Chapter Sixteen
Full Plates, Flustered Feelings, and First Experiments
Nick
The pasta is surprisingly good. Even all the mushing somehow didn’t destroy it. I could have technically blamed Elliot for it, for being hot and kinda suspicious with his insults about werewolves requiring a lot of food. But that was clearly me reaching for something that wasn’t there.
We sit on the couch because dining tables are a waste of space, so I obviously don’t have one.
I use the space to keep my murder boards, one of which now has pictures of the LAPD case, and to have meetings with Bureau Agents.
Is that a fancy way of saying I need the space to play with my friends? Maybe.
“You like it?” I ask Elliot, who is silently chewing the food while looking surprised but pleased. It isn’t hard to tell with him because he has one of his rare frownless expressions on his face right now.
He nods. “It’s alright.”
High praises, practically a marriage proposal coming from him. A smile tugs my lips.
He ignores me and goes back to his food.
He hasn’t touched his beer in a while. Maybe he’s into the fancy craft shit.
Or maybe he prefers wine? No, he barely had any at Matt’s.
I’m oddly disappointed I don’t know his drink of choice yet.
It’s the detective in me, of course. I’m obviously doing a bad job if I don’t even know what he likes to drink yet. Other than the black tar coffee.
“You don’t like beer?” I ask because it would be weird to keep different drinks in front of Elliot and observe which one he picks.
“I avoid alcoholic beverages,” he explains.
“Is it another way of saying you’re super lightweight?” I tease.
“Yes, Nicholas. I don’t want to get drunk on one beer and attack your modesty.”
I huff out a laugh. “You can attack it all you want,” I offer. “My modesty is completely into all the attacking.”
He snorts. “Careful, Captain America, desperation is kind of a turn off.”
Ha, he wishes it was. The guy looks like he can barely stand up, but he drove all the way here to have dinner with me and get laid.
I don’t mind the casual part either. I was worried for a second he wanted something more when he agreed to this so readily.
That conversation was important, and now that everything is on the table, I won’t feel like the worst person on the planet for asking for more.
I mean, stalking is one thing, but sleeping with him for information, that’s a line I’m never going to cross. Probably. I’ve been discovering hidden depths lately.
Now that I know he’s not expecting anything from me other than a good time, it feels like all the creepiness has been covered with a thick white cloth. At least he’s getting something out of this, too?
I just hope I can give him that good time, considering this will be the first time I’ve done anything more than make out with a guy. A milestone I’ve also only reached with Elliot.
Maybe I should tell him now? But what if he wants to leave? I really, really want to kiss him and see him naked, even blow him. I’ve been watching gay porn, a lot of it, even though it's horrible for educational purposes. I read blogs too. I’ve done a lot of work. I don’t want that to go to waste.
I get up to collect the plates, and my foot catches the end of the table. I yelp and sit back down.
Elliot just gives me a side eye, but one side of his lips quirks up.
“Are you nervous or something?” he asks.
I knew he was observant. I’m not that bad of a detective. And the entire basis of my suspicion is that a man as observant as he is claiming he missed a six-foot-five werewolf shift right in front of his eyes. Or the periphery of his eye, same difference.
But I’m still caught off guard that he noticed my nervousness. “Nah,” I wave him off.
He tilts his head, waiting.
I sigh. “I’ve never been with a man before,” I mumble.
I take some satisfaction in Elliot’s jaw hanging open, one of the first unguarded expressions I’ve seen on him. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish, probably searching for words. But then the momentary smugness leaves my body, replaced with worry.
“Like ever?” he asks.
“I’ve done a lot of research,” I say quickly as if that makes sense.
He nods, his face scrunched up. “That’s good. But never?”
Okay, now it’s just insulting. “Dude, I have it on good authority from tons of blogs that late bi-awakening is not only a thing but pretty normal.”
He nods with understanding. “Oh, that type of research,” he says.
I narrow my eyes. “All types of research. And I can show you right now. Let’s take this inside,” I say, my confidence coming back. I’m fucking amazing in the bedroom. That’s one thing that won’t change, whatever the gender of my partner.
He angles his body towards me. “Uh, let’s hold that off for a bit.
Listen, I don’t think it’s a very good idea for me to be your first. Not that I doubt your research skills or anything,” he says quickly when I open my mouth to defend myself.
