Chapter 13
Thirteen
Emotions
Spencer
What the fuck am I doing right now?
Something against my will, that’s what. Persistent doesn’t begin to describe the all-out offensive Ryan has hurled my way since he decided we were going to Chance’s exhibit together.
The pain in my ass has stopped by my office twice—with lunch—trying to get me to confirm plans. I didn’t tell him no, but I wouldn’t commit either. Unfazed, he followed-up with voicemails, left messages with Dita, and sent texts.
So many texts.
I had already intended on going, but the idea of showing up with him has me feeling a wide range of emotions. That alone is problematic because I don’t do emotions. Regardless, I’ve accepted my fate. I never once confirmed, but you can bet Ryan Buterbaugh will be tapping on my door at seven sharp.
Sighing, I stare at myself in the full-length mirror in my walk-in closet, fingers carefully tying the bow tie at my throat. The knot twists wrong.
Again.
I yank it loose with a sharp pull, the fabric sliding free from my collar as irritation spikes.
“Jesus,” I mutter. I’ve put on a tux more times that I can count.
Why is it so much harder tonight? I rip it off completely and tuck it back into its designated slot in the drawer of my custom accessory station—precisely arranged, perfectly aligned.
My fingers hover before selecting a different bow tie. Because obviously the tie was the problem. I loop it around my neck and start again, movements sharper now, more deliberate.
Get a grip, Stark. You’re acting like a nervous teenager going on his first date.
I huff out a quiet, incredulous laugh at my reflection. “Date?” I murmur. I shake my head once, firm. “This is absolutely not a date.”
No.
I don’t date. I fuck.
And I definitely don’t date straight men. I don’t do blurred lines or mixed signals or whatever the hell Ryan Buterbaugh thinks this is. “We’re just workout buddies,” I add under my breath, tightening the knot. “That happen to be going to the same event.”
After adjusting the bow until it’s perfect, I close the drawer and reach down for my shoes, pulling a pair of black Givenchy tux loafers from the lower rack.
Sitting on the bench beside the station, I slide one on with the help of a shoehorn, movements automatic.
It’s familiar and grounding, but still, my thoughts won’t cooperate.
Who does he think he is—talking about taking my cock down his throat?
Heat blooms low in my gut. I pause, gripping the edge of the bench.
I know he was joking. Pushing, teasing, seeing what reaction he could get.
My body did not find it funny. The way he flashed those fucking dimples at me.
The way his voice dropped. The way he looked at me like maybe he wasn’t joking.
I try to force the thought away as I finish with my second shoe, but my brain is stuck on his words.
It’s been playing on a relentless loop since he muttered them.
I had to beat my cock into submission the second I got home that night.
Then again before bed. And yet again in the morning when I woke up with a raging hard dick and Ryan’s lips on my mind.
Fuck—the thought of sinking my cock into that pretty mouth. I shouldn’t even be fantasizing about it, but I’m only human, and the man is walking sin with an ass I would happily lose my life to suffocation for.
I stand and step back in front of the mirror. The tux fits perfectly. It better, with what I pay my tailor. He suggested a fabric in a unique dark eggplant color. I was skeptical at first, but it works.
Reaching for the top drawer, I slide it open to reveal my watches, each one lined up with precision. Grabbing a black Movado, I fasten it around my wrist, the leather settling against my skin.
I’ve dealt with plenty of men like Ryan Buterbaugh.
Straight men who flirt just for the sake of flirting.
Just to prove you want them. Just to watch you lean in before they step back.
Or worse—they experiment until it gets too real.
Either way, they’ll leave you feeling like you imagined it. Been there once, avoided it since.
My gaze hardens slightly as I do one last check in the mirror. My eyes drop, taking in the line of my body. The fit of the jacket. The taper at my waist. I turn slightly, lifting the back of the jacket just enough to check out my ass.
My mouth tightens.
Thanks to all the squats Ryan put me through over the past six months, he’s definitely getting the extra tight pants he asked for. I drop the jacket back into place.
Fucker.
Yes, I’ve dealt with my fair share of flirty straight boys. The problem this time? I am undeniably—and annoyingly—attracted to this one.
I stare at myself for a long beat, then straighten, smoothing the front of my jacket one last time. “Well,” I say to the empty room, glancing at my watch. “At least I look good.”
A sharp tapping echoes from the front door.
Right on time.
My stupid stomach flutters. There are those damn emotions again. I turn, stepping out of the closet and into my bedroom. Fucker is sprawled across the bed, watching me like he knows I’m screwed.
I point at him. “You stay there, Fucker,” I warn. “Don’t need you rubbing your hair all over us.” He blinks, then meows, unbothered. “Yeah,” I mutter, pulling the door closed behind me.
The tapping comes again, impatient this time. I walk through the condo, each step measured, controlled, like I’m trying to convince myself this is nothing.
I reach the front door.
My hand lifts.
Stops.
The cool metal of the handle sits just inches from my fingers. And suddenly, I’m not here. Not in my condo. Not in this moment. My heart pounds in my ears as my hand hovers over the handle.
I’ve been here before.
“Spence?” Ryan’s voice filters through the door, lighter now. “You good in there, or did you bail on me already?”
I stare at the handle.
I’m not sure I can open this door.
Because suddenly, I’m twenty-one years old again.