He’s dangerous for me. He makes me want things.
Are those things so bad?
Maybe not. But Dash was twenty-two. No matter how much he enjoyed the sex, he wasn’t likely to be interested in a relationship with a man as old as Thorne. He’s doing a job. One he’s good at. Thorne was arrogant enough to believe Dash truly enjoyed their time together, but it couldn’t be anything more than erotic enjoyment.
He forced himself to focus on work long enough to get his report sent off by eleven forty-five. As soon as he received a reply confirming that the team leader of the project had all the information he needed, Thorne closed his laptop and stood. As he stretched, he watched a few seconds of Dash’s movie. Based on the hairstyles and clothing, Thorne guessed it was from the eighties. “What are you watching?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Dash looked over the back of the couch at him like he was nuts.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve never seen this?”
Thorne studied the movie for several more seconds. “Oh, it’s that John Cusack one.”
Dash picked up the remote and hit pause. “Say Anything. It’s a classic. Come here right now and watch the rest with me.” Dash spread his legs, making room for Thorne to settle between them. Thorne was powerless to resist the offer.
At first he was too busy tracing patterns on Dash’s firm thighs and enjoying the feel of Dash’s hard chest behind his back to pay much attention to the movie, but by the time John Cusack held up his boom box, blasting Peter Gabriel at his girlfriend’s house, Thorne could see the appeal, at least if you were overly romantic.
“I still can’t believe you hadn’t seen this,” Dash said as the credits rolled. “I love all these old movies.”
“Casablanca or Breakfast at Tiffany’s are old movies, not the Brat Pack.”
Dash waved off his comment as if it shouldn’t matter.
“I didn’t watch a lot of movies as a…” Thorne’s words trailed off in horror. “Fuck, how old were you when this came out?”
“Not born.”
“Wow. Now I feel ancient.”
“After last night? Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve got life in you yet.”
Thorne shook his head. Dash was born in the ’90s; that was mind-boggling.
