“Come upstairs. Let me get you a towel and some dry clothes. We can put our stuff in the dryer and hang out while we wait.” To my immense relief, he nods and then follows me up the stairs to my room.
It’s warmer on the third floor because old houses aren’t amazingly insulated, and physics means the air-conditioning hasn’t completely won its battle with the day’s fading heat. I toss him a towel from the shelf in the closet, then fumble in the dresser for something that won’t swim on him while he drips on the rug and studies his surroundings.
Luckily, I keep my room neat. The hamper is overflowing, and there are too many dog-eared books on the nightstand and spilling out of the bookcase, but otherwise it’s well-organized. My PS5 and TV sit next to a stack of games on the cedar chest shoved against one wall. My desk fills another corner, covered in art supplies and half-painted miniatures, with my finished armies proudly displayed on the attached shelves with their blue lighting. But he’s already called me a nerd and stayed anyway, so I don’t worry about giving anything away.
“Here.” I hand him a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring that might keep them on his slender frame and a long-sleeved T-shirt that’s a little too small for me but that I’ve kept anyway because it’s from the gaming store where I bought my first Combat Patrol box and I’m absurdly nostalgic. “You can dry off and change in here. I’ll use the bathroom.” Maybe it’s weird to be worrying about modesty when there’s no way he hasn’t noticed my dick reacting to him all afternoon, butfeelingandseeingare two different things.
Anyway, he doesn’t argue, only takes the clothes with a quirk of his lips—lips I’vekissed—and continues to peer around the room.
Maybe he didn’t expectquitethis level of nerddom.
I flee to the bathroom, where I strip, towel off, and then throw on a pair of cutoff gray joggers. Unlike the shivering nymph in my bedroom, I’m flushed with nerves and a low thrum of excitement. If anything, my body is overheated, and the image of Fen peeling himself down to his panties on the other side of the door isn’t exactly cooling me off.Will he leave them on or go bare under my sweats?
Is there a wronganswer?
The urge to rush back into the room is strong—what if he changes his mind and leaves?—but I grip the sink and stare at my reflection, forcing myself to wait. When I’m sure I’ve given him enough time, including a few agonizing extra minutes to be safe, I open the door.
The clothes I gave him are discarded on the foot of the bed, and for one heart-stopping second, I worry hedidleave, but then he asks, “Did you paint all of these?” And I turn my head to find him standing at my desk.
In nothing but those panties.
“What?” My voice is a husk dragged from my seizing lungs, and I clutch the doorframe to avoid collapsing.
He’s every bit as stunning as my wildest dreams.
In the fading gloom from the gabled window and the blue light of the desk, he’s a thing of secret shadows and sharp highlights, as exotic as the tiny fantasy warrior in his hands. I could paint him like this, my brush following the dips and curves of his lithe muscles to leave pools of pigment in all his hidden hollows. My hands ache to touch him and my cock throbs, surging to full attention in my shorts.
“You’re an artist.” Returning the figure to its shelf, he turns and drifts toward me. My gaze snags on the sway of his hips, on those bands of lace and the bulge straining the satin—clearly cut for a man’s body—between them.
“I like—” I lick my lips. “I like painting more than playing. It’s a fun hobby, if an expensive one.” My breath whooshes out of me when he comes to a stop, mere inches away, and cocks his head with a flutter of lashes.
“You’re very.” His hand comes up to trace my jaw. “Very.” Cool fingers slide down my throat, teasing over my Adam’s apple. “Good at it.” He splays his palm over my heart and smiles when my pulse races under its weight. “Would you like to touch me now?”
I don’t immediately respond, and his smile fades to uncertainty. Before he gets the wrong idea, I blurt: “I’m afraid if I let go of this doorframe, my legs will collapse.”
“Oh.” His eyes spark wickedly. “I can think of a few things you could do from your knees.”
“Oh my god.” A strangled laugh bursts out of me. “I probably wouldn’t be any good at them, but I’m willing to try.”
He slides his hand down my chest and hooks two fingers in the waistband of my shorts before giving a little tug.
“I’ve got a better idea. Go lie on the bed.”
Steadied by the fact that he’s taking control, I make my clumsy way across the room. Since he didn’t tell me to take them off, I leave my shorts on, but I squeeze myself roughly through the soft jersey once I’m propped against the pillows. When he tracks the movement, sucking his lower lip between his teeth, a trickle of confidence returns.
I’m grateful for his obvious experience and—I realize ruefully—for a hundred nights spent listening to Ellis overshare. At least I have some idea what to expect. Assuming Fen doesn’t have some wild kink I’ve never heard of. Everything with him has been effortless so far, each step closer slipping easily into the next. Why should this be any different?
Having wrangled some blood back to my brain, I admire the sultry glide of his approach without worrying I’m going to faint.
“No farmer’s tan,” he observes, raking his gaze over my sprawled form. “Just the right amount of muscle.”
“Are you objectifying me?” I tease, trying not to preen, but then he climbs up to straddle my waist, facingawayfrom me. His thighs are warm along my ribs, and his lace-and-silk-framed ass is close enough to touch—almost tokiss—and I struggle to form words. “What—I’m not complaining, because the view is incredible—but, um, what exactly are you doing?”
He shoots a saucy look over his shoulder. “This position is traditionally called a reverse cowgirl.”
“I know what it’scalled. But…don’t we need, like, lube or something? Condoms…?” I trail off, cheeks flaming, when he arches an amused brow.Way to make assumptions, Ollie.
“Slow down there, cowboy.”
