Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
JAKE
Jake lived for the moments when Dima forgot himself. When he put his hand to the small of Jake’s back as he moved past him in the condo’s kitchen. When he stretched his arm along the couch and teased a finger through the light hair at the nape of Jake’s neck. When he cracked up at one of Jake’s dumb puns, losing his studied reserve and the chronic lines of tension along his eyes and plush lips.
He should feel guiltier about all the ways he’d imagined those lips on his body. But now, nine weeks after moving in with Dr. Dmitri Moroz, eleven weeks after the last time Jake had his mouth on him—so he was counting, sue him—he’d wondered whether the chemistry between them was entirely one-sided.
No matter how many amazing espressos Jake brewed, or how many cute outfits he wore on the weekends, or how many times he wandered between his first-floor bathroom and bedroom wearing a towel when he knew Dima had a clear line of sight from the living area, he barely needed both hands to count the times Dima forgot himself and teased glimpses of the potential between them.
Dima rented him a room simply because Val asked. It wasn’t as if Jake could afford no place else and was trying to take advantage of Dima.
Okay, at least not take advantage of him that way.
Jake glared at his reflection as he splashed water on his face, rinsing away the last of the shaving cream. He shaved once a week, using an electric razor in his car the rest of the time, and the Sunday-evening ritual was his time to reset. Gear himself up for the work week and resume the professional persona that, despite his age, meant the U.S. government entrusted him with millions of dollars of electronics.
He opened the medicine cabinet to stow away his razor and shaving cream, the pill bottle on the lowest shelf catching his eye. His daily reminder that he’d be reliant on medication for the rest of his life to keep himself, and everyone around him, healthy. At least until he heard whether he’d made it into the injection trial. One shot every three or four months to keep his viral load undetectable? Sign him the fuck up.
With the pills also serving as a recurring reminder of his second encounter with Dr. Dmitri Moroz, a tiny part of Jake wondered whether something more kept Dima from getting too close. He shut the cabinet door and wrinkled his nose at himself in the bathroom mirror. Ridiculous. Dima’s entire job revolved around working with people with HIV. He’d barely twitched when Jake disclosed his status after their hookup.
For all Dima’s mouth-wateringly assertive toppy vibes their night at the club, he’d been nothing but respectful the times they met after and since Jake moved into the condo. He wasn’t sure how else to convey to Dima that he was open to so much more without crossing actual lines.
As expected, he found Dima clicking through Netflix summaries while he lounged like the king of his domain in the corner of his comfortable sectional sofa. His threadbare USAF tank top probably once belonged to Val and showed tantalizing hints of chest hair. To say nothing of the sweats that showed equally tempting evidence he wore nothing underneath. The sight made Jake want to drop to his knees and mouth at Dima through the soft cotton. Maybe he needed to abandon subtlety and serve himself up on a silver platter.
Instead of a spot at a far end of the sectional, Jake dropped onto the cushion next to Dima. He tugged his feet up until he sat cross-legged, one of his knees pressing into Dima’s thigh. Jake spared a moment to wish he’d donned one of his tiny pairs of sleep shorts instead of pajama pants, but the bigger man radiated heat even through two layers of fabric.
“Have you watched this one?” Dima asked, attention not leaving the screen as he gestured with the remote. “I can’t tell whether it’s trying to take itself seriously or not.”
Jake promptly forgot what the screen displayed. He was too busy trying not to freak out that, in his distraction, Dima dropped his free arm from the back of the couch and around Jake’s shoulders. With a single tug, Dima could tuck Jake into his side, against all the firm, solid warmth he’d craved for weeks. Had the move worked? Or would Jake break the spell the moment he answered, shattering the moment?
He was certain he tried for some sort of suave response, not the high-pitched squeak which emerged. The relaxed arm curled around Jake’s narrow shoulders froze, then vanished, as Dima retreated inward. When Jake peeked sideways, a ruddy flush stained Dima’s cheeks under his evening scruff.
Not meeting Jake’s eyes, he muttered, “Sorry.”
At least he hadn’t lunged to the far side of the couch, like the first guy Jake disclosed his status to after his diagnosis—months after the guy before failed to disclose his.
Though he’d better learned to bite his tongue under the not-so-gentle ministrations of drill instructors, sometimes Jake’s mouth still ran away from him. “I get it, okay?” he snapped. “Don’t get too close to the infected guy.”
Dima opened his mouth. Closed it before speaking. He leapt to his feet, pacing away from the couch before whirling on Jake. He strangled another response with a vicious shake of his head.
With a groan, Jake dropped his face into his cupped hands, and he sensed more than heard Dima move farther away. Did he chase after him and apologize for overstepping or run to his room and start packing? Jake’s confidence in a dark club had led him into the arms of the sexiest man he’d ever been with. Now, his attitude meant that man kicking him to the curb.
“Here.”
Jake lifted his head in time to catch the orange bottle Dima tossed to him. His stomach sank to the floor and beyond. Despite his outburst, he’d never expected his worst-case fear to be true . He squeezed the bottle and laughed, the sound harsh as it escaped his throat. “What, you think I needed proof of why you don’t want to touch me?”
Dima dragged his hands down his face. “That’d make me pretty fucking hypocritical. Read the name on the prescription, Jacob.”
He released tingling fingers, and the print on the label slowly resolved itself into words. Dmitri Moroz. Triumeq.
Which meant…
When Jake looked up at Dima, the other man nodded once. “Fuck,” Jake whispered. He placed the bottle on the coffee table with a trembling hand and resisted the urge to hide his face again.
Dima edged around the coffee table and returned to the couch. To Jake’s shock, he resumed his original position and, telegraphing the motion, lifted his arm until it once again rested around Jake’s shoulders.
Though Jake fucked up their evening, Dima’s hesitancy wouldn’t do. Dima should never wonder whether he could touch Jake, because the answer was always yes, yes, yes. He leaned sideways and burrowed himself into Dima’s chest until both the man’s arms wrapped around his smaller frame. “Sorry I’m an asshole,” he whispered, wanting to shut his eyes but fearing that if he did so, he’d open them again to find the embrace nothing but a dream.
Dima’s body slowly loosened, his shoulders lowering and arms relaxing. Maybe he’d needed this wall broken down just as much. “It’s okay,” Dima said. He followed the assurance by pressing a kiss to the crown of Jake’s head. “I’m an asshole sometimes too, sweetheart.”
Jake lifted his head slowly, braced for Dima to put space between them once more. Instead, Dima rearranged them on the sofa until Jake sat half in his lap, where Jake remained nestled in Dima’s grasp.
“I haven’t seen this one,” Jake said. Confusion clouded Dima’s face for a beat, until Jake jerked his chin at the television, still showing the Netflix info for a true crime special. “But I heard it’s supposed to be pretty good despite the silly title.”
“Guess we should check it out.” Dima settled them again, until they could both view the screen without straining their necks. As he snagged the remote and hit play, another ghost of a kiss dropped against Jake’s hair.