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“Sure. You should shower now.” He waved his hand, royalty dismissing the commoner, and like an idiot, I obeyed.
After getting my spare clothes from my car, I found myself in a guest bathroom bigger than my barracks rooms, with a huge glass walk-in shower. And hell if I couldn’t stop replaying his suggestion.
You could kiss me.
I could. The Duncan factor was a thing, but I’d always been my own person. I could kiss Danny Love and take one on the chin from Duncan if he found out. I could kiss Daniel, and I knew all the way to my soul that I’d have my answer. What had been missing from every kiss and brief encounter. The reason I’d never had much motivation for dating. The answer was right there, waiting on his perfect cupid-bow lips.
He was right. I was a coward. And I was also as hard as one of those wrought iron fence posts all over the property. I’d spent thirty-eight years actively not knowing, and now, one glimpse of Danny’s freckled ass doing naked yoga and his expressive eyes gazing at me all day like I was some kind of superhero, and everything was all fucked up because I was more tempted to open that box than I’d ever been in the past.
You can’t just try out different fantasies in your head?
Standing there naked in front of the shower, I ran a finger down my hard cock. I didn’t have that good of an imagination, couldn’t conjure up what Danny might taste or feel like. How he’d sound. But I didn’t need to picture it to know it made me throb. I’d beat off in the shower, and I would not think about him or his freckles or his lips, but somehow I already knew I had my answer.
Chapter Eight
Danny
While Cash showered, I braced for him to be weird after, which would be entirely my doing. I lay on the couch, scrolling on my phone, but my head kept drifting back to Cash and that stupid offer of mine. We’d been having such a good day, talking, keeping busy doing security stuff, none of the usual long stretch of afternoon waiting for me to fill it. Instead, it was almost dinner time, and I’d actually worked. I’d helped Cash with the cameras and lights, and I hadn’t screwed anything up.
And when he let me ogle him, I’d thought maybe.
To be fair, I’d been thinking maybe all freaking day. He spoke to every big, hot older man fantasy I’d ever had. But when we were out, Cash was oblivious to people checking him out. Even women I could objectively say were pretty, the sort other men fell all over themselves to try to talk to, Cash didn’t seem to notice in the slightest. Maybe.
And then I’d seen an opportunity, so I’d gone for it, and he’d turned me down, and I wasn’t going to keep asking. I didn’t usually have to ask. People hit on me, and for a long time, it had been far too easy to say yes. Honestly, a part of me agreed with Cash that sex could be underwhelming.
It always seemed like such a good idea until it was over, and I was left feeling hollow and wondering if there was something I was missing. Then I’d realized most people didn’t care. They were in it for this party or that photo op or those gifts. Not for me. And because I was a piss-poor judge of when someone was trying to use me, I’d stopped playing the game. Stopped saying yes.
It had been long enough I wasn’t sure I remembered how, and Cash was a neon reminder that sober hookups might be out of my skill set. But oh, how I’d wanted him to say yes. He was nice and funny and didn’t take shit from me or anyone else. His directness made him easy to trust, precisely because he wasn’t trying to impress me.
My phone was full of messages from Duncan telling me to be nice to Cash. He probably didn’t mean for me to offer to be Cash’s test case for kissing dudes. Cash was all worried Duncan would get mad if he kissed me, but I could pretty much hear the “Damn it, Danny” if I messed with his friend. Making Cash confused about his sexuality would likely count as messing with his head.
So yeah, Cash was going to be weird, Duncan would blame me, and all the yoga breathing in the world wasn’t enough to settle me while I scrolled various apps, desperate for distraction. Friends’ posts seemed even more vapid than usual. Ordinarily, I liked pics of Ezra on tour, but today everyone’s shots felt too staged. Too perfect, the right camera angle, the ideal lighting, the witty caption.
“We need dinner.” As expected, Cash trooped back downstairs with wet hair and a grim attitude. His T-shirt advertised something called a mud run that sounded like forced misery but apparently raised money for charity. An hour ago, I would have had a joke about it that would make him smile, but the time for chitchat had clearly passed.
