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I linger slightly since I haven’t been in a shower this nice in nearly a decade. Wrapping myself in a plush white towel, I hunt down some mouthwash, finding it in the medicine cabinet above the sink, but when I finish and close the mirrored door I freeze.
What am I doing?
My image stares back at me, familiar yet not. Running my fingers through my damp hair, the emerald tips taunt me with a truth I don’t want to admit.
I picked green because I thought he'd like it.
Like he said, the darker color does make me look less playful and more mischievous. Both are accurate representations of my personality, although I went blond as a way to remind myself to focus on the light. To appear approachable rather than inaccessible, at least on the surface. I may have sky-high walls, but I only put them up around the deep, personal stuff I keep to myself. I don’t use them to push people away on sight–my obnoxious comments do that so I don’t waste time on people who can’t handle me–and dark always struck me as the equivalent of saying back off without having to say anything at all.
I also thought the darkness of the green might warn him away.
Part of me wanted that to happen. If he backed off, I wouldn’t be the asshole for saying, ‘thanks for showing me your dick, now lets be friends.’
Wanting him to like it and hate it is fifty shades of fucked up. I need an intervention, but the only person qualified to set me straight doesn’t know his boyfriend’s teammate has a hard-on for my hard-ons. Or that mine seems to require that sexy Norse god to make a full appearance.
By the time I’m dressed in a plain white shirt–one I’m hoping Noah doesn’t realize is his since his jersey doesn't hide cum stains—he’s scooping eggs onto a plate with buttered toast and fruit. Only one though.
“Where’s yours?” I take the plate he offers and help myself to a seat at an island so big I could comfortably stretch out on top of it. That is, if it weren’t made of rock.
“My breakfast is dictated by the team dietician.” He sets a bowl of oatmeal and a smoothie on the counter and takes the stool next to me as I wrinkle my nose. “You aren’t a fan of healthy eating?”
“I’m a fan of eating whatever I feel like, and it’s never been that.” I point to his meal with a grimace. “Does it even have any taste?”
“Not much, but you get used to it. Besides, this is what keeps me fit enough to play at the professional level in my thirties.”
My eyes blatantly wander up his now clothed torso, which his snug t-shirt does nothing to hide. “If you’re telling me that crap is the reason you’re a walking wet dream then I guess I approve.”
“Uh, thanks?” He eyes me the same way, cocking his head to the side with a slight frown. “Is that my shirt?”
Busted.
“I had a bit of a wardrobe malfunction.” I scoop up the runny part of the egg with my toast. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“You can wear anything of mine you like. Even if it doesn’t fit.” His baby blues twinkle as he fights a smile.
Glancing down, I have to admit the shirt is a little big. “I’m not so sure your clothes fit you either.” I reach over and pinch the fabric of his shirt between my fingers, giving it a gentle tug, though the material barely moves since it’s already stretched to the brink. “Maybe you should lay off the protein.”
“I wouldn’t be able to manhandle you as easily if I did.”
“Why would I want you to manhandle me?” I arch my brow in his direction and take another bite of egg toast.
“You call me big guy.”
“It’s a fitting nickname.”
“And you groaned ‘fuck that’s hot’ when I hauled you against me last night.”
“You were pounding my prostate and jerking my dick. Totally hot. And also, fuck buddy etiquette says you can’t hold people responsible for what they say when you’re stroking their cock. It’s like, shit said under duress or something.”
“Would it be against fuck buddy etiquette to say I bet if I toss you over my shoulder that’ll make you hard?”
“That wouldn’t be a stretch since this conversation is making me hard.” I look pointedly at my crotch.
“So, you’re saying I’m right.” He crosses his arms in front of his broad chest.
Damn those blue orbs shine when he’s feeling frisky.
“I’m saying there’s only one way to find out.” I shoot off the stool and round the island, putting that big hunk of cabinetry between us. Noah jumps up in a flash, crouching slightly so he’s ready to spring whichever direction I choose to run.
