The surroundings plus the scent did nothing to help with the already heady atmosphere between him and Ejiro.
Ejiro licked his lips, his eyes intensely focused on the sketchbook balanced on the pillows he had piled into a makeshift desk on his lap. His hand clutched a charcoal pencil, etching with confidence across the page. He was pretending to be completely engrossed in his task, but Ejiro wasn’t a very good actor.
His eyes flicked up, as they’d done every other minute, and Obiora looked away, pretending like he hadn’t been staring, like he hadn’t been struggling to take his eyes off Ejiro for even a second.
This was how it had been for the past three days since Ejiro had stopped Obiora that night. They still hung out together—in fact, their being together was almost constant—but they ignored the tension that hung thick around them like it was a foreboding cloud.
“After the disaster of last week, I wonder what this week’s episode is going to be about,” Obiora said, desperately trying to reduce the tension between them before he did something reckless. Like jump across the sofa and pin Ejiro to the cushions, and capture his lips in a furious, desperate kiss.
His mouth longed to trace a path along the long arch of Ejiro’s throat, his teeth to sink into the flesh that joined his neck and shoulder. He imagined sliding his hand between their bodies, slipping it into the waistband of Ejiro’s bottoms and wanking him off like that until he came, arching into Obiora, a soft cry of passion escaping his kiss-swollen lips. Fuck, Obiora couldn’t count how many times he’d had to jerk off over the past three days, wound so tight it felt like his fucking teeth were vibrating.
“Mm,” Ejiro hummed, eyes on his sketchbook, eyebrows furrowed, teeth sunk into his plush lower lip.
Ejiro was lost in his thoughts, his hand poised frozen over the sketchbook, gaze faraway, despite his eyes being on the page in front of him. The sun was just setting, lending some warmth to his cool, dark brown skin, making it glint like it was burnished. The thick coils of his hair had grown a little longer from day one, still shorter on the sides, but longer on top, enough that Obiora could imagine sinking his fingers into it and pulling. Ejiro had changed from the more formal clothes he’d used on the journey back to England, and was now in a plain t-shirt and his yoga pants, his feet covered in thin, white ankle socks.
Fuck. How could one person be a combination of both hot and adorable at the same damn time?
Like he’d been doing since he’d realised Ejiro was attracted to him, Obiora couldn’t help playing with fire.
THERE WAS NO ONE EJIRO could blame but himself. Ever since that fateful kiss—since that fateful night Ejiro had stopped Obiora from deepening things between them, he and Obiora had been left in some kind of limbo. Ejiro was desperate, almost frantic with the need to just—be with Obiora. To kiss him, to freaking claim him, but some unnameable fear held him back. The emotions were so intense they left him trembling sometimes; of course Ejiro was terrified.
And Obiora—God, Obiora—respected Ejiro’s indirect request for space; it was almost annoying really. Ejiro wanted Obiora to say screw it and jump his bones, but of course Obiora—the freaking gentleman—wasn’t going to do that. Ejiro felt that since he’d been the one to grind things to a halt, the ball was now in his court if he wanted things to go further.
And he did. God, he really fucking did. He’d never wanted anyone so badly, never felt this deeply for anyone in his life before.
The desire built up in him like lava, a volcano threatening to erupt. He was so full of it he had no choice but to pour his desire onto the page or risk exploding. He’d almost filled his sketchbook with nothing but Obiora, but the therapy didn’t seem to be working. In fact, the longer he put his desires onto paper, the more intense said desires became.
It wasn’t enough. Ejiro just wanted him. But how could he tell Obiora that, while they were still here, waiting to go on their next date with Sophia? It felt wrong.
But Ejiro was too scared to just up and leave, so here they were. Stuck.
“You drawing me again, Ejiro?”
Obiora’s sexy drawl brought him crashing back down to earth. He felt himself go still. His eyes registered the sketch he’d been drawing, and he felt heat crawl up his cheeks at how obvious his feelings were, splashed on the page like this for all to see.
He swallowed. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Obiora let out a soft laugh that Ejiro felt all the way down to his marrow.
“Am I ever going to see these alleged drawings?” he teased huskily. He shifted a little as he spoke, making their legs brush again. Ejiro shivered visibly at the contact.
The question registered, and Ejiro’s head snapped up, his eyes wide, his heartbeat rabbiting at the thought of Obiora seeing—
He pulled the sketchbook to his chest almost protectively. “I—um.”
Obiora laughed lightly. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’m just curious.” That seemed to be an understatement. The look in Obiora’s eyes was hungry; if curiosity were rain, then Obiora was a thunderstorm.
Ejiro looked away, his hands tightening around the charcoal pencil and the sketchbook.
Ejiro wasn’t going to make a move. He knew it, and Obiora probably knew it. The thought made him feel slightly ashamed, like he was leading Obiora on. But he wasn’t—he wasn’t. He was just terrified. If he admitted his feelings, if he let either of them so much as voice what was growing between them, then it would feel too real.
They’d have to leave the competition—it wouldn’t be fair to Sophia otherwise—which would mean going back into the “real” world, which meant possibly dating Obiora, which meant eventually coming out to Ajiri, to Blessing—to his mother. Oh dear God.
Yet, despite the terror clogging his veins, Ejiro knew they couldn’t remain like this. Obiora deserved to know how Ejiro felt. He deserved more than this—more than Ejiro jerking him around.
So, if Ejiro couldn’t make a move, maybe he could do this.
“HERE,” EJIRO SAID ROUGHLY.
