“That’s because he’s good with people.” Bo looks at me, and the softness in his expression makes my stomach dip.
Maybe . . . just maybe . . .
Why do I have the urge to lean down and kiss him. “Well, I better get back to it. I have one more dance class to run before I can collapse. There’s games in the back room, DIY face painting, and some crafts if the kids haven’t cleared them out by now.”
“Thanks, Sam. See you tomorrow.”
“You want to check it out?” Bo asks.
“Sure.”
We walk to the back room, which is normally reserved for dance workouts. It’s a large room with a giant mirror along the wall, that’s packed with families when we walk inside. There are games tables along the walls, and I grab Bo’s hand, leading him through the crowd.
My mind is still on this weekend, as much as I’m trying not to think about it. I don’t want to ruin anything yet. I could explain away my feelings as me being horny, but I know they’re much deeper than that. I just don’t know if the feelings I’m having are confused because the sex is so good and he’s my best friend. I’ve always loved Bo, but this feeling is so new it’s scaring me.
I felt nothing like this with Max. And there’s something else I’m afraid to admit.
I never felt like this with any of my exes either.
This feeling is exclusive to Bo, and I don’t know what to call it or do about it. Do all friends with benefits feel this way? Is that why they do it? I’ve heard some horror stories, though, and that’s the last thing I want.
Bowen sits at a table with face paints. “You want me to paint your face?” I ask him as he looks around the room, and I already know what’s wrong. “Too loud?” It is a lot inside this busy room. I look at the bin of paint crayons. There are a few on the table as well, so I grab a small handful and then take his hand, leading him out of the room to find the emergency exit and slip outside.
It’s unseasonably warm out right now—the fifties in December. “Thanks, sorry.”
“No worries. It’s a little suffocating in there.” We find a bench on the sidewalk and he sits down. “So, any requests?” While we’re here I pretend, just for a moment, that I’m here with Bo my boyfriend, and we’re together and happy. I know it can’t happen like that. I’ll end up ruining it. I always do.
But what if I didn’t.
I don’t think I can take that risk. Plus, Bo hasn’t even hinted he wants more. He’s just sharing orgasms with his best friend, because he’s attracted to guys. That’s all. It’s just been fun. How the hell would I even make him happy long term? I’ve been cheated on, used, and taken advantage of. Clearly I’m not enough. I won’t make him happy in the long run.
“You’re pre-thinking too loud.” He glares. “Shut your thoughts off.”
“I am a philosopher, Bowen Carmichael Zhao.” His lips break out in a laugh. “I am a deep thinker. A scholar. I’m thinking about a lot of things.” I sit beside him with the palette in my lap.
“Oh yeah? And what are you deep-thinking about?”
The corner of my lip quirks. “How good you taste. Been thinking about that a lot. How hot you sound when you come. Any requests?” He looks down at my lap. “For what you want me to paint, pervert.”
“I don’t care.” His voice is soft, his eyes a bit wary. “Don’t draw a cock on me.”
“What about tits?”
“Cam—” I laugh. “No. Besides that, do whatever.”
An idea comes to mind. Grabbing the blue metallic paint crayon, I think about what I want to do. “Hold still. Artist at work.” While I’m not the most artistic guy, this is simple enough, so I won’t fuck up his face. I begin to draw, careful of his eyes. Bo shuts them and I can’t help but smile. Have I always felt like this and just didn’t know it?
I’m not really sure. “Better not be a dick, Cam.” I laugh. “I mean it. I don’t want a dick on my face.”
“Not what you said last night.” One eye pops open. “Sorry. Just a joke.”
Closing his eyes again a soft smile spreads on his lips. “The only exception I’ll allow,” he says, and I laugh.
I take the silver crayon and watch the way it shimmers across his pale skin. “Almost done, Bobo.” I think I feel him shiver under my fingertips as I cradle his face with one hand and draw with the other, and when I finish up, I set the paint crayons down and look at my masterpiece. I take his chin between my fingers, inspecting my work.
His beautiful eyes flutter open and I don’t think I’m breathing.
Slowly I lean in, pressing my lips to his. It’s short, with barely any pressure, but it heats me from my head to my toes. I let go and he blinks as if I’ve dropped him.
