Ryan
You’d think that, after our nude art session, perhaps we would have talked about it. Had a rational conversation about how we were both feeling or perhaps what we wanted to happen. Maybe that would’ve happened if we’d been older. But we were both eighteen. I sure as fuck didn’t know how to navigate this situation, and judging by his silence, neither did Dominic.
That didn’t mean I didn’t see him. My lunches were spent sitting on the railing beside him. Some evenings he appeared at my elbow, silently helping me with the dishes or putting dinner together. He didn’t always disappear with Max straight away either, waiting until we were done before joining him.
Max didn’t like that. He’d watch us from the doorway, looking confused.
He fit in well with both of us. Neither of us knew what the fuck was going on.
Then there were the nights when Dominic would show up at my window. Sometimes I’d let him in. Others, he’d just pop the window open before throwing himself onto my bed.
The nude portrait had been completed days ago, but I continued drawing him in different positions. Straddling mydesk chair. Leaning against the door. Sat on the floor, arms resting on his knees with his cock hard between his legs. He didn’t suggest getting off, and neither did I. I didn’t know if I was more relieved or irritated about it.
I was definitely frustrated. That adjective applied to just about everything involving Dominic.
What we were doing now was more intimate. Barely a word would be spoken, but that didn’t stop Dominic stripping for me night after night.
Just as I knew it wouldn’t stop me drawing him.
My sketchbook was bursting with art, every piece of him. Worse were the pieces of me that snuck in there. The lines I drew after he left. Detailed close-ups of his dimple. The crinkle between his brows when he concentrated. The sardonic twist of his lips. His hands.
Oh, his hands.
I had pages and pages of nothing else. Just endless studies of the contours of his palms. The dents of his knuckles. The thick veins that made my mouth dry out. His long fingers. The memory of how it had felt to have them on me.
How it might feel to have them in new places. Places that, until Dominic, I hadn’t even considered as sexual.
My pencil flew over the page as I shaded yet another sketch of his fingers. Of them splayed over an arse cheek, the skin blanching from the pressure.
A noise at my window had me jumping, irritation and excitement racing through me as my head spun. I could never decide whether I looked forward to his impromptu visits or dreaded them.
That was a lie. I knew which it was.
Not that I’d ever let Dominic know. It was my secret.
I slammed my sketchbook shut and shoved it into my desk drawer before turning to glare at Dominic. I had all the usualstatements on my lips.You can’t just let yourself into my room. Can’t you use the door? That porch will collapse one day and I’ll laugh when it does.
With one look at his face, they faded away. “Shit. Are you okay?”
It was a pointless question. Dominic was clearly far from being okay. Everything from his red-rimmed eyes to his shaking frame told me that.
His head was ducked low as he shrugged. “I’m fine.”
He wasn’t, but my instincts were telling me not to push.
Instead, I stood up and went over to him. Without letting myself overthink it, I put my arms around him.
And hugged him as tightly as I could.
Dominic stiffened in surprise. “Um, what are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” I snapped automatically, before cursing myself. When I spoke again, the words were softer. “Thought you could use a hug.”
There was a long moment when nothing happened, and I held my breath. Had this been the wrong thing to do? Had I crossed some unknown boundary? This wasn’t what we were about. It wasn’t like I didn’t touch him normally, but it was never like this. Normally it was either because he’d pissed me off, or I needed him in a slightly different position while sketching.
As for him touching me, he did that a lot too. Usually to get my attention or to stop me accidentally hurting myself.
But never like this.
