Chapter 38
Rhys
He shows up at my place on a random Thursday with no warning.
Like a crazy person. Because who the fuck just shows up without an invitation?
Yes, I invited him. Once. And then we never talked about it again and I assumed he forgot or said yes to be polite and I wasn't going to push it because I have some dignity. Sometimes.
I run a hand through my hair. This is insane. We went from hating each other to kind of friendly then back to hating each other to — whatever the hell this is. Trying to be actual friends? Pretending we can exist in the same space like nothing happened?
Like you can just unsuck someone's dick.
Yeah. No. That's not how that works. You don't forget the moans. You don't forget the way he tenses right before he loses it, or the specific broken sound he makes when he finally does, or the way he looks at you after like he hates you for seeing him so vulnerable.
You don't forget the taste.
Okay. This is exactly why this is a terrible idea and I am opening the door anyway.
Also I'm unforgettable so how dare he act like this is fine.
But if playing nice is what it takes to get somewhere with Jamie Nash — really somewhere, somewhere that matters — then fine. I can do that. I can be his friend.
For like an hour.
And then for dessert I'll jam my dick in his mouth.
I open the door.
He's standing there in a grey hoodie and dark jeans, hair slightly messed up like he drove fast with the windows down to get here, holding a grocery bag like that explains anything.
I look at him like he’s insane.
He gives me that look right back.
"You said you'd teach me to cook."
"I said I'd make you food." I lean against the doorframe. "Very different offer, Nash."
"Whatever," he says, already stepping forward. "Can I come in or not?"
I step aside. He brushes past me — shoulder grazing mine, close enough that I catch the smell of him, soap and underneath it, just Jamie, like a citrusy musk — and it moves through me like a current.
All the way down. Every single time. One second of contact and my entire body decides to have a full reaction to it.
Like I'm allergic to him, if allergies made you horny instead of red and rashy.
Blake takes one look at Jamie Nash standing in our kitchen and evaporates. Book, laptop, water bottle — gone in under ten seconds, no introduction, just the space where he was now empty. I'll try to kiss him later as a thank you.
We end up making pasta.
Or rather, I make pasta. Jamie just stands four inches behind me with his arms crossed, watching every single thing I do with that laser focus of his that was designed specifically to make me insane.
I can feel his eyes moving over me. Over my hands.
Over the line of my shoulders when I reach for something.
He has incredible hands. I've had them on me. I know exactly how they feel — firm and rough and demanding in a way that makes my brain go offline — and standing here pretending I don't know that while he watches me cook is one of the more psychotic things I've agreed to.
"Why that amount of salt?" he asks, dragging my brain out of the gutter.
"Because, sweetheart, that's how much it needs."
"That's not an answer."
"The water should taste like the sea." I glance back at him. "That's the answer."
"That makes no sense." he mutters, exasperated.
"It makes perfect sense. Have you literally never watched a cooking show in your entire life?"
He hums. Doesn't agree. Doesn't move back either, which is the important thing. Just keeps standing there, close enough that his breath hits the back of my neck every time he exhales, close enough that the proximity of him is a physical thing I have to actively stop myself from leaning back into.
I keep “accidentally” touching him.
Shoulder to shoulder when I reach past him.
My thigh against his when I turn. Small things.
Deniable things. He doesn't say a word. Doesn't pull back.
Just absorbs every point of contact in that utterly controlled way he has, giving me absolutely nothing — which somehow makes it worse.
Makes me want to push harder. Find the one thing that breaks through.
So I keep going, the way you do when someone keeps not stopping you — getting bolder in increments, testing the edges, because one thing I have learned about Jamie Nash is that he responds to pressure in a very specific way. He loves being pushed, but won’t ever admit it.
"What?" I ask, because I can feel him looking at the back of my head.
"Nothing."
"You keep doing that," I sing.
"Doing what?"
"Starting to say something and then deciding not to."
He glances at me — quick, involuntary. "I'm just thinking."
"About pasta?"
A beat.
"About a lot of things."
The way he says it. Low and careful and pointed directly at me without looking at me. Like there are a hundred things sitting between us and neither of us is going to say a single one of them out loud.
"Tell me one thing," I say.
