“That’s the one good thing about having sex with a man though, right? You can tell when something’s working.”
“I guess.”
I’m bordering on light-headed. “So…is it working?”
“Do you mean does he get off?” He nods in answer to his own question.
Half my heart spills onto the bed when I say, “Then just keep doing what you’re doing, I guess. As long as it gets you off too, and you don’t hate it.”
“I don’t hate it,” he tells me. “I like it. I just wasn’t expecting to.”
“Well, maybe underneath all the self-destructive behavior is just someone who wants to take care of people.”
Deacon’s head jerks slightly. “Jesus.”
“What?”
“My therapist said almost the same thing. I think you’re right,” he says quietly.
I nod, reaching over to pet Apollo’s sleeping head, not sure what else to say.
But I guess he’s not done talking. “Is it too late to give you that hug?”
I glance at him. “I don’t need a hug, Deacon. I’m okay.”
“It’s for me, too.”
Obviously I can’t say no to that. He’s not a hugger, and I’msucha hugger, so whether I need one or not, I’m not gonna deny someone. I get onto my knees and shuffle closer. “Do you even like hugging?”
“It depends,” he says.
“On what?”
“The usual. Who, what, when, why.”
I lift my arms and aim for his shoulders. He comes in for my waist. Our chests make contact, and I lean my head against his.
“Your hair smells good,” he says.
“Thanks. I didn’t do much today, but I did shower.”
“Smells can bug me sometimes, but I like yours. A lot.” After saying that, he turns his head to sink his nose into my hair.
I try to keep my shit together and my arms unmoving. Unfortunately, all that effort doesn’t reach my mouth. My attraction to him is fucking raging, my dick growing rock hard. “If you’re trying to make me like you less, this isn’t working.”
He laughs softly. “That’s obviouslynotwhat I’m trying to do.”
I don’t know what that means, so I pretend it means what I want it to. “But I like you too much already.”
“I want us to be comfortable with each other. Always,” he says. “This is helping me. Is that okay?”
“Why does it matter if you’re comfortable around me if we’re just roommates?”
“I’ve never been comfortable with any of my roommates before,” he tells me. “Until you.”
What’s left of my heart starts melting. “But I mean, like, how comfortable are we talking?”
“At least comfortable enough to do this,” he says.
