“Hi,” he says against my lips.
“Hi.”
“How was your weekend?”
I blink, stepping back. Are we supposed to talk first?
He frowns. “I wasn’t sure? Seemed polite.”
Oops. I asked that out loud.
“I don’t know,” I say, but I don’t give him any more breathing room. “Did you come here for conversation?”
He slides his hands over my waist to my ass, pressing us together. “Not really, I guess.”
Except it turns out he’s chatty. The only time Nash isn’t talking is when our lips are locked together. Other than that, anytime his mouth his free, words are coming out of it.
“Yes. That. More. Oh God. Brady. More.”
We’re still in the hall, and I’m half-crouched to tongue what I think is a nipple under his T-shirt.
“You’re bossy,” I say, glaring up at him.
“Well, I am the boss.” He glares back down, but he can’t hide the way his heart is thumping in his chest.
Oh, we’re playing that game, are we? I straighten, crushing my mouth against his. When his lips soften under mine, I find his cock, lengthening in the front of his shorts, and give it a squeeze. He freezes, going completely still under my grip, and our eyes lock.
“When we’re together, I’m the boss,” I say, and the shudder that rolls through his body is almost as gratifying as the way his erection jerks in my hand.
He licks his lips, his cheeks going pink. “Yeah. Like before.”
A thought occurs to me. I grin as I push a hand under Nash’s shirt, caressing the warm skin beneath. His stomach flexes, and as his eyes start to close, I say, “You don’t really expect me to call you daddy, do you?”
Nash’s nostrils flare, and the hazy expression gathering on his face evaporates. He scowls in a way that I haven’t been able to admit until now is a complete and utter turn-on for me. But the scowl deepens as he says, “What? Fuck no. I have kids.”
Oh. Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. I’ve seen pictures on his desk. Two boys. And yet, the other night, at Nash’s apartment, there was no evidence of kids. The whole place was sterile and empty and—
Nash stirs against me. “Are we doing this or not?”
What am I supposed to say to that? Besideshell yes, obviously. I’m a red-blooded man in his late twenties. I did not invite Nash over to see photos of his kids and talk about soccer practice. If he doesn’t want to go there, I am more than fine with this arrangement.
“Take your clothes off,” I say, stepping back.
He arches an eyebrow. “Just like that?”
“This isn’t our wedding night. It’s a hookup. Clothes off.” I lift my own T-shirt up from the waistband of my jeans and then wait, staring pointedly.
The black T-shirt comes first. He steps out of the brown leather Top-Siders and unfastens the button of his shorts. His gaze is on mine as he peels off both shorts and underwear.
I take a minute to look. The last time, in his office, he had every single stitch of clothing on, and I only got the tiniest glimpse of his dick as he jerked himself off into a Kleenex. To be fair, his O face alone would have filled my spank bank for probably close to the next decade, but now—
“You should only be naked,” I say.
Oh, daddy. Nash O’Hara is... Well, he’s real. He doesn’t have rippling abs and pecs on the verge of needing support garments to stay upright. But he’s long and toned. His stomach is flat, and his chest is covered in curling dark and silver hair that I really want to drag my nose through before I suck on his flat brown nipples. And his dick is perfect. Cut and jutting straight out from his body. He strokes it as he holds my gaze.
My brain goes blank, watching him. I feel a lot of pressure, suddenly.
“You want it like last time?” I say.
