Chapter seven Gareth
Chapter seven
Gareth
Trey: Book us a hotel room
Ire-read our text exchange as I sit on the hotel bed.
My leg bounces nervously. It's been a week since our dinner date, if you can call it that.
I've been tempted to text him all week. Just little questions.
How does this work? Will it be clinical or passionate?
Will he be acting, or could he possibly be attracted to me?
None of which seemed appropriate to text him at all.
So, here I am. Waiting. I'm an hour early. I don't know why I did this to myself. Now I have an hour to stall, to wait, to worry and obsess over everything I don't know about tonight. Shit, I'm not sure I've ever been this nervous.
Maybe when Micah was born? First day of college? I definitely wasn't this nervous getting married. Queasy, maybe, but not nervous.
Finally, the door beeps and opens. I spring to my feet, phone in hand.
I toss the phone onto the bed. Shit. What do I do with my hands?
I clasp them together in front of me before realizing that that's stupid, so I bring them to my hips.
But that makes me look impatient. So, I drop them again, before closing them into fists and shoving them into my slacks pockets. Fuck, Brockman, get it together!
He walks into the entryway, his broad shoulders filling the narrow hallway that the bathroom makes, with a duffel bag over his shoulder.
Oh, God. He brought supplies. I don't know what I was expecting, but that wasn't it.
His deep, rich, brown eyes find mine, and I swear his lips tip up in a half smile.
Butterflies swarm angrily in my stomach.
Oh, no. This is bad. Apparently, my crush from high school is still very much alive.
I like his smile. Too much. And it was a barely-there thing I would have missed if I hadn't already been looking at his lips.
"Brockman," he says in greeting.
"Huang," I reply, clearing my throat to cover up the tremble in my voice.
He slides the "do not disturb" placard onto the handle of the door before closing it, locking the deadbolt, and setting his bag down on the small couch.
Once free of his bag, he simply stands there, silently, taking me in. I lick my lips nervously. I have to break the silence. It's like a physical presence in the room.
"So... uh... how... what..."
The barely-there smile returns. "You'll hop in the shower. Scrub everything for me. Come out in a towel, and from there we'll talk."
Okay. I sigh a breath of relief. I can shower. I shower all the time. Like, I shower every day. And it'll give me a few minutes to stall and regroup. Right. This is a good thing.
I shower and scrub everything until it's red. The shower was probably a good idea. I've been sweating like it’s a game day with nerves while waiting for him. The hotel soap isn't great-smelling, but it's not the worst either.
Unfortunately, it only takes me four minutes to get clean.
I step out of the shower and dry off, wrapping the towel around my waist and taking myself in in the mirror.
Will he like what he sees? I'm still a little fatter than I would like, but will he judge me for that?
Most gay guys I meet are in really good shape.
Is that part of the gay community? Looking good all the time?
I have zero fashion sense. And am I even gay?
Bi? Or just gay for one man? The only man I've ever been attracted to is the one on the other side of this door.
The one who is about to touch me. Oh, God. I don't know if I can do this.
And what if I want more from him than to buy his time? What if I want to date him? See if anything evolves naturally? Is this putting me firmly in the "client" camp and not the "boyfriend" one I actually want to be in?
Jesus. Okay. I'm spiraling. This was the only way he would see me, so it's going to have to just be enough. I have a lot of work to do to earn his trust back if I want to be in the "boyfriend" camp. So, that work is going to have to be done in the "client" camp.
I take a deep breath in and out, balling my fists and shaking my hands out. I wrap the towel around my waist and open the bathroom door.
Trey's resting on the bed, his back against the headboard, his shirt off.
I can't help but stare at the dark skin over his smooth pecs. He’s broad, built, and is sporting six-pack abs I can see even though he's not flexing.
Dark, soft hair trails between his pecs, down his stomach, and beneath his slacks.
My hands itch to touch him, even as my heart races.
It's beating so fast and so hard that I’m dizzy.
I drag my gaze back up to his copper-colored eyes.
"I'm really fucking nervous," I half whisper, half chuckle.
He's silent for a moment as he takes in my body. God, I hope he likes what he sees. What are his other clients like? Is he attracted to any of his other clients?
