Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN_
HAZARD
My attempts to keep this moment light fail. When we agreed this would be awkward, I assumed it would be because we’re in an empty void, somewhere between past trauma resentment and … friendship. It’s so much more complicated than that.
Decaf’s dark eyes are locked on my face as I glide the razor over his flushed skin.
Up close, I can see the small freckles along the top of his cheeks from years of sun damage, but his skin isn’t old or leathery from it.
Just distinctive in the way the barely visible marks give away that he’s more … seasoned than he appears.
If I look half as good as he does when I’m in my forties, I’ll be happy.
I take my time, making sure I get every inch of his face, dipping the razor into the basin of warm water every so often to get rid of the shaving cream.
I hook my finger under his chin and start on his neck, controlling his head movements with my finger to pull the skin tighter.
Even though the position of his neck might be changing, I can still feel his eyes on my face.
And every chance I get, I’m looking at him too.
Those dark brown eyes. His messy, dark hair.
Because he can’t speak without getting shaving cream in his mouth, I leave that area for last.
Once he’s free to talk again, I’m sure he’s going to point out how inappropriate his decision was to let me do this for him. Not because of our trust issues but because of something unexpected … popping up.
There’s something in the way he’s looking at me, an invisible crackle of lust sparking between us. Or maybe I’m a sad, delusional little man.
The thing is, Decaf’s pretending like he’s not so hard that the tent in his hospital gown could cause a wind tunnel underneath it, but every time I turn slightly to wash the razor, I see it. Can’t fucking miss it.
At least my hard-on is covered by my thick tactical pants.
Painfully so, but he shouldn’t be able to tell my body is reacting to his.
Hell, I’m not even sure he knows his body is reacting to me.
It’s possible it’s not, and this is some weird drug-induced hard-on that has nothing to do with me or touching him or shaving his face for him.
I thought this would be awkward, but I didn’t realize it would be this intimate.
When I finally can’t put it off any longer, I do the area around his mouth. It’s the most focused I’ve been this whole time because being this close to his lips is too distracting, and I don’t want to actually cut him.
Decaf has the ability to let the long stretch of silence break, but he doesn’t say anything. All he does is part his lips and suck in a sharp breath.
“All done,” I say, my voice raspy. I drop the razor in the foamy water and go to grab the basin to rinse it out and rewet the cloth with warm water so he can wipe off any streaks of the shaving cream still on his face, but I realize if I stand up, he’s going to see how turned on I am.
If he calls me out on it, how am I going to play it?
Point out that I’m not the only one enjoying this a little too much? Be a confident smartass and say I can’t help it when I’m around a hot man? Even if said hot man is my dad’s best friend.
I’m twenty-three—maybe I could tell him the crotch of my underwear shifted, and that small amount of friction was all it took.
I already have my whip-smart comeback of “I know it’s been a while since you were my age and had to constantly walk around with a hard-on because anything and everything would make you hard.
You probably need a blue pill to even know what being hard feels like. ”
Maybe he’d … lift his gown and show me exactly how that isn’t true.
Okay, time to get up and get away before the fantasies get too out of hand.
“I’ll be right back.” I make my way to the bathroom, trying as hard as I can to have my crotch facing away from him, but unless I’m going to walk with a twisty limp, it’s not going to happen.
So instead of doing something weird and drawing attention to it, I act confident as fuck.
If he’s going to ignore his hard cock trying to use the lower part of his hospital gown like a superhero cape, then I’m going to ignore mine trying to escape my pants. We can both be in denial about what just happened.
Woohoo, delusion and white lies to help our mental health survive! That should be on a motivational poster.
As soon as I get to the bathroom, I put the basin in the sink, grip the edge of the porcelain with one hand, and turn the water on with the other.
While the water warms up, I splash my face to try to shock myself out of thoughts of Decaf, his bigger-than-I-was-expecting dick, and try with all my brainpower to erase the outline of his cockhead from my brain.
It doesn’t work. It only makes me imagine it more.
Closing the bathroom door to quickly get myself off is not a smart idea … right? I don’t think it would take more than a couple of minutes.
“Haz,” Decaf calls out.
I pop my head out the door. “Yup?”
“Can you grab a cloth for my face? It’s still all sticky.”
“Impatient much? That’s what I’m doing.” Plus, standing here contemplating jerking off, but that’s not the point.
Or maybe it is.
I don’t fucking know. My head and judgment are clouded with horny, horny thoughts.
Jerking off will have to come later. Oh God, come later.
I swear my dick pulses at the thought. My underwear is probably wet with precum.
Speaking of things that are sticky. Decaf’s face isn’t the only thing that will be sticky in a minute.
Fuck. No. Stop thinking about coming.
Okay, doing this. Going back out there. All I have to do is cross the room, hand him the warm, wet cloth, he can wipe his face, and while he does that, I will not—I repeat, will not—look at his dick.
I can do this. I’ve survived torture. I can survive not staring at something.
But as my feet shuffle across the linoleum floor, I realize I have an inherent flaw: my willpower is basically nonexistent.
Come on, Haz, you can do this. Only stare at his face. His gorgeous, freshly shaven face that makes his dark eyes brighter and him look a lot younger.
That’s not going to work. Chest. Stare at his chest. At the rise and fall of his breathing. Even if it looks as though he’s breathing hard, like he might be struggling the same way I am.
Fucking fuck fuck. I can’t stop myself.
I glance down, and as soon as I lay eyes on his cock again, it becomes apparent: I may have survived torture, but I can’t survive the lure of Decaf.