Chapter -13-
“Don’t panic.”
Denz has whispered those words ad nauseam for the last five minutes.
Exhaling, he grips the sink. His legs are still shaky.
There’s a dull ache in his lower back from arching so hard.
Shiny beads of cold water drip down his cheeks to his jaw as he stares at his reflection in Braylon’s bathroom mirror.
He’s fine.
So what if his ex-now-fake-boyfriend just gave him the best orgasm he’s had in years.
So what if said ex-now-fake-boyfriend also came simply from pleasuring Denz.
It’s okay. They’re okay. Maybe.
He didn’t stick around long enough to check. As soon as Braylon unpeeled himself from Denz’s thighs, Denz hopped off the counter, asked where he could clean up, then penguin-waddled through the bedroom to the bathroom. He didn’t pull up his jeans and boxers until the door was locked.
All signs of being perfectly fine.
His eyes scan over the items neatly arranged on the sink: shaving kit, electric toothbrush, a fancy citrus deodorant next to a small bottle of hair-and-body oil that, based on a brief sniff, has warm, spicy notes.
Explains the orange and cardamom, he thinks, and immediately shakes his head.
Jesus, what the fuck is he doing? Denz came here for a sand wich . To discuss his work issues, figure his shit out. Not to creep on body products. Definitely not to get a blow job from the man who’s faking a relationship to help Denz land a promotion.
He splashes more water on his face.
He’s done things like this before. Quick, messy hookups. He’s ducked into enough dark rooms or sketchy bathrooms. Done the occasional walk of shame. He can march right back into the kitchen and be the same chill Denz he was before coming here tonight.
No attachments, right?
He stares at his reflection one last time.
“ Please don’t panic.”
The curtains in Braylon’s bedroom are peeled open.
A bluish glow from the late night’s sky washes over the silver-and-white bedspread, the two end tables, a dresser.
His walk-in closet reveals a monochrome wardrobe.
Even his sleepwear, neatly folded on the edge of the bed, is gray, black, and white.
Another reminder that this isn’t the Braylon from UGA with lounge pants or boxers decorated in bright, ridiculous designs.
The room’s only pops of color come from a series of paintings forming a panoramic view of a beach. Ocean blue-greens and sunrise pinks.
Denz studies everything from the bathroom doorway. The cleanliness. No dirty socks or forgotten sex toys lying around. The one stray item is a sweatshirt peeking from beneath the bed. It’s gray with red lettering across the chest, a size too small for Braylon.
Denz’s sweatshirt .
Suddenly, a voice to his right says, “’Ello there.”
Braylon leans in the bedroom’s entryway. Shirtless . “Sorry,” he says when Denz startles. He holds up his crumpled T-shirt. “I was gonna toss this in the hamper. Kind of, uh. Got some of my, er. Your, um…”
In the dimly lit room, Braylon’s blush is neon pink.
“Come?” Denz suggests, arching an eyebrow. “Jizz? Spu—”
“Are you quite finished?” Braylon groans. “Yes. My shirt is ruined. Happy?”
Is Denz? He’s amused . Still three seconds from having a gay panic attack. Maybe even a little turned on again? (Seriously, it’s been a long time since his toes curled like that.) But is happiness sitting on the edge of everything he’s feeling?
“I can have it dry-cleaned,” he offers. “Or buy you a new shirt.”
“Unnecessary.”
Braylon steps fully into the room. Beams from the bathroom’s lighting dance over his chest, every definition in his abdomen. He’s gorgeous.
Denz might die.
Braylon signals behind Denz. “Also, I sort of need to…” All his fidgeting pulls a smile from Denz’s lips. “Uh, mouthwash. For the… I got some of your—”
Until that.
In the unexpectedness of clothes coming undone and lingering kisses and, well, the toe-curling blow job, Denz hadn’t realized he came in Braylon’s mouth. Hadn’t given it another thought, too caught up in watching Braylon’s euphoric expression.
Braylon must notice his mortification. “Oh God, don’t make that face,” he says. “It wasn’t terrible.”
“It wasn’t terrible?” Denz repeats in an octave only dogs can hear. Braylon might as well have said, I’ve had better . Two out of five stars. Would not recommend to others .
“Could we not?” Mild frustration shadows Braylon’s expression. “I’d just like to clean up a bit. If that’s okay with you.”
It’s not a question.
Carefully, Denz switches places with him, refusing to flinch when the bathroom door closes. He should go. They had a laugh. The sandwich was as delectable as he remembers. And he’s not as stressed about work.
That’s all he came here for. The other stuff was a bonus.
A history of hookups has taught him to never stay afterward.
According to Braylon, they didn’t break any of their agreement rules.
It was a quick, harmless blow job. Denz isn’t reinventing his own rules about no attachments, either.
