Chapter 11
COVEY
The thing about having spent my early adult years moving around a lot is that I never accumulated much stuff.
Even back in Amsterdam, I didn’t have many possessions.
The place I rented came with furniture, which was perfect, and I only picked up the necessities.
Between travel for different productions, the constant worry that I’d end up somewhere else the following year, and a general lack of energy to spend time shopping for random household items, I got by on the bare minimum.
When I moved to Burlington, I took only what I could fit in my two checked suitcases and a couple of small boxes.
I donated everything else to the new hires at the company.
I lucked out and found a place here that’s largely furnished, removing the need to spend time and money shopping for basics. It’s a bit bare bones.
In my first days, I picked up a few small things. A couple of throw pillows, a fake plant for the windowsill, and some curtains for the bedroom. Nothing else seemed important. I’ll survive a year and then decide whether to stay in this apartment before investing in anything more serious.
Maybe even look at buying a place of my own if everything goes to plan.
All that seemed reasonable as recently as last week. Now, I’m standing in the living room, trying to see the space through Aidan’s eyes. It’s very college student chic. His place has an air of sophistication, decorated like a real adult, with coordinating furniture and actual artwork on the walls.
Fuck. There’s not much I can do about it in the next… two minutes.
A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. He’s early. Okay, not that early, but those two minutes were essential to me getting my shit together, which shouldn’t be necessary. I’ve had a handful of company members over in the last few months, and I never had this problem.
I don’t have time to examine my anxiety right now. Instead, I open the door and gesture for him to come in.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Aidan replies, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his puffy coat. So, yeah, the evening is going swimmingly. If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was an awkward first date. It’s not even our first fake date.
Except it’s not a date at all. It’s two friends hanging out together, learning more about each other to deceive their friends and family into thinking they’re dating—a regular Thursday night. For someone, probably.
“Is there somewhere I can put my coat?” Aidan asks.
“Yeah, sorry, a bit tired this evening. Give it to me, and I can put it in the closet.” That’s further than I usually get with my outerwear. Usually, I dump it on a chair or the kitchen counter until I’m ready to go out again. It doesn’t make sense to put it away for a whopping twelve hours.
“We don’t have to do this if you aren’t up for it,” he says, tugging his arms out of the sleeves.
Under the heavy layer, he’s got on what must be his work clothes.
A dark gray sweater over a white button-down shirt, paired with a pair of black trousers.
He looks incredible. Maybe I should’ve opted for something that’s not sweatpants.
I own very few things that fall into that category. My closet is sixty percent dance gear, thirty percent comfy clothes, and a whole ten percent of what people would consider normal.
“No, I’m…” I’m tempted to tell him the whole thing. How I’m wildly screwing up the pas de deux with my partner. How I can’t quite manage to stay focused, and she’s ready to come for my head. How it feels like my whole career is in jeopardy. Except no one wants to hear all of that. “A bit sore.”
“Oh, I bet that happens a lot.” He says it with such surprise and awe that I’m convinced he’s never considered it before. It wouldn’t be the first time a date didn’t realize that dance is a very physical activity.
Not a date.
“Is there anything I can do for you? Maybe give you a massage?”
My jaw drops so far it probably looks like a cartoon where it’s completely detached from my face.
“A massage?” I’ve had plenty over the years.
The good, relaxing kind and the bad, work the worst knots out kind.
All from licensed masseurs or physical therapists who worked for the company.
Never from a romantic partner and never from a friend. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to, but I’m offering.
I’m pretty good with my hands.” He holds his palms out to me, and my whole body goes hot.
I’ve never really looked at his hands before, never had a good reason to.
But with him holding them up in front of me, it’s hard to miss how big they are.
I can’t help but wonder what else they excel at.
Nope, cannot go there. The minute I let my mind wander in that direction, the whole thing is over.
“I took a couple of massage therapy classes back in college as electives. Even remember some of it.” He winks at me, and heat pools in my abdomen.
