He tried to, eyes bouncing from the mantle to the window to a spot on the wall somewhere over my left shoulder. He had the sort of face that wore emotion like a billboard, but right now most of what was on display was confusion and embarrassment, with a side of pain.
The swelling at the corner of his mouth had gone down, but the split had scabbed up ugly, and every so often he'd lick it as if he could taste the memory of whatever fist had put it there.
I'd made sure there wouldn't be a repeat. The odds were good that Luther was still nursing his own wounds, courtesy of a phone call I'd placed that morning to a guy I knew who owed me a favor.
I didn't plan to tell Newt that.
His lips parted, tongue darting to worry the injury again. I imagined that mouth on my cock and had to forcibly reroute the fantasy before it took over the room.
Fuck. Not now. Control yourself, soldier.
I took a slow breath through the nose, let my attention drift down the rest of him. He'd borrowed a pair of Harlow's sweatpants, rolled at the waist and still baggy as hell, but the material clung to his thighs in a way that made my hands tense up.
I clocked his posture—left knee higher than right, left hand gripping the hem, right hand bouncing a knuckle rhythm against his own jaw. Nervous energy, inefficiently directed. He was like a bird that couldn't decide if it wanted to fly or break its own neck.
He cleared his throat, realized he was about to speak, then chickened out and ducked his head.
I couldn't help it. I grinned, slow and mean, and watched him squirm. "You always this fidgety?" I said, finally.
He jerked his chin up. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize. It's an honest question."
He hesitated, then shrugged with one shoulder. "I guess I get—nervous. Sometimes."
I uncrossed my arms, stretching until the leather creaked. "You got a reason to be nervous?"
His eyes snapped up, startled. For a second, he looked like he wanted to run. Then he set his jaw, and something in him shifted, resolved. "No," he said. "I mean, not here."
"Good." I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, dropping my voice to the register that made men listen whether they wanted to or not. "Because if you were, you'd tell me."
He nodded, mouth working as if he was mulling over how much to say.
There was a long, humming silence. He picked at a loose thread on the sleeve. I watched the way his fingers moved, delicate and fast, and imagined them tracing lines down my chest, my hips, the inside of my thigh.
I made a conscious effort not to shift in the seat.
Old habits.
He risked a glance up, caught my eyes, and didn't look away this time. I let the silence get heavier, let it build between us like smoke. He didn't flinch.
Progress.
I said, "You said you wanted to help out around here."
He nodded, a little too fast.
"Don't do that," I said.
"What?"
"Pace yourself. You're not on the clock here. You don't have to prove anything."
He went still. His hands dropped to his lap. "Sorry," he said, softer. "Habit."
I thought about calling him on it, decided against. Instead, I studied the set of his shoulders, the new and old bruises peeking above the collar of the hoodie, the raw line at his wrist that looked a lot like rope burn.
I filed it all away.