There’s absolutely no reason to wait around for the awkwardness to ruin things.
So why is he sitting down on Braylon’s bed? Why’s he reaching for the sweatshirt? Why is he sniffing the soft cotton, like his scent could possibly linger after all these years?
The bathroom door swings open.
“Oh.”
Braylon, still shirtless, blinks at him.
“Is this mine?” Denz doesn’t want to assume. Half of Braylon’s wardrobe in college was UGA apparel. Perks of being a student athlete. But the answer Denz is expecting comes in the guilty twitch of Braylon’s mouth.
His next question slips out before he’s thought it through. “Did you keep it all this time?”
Braylon coughs. “Yes.”
Quiet crawls between them. Denz considers Braylon. His wiggling toes on the carpet. The slow rise and fall of his chest. It’s as if he’s building the courage to confess something.
Denz waits.
Braylon finally says, “I needed something to remind me of home while I was in London. You always left it behind in my dorm.”
“Or you’d steal it from mine.”
Braylon rolls his eyes. “Anyway. While I was packing, it was right there, and I took it.”
“You took it,” Denz repeats. Startling warmth snakes up the back of his neck.
“You should take it back,” Braylon says. “It’s yours.”
“No,” Denz says faster than he expects.
Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s Braylon’s wide-eyed, embarrassed face. Whatever the reason, Denz likes the idea of leaving a piece of himself in Braylon’s apartment.
In his life.
Which is something he’d do with an actual partner. Not an ex pretending to be his boyfriend.
“Keep it.” Denz drops the sweatshirt on a corner of the bed. “I’m too busy to have it saged and exorcised of all the London demons.”
Braylon crosses his arms, unconvinced.
Denz tries not to stare at the dusting of hair growing between his pecs. After a long beat, he says, “This isn’t going to get weird, right?”
He can already picture the uncomfortable texts they’ll exchange next week.
“Because I gave you head?”
“Well,” Denz starts, “I mean—”
“Or because you didn’t reciprocate?”
Denz’s eyes grow cartoonishly wide. “I—shit. You surprised me. I—”
Braylon snorts loudly before he can finish.
Oh . Denz flips him off.
“No weirdness,” Braylon says, still half laughing. “It was just a blow job. That’s all. You were tense. Had a shit week. Orgasms release endorphins, and I need you at the top of your game for my idea to work. You’re still up for it, right?”
Denz nods. “I’m in.”
He’ll schedule a follow-up email. Send out a Google calendar reminder. Later, though. Right now, he needs his eyes to stop tracing over Braylon’s chest. The soft smile pushing at his cheeks.
How the hell does he look so sweet after having Denz’s dick in that sinful mouth?
“I should get home. Work tomorrow morning,” Denz says because, if Braylon asked, he’d unquestionably stay the night.
“Okay,” Braylon says.
“Okay,” Denz echoes, not even a little disappointed. “So…”
His brain once again dances around how to say goodbye. A hug? A fist-bump and “thanks for the sandwich and next-level blow job”?
He settles on, “See you soon. For more, um. Fake boyfriend things.”
At the front door, he adds, “Thanks, Braylon” with a genuine grin that refuses to fade, even after he steps into the cool, damp night.
By midweek, Denz is in full event planner mode.
No email goes unanswered. He drains his phone’s battery talking to vendors and caterers.
Schedules meetings with Eric to discuss floral arrangements, menu ideas, the entertainment.
Uploads detailed notes on his dad’s party into the cloud with backup copies stored on his desktop.
He never leaves the office before 5:00 P.M. Sometimes, later.
Denz manages to juggle three things at once—the retirement party, Braylon’s spring break event, and their plans for fixing Skye’s the Limit’s social media. It’s like being in college again, his blood mostly composed of energy drinks and whatever’s fast and easy to eat.
He loves every second of it. But there’s still one item left to address.
“What’s this?”
Kami stares suspiciously at the lemon poppy seed muffin Denz places on her desk.
“A peace offering,” he replies.
“Are we fighting?”
“I don’t know.” Denz flops dramatically onto the comfy chair in her office. “I thought we were?”
“Why?” Kami’s gold bangles slip down her wrist as she tucks a curl behind her ear. “Because you had a meltdown last week?”
“I didn’t have a—” Denz sighs. “Fine. I was being a brat.”
“You had your reasons.”
“I didn’t have to take it out on you.”
“No, you didn’t.” Kami bites into the muffin, obviously waiting for more of an explanation.
Denz doesn’t have one yet. He’s still processing it all. The conversation with their dad. What Kami said. The things Braylon said too.
(The things Braylon did. Which he’s not thinking about. Except, occasionally, his brain goes there .)
Kami clears her throat.