35. Chapter 35
Chapter thirty-five
Evergreen.
That’s the color description on the cashmere Calvin Klein hoodie on Nordstrom’s website.
They ought to call it Fynn’s eyes.
Dark green. Like pine. Like an evergreen tree. But the sweater doesn’t have the tiny little flecks of gold in it like Fynn’s eyes do. The only way you would ever know about those few flecks of gold is if you are up close. Very close. His clients would see them, wouldn’t they? Or would they be too engrossed in the way he is using his talents to make them feel good to notice a tiny detail about Fynn?
I noticed them the night he had his hand wrapped around my cock. The first man to ever do that. I noticed the way his eyes sparkled at the prospect of touching me. Kissing me. “Next time.” He’d said. There hasn’t been a next time, yet. Life has happened instead. I want there to be. I want a next time with both of them. I want to be on my knees for Nandy. I want to release all control to him. I want to share that feeling of being dominated by Nandy with Fynn.
On my knees with Fynn next to me. Nandy’s impressive cock alternating between our waiting and willing mouths. Next time. Next time, that is what I want.
Naked. I want Fynn naked. I haven’t seen him that way yet. His chest. I’ve seen that, as he frequently has on a shirt he has failed to button. Or that doesn’t button at all. His chest is broad, sprinkled ever so lightly with dark hair between his pecs. I imagine the trail of dark hair I’d find lower on his abs…leading me to what I suppose is a very impressive cock.
He’s a sex worker. My stomach churns at that thought. He is, though, isn’t he? That doesn’t sit well. How does Nandy accept it so easily? A sex worker would have to have an impressive dick now, wouldn’t they?
I know firsthand Fynn knows how to use his hands. And that mouth. I haven’t felt it…yet. But I’ve stared at it. Dreamed about it.
I ponder the size of the sweater, returning my thoughts to his broad chest and shoulders. He’s a couple of inches shorter than I am, but that shouldn’t make a difference with a sweater.
I’ve never bought a gift for anyone before.
I’m nearly thirty years old and I’ve never cared enough about anyone to buy them a gift.
Have I really been shut down for that long?
My mom, when she was alive. Rowan, of course, and even Dad on the appropriate occasions. But gifts have always been with an occasion attached. Never just because.
Certainly never because a mutual lover bled all over your favorite sweater. Never because this color made me think of you and your Christmas tree eyes. Never just because.
I think everything about you is great.
I told Nandy I love him and got no response, but the words that won’t leave my head are Fynn’s. He meant that. It came out quickly, too quickly, and the call ended just as quickly after he said it. Just like the way I said I love you to Nandy before I could think.
I don’t just love Nandy. I love Fynn too. I miss him. I miss them both. I want them both. In every way possible, I want them both. They both make me feel things…things I never expected to feel. Things that make my heart race. Things that make my dick harder than it’s ever been in my life.
Maybe that’s the key. Quit thinking and just feel. Feelings and my desire to have them are what landed me here.
I call the store and plan for it to be wrapped and delivered to Fynn’s apartment. For a fleeting second, I ponder flying up there to deliver it in person, or at least see what the sweater looks like next to Fynn’s eyes.
I can’t. The jet-setting around has to wait until the off season. The playoffs are looming and although we are in; we aren’t playing great. My line has been gelling fine, but the third and fourth lines are a hot mess and Logan is pulling his hair out trying to find the right combinations of players. One thing is for sure it doesn’t matter how many superstars you have on your team or how well your top line is performing, if the third and fourth lines aren’t performing as well as the top two…well, you might make it a couple of rounds in the playoffs, but you won’t be walking home with a Cup in June.
I look at my phone and call up Nandy’s number. Looking at the text exchanges. There haven’t been many of late. All initiated by me. All eliciting one or two-word answers from him. Actual phone calls. None of those.
I screwed up. I scared him off.
He’s just dealing with the injury recovery. It’s his left hand. That’s going to be a tough one for him. Space, he just needs space. Everything is fine.