COWARD. BUT somehow, stripping for that first fitting wasn’t the same as changing into a finished garment. More intimate, as if he had already reached a relationship milestone with Jonathan, when instead there was no relationship at all.
Do you want there to be?
As Brent stared at himself in the mirror—tall, gangly, not even close to the definition of handsome, his forties closer than his twenties—he realized the answer was yes. Hell, yes. Please yes.
Relationships were messy and illogical and fraught with unexpected pitfalls, but for someone like Jonathan, Brent would be happy—hell, he’d be thrilled—to put in the work.
Maybe Riki was right. It was time for him to poke his head out of his coding cave, in his personal life as well as at work.
But to do that, he had to dig around in his psyche and discover a little courage. He held up the swants and stared at the jolly old upside-down elf. “Help me, Sixty-Nine Santa,” he murmured. “You’re my only hope.”
He pulled the swants on, the repurposed sleeves hugging his legs in a way that was simultaneously comforting and sensuous. Instead of bagging halfway to his knees, the seat hugged his ass nearly as well as his bike shorts. He held his T-shirt up and checked out the fit. The elasticized waistband—something else Jonathan had improved on from the basic instructions—hit Brent’s hips right below his navel.
He glanced in the mirror. Upside down on top of Brent’s crotch, Santa looked a little less jolly—and considerably naughtier—than he did right-side up. And maybe just a touch smug as well. Ho, ho, ho, indeed.
Brent took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked back to the living room, to find Jonathan dipping a chip into the salsa.
“Oh my God, Brent, this salsa is amazing!” He popped it into his mouth and chewed, his eyes closed. “Mmmmm.”
“Glad you like it.”
“Oh, I do. I—” Jonathan opened his eyes and looked at Brent. “Oh,” he breathed.
Brent managed a hesitant smile. “You know, other than the mortification of getting an apparent blow job from Santa, these are really comfortable. The yarn is super soft.”
Jonathan nodded. “Chenille,” he croaked, then picked up his water and took a huge gulp. “It sheds like a son of a bitch, but it feels great.”
Brent peered down at his feet. “And you made the sleeves, er, legs longer.”
“Yup. With the extra I cut off the hem. I figured you’d prefer it that way.” Jonathan fluttered his eyelashes. “Unless you’ve got some kinky boots in your closet that you were dying to wear.”
“No. No boots, kinky or otherwise.” An image of Jonathan in thigh-high black leather invaded Brent’s brain and made it difficult for him to breathe. “Why? Do you have some?”
Jonathan’s lips turned up in a sly half smile. “I might.”
That smile, and the suggestive burr in Jonathan’s tone, went right to Brent’s dick. “That’s….” Brent turned away, but in profile, he probably looked even more like Santa’s efforts were bearing, er, fruit. “I’m sorry.”
“Brent.” This time Jonathan’s tone was soft, and maybe a little apologetic. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. But you’re just so… so….”
“Awkward? Dorky? Pathetic?”
Jonathan set his water down and crossed to where Brent cowered by the sofa. “I was going to say adorable.”
“Adorable? Me? Have you looked at me?”
His smile returned, much naughtier than Santa’s. “Every chance I get. Haven’t you noticed?”
“I thought it was because you were triangulating my measurements for swants.”
“I was. But I’ve been drooling over you since I got a glimpse of your profile in the Goodwill Outlet.”
“My profile.” Brent swallowed convulsively. There’s no way he can miss a certain feature of my profile at this particular moment.
“Mmm-hmmm. I’ve always had a thing for Adrien Brody, and you bear a very strong resemblance. Sort of a cross between him and a young Neil Gaiman.”
A tendril of hope unfurled in Brent’s chest. “Yeah?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, I’ve had a thing for Adam Rippon since I saw him at the Olympics, and you bear a very strong resemblance to him.”
Jonathan moved closer. “I’m flattered. Extremely. So that means…?” He lifted an eyebrow.
“It’s only that—” Brent took a deep breath. “I’m not a fast mover when it comes to relationships. I mean, glaciers have smoother moves than I do.”
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
“But it is when I want to do this.” Brent cupped Jonathan’s face, so fragile in his long, knobby fingers. He lowered his head slowly, giving Jonathan a chance to pull away, but he didn’t—just kept looking at Brent with his lovely gray-blue eyes.
Then, when Brent was a breath away from those enticing full lips, Jonathan said, “Wait.”
Brent dropped his hands immediately and stepped back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Come back here.” Jonathan snagged his hand and pulled him past the end of the couch. He peered down at Brent’s Mission-style coffee table. “This looks sturdy.”
“It is.”
“Good.” Jonathan stepped onto it and tugged Brent forward until they were almost chest to chest. “I didn’t want you to get a crick in your neck.” Then he framed Brent’s face. “Because that would so kill the mood.”
Finally, the thing Brent had been dreaming about since he’d first seen Jonathan’s mouth happened: Jonathan’s lips met his in a kiss that threatened to blow the top of his head off.
Not because it was messy or dirty or overly aggressive, but because it was perfect. A soft, yet insistent exploration of the ways their mouths could fit together. Brent never wanted to stop—and with Jonathan at just the right height to prevent awkward body contortions, there didn’t seem any reason why they should.
I’ve got all night. Hell, I’ve got the rest of my life.
But then Jonathan pulled back, chuckling. He glanced down at Brent’s groin, where the fit of the swants was distorted by Brent’s erection. “You know, I think Sixty-Nine Santa’s got his work cut out for him.”
The heat pooling in Brent’s groin rushed upward until his face was probably redder than Santa’s suit. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s very flattering.” Jonathan grinned. “Not to mention mouthwatering.”
“Do you want to…? That is, would you like to stay tonight? We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to, although I’m open to suggestions, especially more kissing. But I could make dinner. We could have those beers.”
Jonathan bit his lip. “I’d like to. But I’ve got to go. Maybe a rain check?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Sorry. Family stuff.”
“Monday?”
Jonathan wrinkled his nose. “I can’t. I’ve got a… a thing. Previous engagement.”
“Ah.” Brent’s heart dropped to Santa’s jaunty cap. Just because Jonathan was single didn’t mean he wasn’t seeing any number of other people. “That’s okay.”
“Hey!” Jonathan threaded his hands in Brent’s hair. “I’ll call you, okay?”
“Sure. Um, let me help you pack up.” He stepped back so Jonathan could jump down from the coffee table. At least Brent’s dick had deflated so he could move around without extreme mortification.
“Brent—”
“It’s okay, Jonathan. You’ve done so much for me today, and none of it was in your plans. Call me when you’re free.”
But as Brent helped a subdued Jonathan pack up, he didn’t have a lot of hope that the call would come. Especially when Jonathan’s kiss at the front door seemed almost sad.
As he closed the door, he glanced down at Sixty-Nine Santa. “I guess it’s you and me, dude.”
Monday was going to suck.