Chapter Seven Tom #2
The question caught me off guard. Not only because no one in my life gave a shit, other than my grandmother, but also because I’d never concerned myself with that question. I just…existed.
Some days, even that was more than I could handle.
“I smile.”
“I’m not gonna believe it until I see proof.”
“You’re exceptionally annoying.”
“Yeah, you mentioned earlier. But you know what? People like me.”
“People like cocaine, too. People are generally dumb.”
He put a hand on his chest. “Are you comparing me to coke right now? That’s the Rolls-Royce of drugs. I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”
I didn’t know what to do with myself. Didn’t know how to handle his brand of sweetness and honesty. Especially since I knew he harbored a dark side.
We spent the rest of the workout with him chattering nonstop and me trying to keep up, through chest presses, squats, and lunges.
The entire time, my dick gave Enzo’s physique a standing ovation.
His ass was a work of art, his abs a masterpiece.
And when he bent down for a deep deadlift, the haze of unabashed lust made me all but suffocate.
I didn’t recognize myself in this behavior.
I wasn’t usually lustful. I was restrained, calculated, and generally disinterested.
Forming a bond to get him to talk to us was going to be a pain in the ass. Mainly because I couldn’t stop staring at his.
For all his sexual innuendos and thirst traps, Enzo seemed hyper focused when we worked out together. For some reason, training and eating clean mattered to him on a deeper level than aesthetics, and I wondered why.
We finished off with ten minutes of planks and sit-ups before he was satisfied.
We walked to the lockers side by side, him blabbering about the supplements he was taking, me trying to regain control over my limbs.
He was just finishing off prattling about his favorite creatine brands when he said, “You know what else I need to figure out? If I’m a top or a bottom. ”
“Excuse me?” I stopped in front of my locker, tossing it open to retrieve my duffel bag. I’d shower at home. I knew my limits, and there was no universe in which I was going to see Enzo’s perfect, naked ass without plowing into it. And judging by his sunny, eager energy, he’d let me, too.
“Sex. It’s weird that I’m twenty-six, probably gay, and I don’t even know what my preference is.”
“You’re a bottom.” I slammed my locker shut, running my towel over the back of my head.
“How do you know?”
Because I’m a fucking top.
I’d never bottomed in my life, and this wet-behind-the-ears kid wasn’t going to change that.
But it wasn’t like me to make that kind of statement, either. I normally wasn’t presumptuous, let alone blunt. Enzo brought out a side of me I didn’t like. An impulsive bastard who just blurted shit without thinking first.
A small part of me had already made peace with the fact I was going to bury my dick in his ass to help my case move along. But I had to ignore that part and fight it to death, because the truth was, Enzo Ferrante was one complication I couldn’t afford.
“Are you a top?” He propped his shoulder against my locker. His whiskey-colored irises were strangely intoxicating.
“Yeah.” I dumped the towel in the bag, zipping it.
“Hmm. Then of course you’d say that. Guess I’ll have to try both options and see for myself.”
I didn’t like that idea, and not because I was jealous.
As much as I thought he was a danger to society, he was also clearly a danger to himself.
He was too naive and trusting not to be taken advantage of.
He fidgeted with the sleeves of his unzipped hoodie, a flash of skin peering through the fabric.
“Wait, why are you wearing a hoodie?” I tapered my eyes.
“The more I sweat, the more calories I burn.” His sculpted cheekbones pinked.
“You usually wear muscle shirts. Showing off your skin is your entire religion.” My gaze slowly raked his body until it landed on his large tan hand that braced my locker. His wrist was tilted toward me. It was severely scarred.
I grabbed on to it on instinct. He tried to pull away, but I was faster.
I held his hand captive, running my thumb along his inner wrist. Jagged, uneven skin shuddered beneath my touch.
Pink marks, some fresh, some faded, stared back at me, partly concealed by ink.
I’d never been this close to him before, never had the chance to see it, but it was there, and it looked bad.
For a moment in time, the world stopped, tipped on its axis, and poured all the dark shit I’d pushed to the back of my mind right on top of my head.
White spots dotted my vision.
He had to be fucking kidding me.
“What’s this?” I snarled.
Enzo sucked in a breath, trying to jerk away again. My fingers locked around his wrist like a vise.
“Nothing.” He stared back at me defiantly, refusing to cower. “It’s nothing.”
“Enzo, don’t lie to me. Is that why you’re wearing a hoodie? Because you’re cutting?”
“Whoa.” He pushed at my chest, letting out a humorless laugh. “Let’s calm down there, buddy. How about you stay in your lane, and I’ll stay in mine? Just because I want your dick inside me doesn’t mean you can start sniffing around my shit.”
“Enzo, I—”
He yanked his hand away, and I finally let him go, not because I wanted to, but because adding more stress to his already prominent issues would only do more harm.
Jerking his locker open, he pulled out his duffel bag. “Don’t embarrass us both by pretending you care, Tomcat.” He hoisted the strap over his shoulder. “Call me when you want to get your dick sucked.”