Chapter Seven
Wesley crossed the hall to the bathroom, huffing with each step on the cool flooring, Nate’s voice floating in from the living room. After taking care of his business, Wesley went in search of his host and came to a halt where the hallway opened into the airy living space.
To the right was a spacious u-shaped kitchen, separated from the dining area and living room only by counter space.
On the kitchen side, the counter appeared to be standard height; on the dining area side, the counter was a good nine inches higher and served as an eating area with four barstools tucked underneath.
A dining room table with a light-colored stain and matching chairs all with a Scandinavian flair took up floor space between the kitchen and the living room area. An elongated wooden bowl with wavy edges sat in the center of the table. Items he couldn’t identify from this distance filled it.
To the left was the living room. Over-sized reddish-brown leather furniture was situated in a u-shape that mirrored the kitchen but didn’t overcrowd the space.
The wall of windows also helped to make the room appear larger.
A square coffee table with a glass surface sat in the center, adding to the open feel, and two tall lamps stood behind the matching end tables that flanked the couch.
Stacks of moving boxes lined the wall under the huge television that hung on the wall opposite the sofa. There were no decorations. No pictures. No personal touches. No plants.
To the left of the sofa, angled in the corner next to the windows, Nate lay sprawled in the recliner, eyes closed against the afternoon sun slanting across his face and chest. His right hand held his cell phone close to his ear as he chatted with someone; his left hand cradled the back of his head.
Wesley indulged in a thorough inventory. Observing Nate at home was entirely different from encountering him at the club. This wasn’t business, this wasn’t professional, this wasn’t—dumb as it sounded—formal. His perusal amounted to pure aesthetic appreciation by one gay man of another.
Nate’s wide shoulders, bulging biceps, and washboard abs were displayed above the waistband of his light gray shorts. His muscular thighs filled out the thin fleece, and the length of his legs left his feet to dangle over the edge of the footrest.
From personal experience, Wesley knew there was a pair of seriously high, round butt cheeks nestled into that chair.
He’d seen them. Touched them. Nipped them with his teeth.
Had slid his dick between the firm globes to breach the man’s puckered hole.
And what a glorious experience that had been. Wesley’s dick quickened at the memory.
Down boy.
Aside from his farmer’s tan, Nate was as white as the sheets Wesley had slept in last night.
His nose was a bit too large for his face and had been broken a time or two if the lump along the slope was anything to go by.
The soft blue color of his eyes was the color of the early morning sky.
His smile, when Wesley had witnessed it, was wide and infectious.
Wesley let his gaze linger on Nate’s form, each line of his body drawing him a picture of something solid and strong—something he could admire but never claim.
It felt like a dream, a possibility just beyond his reach.
He had no illusions, no expectations. This—whatever this was—could never turn into anything more.
Wroroeouw.
His stomach gurgled again. Not loud enough to catch Nate’s attention, as focused on his call as he was. Wesley hadn’t been invited to make himself at home, so he shambled into the living room, movements stiff, and knocked on the top of a cardboard box.
Nate’s eyes popped open at the dull thudding. “Hey there.”
“Who’s that?” The voice on the other end rose brightly, carrying past the phone.
“Hold on,” Nate said into the phone. To Wesley he said, “You all right?”
Wesley nodded and smoothed a hand down the loose tee and then rubbed a forearm. “Achy and shaken up, but also hungry. I was wondering if I could get a little s-something to eat. Have you got a protein bar or s-some fruit?”
Nate’s eyes widened, and he kicked the footrest back into position with a quick push. “Oh, yeah. Sure. Claire, I’ll call you back in a little bit.”
“Nate—do you have a man friend over?” Wesley heard from the phone, the woman’s tone seeming both pleased and incredulous. Gleeful almost.
Wesley swallowed against a smile. If only he was Nate’s “man friend.”
“No,” Nate said firmly. “I’ll call you back.” He hung up on her and stood. “Let’s do better than a protein bar, huh?”
Wesley’s heart gave a small lurch at the way Nate had shut down Claire’s assumption. He pushed aside the twinge of disappointment and followed his host to the kitchen. “You don’t have to go to any trouble on my account.”
“This level of fitness doesn’t come without some trouble. How does breakfast sound for an early dinner? Lots of protein.” Nate arched an eyebrow.
