Page 9 of The Jock Next Door

“Is that why you drew me like that?” He nods toward the easel. “In my underwear?”

“That’s… I mean, that’s what you were wearing. When I came over. I just drew what I saw.”

“So if I’d answered the door naked, you’d have drawn me naked?”

My face is on fire. “You wouldn’t do that.”

“Maybe I would. Depends on who’s knocking.” He takes a step closer. “I’m very comfortable with my body.”

Yeah. I’ve noticed. He’s so close I can feel the heat coming off his skin. I could reach out and touch him. My fingers ache to trace the curve of a bicep, the line of his collarbone.

“Tell me where you want me.”

“W-what?”

“I’ll pose for you. Right now. Since you like drawing me so much.”

I swallow. My throat is bone dry. “Trey⁠—”

“Come on. Where do you want me? Chair? Bed?”

He’s messing with me. He has to be. But I can’t tell anymore. Those dark eyes haven’t left mine, and I think about how the players on the other side of the line must feel when they see him coming.

“Trey, sitting for a portrait takes hours. You’d have to stay still the whole time.”

“So?” He shrugs. “I got nowhere to be. My evening’s wide open.”

“It’s… it’s really boring. You’d just be sitting there.”

“I can handle boring. I’ve been riding the bench all season.” He flashes his teeth. “Besides, good excuse to get to know my neighbor. So where do you want me?”

I hear myself say it before my brain can catch up. “Maybe... on the bed?” The second it’s out, I want to take it back. The bed. My bed. Where he’d be sitting in nothing but a towel. That’s an image I’ll never recover from.

Trey doesn’t miss a beat. “The bed it is.” He walks over and drops onto the edge, then leans back on his elbows. The towel rides up, revealing more of those powerful thighs. He looks like an ad for expensive cologne.

“Like this?”

I have a hard time forming words. “Yeah. That’s… yeah. Good.” Trey on my neatly made bed. This giant, masculine presence in my carefully controlled space.

I grab a fresh sheet of paper and clip it to the easel, my hands shaking so bad I can barely get it secured. I need to focus. I’m an artist. This is what I do. I observe and I render. I can compartmentalize. I can ignore the fact that my crush, my obsession, is nearly naked on my bed and that the room is getting smaller and hotter by the second. I can.

But before the pencil touches paper, Trey looks down at the towel, then back at me, his mouth curling at the corner. He hooks a thumb under the fabric and tugs. It falls open across my sheets.

“Better,” he says. “Right?”

7

Trey’s cock rests against his thigh, thick and perfect, draped over the heavy swell of his balls.

In the shower, I already had trouble keeping my eyes off it. But here, with him reclining on my bed like a Roman statue and the soft light of my desk lamp casting shadows across his skin, it’s impossible. I can’t look away. I’m not sure I’m even breathing.

“Well? This work for you?”

“It’s…” I swallow. “Yeah. If you’re comfortable.”

“Comfortable’s my middle name. Now draw me, Picasso.”

I drag my eyes to the paper. Take a deep breath, like I always do before I start a new piece, but this time it doesn’t steady me. The image in front of me is too vivid. The scent of him too strong. It’s in my sheets now. I’m going to be smelling him all night. And I already know I’ll be doing more than just smelling when he’s gone.