"Have you heard of the stoplight method?"
I shake my head 'no'.
"I'm sure you can guess at what it means.
While we do this, I'll check in with you and your comfort, and you can give me a color.
Green for everything's good, yellow for if you need a break or to slow down, and red for a hard stop.
" He stands from the bed. "Can I trust you to be honest with yourself and me about what you need? "
I nod. I can do that. That gives me a less embarrassing way to tell him if he's going too far, too fast. My shoulders droop a little in comfort.
"Have you done any experimenting with yourself?"
I shake my head 'no'. I thought about playing with my asshole, but it felt weird. Even in the comfort of my own home, in the dead of night.
"Alright. We'll start slow. Lay down face first on the bed."
I eagerly climb into the bed, secure the towel around my waist again, and lie face down, my arms above my head.
"I'm just going to start with light touching. Nothing sexual. If you're okay with that, we can go further."
I let out a sigh. I'm not sure I have the words to express just how grateful I am that he's making this easy for me. He seems to understand how deep the homophobia runs, and he's not judging me.
He kneels on the bed next to me. I think it also helps that I can't see him. He's too much to look at. Too big, too intense, too sexy.
He trails a finger up my spine from my lower back up to the base of my neck. I shiver.
"Color?"
"Green."
He repeats the movement, this time dragging four fingertips up my spine.
"Color?"
"Green."
This time, he flattens his hand and drags his palm up my spine.
"Color?"
"Green."
Now two hands run up the sides of my spine, palms digging in a little in a massage.
My body melts under his touch, even as my heart rate thunders through my bloodstream.
He's touching me. His warm hands are on my body.
It's not sexual, yet, but the feeling of his hands is as exciting as it is drugging.
I don't know what I was expecting tonight.
All I knew was that I wanted more time with him.
Just having his hands on me is thrilling in a way that makes me wonder what the hell I'm going to do when he does touch me sexually.
"Can I take this off?" he asks, his voice startling me, as he slips one finger under my towel at my waist. I swallow around a ball of nerves but nod.
"I need your words."
"Yes. Green," I whisper, my voice shaking a little.
He gently tugs the towel, and I lift my hips to help him.
The cool air caresses the heated skin of my butt, and I can't help the sick insecurity that wonders if he likes what he sees. Years of football have given me a healthy foundation of glutes, but desk work certainly hasn't helped me keep them.
I feel the bed shift as he moves. My leg spasms as his touch suddenly reappears at my ankle.
"Sorry."
"Color?"
"Green."
He drags his hand up my calf, to the back of my knee, and my hamstring.
It's the most exquisite torture. He's touching everything and not at all where I want him.
Blood flows south at being naked in front of him, even as nerves threaten to kill my erection.
I shift, adjusting my cock to pin it between my lower stomach and the soft bed.
"Color?"
"Green."
I'm being torn in two. One wants to completely run out of the room and away from him, while the other wants to flip over and have him touch me where I desperately crave him.
He gently rests his large hands on each of my butt cheeks.
"Color?"
"Green."
"You're doing so well for me, Gareth." His deep voice, quiet and intimate and only for me, guts me.
I whimper pathetically at his praise. Lindsey never told me I was doing well for her. She never had to. For some reason, I crave his praise. I want to do well for him. I want him to be happy with me. To approve. To be good for him. To earn back what I took all those years ago.
He massages my glutes for a few long, torturous moments before spreading them. I whimper again at the vulnerability of this position.
"You shaved for me," he says, and my first instinct is to be insecure.
I clench my cheeks together as a blush creeps up my face.
I've been freaking out about tonight for a week, so of course, I googled essentially how to be gay.
It was as pathetic as it sounds, but at three am, down a random LGBTQ+ reddit subforum, it talked about how bottoms should shave for comfort.
I didn't know how far we'd go tonight, but I wanted to be prepared for him.
"Good boy," he growls, squeezing my glute in his large hand. I whimper again, my hips flexing, pressing my cock into the mattress, rutting shamelessly.
"Can I touch you here?" he asks, peeling one of my cheeks to the side.
I nod eagerly.
"Words."
"Yes. Please. Green."