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If I bone up, it’s going to show like a proud flagpole.
Fuck. So much for being decent.
“It’s voice activated,” I blurt out suddenly, distracting myself from my ill-timed discovery. “If … If you want to watch anything.”
“Voice …?”
“Yeah. Like this.” I face the flat-screen. “Play some National Geographic.”
The TV comes on. The sight of two lions fucking fills our eyes.
Trevor gets out one laugh before slapping a hand over his mouth.
I cough, my face going red. Nicely played, flat-screen. “Go up a channel,” I command it.
The volume increases instead.
The male lion howls its release, its tail thrashing as my whole living room fills with the unapologetic roar of wild life ecstasy. We’re witnessing the circle of life up in here.
“The male lion is performing his duty with pride,” states the narrator of the show. “The female exudes such impressive regality even during the act. Observe closely as she begins to—”
The remote is in my hand the next instant. I jam a thumb into it, and then there’s an innocent food traveling show on. A bald guy excitedly slurps down a bowl of noodles with a set of chopsticks pinched between his fingers. “Gelatinous and tasty!” he exclaims with glee to the camera.
“You can say that again,” murmurs Trevor. Then he looks up at me. “You’re blushing.”
I toss the remote into his lap. It lands with a distractingly meaty sort of sound, making me instantly think about what he’d look like with those pants off. Stop it. You’re getting hard. “Go to town,” I tell him, my voice strained, “before I … change my mind about inviting you to enjoy my tasty Bistecca Fiorentina.”
“Still don’t know what it is.”
“Let’s just call it fancy steak over a bed of thick, hand-rolled pasta.” Not trusting my dick to stay soft, I head off to the kitchen and pull down an extra dish from the cabinet. “I’d ask red or white again, but seeing as you’re likely underage …”
“I … oh.”
“Yeah. Kinda figured, since you’re my intern, you can’t be—”
“Twenty-five,” he finishes in a low, tired voice.
“I haven’t had time to check your file.” I totally did earlier. He’s a journalism major with a minor in psychology. His name is Trevor Woodard, and he’s just a few weeks short of twenty-one. I just want to hear him admit his age. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Sixteen,” he answers sarcastically in a toying voice.
I chuckle, then peer over my shoulder. He’s thrown an arm over the back of the couch, his adorable face in view.
My dick stirs at the sight of him.
Down, boy.
Trevor smiles innocently. “I gotta be home before ten or my parents are gonna be so mad at me,” he teases.
I clear my throat. “Well, damn. I guess I’d better give you some time to finish your homework, too.”
“It’s the summer,” he reminds me, acting all clever. “We don’t have homework. Are you okay? You look jumpy.”
“I do? No, I don’t.” I hurry to the table with glasses and silverware, setting his place with my back to him while trying my best to hide my crotch. I have no protection whatsoever from shamelessly revealing my hard-on. It’s maddening, having so little control over it. I’ve never felt so much like a dumb, sex-crazed teenager, not since I—well, since I was a dumb, sex-crazed teenager.
And he watches me the whole time, his eyes drifting down my body. That does nothing to soften the serious case of wood I’m nursing downstairs. “You know,” I force myself to say, “it was only four years ago that you really were sixteen.”
He frowns. “Well, if you already knew how old I am, then why’d you ask?”
“Wanted to hear it from your lips, I guess.”
“I guess it doesn’t make a difference, does it?” he retorts, then crosses his arms, looking smug and satisfied with himself. “You let me believe you were in your late twenties.”
Still behind the table, I let out a chuckle. “How’d I do that?”
“I guessed your age, and you just—” He blinks, remembering. “Oh. You … You just laughed at me then. You didn’t confirm it.”
“Didn’t I?”
Trevor’s eyes narrow in that same cute, indignant way they always do. I’m already getting to know him so well. “You’re thirty-three,” he announces unnecessarily. “I know that fact because I know Benjamin Gage, my boss, my employer. But you?” He gives his head one shake. “I don’t know you at all, it seems.”
“On the contrary, I’m the only one you do know,” I counter, “and for that, I’m thankful.”
“Why?”
I meet his bright eyes, finding them genuinely curious for my answer.
Feeling confident enough that I’m no longer tenting my jeans, I come up toward the back of the couch. He visibly tries not to sink into the cushions as I draw near, holding his posture steady.
“Because,” I explain, my voice calm and small, “I’m used to guys getting to know the Benjamin Gage. I’m used to people only seeing me for my name, for my influence … my connections … my whatever. It’s refreshing to just be Ben for once.”
