Chapter 11

Buzz. My phone skittered across the ottoman next to my feet. I grabbed for it.

You up?

It was nearly eleven and I was pretending to watch The Walking Dead and pretending like I wasn’t being attacked by a horde of worries about Robin.

Yes. Coming over? I replied.

He knocked on the door thirty seconds later.

“That was fast,” I said as I let him in.

“Didn’t want to wake you.” He jammed both hands into his jeans pockets, his shoulders hunkered in his coat, looking young and alone in the half-lit entryway.

“You didn’t. You look like crap,” I said baldly, rubbing his arms. The damp, chilly night seemed to cling to him. “You eaten?”

“Yeah. With you, remember?”

“That was almost twelve hours ago.”

“I think there was a Snickers bar in there somewhere.” He shrugged, looking sheepish.

“I’m gonna make you a sandwich.”

“You don’t have to—“

“I’m going to make you a sandwich,” I repeated, using my “mean” voice and a stern look. “And you’re going to eat it. And say ‘Thank you, Vic.’ ”

That got a tiny laugh from him. “Thank you, Vic.”

I led him back to the kitchen.

“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to eat with you looking like that.”

“What?” I said before I looked down and realized I’d answered the door wearing nothing but plaid pajama bottoms. “Oh, hell. Let me grab a shirt.”

Cheeks heating, I detoured toward my room, but he stopped me with a hand on my arm.

“I was teasing, Vic. I meant you look good. Distracting.” His hand came around to tease the drawstring of the pants. The red plaid pants were too baggy and had ridden low, something Robin exploited with his fingers, teasing along the waistline. With all the expense of getting new clothes, pajamas had fallen to the bottom of the list.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He looked up at me, a strange, almost tender expression on his face. “You don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

“How hot you are?”

“Hot? Me? Nah.” I brushed a kiss across his head. “You know you’re getting laid later regardless of how thick you lay it on, right? I know I’m not good-looking—not like you.”

Robin did laugh, then, a full, rich sound that filled my narrow hallway. “No, Vic, you’re definitely nothing like me.”

“See, I told—”

“You don’t have to look like me to be smokin’. You look like The Rock and Vin Diesel had a love child. I could work out for two years and not be as jacked as you.”

I felt like I’d gobbled a package of Red Hots—that burning rush of sweetness. I looked down at my chest and arms. Yeah, I guess I was getting more ripped than I realized. No more man boobs was nice. But no matter how many hours I put in at the gym, I couldn’t seem to outrun my teenaged self, who’d worn a shirt even while swimming. Hell, even my thirty-year-old self had kept a shirt on for most hookups. It felt weird, Robin’s eyes on me like I was steak and he was waiting for someone to hand him a fork.

“Lemme make you that sandwich.” I headed for the kitchen and got a pan on to preheat before I turned back and around and found him smirking at me. “What?”

“You’re cute.” Instead of grabbing one of the stools at the breakfast bar to watch me cook, he came around to the sink. “It okay if I clean?”

“Sorry.” There were some dishes from my solitary dinner in the sink and some boxes out on the counters. At work, neatness counted, down to the last drip of icing, but at home, living alone, I got a little lax.

“Oh, no, it’s all good.” Robin ran hot water for the dishes and grabbed soap.

“I’ve got a washer.” I pointed to the ancient thing on one side of the sink.

“It’s okay. I want to do them this way. I need to clean right now. Need to do something.”

“Yeah. I’ve been there. You want to talk about it?” I had a little bread and a little low-fat cheese and some meat left over from my dinner. I started him a toasted sandwich.

“God no. I want to scrub and scrub and not think about anything. Growing up, we always had a housekeeper. There wasn’t a lot for me to do. But she was nice, from Sweden. And she used to let me work alongside her. I loved it.” His face got dreamy and far away. “Sometimes I just need to get something done.”

“I hear that.” I’d been there, in the first terrible days after Manny passed. Drove around Portland for hours, thinking and wondering and hating and raging. Then I’d come back home and desperately want some small task to occupy even a piece of the hurt I carried around.

Robin attacked my dishes with similar vigor, soaping up a pot so hard I feared for the enamel.

“Lord knows I never run out of shit to do around here.” I flipped the sandwich, covertly studying him. Messy hair fell in his eyes and his skin was pale and pasty.

“You really going to sell the place?” He had that HGTV-renovation-show gleam in his eye again, no doubt cataloging all of the kitchen’s vintage charm—and many flaws—from the original cabinets to the ancient appliances.

“That’s the plan. Was never supposed to take me long to get stuff done, but with Manny passing and my surgery, and me not being the best handyman . . .”

“Why not buy it off her yourself? Then you could take your time. Do it right.”

“Nah.” I waved my spatula, dismissing such silliness. “Place like this? It needs a family. People. Not some single dude bumbling around.”

“Families are good.” He looked up from scrubbing the chipped Formica counters. His sad tone made it sound like they were anything but. “You could always give it one, though.”

Shoulders drawing up tight, I paused in pouring soup into a pan. If only it was so easy. You up for it? The words were right there, trapped behind a thick tongue that wouldn’t move. No doubt Robin was picturing me and some faceless dude, while I was seeing a future I’d never have, at least not as long as Robin kept insisting that this was only casual.

“Yeah, not happening,” I said, laughing like he’d been joking, like he hadn’t pushed a little sliver of need right into my heart.

“See, I never understood my dad’s obsession with new development. I mean, I know it makes his company a shit-ton of money. But old places like this? They have a soul.”

