“I’d like to hear you say it,” he says, and I frown at him. This fucker.
“You for real?” I ask, placing my hands on my hips.
“Yes. Why do you want me to move, Caleb?”
I know what he’s trying to do. Humiliate me, make me feel ashamed because straight guys don’t do this. We don’t spoon on couches, but I don’t feel ashamed. Not really.
“Fine. I want to cuddle. With you. Now move.”
Whit’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t say anything. He just moves to the opposite side and spreads his legs open across the chaise.
It’s slightly obscene, in a very mild way, but instead of thinking too hard onthat, I just follow, sliding between his legs. My back hits the front of his chest, and the back of my head rests on his shoulder. I can feel the smooth skin of his cheek against my stubble, can smell his familiar fragrance, and I sigh.
Whit doesn’t touch me anywhere else, his hands resting on the couch beside me.
“This how you cuddle?” I ask, turning my head slightly, so I can see him. “Girls must be lining up to fuck you.”
His eyes flick and meet mine.
“If you want my hands somewhere, put them there.”
I sigh and then grab his left hand and bring it to my stomach. He spreads his fingers, and my muscles bunch under his touch.
“Better,” I say and then turn my gaze toward the TV, but I’m distracted by Whit’s right hand clenching the fabric of the couch tightly.
I reach over, pry it off, and then place it on my chest, right over my heart. It thumps wildly at his touch, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he tenses slightly before relaxing under me.
The rest of the evening passes like this, Whit holding me as I doze. In moments of consciousness, I feel his hands drifting across my abdomen. They don’t stray far from their initial resting place, but they explore in their own way. His fingers trace my abs, up to my exposed nipple ring, across my collarbone, and down my sternum. It’s subtle, his touch, but it’s there.
And I like it, the feeling of his hands on me. More than any straight guy should. My dick is half-mast the entire time I’m in between his legs, and I wonder if he notices.
I’m not exactly small.
And these track pants hide nothing.
Whit’s phone buzzes in his pants pocket, and he shifts up to pull it out. When he does, I can feel a hard bump against my lower back, and I bite back a smile.
Looks like I’m not the only one.
That fucker, trying to act all nonchalant about it.
Pfft.
“I have to take this,” he says. “Da?”
I can hear a deep voice on the other end, and my ears strain to make out the conversation, but then the two of them begin conversing in some different language. Russian? Slavic? I don’t know. I have no idea what those languages sound like, but it sounds Eastern European.
But gods, that’s hot.
I shift between his legs and adjust my growing hard-on.
What the hell is wrong with me?
His tone turns icy, and his words grow louder before he hangs up and tosses his phone to the opposite side of the couch.
“I didn’t know you spoke another language,” I say when the silence grows too unbearable.
“I do.”