“Do you have to go home today?” I ask.
His fingers come up to trace my day-old scruff. “George is at my parents’. I can be all yours until tomorrow.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“Soo…can I get back to…?” He bucks his hips, and I take in some much-needed air as our erections rub against each other.
“How about a shower?”
“The venue doesn’t matter, but you promised I could go to town on your ass, and I’m collecting.”
“How about breakfast and some fresh air?”
He pouts, so I suck his bottom lip. We make out until we’re both out of breath.
“As tempting as it is to keep you in bed until tomorrow morning, we’re both going to need food and some fresh air,” I say. “I have a spare set of clothes in my car, so I'll need to get them later.”
“Well, aren't you the Boy Scout?” he teases.”
I pull the covers down, taking a second to appreciate Fletcher in the light of day, and then shake my head. “I'll show you how much of a Boy Scout I am. Shower. Now.”
“I love it when you’re bossy.”
I slap his ass and get up before I give up my own resolution.
Of course, Fletcher being Fletcher, we don’t leave the bathroom until we’ve made each other come, which means by the time we’re looking around the kitchen for breakfast, it’s almost lunchtime.
“What do you say we go out and find somewhere to eat a ridiculous amount of pancakes?” I ask as he’s opening his kitchen cabinets, looking for food.
“Now you sound like George.” He laughs but grabs the keys to my car.
Ten minutes later, we walk into a diner that I’m not entirely sure if it’s purposefully decorated to look like the sixties or if it’s always been this way. From the black and white checkered floor to the red booths and neon signs, it all looks like we’ve gone back in time.
“George loves this place. They have the best buttermilk pancakes.”
We pick a booth, and as soon as we’re seated, a server comes over with a pot of fresh coffee.
“Hey, Fletch, how’s it going? No Gigi this time?” the server asks.
“Not this weekend.”
She winks at Fletcher. “And who’s your hunky friend?” She bumps her elbow into my shoulder. “You must be special because he’s never brought anyone but his Gigi here.”
Fletcher’s hair is still wet from our shower, and he has it tied up like last night. I see a beautiful pink blush rise from under his shirt and move up his neck.
“Harrison, meet the best but also nosiest server in the whole state of Connecticut.”
She scoffs. “This job doesn’t pay much, there has to be some perks, right?”
I can’t disagree with her. “So, what’s good here?”
“I’m sure Fletch here has already told you about our pancakes, but if you’re in the mood for something different, you should try our maple-bacon-and-rosemary French toast.”
“Sounds good.” I turn to Fletcher. “How about a stack of pancakes and the French toast to share?”
Fletcher beams, so it’s decided. She takes our order and leaves us.
“So, Mr. I Have a Lake Cabin,” I tease. “How did you become an artist?”
