Chapter 25
Finn
“It’s just a rental, but I love it.” Chase ran a hand through his hair, almost apologetically, as we crossed an empty street and approached a white house next to a barren lot.
Chase’s rental was a three-story brick townhouse tucked on a quiet side street, the kind of place that screamed, I’m a young professional who can afford nice things but doesn’t own property yet.
The exterior was modern, looking almost like giant white blocks set atop one another at odd angles.
Despite the designed disorder of the “blocks,” the place had crisp lines and massive floor-to-ceiling windows that glowed warm from the inside.
It wasn’t ostentatious, but it was nicer than anything I could afford.
We climbed the few steps to the front door, and Chase fumbled with his keys for a second. I hid a grin as his hands trembled before he managed to get the door open.
The inside was exactly what I expected, yet somehow better.
The open living space with exposed brick on one wall—a nod to Ybor’s cigar factory history—made the compact space feel somehow large and expansive.
Hardwood floors that probably cost more than my car gleamed in the track lighting.
At the far end, a kitchen was filled with stainless steel appliances and granite countertops that looked like they’d never been used for actual cooking.
The whole place was meticulously clean in that way that suggested either Chase had a cleaning service or never had time to make a mess.
“This is—” I started.
“Too much?” Chase tossed his keys into a small wooden bowl on a table by the door. He looked uncertain, like he was seeing his own place through my eyes and worried about my judgment.
“I was going to say nice. I mean, really nice.” I looked around, taking it in. “Do you live here, or is this just where you sleep between work shifts?”
“A bit of both.” Chase shrugged. “I’ve been here six months. It still feels like a hotel sometimes.”
There were no photos on the walls, no throw pillows or decorative nonsense. Everything was clean, modern, and functional space that could’ve belonged to anyone.
“It suits you,” I said.
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s an observation. It’s very organized and put-together. It says, ‘I’m a professional adult who has his life together.’”
“I don’t have my life together.”
“You have granite countertops. That’s basically the same thing.”
Chase laughed, and some of the nervousness melted away.
“Make yourself at home. I’m going to run upstairs to the bathroom. There’s wine in the rack below the counter if you’d like a drink. Glasses are above the island.”
Chase bounded up stairs whose railing was a series of black cables running at a diagonal parallel from the bottom post to somewhere above, adding yet another modern touch to an already very modern home.
I scanned bookshelves that covered every inch of one wall, finding two books, one faux crystal ball, and a bobblehead of the Tampa Bay Bucs quarterback.
There must’ve been room for a thousand books on that wall, and he had two.
That had to be a crime against humanity.
The sound of water flowing through pipes drew my gaze to the ceiling, where exposed pipes painted white blended into the ceiling. The water didn’t stop as it would with a toilet flush. If anything, it changed pitch, as though the hot water had been added to the cold.
“Is he taking a shower?” I asked the crystal ball.
It didn’t reply.
Unsure what else to do, I made my way into the kitchen.
Below the granite-topped island was a wine rack beside a wine fridge.
Both were filled with bottles whose end labels were aligned, perfectly rotated to be read.
Either he didn’t drink his own grape juice or he was insanely diligent in replacing a bottle the moment he emptied one.
I’d met guys with a touch of OCD, but this was compulsive behavior at an Olympic level.
Curious, I opened a drawer.
It was filled with silverware.
Normal people had little holders in which they tossed clean silverware, fresh from the dishwasher. I, like the rest of “normal” America, kept my short forks separate from my long forks, which remained separate from my spoons, and so on.
But Chase . . .
Holy shit.
Chase had his forks stacked so neatly I almost thought they were bound somehow. The spoons were likewise stacked to perfection. The knives, unwilling to stack per Daddy’s instructions, had their own independent tray that was skinnier than the others, forcing them to attention in a perfect pile.
I couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or freaked out by the serial killer nature of what lay before me.
I closed the drawer and squatted to look at the wine. Pinot noir called to me, so I grabbed a bottle and set it on the counter. I had to open three more drawers before finding the corkscrew. By the time Chase’s bare feet slapped the wood of the stairs, I was sipping a deliciously nutty wine.
