The cab jerks to stop, and I drop my hands to whip out my wallet. But it’s okay because I know in a few minutes I’ll have him exactly where I want him. Where I’ve always wanted him. All to myself. At my mercy. “You don’t have to. We’re here.”
I pay the cab driver, and we make it up the three floors in half my usual time. The second we’re inside, he’s on me, panting like he’s run a marathon as he shoves me back against the door and presses his body against mine.
Fuck, he feels fantastic. I want to let him have his way with me. Let him strip my clothes off and kiss me senseless. But not yet. Me first. And by that, I mean I’m going to make him come first, not vice versa.
“Whoa there, ballet boy.” He’s strong from years of dancing, and it takes all my reserve to push him away. “I appreciate your enthusiasm. But that’s not how this is gonna go.”
“How is it gonna go, then?”
“Like a rhumba,” I say, speaking his language. The language of dance. “Slow and smooth and sensuous. Not some herky-jerky, quick-and-dirty hip-hop routine.”
“What’s wrong with quick and dirty?” he grumbles.
“Not a damn thing, in the right circumstances.”
“And this isn’t the right circumstances?”
“Hell, no,” I growl, looking up at him to meet his heated gaze. He’s got a couple of inches on me with that long, lean body. “Your intro to gay sex is not going to be a fast and furious fuck against my front door.”
“Even if that’s what I want?”
“It might be what you want. But it’s not what you need.”
He lets out a frustrated howl that goes straight to my cock. “I so want to hate you right now.”
“You won’t in a few minutes.”
I take his hand and lead him into the living room. I’m hoping we’ll get to the bedroom eventually, but it’s too soon for that. Too presumptuous. My second-hand leather couch will do for now. It’s a decent compromise between my bed and the damn door.
“Sit,” I instruct him, my voice coming out sharper than I expect. Damn. You learn something new every day. Who knew I could do bossy gay? I guess Chris brings out the dom in me.
He lowers himself to the sofa, and I follow him down, sitting next to him and taking his head in my hands. For a long second we just sit there silently, staring at each other, our warm breath mingling in the small space between our lips.
“What the fuck are you waiting for?” Chris rasps. “Kiss me already.”
I move in, and he tenses a little, like he’s bracing himself for another taste of my lips. But I fake him out, going for his neck instead of his mouth. His skin is a delicious combination of salty and sweet, like a chocolate-covered pretzel, and I wonder if his dick tastes as good. Or better.
“Tease,” he murmurs as I drop hungry, open-mouthed kisses from his jaw to his collarbone.
I peel off his jacket, unbutton his shirt and spread it open so my lips can continue their journey south, giving me a first look at his naked chest. Damn, those pecs. And his abs. Holy hell. Is that an eight-pack? I thought they only existed in Marvel movies. And porno films.
I pull back, more than a little self-conscious of my own less-than-perfect body. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a total couch potato. I work out a few times a week. Try to eat right. But Chris is on another level. The guy doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him. Anywhere. There’s no way I can live up to that.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and husky. “Where do you think you’re going? You’re not backing out on me, are you?”
“No. Not really. It’s just—” I break off, my face flushed with embarrassment.
“Just what?” A frown mars his movie-star good looks. “Was it something I said? Or did? I admit, I’m a little out of practice. Plus, I’ve never actually done this before. You know, with a guy.”
“No,” I insist too loudly. The idea that he thinks my hang-ups are his problem—that I’ve done something to make him feel that way—tears at my gut like a knife. A serrated knife with a rusty blade. I’m supposed to be the experienced one, the one putting him at ease, not the other way around.
I take a deep, steadying breath and make a conscious effort to soften my tone. “It’s not you. It’s me. I know that sounds trite, but it’s true. You’re so goddamn beautiful. I can’t compete with all that.”
“All what?”
“That.” I wave a hand at his naked torso. “The sculpted pecs. The washboard abs. You’re a professional ballet dancer. I’m a piano player who spends his days—and nights—sitting on his ass at the keyboard. I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed when my clothes hit the floor.”
“The only way you could disappoint me is if your clothes stayed on.” He tilts his head to one side, eyeing me with the piercing gaze of a master painter studying his favorite muse. “Remember the night we met?”
