He hums, then actually fuckinglaughs, not really like he’s laughing at me but more from sheer astonishment.
“Holy fuck, Logan, do you always come this much?” he asks.
I lean my head back and one side of my head momentarily rests on the side of his.
“No. Yes? I’m not sure.”
“God,” he says, dragging his thumb right near a fat streak of white on my stomach. “I should have come on you instead of over there, so you’d be covered in it like you’re a canvas. Maybe I’d rather paint you like this, instead of with real paint. Just coat you in white. Can I take your picture like this?”
“You’re not taking a photo of me,” I say, a serious tone in my voice.
He slides his hand up further under my shirt, idly sliding his fingers over one of my nipples, and then the other.
“Fine. I’m not going to. Relax. You just look wild right now.”
My nipple hardens as he gives it a pinch, and I pull in a breath. “And you’re awfully handsy.”
He slides his hands off of me, and I get the sense I struck a nerve.
“Say the word, and I’ll stop. I’m a touchy-feely kind of person,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone. “That’s always been true, regardless of my sexuality.”
“It’sfine. I liked the touch, Chase. I just need… I need to clean up.”
My reality is surging back into every distant corner of my mind.
I can’t have him like this anymore, holding me from behind and groping at every inch of my skin while my cock is still out on display and flagging between my legs.
My eyes suddenly dart toward the rooftop door, like I’m expecting it to swing open at any moment.
With camera flashes.
Paparazzi.
The whole world I’ve managed to avoid while I’ve been up on this roof.
“I need to clean up,” I repeat. “I have to get back inside.”
I stand up fast, and he steps up, too. “Can you quit freaking out?”
“I need something toclean off withand?—”
“Here. Fuck. Just chill,” he says, quickly undoing the buttons on his shirt. He takes it off, revealing the sweeping tattoo that leads away from his collarbone, which I now see is a long tail that leads to a big, stylized line-drawn fox on his upper shoulder. He has more smaller tattoos I can’t make out across his upper arm, and one on his wrist.
He also looks much stronger than I would have realized. Lean, to be sure, but he’s not a waif. His muscles are defined, and I can see why he might have been interested in workout tips.
He balls up his shirt and pushes it into my hands.
“You want me to use this to clean myself?”
He gives me a look. “The hotel provides them for us. It’s fine, Logan.”
Holy fuck, I told him my first name.
Why did I do that?
I use his shirt to clean myself off and I zip my pants back up, tucking in my shirt.
“I’m going to be late. I need to get downstairs,” I tell him again.