“Truth.” I wished I had his pretty way with words. Wished his words didn’t unearth feelings in me I didn’t know what to do with. Wished I could make the unhappiness and tension drain away from Robin’s face. But wishes weren’t worth much. I finished cooking the sandwich, plated it. It was hardly gourmet, but it was good, honest comfort food, the best I could do with a limited pantry.

“Here you go.” I motioned him over to the little table in the breakfast nook where I took most of my meals.

“You’re not having anything?”

“Nah. It’s late.” There was a time when that hadn’t stopped me, but those days had long past. I grabbed a chair to keep him company. Watching Robin eat was its own form of nourishment.

“This is amazing.” He licked his lips around a glob of cheese. “You’re such a good cook.”

“It’s just grilled cheese and tomato soup.” My cheeks heated from the compliment.

“Yeah, but it’s good. Oh, man, I hadn’t realized how hungry I was.” He devoured the sandwich and drained the soup.

“More?” I’d happily make the man ten meals if it kept that sated look on his face.

“I’m good.” He patted his stomach. “Good, but tired. It’s okay if I crash here, right?”

“You have to ask?” I knew this thing between us was still new, but we’d slipped so easily into near-nightly sleepovers that I’d missed him like crazy the previous night.

“Good.” He gave me a smile that was more sleepy than seductive. “Can I shower?”

“Of course. Take all the time you need. You can even take a bath, if you’d rather.”

I got him a fresh towel—the best, fluffiest one I had. Robin used water for stress relief in the same way I used work as an escape. And if that’s what he needed, I wanted to give him a good escape. I used the dimmer switch to lower the bathroom lights. “My sister got me these stress-relieving bath crystals for Christmas. No idea what Joanie was thinking, but you can have at them.”

I set them on the tub and turned to find him looking at me oddly. “What?”

“No one’s ever . . . you’re good at taking care of people.” He gave my arm a squeeze on his way toward the tub. “Guy could fall in love with you, almost too easily.”

My hand gripped the sink, almost tight enough to crack it. Do it. Just do it. Words, pretty and meaningless, gathered in my mouth, only to be promptly discarded by my brain.

“I’ll . . . uh . . . leave you to your bath. Or shower. Whatever.” Smooth, Vic, real smooth. I beat a hasty retreat out of the room.

 

 

“You still up?” Robin slid beneath my sheets, smelling vaguely like the ocean.

“Yeah.” And how. His naked body slid against mine as he cuddled in.

“Good.” He curved into me, stretching for a kiss.

My hands tangled in his damp hair. His warm mouth was a sexy contrast to his cool skin. While he’d been in the bath, I’d lectured myself that he might not be up for sex and to let him sleep, but all those good intentions fled with the first hot flick of his tongue against mine.

Both of us were on our sides, him rocking against me. Eager to feel his skin against mine, I wiggled out of my PJ bottoms. I honestly didn’t miss fucking; rubbing off like this with Robin was simply too good to feel even a pinch of disappointment. The slide of his cock against mine always sent little shooting stars of pleasure up my spine.

“Vic,” he whimpered, pushing into me.

“I got you, baby,” I whispered. Snaking a hand between us, I wrapped my fist around both of us and started stroking. The intensity of his kisses ramped up, with little whimpers and shudders in between slow, deep kisses. He thrust up into my hand, and his movements felt different tonight. There was a quiet desperation behind them, and I tried to match his intensity, give him what he needed. I cradled him to me and with my lips and hands and cock, I urged him to let go, to let me take care of him, to let himself feel good.

“Oh, fuck, Vic.” His moan echoed off the plaster walls, his body straining toward mine.

“Yeah.” I felt my lower back tighten, my balls tingling. “Come on, do it.”

“Mmm.” A strangled sound escaped from between his gritted teeth. His head tipped back, every muscle tight.

“Yeah, that’s it. So beautiful.” Watching his face sent me over, and I stroked through it, expecting him to come, too, but his body stayed tense. I shifted so that my hand stroked only him, using the slickness to work him off faster.

“I can’t.” His muscles sagged, going limp, but with frustration, not orgasm.

“Yeah, you can.” I kissed him, still working him with my hand.

“God, it’s right there.” He tensed again and I sped up my strokes. “Hell.” His curse wasn’t one of pleasure.

“Sssh.” The mellow glow of my orgasm faded, replaced by concern. I smoothed the hair back from his head. Could practically feel his brain cells chugging along. He needed to stop overthinking this. Grabbing his hand, I brought it to his cock, then started kissing my way down his chest. “Show me how you do it.”

“I can’t.” He rolled away. “Just one of those nights when I can tell it’s not happening, no matter how much I’d like it to.”

“I bet you could if I suck you off.” I tried to pull him back, but he resisted my embrace.

“Leave it, Vic.”

“I feel bad—”

“Don’t.” His tone was curt, but he reached for my hand. “Just . . . hold me? I’m too tired.”

My mouth tasted bitter, like I’d grabbed salt instead of the sweet sugar I’d been craving. But one look at his tired face curved against my pillow told me I wasn’t winning this one. I gave in and snuggled up to his back, the way he liked to sleep, with me draped around him. Sometimes we slept the other way, with him using me as a sort of giant body pillow, but most nights we ended up like this.

His breathing softened and he was asleep in seconds. Me, I lay awake a long time, feeling like shit because he hadn’t gotten off and feeling worse at how he seemed to be retreating, skating farther and farther away from my grasp. And I couldn’t stop the sinking feeling that he’d found himself on ice so fragile, I wouldn’t be able to yank him back if he fell.