Jordan
I open the front door as quietly as I possibly can so I don’t wake anybody. It’s late. There’s no telling who’s home right now, but there’s a good chance that if I wake somebody I’m in for either an interrogation, excessive nosiness, a lot of teasing, or any combination of the three.
I’d like to avoid that if at all possible.
I push the door open, and the first thing I see is the light coming from the kitchen, complete with the murmur of voices.
Shit.
It’s more a resigned sigh than a curse.
I toe off my shoes, square my shoulders, and head toward the voices, ready to get it over with.
The absolute last thing I expect is to find Milán sitting at my kitchen table with my father, their heads close together as they lean over a photo album.
I stop dead in the doorway.
“Uh…” I say.
They both look up at the same time. Milán holds up the album, flips a few pages, and taps a photo of teenage me sleeping on the floor with baby Theo nestled in my armpit.
“The bed is right there,” he says. “Literally right there.”
I can barely look at him. “Nothing beats a good nap on a hardwood floor.”
What if he can tell? What if he can look into my eyes and know?
My smile is stiff.
He laughs. It sets my teeth on edge, the easy way he does it.
It annoys me.
I annoy me.
“What… what are you doing here?” I ask, stumbling over my words. I annoy myself even more like this.
Stupid me with my stupid thoughts being a fucking idiot.
Milán quirks his brow and looks me up and down. “Seems we got a bit carried away.”
Can he tell? Does he know? That I think about him all the time.
I look away. “Where are the boys?”
“Asleep. I put a mattress in Theo’s room,” Dad says.
I nod. “Well. It’s getting late,” I say, because all I really want right now is to get away.
I can feel Milán’s eyes on me. I’m not even looking at him, but it still makes me fidget.
“What do you know? So it is.” Dad gets up and puts the mugs in the sink. “Jordan will get you settled in the guest room,” Dad tells Milán when he passes him on his way out of the kitchen. He pats Milán’s shoulder.
Of course Milán has charmed him.
I bite back a sigh.
Yeah. Why the fuck not, right?
Dad’s footsteps disappear down the hallway and the door to his bedroom clicks shut. I brave a look in Milán’s direction. He’s eyeing me calmly with an unreadable expression.
“Let’s get you settled,” I say.
He follows me silently up the stairs. I stop in front of Theo’s door and quietly push it open.
Theo is sleeping in his bed the way he usually does, all the blankets fashioned into a cocoon.
Rory is sprawled out on the floor, head and upper body on the mattress, legs hanging over the side, hugging a pillow and snoring softly.
Dog is laying between the two of them, blinking slowly at us.
This time my smile is real.
Milán snorts softly from behind my shoulder.
“I used to be able to do that,” he says in a low voice. “Sleep in any position, anywhere, anytime.”
“Yeah. Not anymore, though. I need a bed.”
It’s not like what I say has some sort of double meaning, but just the mention of a bed while standing this close to Milán makes my mouth go dry.
Get a grip, Jordan.
I don’t.
I close the door and motion toward the stairs. “Up there.”
“You have a lot of stairs in this place,” Milán says while we move up a floor.
“The joy of a townhouse. It’s high and on the narrow side.”
He’s quiet for a bit, then, “Where’s your room?”
I point to a door.
“And the guest room?”
I point to the door next to mine.
He nods. “So you each have your own floor, huh?”
He’s standing so close. Close enough that I can smell the faint hint of his aftershave. I lean my shoulder against the doorframe, pretending I’m relaxed. That my heart isn’t tripping over itself.
“The bathroom is over there,” I say. “There are extra towels under the sink and a toothbrush.”
“You can take the first shower,” he says. His shoulder almost brushes mine, and his eyes get even more intense.
I try to figure out if there’s a hidden meaning to what he’s saying. If this is him wanting me to… wash the date off my skin.
Stupid.
Stupid, stupid me.
There’s too little space between us and the air feels thin.
I tell myself not to move. Not to look at his mouth. Not to notice him. Of course I do. I notice everything.
It’s yearning and longing and pure terror.
“Okay,” I say belatedly. “Yeah. Um, I guess, go check out your digs in the meantime?”
I almost groan out loud.
Go check out your digs?
Jesus fuck! Who says something like that? My cheeks heat, and it’s a good thing the hallway is so dim. Maybe he won’t see.
Milán bites back a smile.
“Okaybye,” I say in one breath, then escape.
I lean my back against the door in the bathroom and let out a string of whispered curses.
This… thing. This… whatever the fuck you call it.
Desire? Curiosity? Blue balls? It’s put the weight of the world on my shoulders, and it’s crushing me.
