Chapter 36 Will
Will
We’ve had three more doses of Trouble. Heaped, decadent doses.
Handfuls and mouthfuls that overflow and are impossible to contain.
He’s come back to us three more times. Always on Thursday nights.
Always after ten, just late enough to make Mattie frantic that he won’t come back.
Trouble’s hard and horny by the time he arrives and is entirely unrepentant about it.
Last night, for the first time, Mat’s prostate received the same consideration from Trouble that mine’s been receiving.
Mat was on his knees with his face buried in a pillow.
It absorbed some of the sounds he made but not all of them.
Not even close to all of them. It was so hot to watch, I almost came hands-free.
This morning Mat seems sheepish after Trouble leaves. He keeps watching me out of the corner of his eye when he thinks I’m not looking. When I catch him doing it, he smiles. It’s a little forced. Only one cheek dimples. And not deeply either.
“You okay?”
“Sure,” he lies. “Just running late for work.”
He hits the gym for a long session straight after work. I have a late meeting, so I can’t meet him there. By the time I get home, he seems over his little blip. The Weekend is playing, and Mat’s humming and making grilled chicken and broccoli and rice. One of my favorites.
“Mm, God, that smells good.”
He chuckles dryly. “I knew you’d say that.”
“What can I tell you? I’m easy to please.”
“Yeah.” He pauses. “I know that.”
His tone takes the atmosphere in the room in its fist and twists it hard.
The way he says it makes it mean something different.
Suddenly we’re not talking about chicken and broccoli, but rather, we’re talking about other things I like.
Other things that please me. It makes me feel slightly choked that he knows these things about me now, and I have to focus really hard to keep my breathing even.
We balance our plates on our laps and eat in front of the TV.
Even though we usually try not to drink during the week, we both have a large glass of wine with our meals.
It warms me as it runs down my throat, lubricating parts of me and making me think about saying things I’m not consciously aware of ever thinking before.
Mat glances at his phone, tilting the screen away from me as if he thinks I won’t notice what he’s doing.
That’s the second time he’s done it tonight.
Last time he was here, Trouble caved and gave us his number and took ours.
I warned him he’d be hearing from Mat a lot.
I warned him that Mat tends to message faster than he thinks. Mat rolled his eyes when I said it.
Time will tell whether I’m right about that or not.
He places his phone on the arm of the goddamn sofa with its screen facing down and picks at the seams of his jeans.
He usually does that when he’s waiting for a girl he likes to call.
Usually, when I see him doing it, it concerns me.
It’s one of the first tell-tale signs that Mat’s falling.
Normally, when it happens, I feel a familiar gnawing pang of concern.
He falls fast. Too fast and with no thought of the consequences.
I hate it when it happens. I’m protective of him, and I hate seeing him get hurt.
His relationships don’t usually last long.
They start out hot and burn out quickly.
Usually, the breakups hit him hard. They floor him, but he shakes it off quickly.
The way he behaves when he waits for Trouble to come back gives me a bad feeling that if this situationship we’ve found ourselves in ends, it won’t be pretty watching him recover.
I feel weird when I think about it, fluttery and unsteady in my belly.
On the one hand, I’m glad I’m around to make sure things stay on an even keel.
I’m much more levelheaded than Mat is. I keep my wits about me.
I have a lot more experience with relationships than he does, and I know how to manage my shit.
I don’t go around willy-nilly falling for people without thinking things through.
I’ll keep him steady. There’s no way I’ll let him make this Trouble thing into something it’s not. Not on my watch.
I’m glad he isn’t trying to navigate this on his own.
I’d hate that. I’d be worried out of my mind because this thing with Trouble is a lot.
A lot, a lot. I freely admit it. It’s different and new.
It’s unchartered territory in a very big way.
It doesn’t matter how cool you are with who you are and with a bunch of other shit.
This kind of thing has the potential to ruffle anyone.
Mat’s sitting three or four feet away from me with his face turned toward the TV.
His profile is lit by harsh dappled light.
