Page 99 of The Gaybor War

"Hey," I say lightly. "If this is a problem, we can set rules."

His dark eyes are cautious, asking a question he’s too polite to phrase.

"Rules," he repeats.

"Mm-hmm." I shrug. "Shared space. Big day tomorrow. A truly heroic amount of peens."

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Point is," I continue, "we don’t have to make this A Thing." It takes balls to say that as my sexiest underwear are strewn across the comforter. The words hang there as I watch him wrestle with them. "But," I add, because I’m incapable of leaving well enough alone, "if it accidentally becomes a thing… I promise not to make it weird."

That’s when he swallows.

Oh. Noted.

I pull out a stack of shirts and start hanging them in the closet. Behind me, Carter finally drops his duffel onto the luggage rack. A small victory. Then another. He takes off his jacket.

"Look at you," I say. "Settling in."

"Don't narrate me."

"I narrate everything."

"I know."

There's no irritation in it. Just familiarity. And for some reason that lands harder than flirting ever could.

I smile to myself and grab my toiletry bag. "I'm taking a shower."

"Okay."

I head for the bathroom, then pause at the door. "Oh, and Carter?"

He looks up.

"If you build a pillow wall down the middle of the bed, I'm telling everyone."

For one glorious second, he looks horrified. Then he points at me. "Don't start."

I know Carter is the kind of suppressed gay that will turn into an animal when he’s feeling himself… given all the right conditions—Lighting, confidence, temptation, and yes, alcohol. But it’s fun to tease.

At the door, I glance back. We lock eyes, and that quiet, vibrating tension neither of us is pretending doesn’t exist anymore hums between us.

"Try not to miss me." Then I close the door, and everything goes quiet in the loudest possible way.

The shower kicks on. Steam blooms under the bathroom door. I stand there for a second longer than necessary, letting the water heat, allowing the moment to stretch until it’s almost unbearable—until I can feel Carter on the other side of the door pretending not to listen.

He is absolutely listening. He’s probably wondering if I’m going to jack off. That’s what I’d be wondering if it were me on the other side of the door.

I keep it brief. Respectable. When I step back out, towel slung low on my hips, hair damp, I clock him instantly—perched on the edge of the armchair, posture stiffer than a starched shirt.

He totally ran over there a second before I opened the door!

I stand before the mirror and run my hands through my wet hair, making sure to show off the flex in my back and biceps. Carter's attention flickers in my direction before returning to the view outside. The man has all the subtlety of a burglar hiding behind a floor lamp.

"You’re quiet."

His gaze shifts back to me. "So are you."