He nods, then clears his throat. “I also, um… wanted to thank you. For talking to me last night.” His gaze drops to the floor. “I was a mess. You shouldn’t have had to see me like that.”
“I don’t mind,” I say, and I mean it.
His throat bobs slowly. “Well… thanks, anyway.” He rocks back on his heels, looking around the taproom with open curiosity. “This place is beautiful.”
“Thanks. I’m proud of it. I’ve put my whole life into this.”
His lips twitch in a faint smile. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I get what that’s like.”
We stare at each other for a moment, not talking, while the sounds of the taproom float around us—chatter, clinking glasses, the muffled sound of popping oil from the nearby kitchen fryers. When Ashton meets my eyes, it hits me again how damn pretty his are up close.
Rolling back my shoulders, I hold out my hand. “Give me your phone.”
His brows pinch together, but he pulls it from his back pocket and passes it over. I tap in my number, add my name, then return it to him.
“Just in case you need to talk…” I let a sly grin spread across my face. “Or if I accidentally leave something at your house again.”
He blinks, bewildered. “Wait—did you leave the flannel there on purpose?”
I bite back a smirk and wink. “Maybe.”
A flush creeps up Ashton’s neck, and he presses his lips together like he’s trying not to smile. I keep my expression playful, but inside, my thoughts drift back to that night. Truth is, I didn’t leave the flannel there on purpose. At least, not at first.
I got halfway down his long driveway—headlights bouncing over potholes, the orchard trees looming on the horizon—whenI realized my flannel was missing. I could’ve turned around, but instead, I chose to keep driving.
Because a stubborn, dangerous part of me wanted an excuse to see him again. To hear his voice. To look into those wide, unsure eyes.
“Well,” Ashton says softly, glancing toward the door before looking back at me. “I should, uh… probably get back to the orchard. Thanks again. For… y’know. Everything.”
I nod, but my throat feels tight. “Anytime.”
He gives me a timid half-smile before he turns, footsteps quiet on the polished floor as he makes his way toward the exit. Sunlight from the front windows spills across him, catching on his blond hair, warming the broad line of his shoulders. Even after he slips outside and the door swings shut behind him, I’m still staring.
I’ve downed plenty of booze in my life, but nothing has ever made me feel as intoxicated as Ashton Tremblay.
Chapter Seven
Ashton
Searchingforgaypornis a lot more complicated than I expected. Sure, there’s plenty of it online, but no one warned me about the sheer number of subcategories. My brain goes a little numb as I scroll through thumbnail after thumbnail, each one more overstimulating than the last. Phoebe told me I should experiment a little, so that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Before I can chicken out, I click on a video and watch the screen buffer while my heart hammers against my ribs. I’m not sure which scares me more—liking it or not liking it. If I don’t, then maybe it’s not just that I’m not into women. Maybe it’s something deeper. Maybe I’m just… dysfunctional in a way that can’t be fixed.
Still, I guess it’s worth a shot.
I settle back against my pillows, itching in my own skin. My hands ball and flex as I try to shake out the nerves. God, why am I so anxious? It’s not like I’m actually hooking up with a guy. I’m just… observing. For research purposes.
Finally, a man appears on the screen. He’s objectively handsome—dark hair, thick beard, tattoos and piercings scattered across pale skin. I’m not sure what the plot is supposed to be, if there even is one. Judging by the navy-blue jumpsuit and the very obviously painted-on grease smudges on his neck, I think he’s meant to be a mechanic.
Sighing, I drag the cursor forward, skipping through the unnecessary cinematic buildup. When the second man enters the frame, he drops a cheesy line about not having enough money to pay forhis car repairs. The “customer” is slim and delicate-looking, wearing denim shorts that are definitely too short.
My breath catches in my throat as he starts unbuttoning the mechanic’s jumpsuit, leaning in to kiss slowly along his neck. He pushes his clothing down just far enough for his erection to spring free. And—holy hell.
The mechanic has a massive cock, thick and veiny. The customer can barely wrap his fingers around it. He gracefully drops to his knees, eagerly sticking out his tongue while he gazes up at the mechanic with wide, lust-filled eyes.
I don’t even notice when I start stroking my dick. It’s like my hand has a mind of its own. I push down my boxers and take out my achingly hard cock, shock waves of pleasure tingling through my veins. Rutting against my own palm, I pull my bottom lip between my teeth as a soft sound slips out of my mouth.
Wait, since when do Iwhimper?
