12. Graham
12
GRAHAM
T he workout kicks my ass. On top of running this morning, I’m spent. My body feels about as substantial as a wet dish towel. I flop back onto the mat when he tells me time’s up. “Thank fuck.”
“Gotta make sure you get your money’s worth.”
I run my hand over my abs, trying to feel for any new muscle definition there, but it’s hasn’t even been two weeks. I don’t know how long it took for Silas to get his immaculate washboard, but probably longer than that.
“When’s your next client?” I ask, not sure I’ll be able to move in less than five minutes.
“You’re it for tonight.”
“Yeah?”
“Mmhm.”
My mind spins through ways I could use that knowledge to my advantage. Would he want to get dinner? No, he would probably laugh if I asked, and I’m sure he has better things to do. Still…I get the distinct impression there’s a ball in my court I’m supposed to do something with. “Plans tonight?” I ask, keeping it vague .
“Nah. You?”
“Avery’s out. I’ll probably order in and watch a movie.”
“I’m gonna hit the shower,” he says.
I close my eyes, luxuriating in the image of water cascading over his tan, ripped, naked body. My dick thickens, but I have it tucked up, so he shouldn’t be able to tell even if he is looking, which I’ve noticed him doing twenty-six times in the last fifty minutes. I counted. And those are only the times I caught.
His interest is a huge turn on. It makes me think he was serious this morning—about wanting to suck me off. How I could make that a reality is beyond any skill set I possess, so he’ll need to make the move. Anything I try would probably come out sounding either painfully awkward or really sleazy. “ Mind if I join you ?” is not a phrase I can imagine myself uttering aloud.
I may or may not order in, but I won’t be watching a movie. It’ll be a steady stream of porn from my tablet in bed just like any other evening Avery is out. I’m useless on my own after sundown. Everything I’ve repressed during the day—during my life, surges up like demons I have to beat back into my soul. Instead of reading non-fiction to put myself to sleep, I find myself downloading gay novellas—the erotic kind—and letting myself live vicariously through the characters discovering their sexuality and finding their soulmates.
“Need help getting up?” he asks.
I reach up without thinking, and his hand clasps mine. I let him help pull me to my feet, winding up nearly chest to chest with him. I’m soaked with sweat in various stages of drying, but he’s practically pristine. I can smell his body wash just as strongly now as I could when I arrived. “You really need a shower?” I ask.
“I was hoping you might join me,” he says in a low voice.
Why does it sound so perfect when he says it?
“I have a nice shower at home,” I say like an idiot.
He shakes his head slightly. “That doesn’t sound like an invitation. ”
“What’s gotten into you today?” I ask.
The murmured sexy spell breaks, and he takes half a step away from me. “Nothing. But do me a favor and let me run on my own from now on.”
“Hey,” I say sharply—quickly. Then I lower my voice. “I don’t do subtext well. And I’m no hook-up expert. Is that what you’re proposing? Be blunt.”
“I thought I was this morning,” he says under his breath.
“I’m not a mind reader, Silas.”
“No, you’re fucking clueless, aren’t you?”
That’s the second time he’s said that to me, which means it’s my turn to back away. I think I understand that he doesn’t like me. I also think he’s attracted to me, but he might be attracted to a lot of men. What I don’t understand is why he won’t let me in even an inch. I’m not asking for some illicit affair or even a sexual favor or two. He’s the one asking if I want to join him in the showers—whatever the fuck that means. But if all he can do is sneer at me when I don’t leap at the chance to get athlete’s foot, then I’ve got nothing left to say.
I grab my water, towel, phone, and keys.
“Hey,” he says, but I keep moving.
“Hey!”
I hold up a hand as I walk to the door of the gym, shutting him down. The cold air hits me like a slap when I step outside, instantly freezing what was left of my sweat. I shiver hard and hurry up the street to my building. I left my jacket at the gym, but I don’t give a damn. My cheeks heat with slow-growing humiliation. By the time I’m in the lobby and the doorman is calling the elevator, I’m burning up inside.
I got on my knees for him today. In public. Anyone could have seen. There could be video. While no one might have been able to tell it was me when my face was smashed against his pelvis, I pulled away eventually. I stood up, turned around, and came up for air .
