Chapter 9
Beau
Iroll over to warmth. A big wall of muscle is pressed up against me, and I sigh, inhaling deeply to breathe in his tantalizing scent.
Citrus.
Citrus and rain.
Citrus and rain and lingering sex.
I sigh again, contentedly. He smells so much like how I imagine heaven smells.
My arm wraps around his chest, and I pull him flush against my body. He moans and wiggles a little in his sleep as we collide, but curls back into me.
I want to stay like this. I want to stay here with him in my arms. I haven’t felt this kind of closeness in, well, ever. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this type of peace and serenity in all of my ten years with Bianca. I have to wonder if that says more about her or Milo.
Milo.
I have what has to be the dopiest smile ever on my face as I think about last night. This morning. Whenever the fuck. Just thinking about him in my arms. Thinking about my tongue on his skin. About my…
Fuck, I could get lost in the thought of him. Of us.
I wish I had taken more time with him, that I had taken the opportunity to appreciate every single inch of him.
My mouth waters a little, salivating at the thought of him.
And what glorious inches they are.
He looked so fucking good spread out beneath me, knees to his ears, my cock splitting him open… Fuck, even just the memory is enough to get me hard. I already feel desperate for a second go, even though I know we shouldn’t. Even though I know we can’t. Even though I know he won’t.
I shouldn’t.
We shouldn’t.
I doze in and out of consciousness and just squeeze him, feeling the give of his very real flesh under my hand. My fingers find purchase in his chest, squeezing and groping his pec. Fuck, he feels so good. He feels so warm and so real. I love the feel of him in my hands.
I must fall back asleep because, suddenly, my arms are empty. I reach out, trying desperately to find him and feeling only the comforter.
My eyes peel open slowly, crusted with sleep and the lingering weight of my hangover, and I see his side of the bed is made.
I swear, if I find him asleep on the couch, I will lose my ever-loving mind.
Or…
I pause mid-roll out of the bed.
Maybe this really was the one-time thing I said it would be. Maybe that’s all he wants. Maybe I should respect that.
My face scrunches up at the very putrid thought.
Fuck that.
No, really, fuck that. We can totally keep having casual sex and not attach any feelings to it. It’s fine.
I fling myself out of bed, finding a pair of sleep pants waiting for me on the chest. He’s so considerate. I’m pulling them on as I leave the room, hunting down my pretty princess.
Where oh where could he be?
I can hear his voice coming from the dreamy little kitchen. He sounds so agitated. I immediately want to fix it for him, want to make things right for him.
I stretch and feel my muscles pop and flex.
“I promise we spoke two days ago.” He pauses, assumedly to let whomever he’s talking to respond. I walk out into the kitchen, and he’s standing with his back to me at the sink. The muscles in his back are bunched up tight. He’s just standing there shirtless in a pair of boxer briefs.
Fuck, his ass looks good.
Bitable.
“Why would I lie to you?” His hand is on his hip, shoulders up by his ears. “Mom, I promise I want to talk to you.” He throws his head back, staring up at the ceiling as if it’ll be able to talk some sense into her for him.
I can understand a difficult mom.
Based on what Milo told me the other day about her and her little freak-outs when he doesn’t answer the phone, and based on the current conversation I’m listening to, she sounds like a bit of a piece of work. I definitely know about difficult moms.
“Mom, please.” He sounds so exasperated. I can hear the high-pitched whine of her voice. I cringe a little at the sound. It drags up the worst of memories for me, so I try not to let it take me under.
I wonder if maybe I shouldn’t be listening.
Just as I’m about to walk back to the bedroom, he turns and spots me, dropping his phone in surprise. He shakes his head, letting out what sounds like a nervous laugh. Dipping to pick it back up and pulling his phone to his ear, he continues.
“Sorry, Mom, I tripped.” I raise a brow at him, and he shrugs. Do his parents not know he has a roommate? Is he keeping a secret from them?
Interesting.
“Look, Mom, I’d love to talk more, but I have to finish breakfast.” He turns back to the stove, and I get another delicious glimpse of his ass.
“No, seriously, Mom, I’m burning the omelet.
I’ve got to go.” He pauses, his hand going back to his hip, and he nods.
“No, I’ll call you back later, I promise. ”
He places the phone on the counter but doesn’t turn to look at me, instead focusing on the aforementioned omelet in front of him. He grabs the spatula beside the stovetop and flips the eggs with practiced ease.
“You lied to her,” I observe unhelpfully. He still doesn’t turn around. “That looks perfect.” I nod at the omelet, even though he’s still not looking at me. “Definitely not even a little burned,” I chastise him. I smile even though his back is turned.
I want him to look at me. I want him to see me.
I’m here, Milo. See me.
I shake my head a little. Why does that matter to me? Why does he need to see me? I spent most of my life trying desperately to stand out, trying desperately to be seen. First by my parents, then in my relationship. I guess the need has extended here to my friendships.
“I wouldn’t say I lied.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “I just jumped ahead a little.” He chuckles to himself.
Fuck, Milo, turn around and look at me.
But he doesn’t. He pulls a plate down and deposits the omelet onto it before starting to whip up the next one.
I just want his attention.
The weirdest feeling overwhelms me. A tiny voice in my head says that I’ve fulfilled my usefulness to Milo, and now he’ll be done with me.
I walk over and plop down at the table, feeling a little defeated.
