I nod my fist and try to sign it again, but he stops me, grabbing my wrist to still my fingers.
“No,” he says aloud, and I startle. I was not expecting to hear his voice. ‘HATE,’ he spells, then repeats the sign I just gave him. ‘LIKE,’ and he signs that one. I’ve mixed them up inclass more than once, but fuck, I can’t believe I did it right now, in this moment that feels important.
My cheeks are flaming hot, and I fight the urge to rub a fist over my chest, apologizing. Instead, I repeat myself the right way this time. ‘Me-like-you.’
After a long beat, he huffs a lungful of air. ‘Yes.’
‘Yes?’ I question.
He rolls onto his side. ‘Yes. Me-stay.’ He signs something else far too fast and complex for me to follow. I think I recognize a few things here and there, but I don’t trust myself to really know.
Reading his face, he seems…annoyed at best, and maybe still a little turned on. I am too, though I’m too fucking tired to keep going. My hopes of having a decent refractory rate are dashed by the fact that I’m exhausted after a long day at the gym and the acrobatic-as-fuck sex we just had.
But he’s going to stay. So I’ll have another chance.
I tap him again, and he huffs a sigh. ‘Sleep. Tomorrow again. Repeat.’ I make a hole with my thumb and forefinger, then jab my other finger through it.
He makes a choking noise and then, in the softest voice, says, “Sex,” aloud, showing me the sign for it.
I repeat it, and he gives me the most sarcastic Deaf applause ever, then turns away from me, shutting me out. I flop down beside him, exhaustion washing over me, but feeling like maybe this is something.
Or, if it’s not, maybe it could be something. His warmth beside me lulls me to sleep, and against my better judgment, I let myself feel something like hope.
CHAPTER FOUR
DEX
When I wakeup in the morning, I’m alone in the bed. And I can tell by the way it’s cold beside me, Rome is long gone. Twisting out of the sheets, I search everywhere for a note, then check my phone, but there’s nothing.
It was almost like it never happened at all. The scent of his faint cologne still clinging to my pillow is the only real evidence this happened at all. Well, that and the ache in my back because I’m not usually that athletic.
I take a beat, then pull up the text thread and send him a message.
Me: You coming back?
The message sends on my end, but as I wait, nothing happens. Forget about read, the message isn’t even delivered. So either he’s blocked me, or his phone is off.
Fuck.
I should have kept my mouth shut last night. Or, rather,kept my hands still. But I had to go and get ahead of myself and say something ridiculous like ‘I like you.’ Maybe I should have left it at ‘I hate you.’ Hate sex might have gotten him to actually stick around after.
God, I am such a fucking dipshit. I roll over onto his side of the bed and take a deep breath. It smells like laundry powder, his cologne, and sex. My chest aches with what I’ve lost.
I hate that he didn’t stay.
I’m not sure why I want him the way I do. With the way he treats me like I’m some kind of cross he has to bear—like fucking a hearing guy is such a burden—it’s not exactly the recipe for the most stable relationship, but there’s something between us.
Something more than the fact that he sucks dick like a god. But hell, even if it is just physical, it’s good between us. Better sex than I’ve had with anyone in a long, long time. Hell, maybe ever. And there’s so much we haven’t done.
I mean, damn, I still haven’t had time to play with that curved barbell pierced through the end of his dick. I want to feel him trace my lips with it and feel the weight of it on my tongue.
Grabbing a pillow, I shove it over my face and let out a frustrated growl. If I’m seriously fantasizing about having some guy rub his cock all over my face, I can’t claim any form of straightness ever again.
Rolling off the bed, I shuffle into the bathroom and start the shower before leaning on the counter and staring at myself.
I don’t look any different than I did two weeks ago, before I knew what Rome’s tongue tasted like. I’m still the same guy. I feel…different, and yet not. I’m still me. And I guess this has always been me, whether I’d said it aloud or not.
Which I haven’t. Yet.