“Um… I guess that would be okay.” I swallow hard, trying not to let any of my emotions show through on my face. “Only if you don’t mind.”
AIDAN
I’ve gone insane. That’s the only excuse I can come up with. I sent Covey off to find me some oil or lotion that I can use, which is also a welcome chance for me to think through the situation I’ve gotten myself into. Silas is never going to let me live this down.
I look around his sparse living room. There’s not much here for me to use for him to rest on. The bedroom would work better—but absolutely not. Massages in beds are not a friendly thing. My mind already has too many wild fantasies playing out to add that to the mix. The couch will work fine.
Now to pull my thoughts together. That part might be a little more complicated. “Can you grab a couple of towels, too?” I call to him. At least my brain is coming back online.
It’s not my brain I’m worried about. It’s my cock that I’m trying to get under control at the moment. These slacks don’t have a lot of room in them, but at least the dark color will help hide my reaction.
Covey comes back carrying a stack of big towels and a giant bottle of lotion. Seriously—I swear that thing is the size of a two-liter bottle of soda. My eyes must give away my questioning.
“It’s easier to buy it in bulk.” He shrugs and holds out the bottle for me. “I have to keep my skin nice for dance.” That sounds made up, but I don’t know enough to argue with him.
“Okay, put those on the couch.” I motion to the towels in his hand.
“And lie down on your stomach.” Covey complies with my directions perfectly—which, after a day with five-year-olds, is refreshing—but maybe a little too perfectly.
He’s still wearing all his clothes. And sure, I could give him a mediocre version on top of all that fabric.
It wouldn’t be as good, but it would be less intimate.
I shake my head, hoping some of whatever haze is currently blocking me will disappear. It’s not weird. It’s two guys hanging out. One of them having their shirt off doesn’t make it strange. Or sexy. It’s just part of it. When I took classes, I massaged multiple classmates, shirtless, with no issue.
Plus, Covey must be shirtless around people all the time.
I think. I probably need to learn a bit more about ballet.
I clear my throat before I speak, hoping my uncertainty doesn’t come through in my voice.
“It’ll be easier if you take your shirt off.
” Covey turns his head toward me. “If you want.” He continues looking at me, not moving. “Or not. Either way. Or whatever.”
Oh. My. God. Is there any way to force myself to shut up? Maybe a sock I could shove in my mouth?
“No problem, I should’ve thought of that.” I practically groan, but at least some amount of filter has returned. Usually, my ability to shut off my mouth and expressions is extraordinary. It’s an essential skill when working with children. They say all sorts of things that should never be repeated.
He strips off his sweatshirt and t-shirt in one quick move, and…
I’ve never met anyone with abs like that in real life.
I swear, I could play the xylophone on them.
That body is wasted on ballet. He should be on the cover of Men’s Health or something.
My cock immediately takes interest, because of course it does.
Thankfully, he lies back down quickly, letting me pick my jaw up off the ground and adjust myself in peace. A gorgeous man flashed his superhero abs at me. A physical reaction is normal. It means nothing other than it’s been way too long since I got laid.
Shit. How long have I been standing here? Covey will eventually wonder where his massage is. I manage to find a bit of space between his legs and grab the lotion. “This might be a bit cold, but it’ll warm up as we go along.”
“I can handle it.” His voice is muffled, but I get the message and dig in, working some lotion into his skin and making slow circles to help get his blood flowing.
If I thought his abs were a thing of beauty, his back muscles deserve to be carved in stone.
No one would ever know from all the baggy clothes he wears around.
All the massage techniques come back to me slowly, primarily as muscle memory, as I move my hands over his tight muscles, noting particularly tense areas. My thumb digs into a spot near his shoulder blade, and Covey moans. “Okay?”
“So good.”
I swallow hard. It’s impossible not to imagine another situation where I might be between his thighs, teasing moans out of him. And that’s precisely the kind of thought I’m trying to keep out of my head.
