Nash leans back against the couch, one arm behind his head while he works his cock with the other hand. “Does this count as overtime?” he says with a smile.
I’d tell him the joke is inappropriate, but my heart won’t stop pounding, even after I set the phone down. My fingers are numb, and my brain goes stretched inside. My feet don’t feel like mine as I turn to face him.
I must go pale or something, because Nash’s smile disappears in an instant, and his hand stills.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Even I know my smile is wooden. “Just need a glass of water.” Except, I stumble toward the couch instead, feeling my whole world start to crumble as Nash discreetly tucks himself back into his pants.
“Should you go deal with it after all?”
Fuck. I’m making a mess of everything.
“No. I—” I more or less collapse down next to him in a heap. “I need to sit down for a second.”
The fluttery stretchy feeling always takes longer to pass than I want it to. Somewhere along the way, Nash puts one arm around my shoulder. I should tell him I’m fine. Remind him he’s here for sex, not to cuddle and keep me from flying to pieces as my brain crashes through a million what-if scenarios that all start with me turning down a client request and end with me unemployed and slowly eating into my dad’s pension because the failure of my venture has somehow made me both unemployable and unfinanceable. My only option is to go back to setting up lemonade stands on Dad’s front porch in a sketchy attempt to earn a living.
Somewhere along my slow return to a normally functioning nervous system, Nash goes to the kitchen and comes back with a couple beers. The hiss as he cracks open each can seems overly loud, but the smooth citrus taste of the local craft brew is good, a chilling relief that grounds me as it slides down my throat and settles in the bottom of my stomach.
“Does that happen a lot?” Nash asks softly.
“Panic attacks?” I give him a rueful smile. “Less than the first couple years. Probably only a few a month. The joys of working for yourself, right?”
His jaw is tight as he nods. “I meant the after-hours phone calls.”
“Oh, the football phone.” I shrug like it’s no big deal. “Catch-22. The more clients I bring in, the better the odds that at least one of them will have an IT-related emergency at any given time of the day or night, you know? But it pays the bills.”
“But don’t you have— Isn’t there someone else who—” His hand on my shoulder is gentle, and I lean into it.
“She quit.” Technically I could have made her take the phone for one last weekend, but why delay the inevitable? All those people have to get used to calling me. I shudder at the thought. Fuck. All those résumés on my laptop. Someone in there has to work out.
He pulls me against him, and I turn into his warmth. We don’t talk about it much after that. The silver and brown hairs over his sternum tickle my cheek. I run my fingers over the softer hair on his stomach and look up at him. His mouth is incredibly close, and his lips look so soft and inviting, even when I know how rough and demanding they can be.
I’ve never met anyone I wanted as much as I’ve wanted Nash O’Hara.
When I stretch up to kiss him, he hesitates for a minute. “We don’t have to,” he says.
“But I want to.” I slide a hand down over the front of his underwear, and we’re only kissing a few seconds before I can feel his dick start to perk up again. Poor neglected boy. He was all set to go until I had a professional crisis.
I’m going to make it up to him all night.
16
Nash
We don’t talk about the night with the phone call again, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think about it.
Brady and I have always had a certain kind of banter. The edge to his voice when I would call him from the office said he knew he was pushing my limits and liked it. I liked it too. And everything, from the firmness of his handshake to the light in his eyes said he was someone who could take me at my worst and give it all right back.
I didn’t know how much strain it put on him to be that person, not just with me but with everyone. Selfishly, although maybe not unexpectedly, I never thought about who he was when he wasn’t with me.
Now I’ve seen it, and I’m left unsettled.
I’m with him every night I can manage, some protective instinct kicking in that says if he’s with me, he’ll be okay.
Some nights we barely even get the door closed before the clothes come off. Others, he’s already on the phone solving a crisis or taking down details, and then he has to leave. He apologizes on those nights, and I tell him it’s okay, and I mean it. I’m not his husband, and the stab of disappointment as he walks me to his door isn’t his fault. Nothing we’ve promised each other can’t wait until another day.
He’s at his laptop one night when I arrive, absorbed in something, but when I go to kiss him this time, he flinches away then realizes what he’s done.
