Anyone at all being in my bed would be a monumental event. The fact that it’s him makes my chest tight.
I go and drink a glass of water. I consider crawling into bed with him, but I sit there again instead, like he’s claimed my mattress for himself.
Naked Orlando.
That ass…
It was easy to reason my way into this. My place is right down the street from the gala, and in some respect, it’s more discreet than a hotel. After seeing Orlando keep up appearances and do his job like a pro, trusting him felt easier, too.
And following the disappointing news from Patel, the temporary distraction was especially appealing.
Finally, I lie down beside Orlando, but stay over the sheets. I stare at the ceiling and try to calm down, but my dick is too hard.
Fuck. I want to touch him.
Can I touch him?
No. Of course not.
When I can’t sleep, I go to the couch. There, I start to snooze, but I wake again with a startle and end up back in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, city lights sparkling out the window.
As unreal as it is to see him sleeping there, it also feels right. There’s a possessive, needy animal inside me, and it comes alive every time I touch Orlando. As the night creeps on and my thoughts circle, I think to myself that I don’t want the world to look at us and think we’re an athlete and his agent.
I want everyone to see that he’s mine, and I’m his.
That’s a ridiculous urge. I stretch out on my back again, listing the reasons that won’t happen. Can’t happen.
Orlando and I will stick to the hotels going forward. I’m starting to need the strict boundaries as much as he does, and we can’t add to the risk we’re already taking. The consequences for everyone would be too high.
Even if a different arrangement were possible, there’s no way in hell he wants me the way I might want him. I’m old and brash, and he’s got nothing but a bright future ahead of him. What would he want me for, except a dirty, forbidden fling?
I’ve been on my own for so long, anyway. Basically my entire life. I’m best off this way.
I listen to his breathing for an hour, two. Finally, I drift into a light sleep, but I pop awake again when the sun is coming up. Regretfully, I tear myself from the bed and walk to the kitchen, where I drink some orange juice from the carton in my boxers.
I’m so damn tired.
Time to make breakfast.
After starting up the coffee machine, I turn to fry some eggs and greens, something healthy for Orlando’s diet. I wonder if he’s going to run out the door like when Mel caught us. Or maybe stick around too long.
Egg sandwiches make more sense. Something he can take with him.
I start to wonder if it’s appropriate to make him breakfast at all.
Except I fucking want to make Orlando breakfast. Even if it’s not appropriate. The man spends the night in my bed; it’s my job to feed him in the morning. End of story.
“Oh, shit. Breakfast in bed? Because I can crawl back under the sheets until you’re done.”
I turn and see Orlando in the doorway. He’s wearing his black boxer briefs and white t-shirt from last night, and his eyes are still puffy with sleep.
Okay. Maybe breakfast is fine.
“Wasn’t going to send you off hungry.”
Orlando smiles as he pulls up a stool at the counter. “Thanks. After how much I ate at the gala, it’s amazing that I still have an appetite. But I guess we did give each other a workout.”
“Coffee?” I ask.