It’s an ache that won’t go away. A storm I can’t find shelter from.
I turn the shower on and adjust the temperature to cold. I barely notice the icy spray, mind elsewhere. Always.
I wash off the date and the evening and dry myself. Brush my teeth. Almost laugh out loud when I realize I didn’t bring my clothes.
I hesitate at the door and clutch the towel tighter around my waist. My bare feet pad softly over the floor when I make my escape to my bedroom. I pull on a pair of boxer shorts and absently rub the towel through my still-wet hair.
I have to go check on Milán, but then I’m done and can freely go hide. I pull a T-shirt over my head and start to head to the hallway again before I go back and find a T-shirt and a pair of sleep pants for Milán. My pulse pounds in my neck at the thought of him in my clothes.
The bathroom door is open a crack, light spilling out.
I push it open wider, too distracted by my thoughts to let common sense in.
“Hey, I got you some—”
He’s standing in the middle of the bathroom, chest bare, jeans unbuttoned, clutching the shirt I left on top of the pile of my clothes on the laundry basket. He’s holding it up, nose pressed into the fabric.
His eyes widen when he sees me standing there.
I register all of this in slow motion, with my quickening, progressively louder heartbeat as my soundtrack.
Adrenaline courses through my body.
Warning bells make themselves known.
Don’t do anything stupid. Think things through.
The clothes I’ve been holding flutter to the floor, and I’m on the move.
Not breathing, mouth dry, heart working overtime, eyes locked.
One, two, three steps.
I do something stupid.
I don’t think things through.
My lips find his. My heart beats, and my breath hitches, and a rush of elation moves through me.
I like this. I want more.
There’s been a nagging fear living inside me, alongside the curiosity. A skeptical voice that’s been pointing out the one big what-if.
What if you kiss him, and it turns out you don’t like it? What if you’re not into it?
Relief burns in my chest.
I like it.
I’m into it.
I want to laugh out loud.
I’m into it!
It’s barely a kiss. Two pairs of lips against each other. Barely a brush.
I breathe out his name.
Something snaps.
Milan fists my T-shirt, and I find myself shoved against the glass shower wall. It creaks ominously from the force of two bodies slamming into it, but holds. His breathing is harsh and loud, echoing in the quiet bathroom.
His mouth covers mine, needy and demanding. I can feel the taut muscles of his arms tightening under my hands.
We’re pressed together, chest to chest, no space between us. I’m trapped between Milán and the shower wall, and I’ve never been in this position, never been shoved against anything, but it’s fine because I like it. I’m into it.
I’m learning so much about myself in such a short time.
He’s kissing me. Demanding a kiss. I like that, too.
The world narrows to points of contact: Milán’s mouth on mine, Milán’s hands on me, my fingers clutching the small of his back.
I like it.
I’m into it.
My dick is hard and pressing into Milán, and my thoughts are muddled.
Like it.
Into it.
He’s hard, too, and at the feel of him rubbing against me, a moan escapes.
He stills, like the sound I made has broken some barrier between us and reality. He pulls away at once. Shoves himself off me, eyes wide and wild, chest rising and falling rapidly.
“No,” he says. Shakes his head. Says “No!” more forcefully.
I blink, trying to catch up.
“I want to,” I say. “I… I like it. I’m into it.”
Milán grabs the back of his neck and turns away, muttering something under his breath before he turns to look at me again.
He lets out a harsh laugh. “You don’t know what you want.”
There’s a spark of annoyance. More than a spark. It’s a growing wave.
“I’m sorry?”
“How was your date?” he asks pointedly, and when he looks at me this time, there’s a sneer on his face.
“My date?” I repeat.
“Your date.” His face tightens along with his shoulders. “Don’t tell me,” he adds quickly. “Just…”
He blows out a breath and drags his fingers through his hair.
“Look, you’ve had a few messy weeks, yeah? It’s… You don’t know what you want, so let’s just both take a deep breath, go to bed, and put this behind us. And then come morning, we’ll… pretend it didn’t happen.”
He gives a firm nod, eyes me carefully for a bit, then turns on his heel and walks out, leaving me standing in the middle of the bathroom.
I listen to the bedroom door close behind him. I feel completely numb while I flick off the lights and go to my own bedroom. I close the door behind me and lean my back against it.
The last few minutes replay in my head, second after second. I replay the feel of his body against mine. The tips of his fingers digging into my skin. The swipe of his tongue over my lower lip.
His hard length pressed against mine.
He wanted me.
I don’t know what I want? I don’t think he does. Or at least, he’s not willing to admit it for some reason.