“Find everything okay?” Chase asked as his feet, then legs, then the rest of him descended the stairs. A large towel was wrapped about his waist, and he was drying his hair with a hand towel. His bare chest and torso glistened as he rounded the bottom of the stairs and turned toward me.
“Uh, yeah, sure.” I tripped over my own tongue at the sight of rounded shoulders and a dusting of brackish hair coating his bare chest and abs. He wasn’t ripped like many of the gym bunnies in town, but his muscle was compact and lean, with the hint of a few abs struggling to be seen.
Given what I’d found in the kitchen, his lack of perfection somehow made him even more attractive.
His sort-of dried hair stood at odd angles, reminding me of children after their mom runs a towel over their heads and turns them loose.
His grin was lopsided, and that towel around his waist was begging to fall.
Or was that me begging for it to fall?
“Here,” I said, remembering how to speak. “Let me pour you a glass.”
He finished with the hand towel, tossing it onto the stairs, then leaned against the cable-banister. “I’m really not thirsty . . . for wine, at least.”
I took a long sip, gulped it down, then thought, Fuck it, and drained the glass.
His grin widened. “Come over here.”
I set the glass down and rounded the counter, coming within a few feet of where he stood.
“Come closer.”
I took a step forward.
His head cocked. “Closer.”
My mouth went dry. When had that happened?
I took another step forward, within arm’s reach.
Still, he didn’t move.
“Not close enough yet.” He raised his index finger and did the universal “come hither” thing.
It was like reeling in a catch with fishing line. I was helpless to resist. Before I realized it, I was standing so close to this almost-naked man that I could feel his breath on my face.
“Good boy,” he said, reaching up with one hand and lightly gripping the back of my head. “I like a man who does what he’s told.”
I was a confident guy, and I wasn’t new to the gay world. I’d met—and slept with—my share of men. But Chase? This guy had me so flummoxed I barely knew what to say. I blinked as he stared . . . and dripped onto the hardwood. My gaze fell to the tiny pool beneath his towel.
“Oops. Looks like I didn’t dry myself very well.” He looked down. “And I’m guessing you’ve already discovered how much I hate a mess.”
I swallowed hard.
“Dry that for me, would you?”
I looked at Chase, then down at the water, then at the discarded towel on the stairs. The moment I made to walk around him to retrieve the towel, he said, “Not with that towel, with this one.” He pointed to the one tied about his waist.
More water dripped from unseen body parts.
I blinked a dozen more times . . . and gulped twice.
“But . . . you’re . . . I mean . . .”
His tone turned stern. “Finn, I need you to be a good boy and dry that mess. I promise to reward you for your effort.”
Slowly, my hand raised, and I gripped the top of his towel. His skin was warm against my fingers, and I wanted to run my hand all over him, feel every inch of muscle and hair and—
“Go on,” he urged.
My other hand came up. Together, my hands undid the towel and held it as it lost its grip. I looked up to find Chase staring intently. His hand found my hair, and my whole body shivered beneath his touch.
The towel came away in my hands, revealing a beautiful, veiny cock nested in a tuft of sandy blond curls.
“The water, please,” he said, a touch of amusement threading his command. “You can worship him when your job’s done.”
I dried that damn puddle so fast it would make a maid’s head spin.
Mission complete, I stretched the towel, readying to wrap it back around Chase’s waist, when his fingers found the underside of my chin and lifted my head until our eyes met again.
“Leave the towel. We don’t need it anymore.”
“Okay,” I said, letting the cloth fall from my hand and straightening to stand before him.
“You’re wearing too many clothes, Finn.” Chase’s voice was soft but level. “Take off your shoes, then your socks.”
I kicked off my shoes, then reached down and yanked off one sock, then the other.
“Now your pants.”
It took a second of fiddling to get the darn button undone, but a few heartbeats later, my jeans lay atop my socks.
“Tsk, tsk.” He cocked a brow. “Underwear, please.”
I shimmied out of my tighty-whities and tossed them aside. When I reached for the bottom of my shirt to tug it off, Chase’s hands smothered mine.
“Oh, no. This is mine,” he said, pushing my hands away and stepping so close I could feel the hair of his legs tickling my own.