7. Asher #3
“Far from prying eyes,” I mused. The heat was rising to my face and I wasn’t sure whether to blame my imagination or Jordan’s choice of beverage. “So far out that nobody ever disturbed us.”
Jordan was silently watching his wine before meeting my gaze with his questioning eyes. “You talk like you have something to hide from.”
A lapse of judgment. It was my own doing. I sucked my teeth and shook my head. My hair flapped left and right. “Nothing to hide here. I’m not nearly as mysterious as you’d think.”
“I doubt that,” Jordan said seriously. “Everyone’s got secrets.”
“Not me,” I insisted.
“Liar.”
“What? You don’t believe me?” I demanded. “Just because you’re hiding something doesn’t mean everyone else is.”
He looked at me sternly. “Not hiding.” The words were clipped and focused. “But you can’t tell me you have no secrets at all.”
I was getting increasingly dizzier with alcohol. “We’re not teenage girls on a sleepover, Jordan,” I said, defensive annoyance plain in my tone. “If there’s something you want to ask, ask. I’m not hugging pillows and talking about secret crushes with you.”
“Whoa, alright,” Jordan said, leaning back.
His legs were folded under his ass, his shorts pulling up as he tilted his torso back.
Damn him. The move pulled the fabric of his shorts tightly over his crotch and I reminded myself for the millionth time that I could bet anything he was hung.
What a goddamn waste. I wouldn’t call myself a size queen simply because it wasn’t something I chased, but I was gifted with a high tolerance for those early moments of discomfort and a body that allowed a lot of fun with above-average sizes.
Hung guys struggled to find someone like me. “What?” Jordan asked.
I realized then that I had been staring at the bulging outline of his dick and balls. “I’m drunk.”
“Oh.” Silence. It lasted for what felt like hours. Was he disappointed that I had gotten drunk? Or was he critical that I would allow myself this lack of control? I wasn’t twenty-one yet, which Jordan had pointed out last night. More quietly, he said, “Maybe you should go to bed.”
I looked at him and we stopped. Everything stopped.
Whether it was the subdued lights, the alcohol, or the dangerous line we were treading in our conversation, I felt like there was something happening between us.
Not even in an abstract way. I felt something literal.
There was a heaviness in the air. There was a pulse between us, like the base from the speaker, beating, brewing, tingling.
We sat far enough apart that I couldn’t even consider accidentally brushing my bare knee against his, but I suddenly longed to scoot closer and carelessly put my hand on his leg. Would he freak out the same way he had last night?
Jordan swallowed, holding my gaze evenly. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. His lips parted a little and his tongue flicked across them quickly.
Maybe you should come to bed with me, I thought.
Tuck me in. Kiss me goodnight. Walk to the door, then change your mind.
Cross the room like a lightning bolt. Tear the blanket off of me.
Turn me around and push my face into the pillow to muffle my moans.
I wheezed a breath of air into my burning lungs. “I guess I should,” I said.
Jordan nodded.
I set my glass on the table and shifted away from him.
When I got up, I didn’t want my crotch in his field of vision.
The embarrassment would kill me. Even worse, I knew he wouldn’t do a damn thing about it.
He wouldn’t make a move. He wouldn’t find it sexy.
And I would have to live with another proof he didn’t find me attractive.
“Unless…” Jordan’s voice trailed off and I quickly flung my head around to look at him. He shrugged. “Maybe you wanna play some basketball on the PS.”
“Sure,” I said before I even thought about it.
A dazzling sparkle flickered in his eyes as he hopped off the sofa and fired up the console.
In a minute, he had the loading screen on.
He handed me the second joystick and I thanked all the gods out there.
It was the best solution to tonight’s problems. I didn’t want to part ways just yet, but I didn’t want to be subjected to his curiosities any longer.
So, we played. We played late into the night, joking the same way I had heard him joke with Beckett all those years, cursing and teasing and vowing vengeance for each point lost. We played until my thumbs were sore. Those were the best hours I had ever spent with Jordan Mitchell.
More than once, we jumped off the sofa in the heat of the moment, and flailing, our knees touched.
Jordan must have realized that such abrupt contact of his body with mine distracted me enough to give him an advantage.
He once pressed his entire leg against mine and kept bumping it until I completely lost my focus.
And just then, I was glad to let him win.
I would let myself be distracted by his bare legs as much as he was willing to tease me.
That night, for once, we had a good thing happening.