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“And you told me that we should date each other,” I point out.
“I wasn’t being serious, Anthony.” He puts a forkful of food into his mouth, jaw working in irritation.
“Weren’t you, Nico?” I know I can’t be the only one who feels this. It’s been a long time since anyone looked at me with the level of interest that he looks at me with. There is no way this is one-sided.
“I’m not interested in dating you, or anyone else. I need to focus on work; it’s my first season as head coach, and I need this job.”
I can’t win. Biting back an argument, I clean my plate and push back from the table. He’s only made it through half of his food, and doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to finish. Like I did last night, I clean up my mess and put the kitchen back to rights. Eventually, he joins me in the kitchen, stepping around me carefully so that we don’t brush up against one another. I take a second to enjoy the long line of him: miles of legs and a lean build. I bet he’s stronger than he looks.
Before he can walk by me and leave the room, I press my palm flat against his stomach, stopping him. His eyes snap to mine, flaring with heat, and I slide my hand down a couple inches until it comes to rest low on his abdomen. He seems completely unaffected, breathing steady as he watches and waitsto see what I’m going to do. I want to ask him where the bedroom is at, and see which of us can get our clothes off faster. Since he obviously doesn’t believe me when I say I’m interested, maybe I need to show him.
The quarter-zip shirt he’s wearing shows a peek of collarbone, and this feels like as good a place to start as any. With my free hand, I reach up and brush my thumb over the ridges. Curling my fingers over his shoulder, I skim that same thumb up the line of his throat and back down again. Still, no reaction from Nico beyond a quickening in his breathing. He hasn’t told me to stop, so I indulge myself and do it again.
Sliding my palm so it’s resting alongside his neck, I trace the line of his jaw. His facial hair scratches the pad of my thumb, and I want nothing more than to feel it against my lips. I feel partially removed from my body; a semi déjà vu state, where I feel as though I’ve done this before, while simultaneously being aware that this is all new to me.
Wrapping my fingers around the nape of his neck, I angle my face up and kiss the underside of his jaw. He flinches, which, admittedly, isn’t the reaction I was hoping for. I pause, waiting, but he leans toward me in a silent request to continue. I coast my mouth a few millimeters to the left, and the scratch of stubble on my lips is exactly as sexy as I thought it would be. I want to kiss his damn mouth, but he’s too tall for me to do so without physically pulling his face down and he doesn’t seem inclined to do so on his own. Short of wrenching his head down, I’ll have to settle for what I can reach.
My other hand is still resting against his stomach, on top of his clothing. I want that shirt gone. Grasping the fabric, I tug it upward until I can slide my hand in and touch skin. He breathes out, hard, a dramatic whoosh of air that I can feel against my face.
“Anthony,” he says, in warning or request, I can’t tell.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“Doyouwant to stop?” He asks, like this isn’t the most turned on I’ve been in fucking months. Maybe, years.
I can’t think straight, with my hands all over him, and his stubble tickling my face. His own hands are hanging down by his sides, fingers clenched into tight fists. He hasn’t verbally asked me to back off, but he doesn’t give the impression of someone particularly enjoying themselves, either. I take a measured step back, sliding my hand away from his face and resting it back on his shoulder. The other, I leave inside his shirt. A man has to havesomethingto live for.
“I don’t want to stop,” I tell him. I’ve put enough room between us that I can look him in the eye. He licks his lips, andfucking hell, I want to kiss him so bad.
“This is a bad idea,” he says, evenly, but one of his hands rises until his fingers are brushing along my forearm. It feels like a direct contradiction to what he just said.
“Why?”
“Because we’re coworkers. And we don’t like each other. And you don’t like men.”
“We’re not coworkers. You’ve told me a dozen times how I’mnota member of staff—I’m only temporary, remember? And I like you fine, when you’re not being difficult. Honestly, I like you even then. And you’re right, I’ve never been attracted to a man before.” I glide my hand around to cup his hip, discovering that the skin here on his side is just as soft as it is at the front. I wonder if I’ll get the chance to compare it withotherplaces. “But in my defense, I only just met you. And I am definitely attracted to you. God only knows why.”
“We should stop,” he says, though he sounds less sure than before.
“Or,” I give his hip a little squeeze, “you could take your shirt off, and I could takemyshirt off, and then we could see where things go from there.”
Nico’s face twists up into an expression I’ve never seen before, and it takes me a second to figure out he’s holding back laughter. It makes me feel like I’ve won.
“I really was joking about dating. I’m not interested in that.”
“Alright.” Not the answer I wanted to hear. Regretfully, I pull my hand from his hip and right his shirt. Before I can drop my hand from his shoulder and try to leave with some of my dignity intact, he grips my forearm and holds me in place.
“I’m not interested in a relationship,” he doubles down, just in case I didn’t understand it the first time. “But maybe there’s another option.”
My stomach falls. Really, I shouldn’t be surprised at this point. “You just want to hook up.”
I’d step back if he wasn’t the one now holding me in place. Mentally, I’m smacking myself. Nico has given few signs of being interested in me, sexually or otherwise; in fact, he’s giveneveryindication of not liking me at all. I’d gotten too caught up in my own attraction, and let myself get ahead of the situation.
“Yes,” Nico agrees, truthfully. “I’m not interested in anything more than hooking up. So, we can pick this up where you left off, or not. It’s up to you.”
Well, I suppose I should appreciate the honesty, even though it makes me feel like shit. I pull my hand away, doing my best to smile indifferently.
“Sure, Nico. That works for me. But not tonight.” Tonight, I’m going to go home and ice my pride. I turn away from him, aware of our proximity. I’m half-hard and he smells like Dove soap; it shouldn’t be attractive that he uses genericsoap, but I guess Dove is the song of my pheromones, because it’s driving me crazy. Before I can make my escape, he speaks.