We exist in stilted silence, me sitting at the breakfast nook, him standing at the stove. Nothing but tension in the air between us.
“What do you want on yours?”
“Huh?”
He finally turns, holding the bowl of beaten eggs in his hands. “On your omelet.” He answers as if that’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Oh.
He’s making me breakfast.
That’s such wifey shit. It immediately makes me feel … seen. Wanted. Something else I’m not ready to name.
It immediately makes me feel cared for.
I tell him what I want, and he moves to chop the peppers, mushrooms, and onions, the fragrant aroma filling the air. He tosses them into the pan with some butter. The sizzle sounds so sexual, I swear my cock twitches in response.
The sun is shining through the nook window, heating my skin. I lean back in my chair, my abs flexing as I stretch. I look over at Milo, and he quickly tries to hide that he was watching me.
I let loose a wicked smile. I love having his eyes on me.
He’s leaning against the kitchen island, his arms flexed and folded. He leans forward, staring down at his hands. They flex and constrict.
I watch as he turns and pours the eggs over, and I picture waking up like this week after week. I picture walking up behind him, encasing his body with mine. Trapping him with my arms on either side of him, kissing his neck. Breathing him in, licking a line down the column of his throat…
And, there it is, my cock has entered the chat.
I scoot a little further under the table, trying to discreetly palm my dick into submission as it chubs up. Fuck, I cannot keep getting so hard around him. I know he knows how much he turns me on. He has to, after last night.
The silence now is a lot more amicable, just the sound of the omelet cooking and the interruption of our breathing.
“So you cook?” I decide to break the silence, and that’s apparently how I’m going to do it. Stating the obvious.
“I can cook a few things,” he answers, despite the utter stupidity of my non-question. “You’d know if you woke up at a reasonable hour in the morning instead of flying out the door at the last second.”
As if to demonstrate his culinary competence, he flips the omelet onto a plate and walks it over to me.
It smells heavenly.
It looks even fucking better.
“I’m amazing at breakfast.” He has a wry smile on his face, something secretive in his eyes. I long to find out those secrets. He walks back over to the stove, pulls out two forks from a drawer, and brings them over along with his plate. He sits across from me, hands me my fork, and we both dig in.
“Holy fuck, Miles.” I groan in delight. The eggs are fluffy and delicious. They’re seasoned to perfection, and bursting with flavor. “Milo, this is amazing.” I dive in, unable to speak or make any noises beyond moans of pleasure as I tuck into the breakfast he made me.
Once we’re both done, and I’m still exaggeratedly moaning my gratification, the forks clatter onto empty plates. “If this whole hockey thing doesn’t work out, you could make it big by cooking,” I tease him.
“If this whole hockey thing…” He chuckles to himself. “Yeah, man, I’ll keep that in mind.”
The “man” sounds forced, like he’s trying to make us bros.
Ugh, the very thought makes me want to cringe, even though I know it’s what I should want.
“So you liked it. That bodes well for your time here,” he continues as if he’s trying to find some common ground for us to stand on.
As if I wasn’t face-first in his ass last night.
He stands abruptly, clearing our plates as he works.
“I like cooking; it’s relaxing. I don’t mind cooking us breakfast.”
I nod, a pensive look taking over my face. I want to figure this guy out. Now that I’ve had a taste…
“Not to ruin the mood you set for yourself,” I start, fully ready and honestly excited to ruin this level of calm. “But we should talk about last night.”
The plates clatter into the sink, forks bouncing off the ceramic. I rush over to his side and see the plate I used is chipped now.
“Sorry, Milo.” I pull his hands from the sink and look them over, checking for any cuts, any hurt. He’s bleeding from his thumb, and without thinking, I bring it to my mouth, sucking it clean. His intake of breath is sharp, harsh, and shallow.
Since I’m already here, I meet his eyes, pulling his thumb free and planting a gentle kiss on the tip.
We stand like that for a moment, just staring at each other, our eyes locked, his thumb on my lips. It makes me wonder what’ll happen next.
It makes me excited.
But he gently pulls away, pulling his gaze away from mine.
“Yeah, we should talk about last night.” His voice is low, and I instantly know that my heart is about to break a little. Even if I know we can’t have it, part of me wants everything from last night to never end.
Not to be dramatic, but it’s not like I want to date him or anything. I just want to fuck some more. But I guess he’s about to do me a favor.
I have my rule for a reason.
Right?
A rule I’d painstakingly broken last night, and I guess I was fully ready to break again. For more of him, I was willing to break all the rules.
But he’s right to put a stop to it.
“We can’t, right?” He gives me a sad smile. “It would be so bad for either of us to get attached, right?” He begins to painstakingly scrub the plates, pulling those vibrant eyes away from mine.
But god, looking at him now, I’m not sure I care about the rules anymore.
Fuck, he’s so pretty. The sun shines through and reflects off his green eyes. They look so pretty, like sea glass.
I could get lost in those eyes.
I must get lost in them, at least for a moment, because I miss what he says next.
“What was that?”
I definitely misheard him.
“I’m just so grateful to you, you know? For making my first time that good.” He smiles at me, then reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone. “I was just hoping you’d help me set up a Grindr profile.” His smile is a little sheepish. “I don’t really know what I’m doing.”
Oh.
I stare at him, mouth agape.
Oh, fuck no.