Page 18 of Wrecked

He’s so damn perfect. That red hair and those freckles, eyes the color of melted chocolate. His lean, muscular body. He’s an excellent shot, which is a turn-on for me. And watching him spar with Liam gave me a hard-on.

And one of the most enticing things about him is thathe’s attracted to me. I caught him more than once staring at me with a dreamy expression on his face as if he were imagining the very things I want to do to him. Not just imagining them, but wanting them as much as I do. I swear, if I’d made a move on him this evening, he would have been receptive.

I have never wanted someone as badly as I want Sam, and I can’t do a damn thing about it. The last thing I want is for the people I work with to find out I’m gay. So, seeing someone—fucking someone—from work is out of the question.

Shane was right to call me out tonight.

There’s no way I’ll be able to relax tonight with this raging hard-on, so I grab hold of it and stroke myself brutally until I paint the shower wall with cum.

And the entire time I’m jerking myself off, I’m picturing a certain redhead on his knees before me. Gripping his hair tight, holding his head in place, I deep throat him, and he takes every damn inch of me without complaint.

When I’m this worked up, I usually hit one of the gay clubs in a neighboring town—never too close to home—and find someone to help me take the edge off. Occasionally, I’ll jump on Grindr to find a partner out of town, but I prefer to meet someone in person in the clubs. I guess that makes me old school.

But I don’t want to go out and find a substitute. The truth is, I don’t think I could find anyone who would come close to measuring up to what’s right in front of me.

Sam Harrison is a rare find, and I can’t stop thinking about him.

* * *

The next morning, I pull on a pair of gray sweats and a Marine Corps T-shirt and head to the kitchen to make breakfast. Thank goodness there’s no sign of Shane. I’ve had enough of his grilling.

I start the coffee maker, throw some bacon in a skillet, and whip up some eggs to make an omelet.

“Something sure smells good,” Shane says as he walks into the kitchen. He’s got bedhead. Like me, he’s dressed in sweats and a T-shirt. Clearly, he’s not going anywhere this morning.

“Coffee’s ready,” I say. “Do you want bacon and an omelet?”

He takes a seat at the counter and opensThe Chicago Tribune. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

I pour him a cup, black.

The bacon and omelets are done soon. I make him a plate and set it in front of him.

“Thanks,” he says as he pops a bite of bacon into his mouth and chews.

I scarf down my own food. And while Shane’s eating and reading theTribune, I get out a large mixing bowl and ingredients to make chocolate chip cookies. I preheat the oven and get out two baking sheets. I figure I’ll make a double batch, so there are plenty for Sam and some to keep here.

“What are you making?” Shane asks as he picks up his coffee cup.

Oh, good. Here we go again.“Chocolate chip cookies.”

“For us?”

“Sure.”

Grinning, he shakes his head. “Well, at least we know the new kid won’t starve.”

When I glance at Shane, he gives me a look that says he wasn’t born yesterday. I scowl at him, not bothering to reply

* * *

That afternoon, I take a round tin of cookies down to Sam’s apartment. I have no idea if he’s home or not, but I knock anyway. If no one answers, I’ll leave the tin on his welcome mat. The cookies will be fine. Every tenant on this floor works for McIntyre Security. If that doesn’t ensure the cookies’ safety, nothing will.

The door opens, and there he is. I scan him from head to toe, taking in his manbun, white muscle shirt, and a pair of gray knit shorts. I take in his long bare legs and bare feet and imagine them draped over my shoulders.

I hold out the tin. “Cookies.”

He grins. “You really made them?”