I don’t need a fucking personal trainer. Sorry in advance, Avery. And I don’t need a man like Silas anywhere near my life. He’s basically a prostitute. And he’s gay. It’s likely that any association with him could come back to bite me. I don’t mind that he’s the doorman, I can ignore him easily enough here, but I certainly don’t need to be throwing myself in his path, even if the universe somehow seems to want me to. Surely, I was mistaken by seeing any sort of sign in what really is a series of unfortunate coincidences.
Feelings fill my chest with intense pressure as I shower. Hurt is what I land on. It’s not a new sensation, but it doesn’t happen often. I’m the definition of sheltered. If it wasn’t by my family or the church, I also excel at sheltering myself. I avoid rejection like the plague, never deliberately putting myself into situations where it’s an option.
I don’t ask much of anyone—the most I’ve ever asked for was New Yorkers’ votes, and even then, I was fully prepared to lose. It wouldn’t have hurt me . Yes, it would have meant rejection, but not the personal kind. Not the kind I fear so much from my family or peers.
The fear comes from a thousand tiny insults over the years. That tie doesn’t work. Your hair is too long. Walk like a man, take off that bracelet. Don’t cry. Don’t embarrass us. And that was just from my parents.
I’m an overachieving perfectionist with a massive fear of being told I’m wrong.
Being told I’m clueless ?
Yeah, it fucking hurts.
I don’t think Silas is a cruel person, but in the short time we’ve been interacting, I’ve concluded that I bring out the worst in him, whether I’m paying him for his time or not. The man I met the night before my wedding was an actor—telling me everything I wanted to hear because that’s what he’d been hired to do .
Fuck it if it felt good. Fuck him for leading me on this morning and going out of his way to humiliate me tonight. I’m a United States Senator. He’s a doorman .
I flick the water off and snatch a towel from the rack, drying my imperfect body and reminding myself I know how to do a push up on my own. I don’t need someone who has no hope of understanding my life making me feel ashamed of how I’ve decided to live it.
I’m not ashamed.
I had a plan, I executed the plan, and there is not a single thing wrong with it.
I never needed sex before, and I don’t need it now. And if I do—well, Avery’s indicated her door is open.
I shudder at the thought.
It’s just after seven when I crawl into bed with the chicken curry I ordered and turn on the TV. But the first thing I see when I turn on the liberal news channel I like to watch to keep myself well-rounded is one of the hottest male journalists in history. If I had to name a celebrity crush—it’s Fischer Elliot. His wild, dark blond curls blow in the desert breeze while his silvery blue eyes stare intently at me through his camera lens. I barely hear a word he’s saying.
I swear I live for his sporadic appearances on my screen. My dick perks up, and since I’m alone, I wrap my dry hand around it and give it a few slow strokes, groaning as it fills and thickens.
Too soon, he’s thrown the reporting back to the studio, and I’m picturing another face—one that has my hand abandoning my hard on and cursing the air. I eat, hoping that will distract me, but the spicy food only heats my blood more.
I’m in a losing battle with my persistent erection, but I refuse to jerk it off to any memories of Silas.
I pull up some straight porn on my tablet, a woman with her tits spilling out above her lacy bra, blowing an extremely well-hung man. She’s good, but the sounds he’s making are better. I don’t even need to watch. I use a palm full of lube and listen to the sounds of her mouth on his cock and the grunts he’s letting out—his low murmurs telling her what a good job she’s doing. His grunts of “fuck…shit…that’s it baby…”
I still have wet dreams about your fucking mouth.
Fucking liar. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter and stroke myself faster, pressure building in my balls as my ass squeezes hard. “Umph…” I grunt, turning my face into the pillow as I thrust into my hand.
The man on the screen is getting close. “Ahhh…fuck baby…that’s right…you gonna swallow my cum?”
Her high-pitched whine is followed by a choking cough.
I blow all over my sheets, the orgasm surging through me too fast for me to hold it back. Cum pulses from my cock as I rub slowly up and down my length, groaning and writhing in my own mess.
The deep male voice coming from beside me murmurs his praise. “So fucking sweet.”