Chapter Twenty
“He’s never denied any of it.”
IT HADbeen… a while since Flynn had woken up to company. The breakup with Kier hadn’t exactly been out of the blue. It had been brewing for a dry spell, and when you lived on an island, a one-night stand was actually a fair amount of commitment. Not that he’d been celibate, but he stuck to hookups in back rooms and back seats, and at some point, he settled into the idea that he preferred it, that he liked his space and his privacy.
Yet there he was, and there Nate was, and all Flynn felt was lazy contentment and a bit of surprise that Nate hadn’t snuck out with the dawn.
Or maybe he meant to and just got caught by the view.
Flynn propped himself up on his elbow, stifled a yawn against the back of his hand, and looked down to where Nate was sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed. The teasing comment on Flynn’s tongue went dry, and he wondered who the hell had told Nate that he wasn’t a beautiful man.
His back was long and narrow and his arms were slim and elegant in a way that Flynn had assumed was down to the expensive suits and silk T-shirts. The tilt of his folded legs drew his long, lean thighs tight from knee to hip, and the marks of Flynn’s fingers were still visible as pale prints on his skin. Maybe Nate didn’t have much muscle, but there was no spare flesh on him. He just looked like a runner instead of a weight lifter—soft like he enjoyed his body, but not like he was weak.
“You know you’re gorgeous, right?” Flynn asked. His voice sounded harsher than just morning dry mouth could justify.
Nate snorted without looking around and shifted his shoulders as though he could shed the weight of the compliment. “I clean up okay.” He glanced over his shoulder, his messy piebald curls fell over his face, and he bit his lip as he gave Flynn a once-over. “You look like a Greek statue.”
The easy, open appreciation on Nate’s face made Flynn’s balls tighten and his cock twitch. Apparently his body thought he could be up for another round if he put the effort in. That was wishful thinking. The swell of warmth and… affection in his chest was delusional.
“The ones with small dicks?” he jibed.
Nate laughed and turned to crawl up the bed. He reached between Flynn’s thighs, his hand cupped his ever more lively cock, and squeezed thoughtfully. Interest yanked back to Flynn’s spine with a hot cramp of hunger, and he had to hold back a groan.
“Like I said.” Nate leaned in and brushed a closed-mouth kiss over Flynn’s bitten lips. “I’ve no complaints.” Fuck morning breath. Flynn caught Nate’s arm and pulled him back down for a proper kiss—slow and leisurely, tongues tangled, and hands free to explore. Flynn’s ended up on Nate’s ass again. It didn’t feel that narrow from his angle.
After a long, distracting minute, Nate broke the kiss. He tilted his head back and looked regretful. “I really need to go,” he said.
Flynn rolled them both over and pinned a laughing Nate to the bed. He cupped Nate’s face in his hands and grazed his thumbs over his cheekbones.
“Just tell your mum you’re here.” He caught Nate’s lower lip between his teeth and tugged at it gently. “Let her think I’m leading you astray.”
Nate draped his arms over Flynn’s shoulders and snorted. “I’m pretty sure she knows I’ve had sex—considering she walked in on me the first time.”
He said it as though it were funny, with maybe 20 percent leftover embarrassment. If Flynn’s old man had walked in on that, one of the two wouldn’t have walked back out again. The jab of odd, old jealousy deflated a bit of the lazy, sweaty balloon of early morning lust.
“But,” Nate added, “I do have to get to work, and I probably shouldn’t go in smelling like sex and burned oil.”
Yeah, there was that.
Nate’s shove wasn’t particularly effective, but Flynn sighed and rolled off him. Nate sat up and stretched like a cat, with his shoulders rolled back and his stomach caved in under his ribs. As he dropped his hands back to his sides, he gave Flynn an uncertain look. “Do you mind if I use your shower?” he asked.
Flynn sighed and folded his arms behind his head. “Help yourself.” He unlaced one finger long enough to point. “Behind the wall.”
He sprawled out on the bed and listened to Nate turn the water on, swear, and turn it back off again. While Nate fought with the water pressure—it was okay, but the boiler on the ground floor wasn’t meant to run water up for twenty minutes—Flynn stared down his stretched-out body.
Most of the time, he didn’t reallylookat himself. It was his body. It was just there, as long as it did what he needed it to do. He knew his thighs were sprinkled with dark hair, that his stomach was flat, and that he was lucky his scarred leg worked. But he didn’t dwell on it.
The old white seam on his leg looked raw and new, as though it were the first time he’d seen it. It looked ugly and function impairing, but it wasn’t that bad—little muscle damage, no tendons, just a split bone and torn flesh. It was nearly as good as new. He was starting to feel like he was too.
“I never meant to stay here,” he said. His voice carried over the splash and gurgle of Nate’s shower. “That wasn’t the plan.”
“Mine neither,” Nate yelled back. “I figured you’d be joining me in here.”
Not what he meant. Flynn glanced down at his cock, which lay at half-mast against his stomach, and decided it wasn’t in his interest to argue. He rolled off the bed, and his bones still sounded like gravel as he headed around the curved glass-brick wall to the shower.
Nate stood in the sunken wet room, hair plastered to his head and soapy water glistening on his bare skin. One of his hands was curled around his cock at the start of a lazy wank, and he grinned at Flynn through the dripping water.
“Just in time,” he said.
