I glanced down when my cock twitched in appreciation. “Obviously not.”
“Why?”
“Why would it?” I countered. “You’re communicating what you want. That’s a good thing.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve never done that…and meant it.”
“Oh.”
“I mean everything I say to you.” He massaged my ankle with the pad of his thumb. “I want to feel you and know you so well that I don’t think twice about telling you how incredible it feels to do the things we do.”
I stared at him in stunned silence for a moment. “Th-thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m not sure that made sense, but that’s okay.” Simon scratched his nape and smiled. “C’mon. I have coffee. Get your ass in gear, teacher. And get some fuckin’ clothes on. My online classmates don’t get to see all that hotness. That’s mine.”
I chuckled because that was what the script called for—an immediate return to lighthearted banter before class began.
I toed off my sneakers and reached for my boxer briefs as the homey sounds of coffee brewing and a seagull squawking in the distance through the open window meshed with his deep baritone voice. He might have been teasing me about putting cream in my coffee or something silly like that.
I grunted and hummed in response as though I’d moved on, leaving awkward conversations about feelings behind. I hadn’t. I replayed his words in my head and smiled. I understood what he meant. He trusted me in a way he’d never trusted another lover.
Maybe he’d never let his guard down because he had so much to lose. I was a safe place for him. A temporary haven. He could be open and honest. He could share pieces of himself with me that no one else had ever seen.
He’d given me a greater gift than he realized. He saw me, accepted me, and trusted me. Me. As is. There was no reason to be nervous and no need for a script. I could be myself, and he could do the same.
We spent most of that lecture sipping coffee and talking in hushed tones about everything…except anthropology.
“I bought donuts.” Simon pulled my feet over his lap, tightening his hold when I tried to wiggle free.
“It’s important to recognize that cultural relativism is…” the professor droned from the computer.
“What kind?” I asked softly.
“Glazed, powdered, maple, chocolate, jelly-filled, and bacon something. What’s your favorite?”
“Donut? I don’t think I have a favorite donut.”
Simon shot me a funny look. “You like donuts, don’t you?”
“They’re okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. I like them occasionally,” I replied, shifting my gaze between the screen and his bewildered expression. I’d already decided to thoroughly read this chapter since neither of us was paying much attention to the lecture.
“I thought you had stronger convictions about food.”
“Not really. I think it’s important to consider serving sizes and nutritional content, but then I eat whatever sounds good at the moment.”
“Huh.”
I snickered, smoothing the crease on the bridge of his nose. “You seem disappointed.”
“No, but…what about pickles?”
“Pickles? They’re okay.”
He smacked his hand on his forehead. “Come with me.”
“We can’t walk away from the lecture,” I protested weakly.
“Fuck, yes, we can.”
Simon pushed my feet off his lap, leaning over to close the computer and grab his mug. He pulled me into the adjacent kitchen and gestured to the very odd array of food lined up on the back counter before moving to the coffeemaker to top off his mug.
I shook my head when he offered me more, running a finger along the label of a giant jar of kosher dill pickles.
“So, you really like pickles.”
“I bought ’em for you.”
I adjusted my glasses as I turned to face him. “You bought me pickles?”
“And peanut butter.”
“Did you think I was pregnant?” I asked, opening the pink bakery box on the island.
“Very funny.” Simon nuzzled my neck playfully. “Help yourself.”
I chose a glazed donut and gestured toward the pickles, three bags of marshmallows, two jars of peanut butter, a tub of Nutella, a variety of potato chips, and popcorn.
“Seriously, though. What’s the occasion?”
Simon rubbed his scruffy chin and cocked his head. “George told me you like weird food combinations. Peanut butter and pickles or…maybe chips and pickles. It was a while ago when I was trying to figure out how to get you to stay. He was fuckin’ with me, wasn’t he?”
I burst into laughter. “Definitely. I like most of those things on their own, but not together.”
“That little asshole. What about homemade carbonated soda?”
I bit into my donut and shrugged. “I usually just drink plain water.”
He huffed irritably. “I bought a carbonator.”
“That’s nice of you, but you shouldn’t have. Can you return it?” I asked, licking sugar from my thumb.
“Yeah, I guess. I’m not taking all the food back, though. Looks like we’re having pickle and peanut butter sandwiches for lunch.”
“No, thank you.”
“You’re a scientist, Topher. Experimenting is what you do,” he singsonged, pulling out a plate, a knife, and a loaf of wheat bread. “Let’s give it a shot.”