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Even with the engine shut off and the lights timed out, we both remain still.
I swallow roughly and turn to face him as best I can in the cramped seat. “I won’t ever do anything you don’t want,” I say slowly. And then I slip my hand from his and raise it to his cheek.
His eyes are slightly unfocused, even as he smiles and leans into my touch. I want to know what this is. I want him to confirm that he feels it, too. That Blair is B and he wants to explore this burning connection as badly as I do.
I don’t know what brought this attraction on that night, why now after years of being in Blair’s orbit I’m seeing him differently—but it’s coming at me hard and fast.
I’m not sure I want it to stop.
Blair sprawls out across the couch while I find some instant ramen and an egg to cook together for him. We didn’t exactly leave the place in the best of shape before heading out to the bar, so while the water boils I try to straighten things up.
By the time the food is done and plated I’ve bagged up the garbage, loaded the laundry into the washer that definitely shakes too violently, and have started gathering the ingredients for something that I hope will make Blair smile.
He sits up with a grumble when I set the bowl on the coffee table, but he throws me a whispered thanks and slight grimace. I realize why when he reaches down to adjust the hard on his leggings cling to like a second skin.
I look away when I realize he isn’t just adjusting—he’s stroking himself.
“Sorry,” he mutters around his food, then clears his throat. “Hurts.”
All I can think about is how it felt earlier to touch myself. To have B and Blair in my head and the pure relief that came from that release. It brings up the thought that in all of our experiments, B never asked me to touch him, and I never offered.
How would it feel? To hold another cock in my hand?
If I tried and didn’t like it, would he be okay with that?
Shit. It’s not like I’m going to be giving Blair a handjob anyway. He already told me there would be no touching—no matter what else he says.
“Why don’t I—um—start you a shower? You could…” I pantomime the jerk-off motion, and Blair’s laugh sends the butterflies in my stomach into an uproar.
“I’m good. It’s the alcohol. Sober me up some and the constant boner will go away. Sorry it’s sort of in your face; I can grab a blanket to put over my lap.”
I shake my head, sitting on the couch beside him, maybe a hair too close to show that I’m not scared off by an erection.
“Nothing you gotta hide. Eat up, then I’ve got a project for you.”
He raises his brow and slurps a noodle into his mouth. “You really sticking around?”
I shrug, putting my hand on his knee and squeezing. “What are friends for?”
He groans and pushes my hand aside—not meanly, but firmly—and grips his cock again.
With his face turned to the ceiling, he says, “Please don’t touch me right now.”
Right. Tipsy Blair is also Frisky Blair.
My instincts roar that it’s the exact opposite of what I should be doing, but I respect his request and give him space, moving back to the kitchen to get my supplies ready.
“What are you doing?” Blair asks a few minutes later as he places his empty bowl in the sink.
I hand him a bottle of water and an Advil, and he’s already looking a little more steady.
“Your task,” I answer once he’s gulped down half of the bottle. “We’re gonna make something.”
He leans over to see what I’ve set up: parchment paper laid across the counter, a mixing bowl and electric hand-beater. There’s also a pan heating up on the stove.
“This looks deceptively simple,” he says, and I don’t call him out when he rests his cheek on my shoulder, his chest pressing into my side.
“It is.” I open the cabinet over the stove to pull the sugar down and dig around until I find the remnants of some food coloring from the cupcakes we made for Shiloh’s birthday last December. “Ever wanted to make your own cotton candy?”