“It’s just… first times can lead to a lot of feelings because it’s significant and shit,” he says, looking so uncomfortable it’s funny.
I grin at him. “Are you worried I’ll fall in love with you, Dr. Elliot? You’ll sweep me off my inexperienced, young, naive feet?”
His lips betray him and stretch into a smile. “You know what I mean,” he says.
“No, I don’t. I don’t remember the last time I was in a long-term relationship. I don’t have the space for something that big in my life and my mind, so you really don’t have to worry about my feelings here,” I insist.
He narrows his eyes, contemplating. But I’m done thinking and letting him be a condescending jerk. Well, more of a condescending jerk than he normally is.
I close the gap between us, pulling him into a bruising kiss. I take some satisfaction in his surprised gasp before his arms come around my shoulders, hands clutching my T-shirt. He pulls me in, all the reservations apparently gone.
I plunge my tongue into his mouth. Soft, pliant, sweet. I pull him closer. My hand rests on his ass, and the other threads through his soft hair.
He sucks on my tongue, massaging it with his. His hand rests at the back of my neck, pulling me into him. I let him, pushing him against the back of the couch. I move my hand to his lap, checking my theory. When my hand meets his half-hard cock, he lets out a soft groan.
I pull back and smile down at him. “Any more objections?”
“Shut up,” he pulls me back in. But this time, I bypass his red, swollen mouth and move down to his neck. I nuzzle around under his stupid shirt collar. It needs to go. In fact, the pants need to—
Something butts my legs, and I startle away from him. Mickey looks at me adoringly. Elliot snorts. I throw a glare at him, but I’m sure my expression is closer to Mickey’s than anything else I was attempting.
He looks flushed, a slight blush covering his face, traveling down to his neck. His breath is coming in short pants. Not that I’m doing any better. “Wanna take this inside now?”
“Are you sure?” he asks seriously. I want to snap at him for bringing that up again. But his tone is lacking the usual snide. He’s genuinely concerned about this.
If only he knew how little he should be worried about me getting any feelings, he’d probably laugh.
A mean little snort at the very least. Then again, if he knew the truth, he might smack me in the head with one of the snow globes Bree started gifting me as a joke every time she traveled somewhere.
It would serve me right for taking the joke a step further by displaying them in my living room.
I nod. Yes, I’m sure I won't develop feelings for him. And he definitely doesn’t need to worry about taking advantage of me.
He walks toward my bedroom, and I follow him after giving Mickey some pats, so he stays put. He’s had enough food and attention for the day.
Elliot is circling the room, looking at the random bright abstract art on the walls, all of them an impulse buy.
Sloan and I had an interior design phase a few years ago, so now everyone has weird shit that doesn’t make any sense in their houses.
But with a collective consensus, we don’t talk about it anymore.
I’m almost sure everyone thinks they’ll bring the phase back to life if they move anything we forced them to buy.
It’s hilarious. But I don’t want to talk about it right now.
I don’t want to talk about anything, really.
The only noise I want to hear is Elliot moaning, then praising me for being the best sex he’s ever had.
No, I’m not setting myself up for failure here, I’m just that good at everything… except interior designing.
I pull my T-shirt off. The sound makes Elliot turn.
His gaze slowly travels up my body, studying every ridge, every curve.
I barely stop myself from flexing, putting on a real show.
“A bit unfair, don’t you think?” I say instead.
I unzip my jeans and pull them off too, leaving me in my black boxer briefs.
Elliot swallows, the sound loud, probably only to me. He slowly unbuttons his shirt, my eyes following the movement of his clever hands. He lets it fall on the floor, then pulls off his undershirt too.
I knew he worked out, but seeing the lean muscles of his chest and his pecs still makes me salivate. Fuck, he’s hot. I’ve seen him go to the gym a few times. But this isn’t ‘working out a few times a week’ body. It’s a ‘spends hours strengthening every muscle’ body. All tightly wound strength.
So different from me. So sexy.
“Tell me you’re not guessing my workout routine right now,” he pleads.
I laugh. “I can appreciate the effort while thinking the work is hot, Elliot. Now, the pants,” I point at the offending piece of clothing.
He doesn’t follow my order. Well, it was more of a suggestion anyway. People don’t ignore my orders, and he won’t either, at least in the bedroom.