Chapter Eight
When Atticus had first awoken and found himself using Foster’s chest as a pillow, he almost rolled away.
He wasn’t trying to impose on the guy. Unfortunately, Foster was warm and comfortable, and he held Atticus.
His cheek wasn’t pressed against Foster’s chest because Foster couldn’t get away from him.
Foster chose to gently hold him. Occasionally, his hand moved up and down Atticus’ side, stroking him.
Atticus couldn’t stop soaking up what felt like affection.
He knew Foster likely didn’t even realize he made the motion.
The caress seemed like an absent one while Foster watched cat videos with his phone on silent.
For a while, Atticus focused on the phone Foster held with his free hand, propping the device on his torso just low enough for Atticus to see the screen.
The peace within him was something he could easily become addicted to.
He wished time would stop. Life never worked out that way, though. It was best for him to get on with it.
“I never pictured you as a cat guy.”
Foster chuckled. The sound rumbled from Foster’s chest, vibrating against Atticus’ cheek. “Animal videos are cool.”
He couldn’t lie and say he hadn’t been enjoying them too. “They’re probably better with the sound.”
Foster took the hint and unmuted his phone.
Neither of them moved. Together they silently watched reel after reel of funny animal videos.
Every few minutes, Foster’s hand would move from Atticus’ side to his head.
He would run his finger through Atticus’ hair and then go back to stroking his side. Atticus savored every second.
All good things eventually came to an end. Foster closed the reels and set the phone aside. “You’re a little late in taking your pills. How are you feeling?”
Atticus assessed himself. He had been too wrapped up in holding Foster; he hadn’t even thought about how he felt physically. “I’m not as tired as I was yesterday. As much as I know how much I’d regret eating, I’m kind of hungry.”
Foster kissed the top of his head. “Thankfully, I spent some time last night researching the best foods to eat while recovering from something like this. There was a surprising amount of information online.”
Atticus snorted. “Thanks to AI, half of it probably isn’t true. I have no idea who decided to make search engines dumber, but they succeeded.”
“True, but it’s worth a shot.”
Atticus tilted his chin up to meet Foster’s stare. “What are my options?”
“Oatmeal?”
Atticus curled his nose. “Hard pass. What else?”
“Cream corn.”
At Foster’s suggestion, Atticus recoiled. “What in the fuck is cream corn?”
A smile snapped to Foster’s lips. “I don’t know. I assume it’s corn, but creamed.”
Atticus couldn’t help himself. He had Foster’s smile, and he wanted to keep it forever. “That sounds like some kind of disgusting innuendo.” Atticus deepened his voice, trying to sound like a creepy old man. “Give me that cream corn.”
Foster laughed.
Atticus got more obnoxious. “Come here, little boy. Let me feed you some of this cream corn. It’ll go down nice and smooth.”
Foster’s entire body shook with laughter.
Atticus couldn’t look away. His face hurt from smiling. “God, you’re fucking beautiful when you laugh.”
Foster’s smile didn’t wane. “You’re always gorgeous.”
Atticus snorted. “You don’t have to lie to me. I know I look like hell.” He winced. “I’d kill to brush my teeth and take a shower. There’s no way I can do that under my own power. But I feel gross.”
Foster rolled upward and swiped a quick kiss across Atticus’ lips before climbing from the bed. “I’ve got you.”
With his mind a blur, Atticus watched Foster head to the bathroom in nothing but underwear.
A quiet but audible whimper escaped him.
The entire morning had been perfect to the point Atticus wondered if he was stuck in a fever dream.
Surely, in no universe, would Foster be this nice to him.
Foster kept him confused. One day, he’s stalking Atticus.
The next, he’s calling Atticus a brat while making things clear that he didn’t want to know Atticus past the sexual.
Then Foster didn’t want him at all because he thought all Atticus wanted was something sexual.
Now, Atticus had no idea what this was, but the way Foster acted had an unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest.
It didn’t take long before Foster was back.
Atticus' eyes followed his every move. He didn’t understand what it was about Foster.
Other than Tracker, there was no one he couldn’t drop and instantly forget.
He didn’t think he could walk away from Foster.
The worst part of that self-discovery was he was pretty certain Foster could easily forget him.