I shift a bit, making sure that there’s no chance my erection is going to bump into him. I have no desire to explain that one. It’s not easy trying to find a good position for a massage that also keeps me a good foot away from him in places.
Covey continues to fill the apartment with pornographic noises, gasping and moaning as I work some knots out of his shoulder.
I should get a medal for managing to stay in control through the whole thing, asking questions about whether the pressure is okay and if a specific area feels tight, rather than leaning down and kissing his flesh.
Or rubbing off against his ass.
By the time I’m done, my cock aches and the front of my boxers is damp. These pants are not going to keep him from noticing my erection once he sits up. “I hope that was okay. Make sure to sit up slowly so you don’t get lightheaded.” And also, to give me a minute. “I’ll grab you a cup of water.”
He starts to protest, but I’m already gone. Maybe a few yards of separation will help me calm down.
I grab two bottles of water from the fridge, leaving the door open longer than strictly necessary in the hopes the cold air will help my cock go down.
It doesn’t really, so I pull a move I haven’t done since high school and pull a pillow onto my lap as soon as I’m on the couch. The best I can hope for is that he doesn’t call me out.
“Thanks for this,” Covey says as he chugs half his water. “And for the massage. I had no idea you had that kind of skill.”
“Thanks, it’s just a bit of training.” Those courses filled a nice hole in my schedule and came with bonus massages from my classmates. Not all of them were good, but as a poor college student, I was happy to take what I could get.
“I can’t promise it’ll be nearly as good, but I’m happy to give you one, too.” He gets up and motions for me to lie down. There’s not a chance of that happening. I can picture it, and humping his couch while he runs his hands all over me until I come in my pants is not in the plans for tonight.
Or any night.
“I’m good.” I wave him off, taking the opportunity to take a long drink of my water.
“You sure? I’m not a pro, but I’ve got strong hands.” He holds them out, and all I can picture are some other things I’d like him to use his hands for.
Yep, Covey is trying to kill me.
“I’m good. Really.” The words come out a bit harsh, and I can see the confusion on his face.
“Okay, but if you change your mind…” His voice trails off as he rolls his head a few times, stretching out his neck. “Did you want to watch something? Or talk?”
Right. Tonight is supposed to be about the two of us getting to know each other better.
Preparing for the big Thanksgiving extravaganza.
That will be the true test of whether we’re going to pull this off; everything up till now has been merely an appetizer.
“We can watch something. What do you like?”
“Anything. I’m not picky.” That’s not much help.
“There’s this new food show I like. The guy travels to these exotic places and tries the local dishes. It’s pretty good.”
Covey shrugs. “Sure. Sounds good. Did you want something else to drink? There might still be a couple of beers hidden in the fridge.”
“Water’s good.” I don’t trust myself to have a drink right now. My decision-making and control are both wavering, and the last thing they need is a reason to give up altogether.
“Okay, I’m going to make myself a cup of tea.
” He stands up and stretches, his lean muscles on display.
I let myself stare for exactly five seconds before I look away.
Thankfully, he chooses that moment to pull his sweatshirt back on.
The oversized sweatshirt practically swallows him whole.
At least my dick has half a chance of going down now that he’s dressed.
I turn on his TV and find the show I mentioned, picking an episode in Europe that I think he might like.
Covey’s not far, I can see him in the kitchen, but the space between us feels huge.
It’s enough to break at least a bit of the spell I’ve been under and help me relax.
All of me. By the time he returns, I’m able to move the pillow off my lap and be a little bit more relaxed.
As soon as the show starts, Covey’s absorbed.
For him, that means staring at the screen while working himself into various positions that look wildly uncomfortable, which he claims is a way to stretch out his muscles and relax.
It’s impressive, partly because I’m not sure I’ve ever even been able to touch my toes.
Maybe for a whole day in first grade, before everything tightened up. Permanently.
Three episodes, two glasses of water, and one awkward goodbye later, I’m finally able to breathe a sigh of relief as I climb into my car.
One thing is abundantly clear: Silas was right. I’m falling for Covey. Hard.