“Sure. What can I do to help?”
“I can prepare this meal in my sleep. You sleep upright like I suggested?”
Wesley nodded and appreciated the way Nate’s glutes filled out his shorts as he passed by.
“Good. Your face does seem less swollen. Another cool shower ought to help.”
Nate peered into the fridge, the fabric stretching across his ass as he bent over.
It took a deep quiet breath for Wesley to drag his gaze away from the sight.
What had Nate said? Another shower. Even though Wesley hadn’t done anything but sleep since the last one, another sounded refreshing, and his hair was a mess from sleeping on it towel-dried damp. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
Nate rolled his eyes and set eggs, bacon, and juice on the counter. “You wouldn’t be here if I minded.” He set a skillet on the stove. “How do you like your eggs?”
“Any way is fine except runny or slimy.”
“Slimy?” Nate raised a brow at Wesley.
“Yes, s-slimy—when people don’t cook s-scrambled eggs all the way?”
“Gotcha.” Nate set a bowl on the counter. “Not-slimy eggs coming up.”
This was a very different Nate from the one he’d met and interacted with at the club. Wesley liked this version much better. Relaxed. Playful. Affable.
A buzz emanated from Nate’s shorts pocket. He ignored it. “Bacon? Sausage?”
“Either is fine.”
“Okay. Fifteen minutes?” Several dings floated from his pocket.
“Do you need to check that? Is your team trying to get hold of you?”
Nate shook his head and grinned. “My sister. I’ll call her again later.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Well, I’ll be out in fifteen then.”
* * * * *
Wesley found another clean tee shirt and pair of drawstring shorts when he returned to his room wrapped in a huge, soft, cocoa-colored towel.
Hummingbird wings thrummed low in his belly, soft and uncertain.
The simple kindness of it—Nate remembering his need for clean clothes, even without being asked—sent a warmth spreading through him.
He picked up the clothes and held them to his nose, breathing deeply.
There was no lingering scent, and the absence made his heart crack—Wesley had always equated scent with being cared for, even if it was just caring for yourself.
Nate had thought to see to his needs, but not to his own, and that quiet neglect ached in Wesley’s chest.
His stomach growled again, louder this time, urging him toward the savory, smoky smell of bacon that permeated the air.
With care and some unavoidable twinges and the accompanying winces and slight gasps, Wesley pulled on the shorts and tied the drawstring.
He hugged the tee shirt to him and headed for the living room, determined to do something to make his host’s life just a little more enjoyable.
Nate was setting plates on the dining room table when Wesley appeared. Nate took his seat and gestured to the plate across from him.
Wesley tottered toward the table and looked from Nate’s bare chest to the shirt in his hand.
Screw it. The shirt was more trouble than it was worth at the moment, and he was suddenly ravenous, the scent of food turning his hunger into full-on famished.
He draped the shirt over the back of his chair and sat.
Wesley eyed Nate’s plate piled high with scrambled eggs. Bacon, sausage, and toast filled another. “You gonna eat all that?”
Nate glanced at his breakfast. “Yup. You need more eggs?”
“Nooo,” Wesley said with a chuckle, ignoring the twinge in his chest. “I don’t know if I can eat all of this.” There must have been three, four eggs on his own plate, not to mention his own serving of bacon, sausage, and toast.
A sheepish expression crossed Nate’s face and he huffed. “I guess I’m used to feeding hockey players.”
“Thanks, though. Looks delicious.”
“Sure. Yeah.”
For a while, the only sounds were the clink of forks against plates and the occasional satisfied sigh.
“Tho what’s the plan for the next couple of days?” Wesley asked. He’d had been hungrier than he’d thought but still didn’t consume everything he’d been served.
Nate swallowed, having made a decent sized dent in his sunny mound.
“Well, you’re gonna continue to recover.
You’re not even twenty-four hours removed from the assault.
So if you’re not sleeping, you’re lounging in bed or on the sofa.
Shower as often as you want. Limit screen time for another twenty-fours probably.
Trust me, it’s gonna take a while for your brain to heal.
Then in all likelihood you can watch tv or mess around on your phone for short stints as long as your symptoms don’t worsen.
My books are all packed somewhere, but I can pick up some magazines or some books if you’re a reader.
Just let me know. You can listen to music, too, I think as long as it’s relaxing.