“You don’t own a yoga mat?” Surely he has enough money for one.
“You came here to ask me about my ground?”
Oh, yeah. “I just wanted to see if you wanted to grab dinner with me? I was thinking French, but whatever you want.”
Did that sound desperate? Sam probably couldn’t handle tworejections in a row. He hasn’t struck out so hard since his growth spurt back in secondary school.
“French is fine.”
Lucas turns back to face forwards and shifts his weight to his toes, using his hands to push himself up and back.
Downward Dog. See? Sam knows yoga things.
He’s not ashamed to admit he’s watching Lucas like a hawk, cataloguing this moment for a future wank session.
Hemight, however, be a little ashamed to admit the first thought that popped into his head when his hero and crush shoved his ass up in front of him.
Thomas is sexier.
It’s so stupid.Sam’sso stupid. The comparison is just easy to make when they’re in similar positions.
Lucas’s gorgeous, muscular body just seems a little stiffer, a little bulkier than Thomas’s slender, willowy frame. He clomps a foot forward to lunge into another pose while Thomas seems to roll from one position into another.
Also, Lucas doesn’t have any moles. Like,anyof them.
Of course Lucas is flawless, that only makes sense, but Sam has come to like the moles on Thomas’s back. They’re like constellations, and there’s a set of four arranged in a nearly-perfect line on his side, which is kinda neat.
There’s another one that can only be seen when Thomas’s cheeks are spread. That’s neat too.
“Are you okay?”
Sam looks up as Lucas wrestles on a shirt. “What? Yeah, of course.”
It’s okay to have preferences.
People marry ugly people all the time. It doesn’t mean ugly people are their preference, they just love their ugly person the most. And Sam loves Lucas the most, so it doesn’t matter that?—
Lucas isn’t ugly! God, no, he’s gorgeous.
But let’s just say Sam prefers the look of Thomas bent over, nearly breaking his back with how far he can stretch it, wiggling his ass like he’s starving and Sam’s cock is the only thing that could satiate him.
That’s a completely normal visual to prefer over a raggedy carpet man.
Right?
Freshly showered and changed, Sam and Lucas meet outside their hotel rooms, hop into Wayne’s SUV, and set off towards the French restaurant with the highest rating in their vicinity.
They ask for private seating, but they still have to trudge through a restaurant full of patrons aiming their phones at them. Several people scowl at Sam, who smiles on reflex.
Pizza would’ve been a better idea.
Though he walked in full of confidence and adventure, Sam chickens out. He orders the house white and skips the snails for steak frites.
Lucas is a braver man than he is. “I would like your most French dish.”
The waitress lists a couple of different options, but she says them in French, so Lucas nods and says, “That sounds good.”
A sommelier pours a splash of wine and hands it to Sam to test. He smells it, twirls it around, and swallows a bit before announcing, “It tastes like a red wine.”