“Are you ready?”
Atticus nodded even though he wasn’t sure.
Foster picked him up and carried him to the bathroom.
The shower already ran. Steam poured from the wet room.
Foster helped him handle his toileting needs.
Atticus had suffered much worse humiliations.
From there, Foster set Atticus on his feet at the edge of the counter, giving Atticus a place to cling.
Atticus watched Foster ready his toothbrush for him as he washed his hands.
Foster looked as if he took care of people like this every day.
He passed Atticus the toothbrush and then positioned himself behind Atticus, keeping him upright.
Atticus brushed his teeth and gargled mouthwash while avoiding the reflection in the mirror.
When he finished his task, Foster stripped him.
Foster was efficient. His expression gave nothing away.
That was good. If there had been forced chatter and fake smiles, Atticus would have felt awkward as hell.
But the way Foster appeared to treat the situation like a professional caretaker let Atticus pretend that was all Foster was.
Then Foster took off his underwear, obviously intent on showering with him. The air changed.
Every step of ending up beneath the pounding shower heads, Atticus couldn’t stop studying Foster’s face.
The line of his set jaw and the way his sparkling eyes pierced through Atticus had fascinated him.
Captivated him. The longing in his gut was somehow equally familiar and unfamiliar.
Maybe that was the real mystery. Atticus didn’t know how or what he felt, but he felt something. He didn’t know if he liked it.
No matter how hard Foster tried to pretend taking care of Atticus’ needs was just like him taking care of anyone else, he saw that for the lie it was.
At first, his gaze had stayed locked on holding Atticus’ stare so he wouldn’t get embarrassed.
Not that Foster believed Atticus capable of any such crass emotion.
But after a minute of standing in the shower, his inability to look anywhere else was out of his control.
The way Atticus stared back at him had Foster’s heart rate rising.
He didn’t recognize the emotions etched on Atticus’ face.
Atticus broke first. “You’re looking very intense.”
He imagined he did. Foster didn’t miss a beat. “You confuse me when you look at me the way you are now.”
“How am I looking you?”
Foster still didn’t break eye contact. “You tell me.”
Atticus shook his head, as if shaking off a spell. “You make me feel some sort of way. I don’t know. You’re not like anyone else.”
He kept Foster confused. Of course he wasn’t like anyone else.
Neither of them were. Foster grabbed the body wash and went to work, getting them both thoroughly clean.
They were both hard and ignoring it. The tension didn’t lessen.
Foster imagined—like him—Atticus had the training to ignore his body’s needs.
He didn’t want to, though. Only God knew how badly Foster craved this man.
From his haughty ways only a private education could produce, to his cocky attitude, Foster lusted for more.
“I’d probably be the worst fuck you ever had right now.”
Foster’s gaze snapped back to holding Atticus’ stare.
Atticus didn’t look away, but he looked nervous. Foster didn’t imagine Atticus showed anyone that much vulnerability.
Foster couldn’t take it. “You’re incapable of boring anyone.”
A huge grin split Atticus’ face. “I said bad. Not boring.”
Foster shrugged. “That either, especially if I’m doing all the work.”
They went back to holding each other’s gaze. He wasn’t sure either of them breathed. With anyone else, Foster would have worried about someone’s health over any type of desire. Atticus wasn’t anyone else. Like him, Atticus had pushed life to the limits. He knew what his body could handle.
From his spot on the shower bench, Atticus reached over and turned off the water.
Taking his cue, Foster grabbed a fluffy towel he had set out for them.
He carefully dried Atticus’ skin, touching him as much as possible.
The sound of their breathing increased, seeming louder inside the shower and between the tiled walls of the wet room.
Foster tormented them both. He had a feeling this was about to be the fastest fuck in history. There was too much desire between them.
Once they were dry, Foster lifted Atticus into his arms and made his way back to the bed. “I wasn’t prepared to have you here.” That realization might have taken his knees out if his mind hadn’t immediately jumped to all the other things they could do.
“Luckily for you, I can’t get pregnant.” At the droll statement, an unexpected laugh burst from Foster. He never knew what would come out of Atticus’ mouth.
“I’ve tried many times over the years.”