Chapter Eight
Oliver
When we’re back on the road, I’m still thinking about what Matt told me. I look at this big man with muscles for miles, handling the wheel so confidently. Everything about him exudes control, calm, and trust. He’s kind, dependable, and so fucking beautiful.
I literally want to find that family and ask them how they could hurt him. How could they just…not love him? Watching him hum absentmindedly, a small smile on his face, I realize I’d do anything to make this man happy.
The thought scares me a bit, but I’m not surprised. I’ve always liked him. I just didn’t want to acknowledge it because it would hurt me. And I was right, wasn’t I? Matt Hale is going to break my heart.
I clear my throat, remembering something. “By the way, I tried to look up Dalton Smith on Facebook,” I say, filling the easy silence between us.
Matt’s eyebrow lifts right on cue. The guy can have an entire conversation just with eyebrows. “Did you find anything?” he asks, his eyes on the road.
“Nah, there were too many results. I narrowed it down to the city, still nothing. I gave in and even looked at TikTok and Instagram. It was pretty much a dead end.”
Matt nods slowly, all understanding. With the amount of patience and support he has shown me while I go through this, frankly, completely lunatic journey, he should be eligible for sainthood.
That reminds me. “Can you get Nick to give you his family’s information so we can talk to them?” I ask, hesitant. Sure, Oliver, ask him to name you in his will while you’re at it.
“He would if it wasn't illegal.” He looks genuinely apologetic.
“Alright, maybe we can just talk to Gina in 7D. She could have heard something. Anything that’d prove I’m not fucking losing my mind at thirty,” I say, a little frustrated.
Matt closes his eyes for a millisecond and breathes out loud.
“I know I’m not making sense...” Boy, do I know!
“No, let’s do it,” he interrupts, determined.
“Perfect,” I sigh with relief. As long as Matt buys it, I can keep telling myself I’m not a few marbles short.
He focuses on the road for a while, and I take the time to shamelessly ogle at his biceps and forearms. Who knew forearms could be that attractive? I follow the corded muscles up to the sleeves of his blue T-shirt, where they hide under the fabric.
Matt clears his throat, the noise slicing through the silence in the car. “So, what’s Nadia up to in the next episode?” His voice is rough.
That doesn’t distract me from his words, though. “You watch the show?” I ask, excited.
“I watched an episode last night.”
I look at him expectantly, waiting for his reaction. I don’t even know why. He's the opposite of the show’s target audience.
Probably sensing my desperation for approval, he continues, “It was funny. A little cliche. A lot exaggerated. But weirdly a fun watch.”
“That's exactly what we’re going for,” I admit, satisfied by his response. I lean my head against the seat.
“And I need to know what happens next,” he adds.
I laugh and tell him about the upcoming episode and the dialogue I got in on the script. He boosts my ego by laughing and nodding at all the right places. We talk about my work the rest of the way.
After parking in the apartment garage, we stand behind the truck and look at the tree again.
“We may have gone overboard,” I comment.
I look at him. Then I look at the tree.
“Alright, let's take it up.” Matt claps his hands like a drill sergeant.
He unfurls the rope and slowly pulls the tree back. He guides me to hold it from the neatly wrapped side. I brace myself for the heavyweight that will probably crush me, internally berating myself for not going to the gym often …or like ever.
But when I finally hold it, it's pretty light. Then I look at Matt's biceps bulging against his T-shirt as he starts walking back towards the stairs. The man is holding the entire, truck-sized Christmas tree by himself. My breath picks up for completely different reasons than I was prepared for.
Matt holds the door open with his legs and starts walking backwards towards the stairs. “Maybe I should walk backwards because you know…” I’m not carrying a fucking twelve-foot Christmas tree?
“No, I got it,” he says, no strain in his voice. We start climbing up.
On the first landing, he guides me slowly to make sure I'm not crushed between the wall and the tree. “Stay,” he says, moving around. “Now, turn.”
My body rushes to follow his instructions.
“Slow… That’s right.” His voice is throaty, probably because he’s holding the weight of an entire tree. My body doesn’t get the memo though. I feel all the blood traveling down. This is so not a good time to get an erection. But I apparently like it when he tells me what to do a little too much.
Matt takes the steps efficiently, like he casually climbs up stairs backwards all the time, while I’m huffing and puffing by the time we reach the third floor. I'm not even holding any weight. This is just me after climbing three flights of stairs.
We continue up, but our pace slows, clearly so I don’t keel over.
By the time we reach his door, I’m ready to throw the tree on the floor, Christmas be damned.
Feeling like an absolute Grinch, probably looking like one too, I let go as soon as the door opens.
Matt drags the tree inside easily without acknowledging my lack of stamina.
I drag myself inside the door and close it behind me. Then I lean back against it, trying to get my breath back to normal. I’m sweating. I'm sure my face is red and hideous.
And there is Matt, dragging the tree like it has wheels at the bottom. He pulls it up and props it against the wall.
“I may have to move the couch,” he says, contemplating furniture movements like he didn't just carry two hundred pounds up seven flights of stairs, basically alone.
I open my mouth to make suggestions, but no words come out. So I go back to focusing on my breathing.
He looks up at me. His eyes move from my face down to my neck. His gaze gets stuck there. I would look down to see if I have something on my throat if I could peel my gaze away from his dark, stormy eyes.
