“Rodents,” he murmurs as I follow him inside.
He closes the door and then stalks toward the hallway. And the entire time, I’m taking it all in—an old hand-drawn map of Wolverston on the dark gray wall, an overstuffed tan couch, two well-taken-care-of plants. The living area is not large by any means, but it feels fucking nice. Like a place I could sit in for hours, under a blanket with a cup of hot chocolate. It’s a place that could be home.
“Take all the time you need. I’ll make some coffee. Won’t be the fancy kind, but I roast my own beans…”
I nod. “Thank you, Mr. Barrett.”
He lets out a small huff. “You’re welcome, Mr. Wren. Towels are in the cabinet right there.”
I nod and close the door behind me. The bathroom is larger than I expected, with tile floors and a large clawfoot tub. I bet he did all the work in this place. I bet he takes pride in how he made this place a home.
I strip down completely naked, and turn on the water, feeling it warm my skin as I run my hand under it.
It’s only when I’m half soaped up and under the shower that I realize I don’t have a change of clothes, nor did he offer me any.
That means I need to leave this bathroom in just the towel he gave me.
A dangerous business indeed.
And it is.
When I step out of the shower, freshly washed and the towel around my waist, Glenn is waiting for me, a cup of coffee in his hand. His eyes slide down my bare skin like a soft caress, and I shiver.
“Here. Made this for you.” He hands me the mug. “Come on, let me get you some clothes. I’ll throw yours in the wash.”
“I—no. Thank you. They need to be dry cleaned.”
He huffs and then shakes his head. “Of course they do.”
He leads me down the hallway to his bedroom, and it’s there that I feel the slick I washed away in the shower return. Because right in the middle of the room, pressed up against the far wall, is a bed.
His bed.
Oh gods. I want to crawl under those thick sheets and nest. Not that I will, but fuck, this entire room smells like him.
And now it smells of me.
Glenn inhales and clears his throat.
He must smell it. He has to. It’s fucking obvious.
I should apologize, open a window, offer to work outside on the porch, but part of me thinks I shouldn’t address it. Should pretend it isn’t happening. It’s sometimes better that way.
“You want to rummage around, see what will fit you?” he asks.
I bite back a moan, thinking of myself wearing something of his.
“Why don’t you just guess?”
I can’t help but trail my fingers across the cool fabric of the comforter, the movement giving me a whiff of him.
My hole leaks even more.
He inhales deeply again, his tongue wetting his lips.
“All right. Here,” he says, handing me a folded pair of pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. Our fingers brush, and I shiver. This is going to be the death of me.
I won’t make it out of this house alive. All I’ll be doing the entire time I’m here is thinking of him sucking my cock, eating my ass, and impaling my greedy, wet hole.
