Twenty Ben #3
“This is nice,” Ben said. No animals, though, not that he could notice. “You have any pets?”
Arya shook his head. “My schedule makes it hard to keep a dog. And I’m allergic to cats. Will Simon be okay?”
Ben cocked his head. “Who said I was staying long?”
“I meant with the storm.” Arya gestured out the windows as another crack of lightning lit the sky. Thunder rattled the glass.
Actually, maybe Ben would be stuck here for a while.
“She’s not too nervous about thunder,” Ben said.
“Oh good. She’s a good dog.”
“She is.”
Ben didn’t know what he’d do without Simon.
In just two short months, she’d become a part of him.
He looked forward to waking up to her wagging tail every morning.
Taking her on runs. Laughing at her antics.
Curling up on the couch and watching TV with her.
Practicing in his solarium with her lying next to his feet, soaking up the sun and his music.
He loved Simon.
And it meant a lot—more than he wanted to admit—that Arya was worried about her. His pretend boyfriend’s dog.
Ben rubbed the back of his hair. They’d spent thirty seconds in the rain, max, but it was soaked and messy.
“You need a towel?” Arya looked Ben up and down. In addition to his messy hair, his dress shirt stuck to his skin. His pants clung to his legs. His glasses were covered in raindrops.
Arya was in no better shape. Water beaded on his shaved head, sparkling in the light.
His shirt—light pink and open at the collar—was so soaked through that Ben could see the dark spots of Arya’s areolae beneath it.
His slacks were wet, too, enough that Ben could tell which side Arya had dressed to.
“Ben? Towel?” Arya asked again.
Ben shook himself. He doffed his cello case. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Arya disappeared down a hallway lined with black-and-white photographs. Ben fought with his wet tie, slid it out of his collar, pulled off his jacket, and started unbuttoning his shirt. Thankfully his tank top was still mostly dry.
Arya came back a moment later, his own jacket and shirt gone. Unlike Ben, he didn’t wear an undershirt, so his russet chest and stomach were on full display. The light caught the dips and shadows of his form in splendid relief.
Ben had seen Arya’s chest before, of course. He pulled his raglan off at kickball sometimes. But seeing it now, when Ben was down to a tank top himself, felt… different.
His skin tingled. The air between them had turned thick as molasses. Ben’s heart boomed and rolled like a timpani solo.
Arya’s eyes lingered on Ben’s white-clad chest. He held two towels at his side, arms heavy and limp.
“Damn.” He shook himself, like he hadn’t meant to speak.
Ben’s shivering skin started to warm. “What? Like what you see?”
“I think I made that clear the night we met,” Arya joked. “And you weren’t even wearing a tank top then. Damn.”
Ben laughed and pinched at it. “It’s just a tank. No big deal.”
Arya stepped closer, moving both towels to his left hand and reaching for one of Ben’s straps with the other. When Ben didn’t move, Arya slid a gentle finger beneath it.
“Not all tank tops are made alike,” he said softly. Reverently.
Okay, he wasn’t wrong there. Ben’s tank top was nicely fitted, with wide straps that highlighted his shoulders, a neck hole that framed the valley of his pecs, armholes that covered his lats and accentuated the strength in his back.
Arya’s hand moved down to rest over Ben’s heart, palm pressed against the swell of Ben’s pec. Ben swallowed, held his breath. Arya’s hand was warm, strong. His heart beat faster beneath it. Could Arya tell?
Ben made the mistake of looking at Arya’s face. Arya was still focused on Ben’s chest, but his pink tongue darted out to lick his lips.
He didn’t seem to realize what he’d done.
“God, your body’s incredible,” Arya murmured.
Ben laughed, low, humble. “You looked in the mirror lately?”
Arya was pure sex: brown skin, long legs, shapely head, trim and fit and capable. His usual scent, tea leaves and bow rosin, was joined now by petrichor.
Arya bit his thick bottom lip. Again, Ben didn’t think he realized it.
But when Arya looked up, there was fire in his eyes.
It was Ben’s turn to move without realizing it. Because suddenly his hands were at Arya’s waist.
Shit.
They had rules for this. One great big flashing rule. Their Prime Directive.
No sex.
But his breath caught in his throat as a water droplet carved a path from Arya’s scalp, down behind his ear, along the curve of his neck, to pool in the little divot of his collarbone.
Ben’s cock felt full, not hard but ready, like one good Kegel would squeeze out a bead of precum. And was it just him, or were Arya’s pants starting to strain a bit?
Arya caught him looking. He swallowed, dropped the towels to bring his left hand up to Ben’s other pec. He gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
“Uh-huh.” Ben never wanted Arya to stop touching him.
But shit. Shit.
“What about rule number one?”
He didn’t let go of Arya’s waist, though. If anything, his thumbs found the little divots of Arya’s hip bones and kneaded gently.
Arya bit his lip.
Then he leaned in, so close his nose brushed Ben’s. He kept going, ghosting his lips across Ben’s jaw, but he didn’t go for Ben’s weak spot. Instead, he spoke into Ben’s ear, voice soft as a blanket: “I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”
The feel of Arya’s breath against his ear, the heat in his statement, had Ben’s dick flexing into full hardness. His heart raced, not just the timpani now but the entire percussion section, banging out Holst’s “Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity.”
Arya hovered there, not moving, just waiting.
Letting Ben choose.
Well, shit.
If Ben chose wrong, he chose wrong. Because fuck rule number one.
He tilted his head and brought his lips to Arya’s.