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“Shit. Sorry.” He steps back, but I grab him and flip us, slamming his back into Momma T as I step in closer than he was before. The top of his head reaches my eye level, and I have to look down at him. The familiar curious expression stares back at me.
“You really inviting me to touch you?”
“Do you want to?”
I sneer. “That’s like asking a thirsty man if he wants water.”
Orson blinks up at me, a sweetness shining from his eyes. “Only if you’re comfortable. You’re, uh, I enjoy spending time with you, and I wouldn’t want things to get … you know.”
“’Preciate it, but a sexy guy is offering to let me feel him up, and you will never hear me complain about that.”
“If you’re cool, I’m cool. Just maybe no between the legs action.”
“Ass?”
“It’d be groped on the dance floor, right?”
“Constantly.”
“Then go for it.”
I watch him, trying to read if this is for real or if he’s about to freak the fuck out, but he just watches me back, waiting. Looking completely at ease that I’m about to paw him until I have my fill of every one of those muscles his clothes have been hiding from me. I wasn’t lying when I said I’dnevercomplain about touching him.
I swallow roughly and settle my hands on his shoulders.
Orson rolls his lips to hold in his amusement. “Are we going to a club in the 1800s? I didn’t realize gay bars were so polite.”
“Fine, smart-ass.” I let my hands drift from his round shoulders, over his impressive pecs, and along every groove I can feel on his stomach. “Comfortable now?”
Some of the teasing leaves his face, but he nods. “Totally fine.”
“And now?” My fingers duck beneath the bottom of his T-shirt, and it’s like having pure fucking heat in my hands. Smooth abs, no body hair that I can feel, and skin that’s like silk.
“Hoo.” Orson lets out a shaky breath that my cock takes note of. “Wasn’t expecting that. All good though.”
And maybe I should have expected more resilience from someone who used to make a living from showing off his body, but I’m completely fucking gobsmacked that he’s letting me stand here and grope him. My biggest worry right now is that he’ll regret it, or it’ll mess shit up between us, but then his hands cover where mine are resting under his shirt, the thin material separating us. He guides my hands up to his pecs, and I can’t help my thumb flicking over the small bump of his nipple.
I let out a long, slow exhale, trying to ignore the way my cock is thickening.
He swallows, and I swear it’s heavier than usual. “Totally fine.”
“Hmm …” I step in so my body is pressed to his. Toe to toe, thighs pressed close, stomach flush with his abs. My hands are trapped between us, fingers exploring the light hair on his chest. “It’s not only the touch though, is it?”
“What do you mean?” His smooth voice has dropped deeper.
“I mean, physical touch is one thing, but it’s also your mind. It’s knowing the guy with his hands on you wants more.”
“That’s nothing new.”
“It’s knowing his blood is rushing south. His pulse has kicked up a notch. His cock is rock hard in his pants.”
Orson smirks. “Think you’re making me uncomfortable, Ford?”
I lock eyes with him. “It’s knowing the guy’s gut is flipping out with want and excitement. The expectation of where things are heading next.”
“What else?”
Damn, that question almost makes me groan. “It’s knowing that even though you’re together now, he’s already picturing later.” I slide one hand out from under his shirt to run my fingers over his lips. “He’s picturing you on your knees, these pretty lips stretched wide around his cock.”
