“Oh yeah? Maybe I could practice my artistic photography on you,” I say, nipping at his lower lip.
He holds me tighter, and I feel his erection against mine.
“How did we go from career options to sex?” he asks.
“Because I’ve been horny for you for a week. I’ve slept all night in your arms, and my dick is about to write a letter of complaint. Not to mention my ass. He’s been dying to get acquainted with your cock.”
He laughs and kisses me some more while pushing me back until my legs hit the couch. He falls on top of me, knocking his knee on the coffee table in the process.
“Fuck, that’s going to bruise,” he says.
“Want me to kiss it better?”
“My knee’s fine. It’s other parts of my body that are aching for you.”
The doorbell rings, and he groans.
I sit up and straighten my hair, chuckling as I hear Arlo groaning some intelligible words as he’s walking down the stairs.
“Fletch, you cockblocking son-of-a—”
He pauses, and I perk up my ears to try to guess who it might be. It can’t be Fletcher, or I’d hear some laughter or teasing by now rather than silence.
“I see you’ve gained a new colorful vocabulary. Are you going to invite us in?” a well-spoken man asks.
“Um, yeah, of course. Come in.”
I hear a few sets of steps coming up until Arlo appears at the top of the stairs, followed by an older couple. They’re not entirely inside the living area, and somehow I feel like my presence is being judged.
“Levi, these are my parents, Eliza and Montague Remington. Mom, Dad, this is my boyfriend, Levi.”
I stand up and go to shake their hands, but they don’t move an inch from where they’re standing at the top of the stairs. I take my hand back and step over to lean against the window ledge. I don’t know what to do. Should I leave?
The couple’s judgmental eyes as they look around the studio match my idea of them from what Arlo has shared with me. Even though the studio is clean and tidy, his mom is looking at every single piece of furniture as if it belongs in the dump rather than in someone’s living space.
She’s probably thinking the same about me.
“How did you find me?” Arlo asks. His voice falters a little, and I have to hold on to the ledge behind me to stop myself from going over to hold his hand.
“Your brother thought your last call was a little suspicious and had someone do some investigation,” his dad says.
“You put a PI on me?” Arlo sounds as shocked as I am. What kind of people hire personal investigators to find their son?
“We wouldn’t have needed to if you’d told us you were back. We understand you want your independence, but you’re turning thirty soon. It’s time to become the person you need to be.” Mr. Remington seems to be the one in charge because Mrs. Remington remains as silent as when they came up.
“What makes you think I’m not the person I need or want to be?” Arlo asks.
He huffs. “Oh, please. Living like this? And where are your paintings? What kind of artist are you?”
“I’m the kind of artist I want to be. There are no paintings. Or at least none that you would appreciate. Can you please tell me what you’re here for so you can leave?”
His dad skips a beat but recovers in miracle time. The man looks like he’s not used to being challenged often. Now, where have I met someone like that?
I smile to myself at the memory of seeing Arlo last night at the town meeting taking charge of his destiny.
“Something funny?” he asks, looking at me with a gaze that could pierce a child’s balloon without any regret.
“Father,” Arlo says. “Levi is not only my boyfriend, he’s also a lot more welcome here than you are. Please say what you want and leave. I have things to get on with.”