It hits his cheekbones and changes. Light and shadows dance across his face.
His profile is neat. It’s pretty close to perfect, actually.
If you were the type of person who drew faces, his is probably the kind of face you’d want to draw.
Soft slope for his brow. Straight nose that’s neither too big nor too small.
Lips that are a little fleshier than you might expect.
His top lip has a gentle curve, and it protrudes a little more than his bottom lip.
His cupid’s bow is mild. Almost non-existent.
It makes his lip look more swollen than other people’s.
I turn my attention back to the screen. We’re still working our way through True Blood. Now and again, if I complain enough about it, Mat lets us take a little break, and we cleanse our palates with a lovely little taste of Parks and Rec.
I’m struggling to get into this episode.
I haven’t been paying attention, and I think the storyline has gotten away from me.
I’m not feeling my best. I’m finding it hard to sit still and focus, which isn’t like me.
I wonder if I’m coming down with something.
I feel a low level of heat on one side of my body.
It’s like sitting close to one of those outdoor heaters they have in restaurants.
One side of my face is warm, and I can’t tell if I’m feeling too hot or not hot enough.
I head out to The Spot for lunch. It’s near my office, and they have the best soup-and-salad combo in LA, in my humble opinion.
I usually go alone when I have a gap in my day.
I try to get one of the little tables that faces the street.
Even though there are always a ton of people milling around, sitting alone resets me and lets me center myself if I’ve had a busy morning.
I find my usual table and watch people go by.
A tight navy dress. A high pair of heels.
A swish of a long blond ponytail. Curves and hips catch my eye as they pass me by, the same way they always do.
I catch myself and try not to look for too long.
God knows the last thing women need is guys ogling their asses as they innocently go about their business.
I bite into my sandwich, avocado and bacon—my usual.
Today I asked them to add sundried tomatoes.
It’s creamy and salty. Smooth and crispy, like always, but the new addition adds a tangy note.
A hint of chewiness I didn’t know I’d been missing.
I look up as I swallow. A snug pair of blue jeans.
A muscular ass. Short, spikey dark hair.
A masculine swagger that catches my eye.
This time I let myself look. I let myself watch.
I follow his gait until I lose sight of him.
I think about him naked. I think about being inside him.
To my shock, it feels plausible. It feels entirely possible.
It feels different too. Physically possible.
Physically plausible, though entirely lacking in the heat and charge that being around Trouble has.
As I walk back to work, I think about the navy dress and the blond ponytail, and I realize with a jolt those felt different too.
Physically possible? Sure.
Heat and charge? Not even a little.
Oh shit.
I meet Mat at the gym after work. He’s already warmed up, and the excess of energy in him has him all but bouncing off the walls.
I warm up quickly and meet him in the weight section.
It’s chest and back day, and I find him on a bench, ready to press.
He’s just upped his weights, and I’m pleased he’s waiting for me to spot him.
The gym is packed tonight. There are guys everywhere.
The music is loud. A little too loud, in my opinion, but it does get the momentum going.
The place could do with a few more windows.
A bit of fresh air and natural light wouldn’t go amiss.
The ceiling is low in this section, making it feel claustrophobic.
As always, there’s a strong scent of sweat cloying around the benches.
It hits my olfactory system, and tonight, instead of making my nose wrinkle, the odor turns salty in a way that makes a pool of saliva form under my tongue.
Salty and heavy and male. I blink it off and look down at Mat.
He’s on his back, looking up at me, and I’m standing at his head, facing his feet.
My arms are out, ready to catch anything he can’t handle.
His biceps and pecs are straining. Arms shaking. Teeth gritted.
“You can call it,” I say. “Don’t push too hard.”
“I’ve got it,” he groans through his teeth.
He’s coated with a fine sheen of sweat that makes his T-shirt stick to his chest, highlighting the furrow between his swollen pecs.
He’s making a soft rasping sound that lets me know if he had any common sense, he’d only have one or two reps left.
His face is set with determination. He’s hurting, but I know him well enough to know he'll finish this set, even if it kills him.
He does.