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What really finishes off his attractiveness is the way he flirts, smiles bright, and gives whoever he’s talking to the whole of his attention, as if they are the only person in the world who exists. I watch it, night after night, work its magic, and it’s maddening.
And until last week, I never felt that charm directed at me. Until we were standing toe to toe, naked and aroused.
Suddenly, I’m remembering the taste of his neck as I kissed him. And the way those abs felt against my tongue. My dick has begun to stir in my pants. Then I remember exactly how it felt to wrap my lips around him, the swell of his cock down my throat and how badly I wanted his pleasure.
My own cock is doing a lot more than stirring now—it’s throbbing and trying to talk me into walking across this room to get another taste.
So yeah, I guess that answers my question. I’m definitely fucking attracted to Drake.
Adjusting myself, so I’m not showing off a major hard-on, I cross the space and walk into his line of sight; he looks startled for a moment as he glances up at me.
“Hey!” he shouts, grabbing his phone out of his pocket to lower the music. Once it’s low enough to hear each other, he kneels back on his boots and waits for me to explain why I’m here.
WhyamI here?
“Something wrong?” he asks.
“No. You just didn’t come back to the house…so I figured I’d check on you.”
“Oh, yeah, I just need to get this flooring laid today, so we can finish tomorrow,” he replies.
“You’ve got a lot of work to do. Can I help?”
His brows dance upward. “You don’t have to do that.”
I unbutton my shirt and peel it off my body as I avoid his gaze. “You think I’m too soft now, don’t you?” I ask with a smirk.
“When’s the last time you lifted a hammer, Mr. Business?” He’s grinning now, a flash of white teeth making my blood pump a little faster.There’s that fucking magic.
“Don’t you worry about me.”
“All right, here,” he replies. “Help me lay these planks.”
He tosses me a long piece of wood—the double meaning not lost on me, and I kneel next to him. Together, we make quick work of the new wood flooring. He does the cuts while I continue locking each board in place, working in comfortable silence. It takes a couple more hours, and by the end, we’re both sweating.
After the floor is finished, he and I both slouch against the floor, downing the water I grabbed from the bar.
“Where’s Isabel?” he asks.
“She was teaching tonight. But I’m sure she’s home now.”
He nods. The silence between us has grown awkward with the mention of her. It’s not like we’re talking about the intense threesome we had in the kitchen or how I gave him a blow job before that. I keep waiting for him to bring it up and want to talk about it, but he doesn’t.
It’s like a delicate explosive. We don’t touch it or talk about it or even look at it because, once we do, it’s going to take us all out. Instead…we keep relighting the flame.
He stands up and looks down at me with an austere expression. “I’m going to grab a shower here before heading home.” Then he lingers for a moment too long, as if he’s waiting for me to respond.
“Okay,” I stutter, my voice coming out in a weak attempt at sounding normal. Then he shoots me one quick loaded glance before disappearing from the room.
Suddenly, I’m overcome with nerves.
I sit on the floor for too long, playing that last moment over again and again. My mind is like a tennis court, jumping back and forth between reason and desire.
Did he really need a shower? Or was that an invitation?
No. Not everything he says to me is a come-on. How many showers has he taken in our entire friendship that meant nothing? Thousands? This is the same.
But this isn’t the same. He’s definitely leaving the ball in my court.
