“No idea. Why do we do anything more than once? Because we like it? Because it feels good? I eat the same food multiple times a week. I re-read the same books a few times a year. It makes sense to me to watch the same thing more than once. And if you haven’t seen this, then I get to experience it with you for the first time.”
He adds that last bit all nonchalant. Like he hasn’t just made my heart trip over itself with the knowledge that hewantsto sit here with me.
I keep my eyes on Darius when he turns back to the screen. He leans over the table, picks all the pineapple off a slice of pizza, and then brings it to his mouth. And I watch him the entire time. As he chews, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows, grunts of satisfaction rumbling from his chest on each bite. As he uses the back of his hand to clean his mouth and as he smirks, his nose wrinkling with the action.
“You’re watching me eat again,” he remarks, his lips shining with grease.
Why do we do anything more than once?
“Maybe because I like it?” I say, then clear my throat. My heart thumps hard against my ribcage. “Watching you eat, that is.”
Fucking hell, did I actually say that out loud? No wonder he thinks I’m a fucking stalker. It’s true though. I may have issues with my relationship to food, but I really do like watching him. He’s cute. Endearing. And there’s something about watching hisenjoyment that calms me. Or maybe it’s his presence in general that does that?
Darius laughs, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous, Oliver, whatever-your-surname is.”
“Cross. It’s Oliver Cross.”
“Good to know.” He takes another bite of pizza, hits play on the show and we fall into that comfortable silence again. I try to pay attention to what’s happening, but my body is too aware of the guy next to me. My mind too focused on the way he keeps shuffling on the sofa, his foot occasionally jabbing my thigh. An electric current sparks in the place we touch.
“We need drinks,” Darius suddenly announces, taking me by surprise. He pauses the show and shoots off the sofa. “I bought some on my way home.” He skips toward the kitchen. Actually fucking bounces on his toes as he disappears around the corner, returning moments later with two bottles of a pale yellow craft beer, one in each hand.
“Could you have bought a more pretentious looking bottle of beer?” I say, playfully inspecting the label.
He scowls, pretending to be insulted, but the sparkle in his blue eyes betrays him.
“You like fruit on your pizza. You don’t get to judge my choice of beer.”
I lift my hands in surrender, trying not to smile but failing miserably. Why is it so easy to be around him? I can’t recall the last time I sat with someone this long without one or both of us being naked.
Even my relationship with Caiden was largely built around sex and the need to escape our pasts. He knew as much about me as I would ever allow, and that suited us. We brandished sex like a bandaid or, in my case, like armour. A weapon. A sense of control. Something I once lost but never will again.
But sitting here with Darius? Fucking him is not the first thing on my mind. I mean, itison my mind. He is unbelievably sexy and I am very attracted to him, but I’m not itching to fuck and flee. I’d rather sit here and watch him pick pieces of pineapple off his pizza, his nose twitching in disgust.
That realisation shocks me enough that I don’t hear his question until he’s kicking me with a socked foot.
“Where’d you go?” he asks, tucking his foot back beneath him.
What is he doing to me?
“I’m here,” I reply. “What did you ask?”
“I asked what you do when you’re not stalking me?”
I take a sip of beer – it’s really fucking good – then answer him.
“I’m a carpenter. Mostly kitchens. Some furniture.” I smirk, pausing with the bottle at my lips.“Good with my hands.”
Darius rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure you are.”
“I could show you,” I joke, doing what I usually do. Deflecting any truth about who I am with sex.
“Pass,” he replies, then takes a sip of his beer. He’s smiling as he swallows, licking a drop of liquid from his bottom lip. “But I’ll take your word for it.”
My charm does not work on him. I don’t know whether I like that or hate it. I move the conversation off of me by asking him, “What about you? What does Darius Thorne-Sutton do with his time?”
I adjust my position on the sofa, kicking my legs up onto the coffee table in front of me. The action disturbs the cat who was sleeping beneath it, and he slinks out and hops up, plonking himself on Darius’s lap.
“This and that.” Darius shrugs.
