“Just now.” He tugs me up the hall toward the bedroom.
“Now?” I laugh, stumbling after him. “It’s Sunday afternoon.”
“I know!” He’s pulling off his shirt and hopping on one foot take off a sock. “I emailed to see if she’d be free for a phone call this week, and she replied right away that she was leaving on vacation but could have a call now. Nash.” His cheeks are glowing as he slips his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts. “She was amazing. We’re going to meet when she gets back next week, but I think I’ve finally found someone who can do the job!”
“That’s great,” I say, and it is. The relief is rolling off him in waves. Maybe I’ve only been sensing his tension lately. The stress of finding a new employee has been weighing on him. “Can we talk first? I have—”
“No.” His shorts drop to the floor, and he stands, hands on his hips, dick straight out in front of him. “Sex first. Conversation after. I’m going to bang you like a screen door in a hurricane. Neither one of us will be able to walk when I’m done. Lots of time to talk while we recover.”
“Jesus.” I laugh as I pull my own shirt over my head. “Don’t ever say something like that again. You—” He’s on me before I can finish. His kisses are all tongue and teeth, rough and demanding. He pulls on my shorts until they slide off my hips. “Okay, okay,” I say when I get the chance.
He’s impatient in his movements, spinning me around before I’m totally undressed and pushing me down on the bed. I laugh, relief warming me alongside the desire. He’s okay. We’re okay.
He licks his lips as he stands over me. “I am going to ruin you,” he says, and his voice makes me think that yes, that is exactly what he will do, and I no longer care.
Except then someone knocks on the front door.
19
Brady
Best frigging day of my life. Finally, I find someone who knows the difference between an Ethernet cable and a hard drive cable. And now my hot—well, not boyfriend exactly, not yet anyway—my Nash is lying naked on my bed with the smile that means he’s going to let me doanythingI want to him.
And someone has the motherfucking audacity to knock on my goddamn front door.
“Hello? Brady?” The voice is clear, like they’ve already let themselves inside.
I know that voice far too well.
“Jesus Christ,” I say, echoing Nash’s words from just a few minutes ago.
“What?” Nash says, lifting his head from the mattress, and I shush him automatically.
“No. No, no, no.” I scramble, sliding back into my shorts commando. I tuck my stiff cock into the elastic of the waistband, but the action is mostly a formality, since my erection is withering with every second that goes by.
“Brady?” The voice is closer now. He wouldn’t actually come in here, would he?
“Who is it?” Nash whispers. He’s up now too, rummaging for clothes.
“Stay here,” I say, pressing him back down to the bed for emphasis, before I rush out, closing the door behind me.
Because standing in my front hall is my father.
“Dad!” Goodbye hard-on, hello awkward. “Hi.” I hope I’m not too obvious as I run my hands over my hair and clothes, making sure everything is where it should be. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugs. “You never call, you never write.”
“You want me to write?”
“Well, you could text, at least. So I know you’re not dead.”
I have to fight not to glance up the hall. “Seriously? You’re here to guilt-trip me?”
He lifts a six-pack. “And drink. Come on, the Jays are playing. They’re up by two in the fourth inning. They snatched defeat from the jaws of victory yesterday, but I’m confident they’ll turn it around today.” He shoulders past me toward the living room.
“Dad.” I trail after him. “Now’s really not good.”
“Nope.” He sets the beer on the kitchen counter and cracks one open. “Try again.”
