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“Do it,” he whispers, and I flick it at him. It hits his chin and he grapples with it a moment, fisting it in his hand before the cube appears between his fingers.
And that little shit rolls it across his lips, a wet, reddened trail appearing on his skin before he slides it down his neck with a low moan emitting from his throat.
Is it just me, or has it gotten awfully humid in here all of a sudden? It’s like a fucking sauna. I’m starting to sweat.
Before he can slide it down any farther, the waitress appears and sets two plates of food down.
“What is this?” I ask because I was too distracted earlier to hear what he ordered.
“Perch sandwich and Whitefish.”
I stare down at it, my mouth watering. God, I love seafood. Joshua hates it, but apparently, Quinn doesn’t because he’s cutting into the fish and spearing some on his fork.
“God, I could live on the water,” he says. “I could eat seafood every day. I was thinking about getting a houseboat and just chilling. Can you imagine that, Grey?”
I could. I so fucking could. “Good thing we live near the Great Lakes. You could make that a reality.”
His eyes meet mine, his jaw working back and forth as he chews, almost as if he’s considering it.
I could see him on a houseboat, just relaxing as the waves rock him back and forth. I could see myself there too, sitting next to him.
I shouldn’t think those things, shouldn’t imagine them. That’s dangerous territory. It’s too scary to dream.
Too heartbreaking when it doesn’t pan out.
“It’s weird that Josh doesn’t like fish,” he says. “Like, he has terrible taste.”
I chuckle. “I know, who raised him?”
Quinn snorts softly. “The wrong fucking person, apparently.”
My chest warms, and I pick up half of the sandwich, taking a large bite.
And that’s how we spend the next twenty minutes, just slowly consuming the food on our plates until they’re licked clean.
“Fuck, that’s good,” he says. “Should we get dessert?”
“You can,” I say, and Quinn stares at me.
“I think I’ll order some, Grey, and make you eat it.”
I let out a stuttered breath. Probably a terrible idea, to be honest—for my cholesterol and my dick, but I still let him place an order for carrot cake and blueberry pie.
When it comes, Quinn spears a piece of the pie and leans forward, pressing the fork against my mouth.
“Open.” And I do as he says, my tastebuds exploding. God, that’s so damn good. I never let myself have shit like this, but here I am, eating it because Quinn is hand-feeding me.
A low moan escapes me, and Quinn’s pupils dilate.
“Yes, so good, right?” he asks, his voice raspy.
I manage a small nod, and he sits back, feeding himself before moving forward and forcing me to consume the dessert I wouldn’t normally eat in a million years.
When we finally make it out of the restaurant and we’re back in my truck, Quinn folds his hands in his lap, almost as if trying not to reach out toward me.
Which is good. It’s how it should be. No more holding hands, or whatever that was back there.
We’re going back to appropriate now. Quinn is nineteen. He’s my son’s best friend.
