Huh, I’d rendered Steven Thompson speechless. Well done.
He was leaning against the wall, his mouth agape and his softening cock still hanging out of his pants. His glasses were slightly askew, his hair messier than normal.
He looked beautiful. I wanted to burn this memory into my brain and never forget that I’d had this effect on him.
I tucked myself back into my pants and said, “Let’s get cleaned up a little. Then I want to talk to you.”
He swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, let’s, uh, do that.” He raised his arm and flicked his thumb toward the hall. “The bathroom is back there on the left.”
Once we had tidied, I made myself at home on the couch, slouching and spreading, conveying an unapologetic confidence I didn’t feel. It was important to me that Steven understood what my motives had been from the start—that I had no regrets and hadn’t blown my load all over him on a whim. How he felt about all of this was a mystery, therefore my confidence was pretty shaky.
When he joined me, he had two opened beer bottles in his hands. He’d put his undershirt back on and buckled his belt. He still had a slightly dazed afterglow. Again, well done, Ken.
“Here,” he handed me the beer and sat. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink, McPretty.” He sighed.
“What happened to the ‘MD?’” I asked, infusing my voice with humor. “I didn’t spend thirteen years of my life to be just a regular McPretty.”
Without looking at me, he smiled. “Yikes, sorry. Let’s blame it on the hand-job, okay? My thought processes have been temporarily compromised.”
I wasn’t sure how to segue into conversation, so I opted for bluntness. “So much is making sense now,” he nodded slowly in agreement, still looking forward. “I guess my dating attempts were too subtle, huh?”
Steven huffed out a rueful laugh and shook his head. “It’s pretty damn obvious now.” He was pensive for a moment, then whipped his head to look at me, his eyes wide. “Hey! You were so totally coming on to me with that breathing shit, weren’t you?!”
“Absolutely,” I agreed. “If Ernesto could have waited five more seconds, I would have had my tongue in your mouth.”
He muttered softly, “What a cockblocker.”
“And you thought what? We’d just be friends?”
“Well, yeah. I thought you were straight.” He laid all his splayed fingers on his chest and said, “I’m clearly awesome—”
“A delight,” I interjected.
“And I thought you could use a friend—that you needed some help socializing.”
I felt my face bunch up. I didn’t bother smoothing it over or keeping the rancor from my voice when I said, “I have friends, you know. I’m not completely pitiful.” I was stung by the thought that I’d been a pity project for him. I might not have had a lot of close friends in Chicago, but I had casual friends I met up with when I could. For instance, there was Jeremiah and Mike. I met up with them occasionally, mostly for racquetball. Of course, they’d been residents at Chicago General and I hadn’t played with either of them in months. Alright, so I didn’t surround myself, every spare minute, with people. So what? I was busy.
I was also lonely. And Steven, with his stupid x-ray vision, saw all of that. Of course, he had.
“Whoa, hold up,” Steven said, raising one hand. “Don’t take that the wrong way. You called me. Romance didn’t occur to me as one of your motives. What else was I supposed to think?”
I didn’t want to fight, I just wanted to know we could move forward. “Alright, fine. But you don’t want to be only friends, right? That’s what you meant in your message?”
He shook his head, his gray eyes sparking with feeling. “I can’t be just friends with you. It’s not possible.”
Relieved, I set my beer on the table and twisted to kiss him. It was intended to be quick, but as soon as our lips met, the kiss turned hot. Steven fumbled to set his beer on the table without breaking contact. When he did, both of his hands found their way to my hair, gently tugging with every swipe of tongue.
I pulled back after a moment, intent on finishing our conversation. “Wait, wait, we need to settle some things.”
Breathing hard, he said, “If you want me to focus on conversation, you need to scoot back.” He turned his head away from me and held his palm out. “Your face in mine short-circuits my brain.”
I smiled. And rather than scooting back, I raised my hand to interlace our fingers. “I’m not moving, and you’re going to jazz with me tomorrow night,” I declared. “It will be a date, I will pay.” At this he snorted. “Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll get a good night kiss.”
Still facing away, he muttered. “You’ll get a kiss all right…”
I hated to turn the conversation, but we had to talk about the other thing.
I brought our laced hands down to rest on his leg and rubbed my thumb on his. “Tell me about this stalker.”