“You're all flustered,” he murmurs.
“Maybe because we just climbed seven floors, you freak.” I huff out, breaking the sudden tension in the air. I’m starting to feel too hot.
He laughs. A small one, a little distracted. He stares at me for a couple of more seconds before shaking his head. He then starts to push his three-seater couch all by himself right in front of me. This shit should be censored, it’s so obscene.
At least he's dragging it and not lifting the whole thing.
“Dude, you’ll damage the floor.” Anything to make this slow torture stop.
“Don’t call me dude,” he says absentmindedly.
Okay?
Then he looks down to see the recently revealed patch of wooden floor. “Doesn't look like I will.”
He continues dragging the couch away from the windows while I just stare at his focused expression, eyebrows bunching up, no sign of sweat.
Once he's satisfied, he straightens up and dusts off his hands. Next, he moves the table.
My breathing is back to normal, but now I’m all hot, bothered, and half hard looking at this man doing hard manual labor with zero effort.
“How much do you bench?” Words leave my lips before I can even process them.
He straightens up and looks at me. “Not a lot,” he says, almost shy.
I take a step towards him, needing to be closer. “That is unnecessarily humble of you.”
“I have to work out for work,” he says, his eyes tracking my movements.
“Must lift a lot of heavy stuff at work,” I say, my voice a little too low.
“Sometimes,” his voice barely audible.
I take another step towards him, and he leans on the back of the couch, his hands grasping it tightly.
I'm going to climb him, my body tells me, before my mind can pitch in.
When I’m just within his reach, the warmth of his body and the smell of pine and body wash consume me. I crave the feel of his hard muscles against me.
“Are you fishing for workout tips?” he smirks.
The first time I saw that smirk, I wanted it wiped off. This time, I can finally do something about it. When our lips meet, a jolt runs down my spine. I feel the softness against my lips, his stubble scratchy on my chin.
My hands immediately go around his neck, and then I am kissing him, my lips moving over his with passion. So soft, so inviting. When I still don’t get the angle I want, I stand on my tiptoes to better access his mouth.
Then I realize a kiss is better when both parties are participating.
Does he not want to kiss me? Did I misread the situation? Oh my god, did I make this awkward?
My mind starts spiraling. He’s just my type, but I’m definitely not his. All the guys that I have seen go into his apartment have been big, strong, tall, muscled, just like him. Oh god, am I forcing myself on him? I almost want to laugh at the idea of me forcing this tank of a man to do anything.
Then I’m angry at myself for making sexual harassment about physical power. Oh my god, am I sexually harassing him?
And why am I still kissing him?
I immediately back off, my eyes wide, breath heavy. When our eyes meet, his are narrowed in on my mouth. His hands are still clutching the couch for dear life.
“Fuck…I—”
His mouth descends on me with force, and I’m no longer in control of what's happening. He kisses me like he’s starving, like he can swallow me whole.
I sacrifice myself by opening my mouth.
His tongue immediately slips in, exploring my mouth with all the passion that was missing just seconds ago. When our tongues collide, I groan. His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me into him.
I clutch his T-shirt, then move my hands over the hard muscles of his chest.
His other hand moves up my neck, combing my hair. He adjusts my face, tilting it so he has better access, and continues the exploration with his tongue.
When he takes my lower lip into his mouth and bites lightly, I let out an embarrassing whimper.
He growls and pulls me closer. He groans in satisfaction when my hard dick rubs against him. I lose all control and start grinding against his thigh. His hand moves down to my ass. He grabs it and pulls me impossibly closer, encouraging me.
A loud ring from someone’s phone stops my movements. Matt doesn't pay it any mind and continues his slow inspection of my mouth, swallowing my confusion. The ringing grows louder before it stops.
My hips start moving again, but then the noise returns.
I pull back. “It's your phone,” I murmur.
“I don't care.”
He moves to kiss me again. I back off further. His eyes are trained on my lips, predatory, dark, and excited by the challenge.
“It might be important.”
“Still don't care,” he growls and takes my mouth again, his tongue moving on my lips.
When the phone starts back up for the third time, he groans against my mouth.
He pulls out his phone from his pocket, cursing under his breath. I only make out “fucking dead” before he’s answering the call.
All the while, I stare at him dazed, his hand keeping me firmly flush against him.
I hear a woman’s frenzied voice on the other side, but I can’t tell what she’s saying.
Matt’s hand loses its grip on me, so I take a long step back. The moment is officially over.
“Yeah, I’m leaving right now,” he says into the phone, his eyes on the ground.
I swallow, my lips stinging from the onslaught, my dick fully hard. Suddenly, I feel embarrassed about jumping him, although he was clearly into it.
I look down to check my hypothesis. Satisfied with the outline of his hard and intimidating cock, I decide to make myself scarce before he throws me out like one of his one-night stands.
Matt disconnects the call and looks at me, disappointment pooling in his eyes. Because we had to stop or because we started at all?
I’m waving him off before he tells me he has to leave.
“I'll see you later then,” I throw over my shoulder and walk out without waiting for his reply.
Did I sound too needy? Will he stop talking to me now? The guy is clearly not into relationships. He couldn't have been clearer about it.
I increase my pace, postponing my freakout for when I’m in the safety of my apartment like an adult.
As soon as I close the door behind me, I lean back with a thump.
What the fuck did I just do?