I move toward the couch and fiddle with the remote, suddenly feeling unsure. Maybe this isn’t what he wanted. Maybe I had it all wrong.
But then Caleb jogs to the kitchen, grabs two beers, and sits down right next to me. So close our thighs brush, so close that I can feel the warmth of him.
He pops the top of a beer off with a flick of his thumb, and it clatters to the floor. I stare at it. My immaculate floor, dirtied by him.
It doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it should.
“What are we watching?” he asks as I start scrolling. My mind is focused, not on him. It can’t be focused on him.
Suddenly, I feel his fingers brush against my hand and thread through mine.
I freeze, unable to breathe.
I stare at our hands. Entwined. Together.
He’s holding my fucking hand.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice rough and husky, a clear telltale sign of everything I feel in this moment.
“Holding your hand,” he says, like it’s no big deal. Like this is what he does in his free time.
I know it’s not.
I know he’s never done this with another man before.
“Why?” I ask, chancing a look at him.
He meets my gaze, those eyes so fucking blue, those pupils dark and blown out. “Because you’re tapping them all the time, and it’s driving me up a wall.”
“I apologize. I’ll stop,” I say, but Caleb doesn’t let go. He gives me no space. Instead, he just leans back, spreads his legs open, and drinks his beer. He looks wanton at this moment, exposed. I can make out all of his skin, his nipple piercing, the muscles in his thighs.
I swallow loudly, and Caleb peers over at the sound.
I half-expect him to comment on it, but instead, he just bobs his head. “Cool. Cool.” Then motions to the screen. “How about that one?”
I have no idea what he’s talking about until I follow his hand and realize he’s mentioning a show we could watch together.
“Okay,” is all I can say as I click on it.
It starts to play, but all I can think about is his hand against mine. That rough, warm skin.
The way it would feel grabbing my back as I pushed into him…
“You’re doing it again,” he says, and I blink at him. I guess the hand he isn’t holding is fidgeting.
“You’re a nervous wreck,” he says as he finishes his beer and flicks the cap off the other one. It lands on the floor, and I stare at it, glowering deeply at the mess he’s making of my life.
“You want to get those, huh? Put them in the garbage? It’s killing you not to,” he says, a tease, a taunt.
I tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. I can’t help how I am, what I like.
I am who I am. A product of my father’s lessons.
“I’m fine.”
He scoffs, not believing it. I don’t either. I’m a fucking liar.
That’s who I am now.