"Like—"
He stops. I turn toward him and immediately realize how close we've drifted. Close enough that I have to lift my chin up to look at him. Close enough that his gaze drops to my mouth before finding my eyes again.
"Like what?" I breathe out.
"Nothing,” he whispers.
"Nash."
"It was nothing, Rhys."
My name in his mouth is going to kill me. Not soft. Controlled. Tight, like he's got it stuck between his teeth and is making a deliberate choice not to let it out all the way. The kitchen has gotten significantly smaller in the last thirty seconds and I wish it was even smaller.
"Stir this," I say, handing him the spoon. Because if I don't put something between us right now I'm going to do something that ends the evening before it starts and I actually want this. The whole thing. Not just the part where he comes apart.
He takes the spoon but our fingers don't touch. I feel that. The deliberate half-inch of space between his fingers and mine. Like we're both being so cautious. Like we've both been here before and know exactly how fast it goes from careful to gone.
He starts stirring. Slow, slightly off rhythm, definitely not thinking about the sauce at all.
I watch him for one more second. Then I step in right behind him.
Not touching. Just — closer because I can’t stop myself.
The call of him. The specific twitch in his shoulders when he feels me there.
I can smell him and it does something to my mouth, makes me want to taste him, lick the salt off his skin.
"Not like that," I rasp, and reach around him for his hand. My fingers slide over his on the spoon. Like he needed help stirring. Like stirring sauce requires a hands-on demonstration, sure.
He goes absolutely still. Not flinch-still.
Arrested-still. Like his whole body just hit pause mid-breath.
The spoon stops suddenly. His shoulders rise slightly and don't come back down.
I can feel him - his back an inch from my chest, the rigid line of his spine, the way his breath has gone shallow and fast.
"Like this," I murmur against the side of his neck. My lips almost touch his skin. Almost. I can feel the vibration of his pulse.
I'm not actually doing anything. Not really. I'm barely touching him. My hand over his, fingers laced loose, holding him there. And I'm close enough that if he turned his head we'd be breathing the same air and we both know it. My lips travel over him, still not touching.
"Rhys." Warning. That particular rough edge he gets when he's losing the argument with himself.
"Relax." I don't move back though. "I'm teaching."
"Then teach. Or let go."
I don't let go. I press even closer. My chest now fully against his back, my hips to his ass, and there's no hiding what this is doing to me. He feels it. I know he feels it because his breath catches, his hand tightens on the spoon, every muscle in his body goes rigid and then —
He pushes back against me.
Just barely. Just enough. He presses into me and it's deliberate, it's a choice, and I make a sound I don’t mean to make, a moan, low and breathy in my throat, right against his ear.
"Fuck," he breathes.
He's turned his head now, just slightly, enough that I can see his throat working as he swallows, his eyes lustful and fixed somewhere just past my face, like if he looks at me directly something is going to happen that he can't take back.
His pulse is going wild under my fingers where they rest at his wrist.
"You're the one who showed up here," I say.
"You told me to."
"I didn't though, not really." I tilt my head, lips close to his ear, close enough to see the goosebumps on his neck. "You wanted to, so tell me what you really want, Jamie."
Silence. His hand shifts under mine - not away, back. Just slightly, enough that his fingers curl around my wrist, reversing the grip, holding on. Like he can't help it. Like his hands made the decision before he did. "You always do this," he says. Rough now. His voice not quite steady.
"Do what?"
"Push me."
"You don't like it." It's not a question. "Then tell me you don't like it. Tell me to stop." I let my thumb trace once over the back of his hand. Feel him twitch. Just barely. "Tell me to stop, Jamie."
His grip tightens on my wrist and he grinds back into the hardness pressing firmly against him.
"Careful," he says. Barely audible.
"Or what?"
He turns. Fully. Right into my space, which means I have to tilt my chin up again to hold his gaze, which means there is less than nothing between us, enough to notice there are tiny specks of hazel dancing around in his eyes.
His hand is still around my wrist and the other one has found my hip without him seeming to notice, fingers pressing in, and I can feel the hard line of him against my stomach.
"You don't want to find out," he says.
I wet my lips. Watch his eyes track the movement.
"What if I did?" I challenge. “What if I don’t want to stop?”