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His stare travels from the top of my head all the way down to somewhere around my thighs. “There is no way anyone is mistaking you for a choirboy.”
“That so?”
“Someone who owns a motorcycle, maybe.”
I pretend to gasp. “Those two-wheel hellions? Never. I like me a big baby with a deep purr.”
“It’s so lucky I know you’re talking about cars.”
“Technically, I could be talking about men too.” I start toward the gate to the parking lot, and Orson follows me. “Nothing better than a thick man turned to Jell-O.”
“That your type? Bigger guys?”
“Nah, like I told you before, I’m not too picky.”
“That makes sense since Molly isn’t big at all.”
I frown, wondering why he’s bringing him up. “Pickings are slim in Kilborough, but I’ve always done all right. Just wait until we go out in Springfield. I’ll take you to a gay bar, and then you’ll get to see how hot men find me. We’ll have to make you a ‘hands off’ sign, though, because you can bet your ass the queer men will be on you like your cock is a magnet.”
“I’ve already told you I don’t care if other men touch me. I don’t have to have sex with someone because I dance with them.”
“I can hear their little queer hearts breaking already.”
Orson tips his head, watching me as I slide the gate closed and secure the lock. “Really? Overonedance?”
“Fine. You’ll make their dicks weep. Better?”
He cracks up laughing. “That’s dramatic.”
“Think about a time you’ve been left with blue balls. They’re no one’s friends.”
“True, but I’m sure there are a lot of available people in a gay bar.”
“There are, but when you’re dancing with a hot man giving off all the signs, and then the sexy body you’ve been grinding against for the last hour is suddenly off-limits—not a fun way to end the night. I’m all for consent, but I’m also about not leading people on.”
“Okay,” he relents. “Hands off sign, it is.”
My tongue swipes over my lips as we head for the truck, and I know I shouldn’t steer the conversation to where I want to steer it, but fuck, I can’t help myself. “You really wouldn’t care?”
“What’s that?”
“About men touching you? A sweaty dude pressed up against you who wants to suck your cock. You … you wouldn’t give a shit?”
“Nope. Been there, done that.”
“I think there’s a big difference between work and a night out though.”
He crosses his arms again and leans against the driver’s-side door so I can’t get in. “Why do you think that?”
“Because someone paying to touch you is clinical, transactional. Someone doing it because theywantto is another thing.”
Orson’s jaw ticks, eyes following the same path over me as earlier, and then he pushes off the truck. “Prove it.”
“Huh?”
He turns us and backs me into the door, arms boxing me in but not touching. He’s grinning, playful, biting his bottom lip against a laugh. “Touch me because you want to, and I’ll let you know if it’s weird.”
“It’s already weird.”
