So true. “What’s your dad like?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Awesome.”
“Way to rub it in.”
“You’re welcome.”
The way he stares at me over the dining table drives me crazy. Like he’s hungry but the food isn’t cutting it.
I want to tease him about asking me so many questions and say it’s almost date-like with his sudden fascination with getting to know me, but I need to wait for him to do that kind of thing.
A week doesn’t seem like enough time for him to deal with his crap, but also a week ago it sounded like he wanted to work on it. Anytime I try to flirt, he turns the convo back to very unsexy things. Like my father. These dinners with all talk feel like I’m being friend-zoned.
Which, I wouldn’t have a problem with if he was straight up about it and let me know.
This in-between thing doesn’t work for me.
So as I get up to do the dishes, I pause as I reach for his. “Still up for that cooking lesson tomorrow?”
Anders’ face falls. “Is my food really that bad?”
“No.” I laugh. “I’m looking for an excuse to spend more time with you.”
I hold my breath, wondering if that crosses a line, and maybe it does because Anders’ demeanour shifts.
He nods, but it’s shaky. “Okay, yeah. Sounds good.” He stands. “I’m, uh, gonna go brush my teeth and go to bed.”
“You don’t want dessert—”
He rushes off before I can stop him.
I think I fucked up again.
As I wash the dishes, my gaze keeps going to Anders’ closed bedroom door and my brain replays every conversation we’ve had this week, every meal.
My feet carry me across the apartment to Anders’ door, and I knock gently. “Anders?”
There’s a moan and then a curse.
I have no idea what I’m doing or what I’m going to say. Demanding answers isn’t an option, and neither is laying it all out there that I want more.
He still hasn’t opened the door.
I knock louder. “Anders? Are you okay?”
Maybe he fell asleep already and he’s having another nightmare.
“Uh, hang on,” he calls out.
He sounds awake, but there’s something in his voice that sounds strained.
His footsteps get closer but then stop, and the door doesn’t budge. I lean in closer to try to hear more, which is when Anders, of course, opens it. I jump back but not fast enough.
He’s bare-chested. Breathing hard. His face flushed.
“Bad dream?”
His mouth opens. Then closes.
That’s when I notice how poor a job his boxers are doing at hiding the giant erection trying to get free.
“Oh.” My gaze flies to his. “Oh. Umm, right. Okay. I … you know what, it’s not important.” I practically fall over myself trying to turn and get away as fast as I can, because oops. Interrupting a wank session is poor form.
A chuckle comes from behind me. “It’s your fault, you know.”
I spin to face him. “Mine? How?”
Anders closes the gap between us with torturously slow steps. “All I’ve been thinking about is kissing you again.”
I feel his voice all the way to my toes, making them curl into the carpet.
He’s a breath away now, so close I can smell sex on him as if he’s wearing it like cologne.
I want to close the gap. I want to kiss him. My gaze lands on his lips, and I feel my tongue run along my own.
“But we can’t,” he whispers. There’s absolutely no conviction behind it. It sounds more like resigned defeat.
“Why not?” My voice mimics his, low and sexy with a tiny hint of a growl.
Anders takes a step back as if needing space. “My therapist. She said we shouldn’t. Not until …”
“Until?”
“Until I’m ready.”
“I’m guessing you’re not going to be ready in say the next ten seconds?” I ask hopefully.
Anders laughs. “Goddammit.” He rushes me, almost knocking me off my feet as he claims my mouth.
I groan as his tongue meets mine and his hands embrace and cling to me. He pulls me close, and while I’m still so bloody confused, I can’t stop myself from taking it.
Anders murmurs words I can’t understand against my lips, but when he pulls back a tiny bit, no longer assaulting my mouth but still kissing me, I hear, “Why do you have to be so … you?”
He kisses my cheek, the side of my jaw, and my neck, while his impressive cock digs into my side. His lower half rubs against me, and my own cock wants friction, but my head gets stuck on his words.
“What do you mean, why do I have to be me? What’s wrong with being me?”
“I’ve tried everything to make you unsexy in my head. Asked you about your mother, your brother and sister, hell, I contemplated asking you about your damn cousins tonight, because I figure if you’re thinking about your family, you won’t be all cute and hot and … you. But no, apparently talking about your family lights you up inside and makes you more attractive. Unless it’s your dad. He appears to be the cure for your ever-present glow.”