Okay.
The low growl of his voice sinks into me. Heat flares hot and urgent in my belly, then rushes south so fast. I shift hard in my seat, suddenly overly conscious of how the scrub top sits against my skin. The V-neck feels too open, exposing the base of my throat and the top of my chest. I can feel his eyes there, like a touch. My hips feel locked under his stare, the thin fabric suddenly too tight across my thighs and ass.
My cock twitches hard in my pants. I have to fight the urge to adjust myself right there on the couch.
Fuck. Ten years of being around this guy and one look from him now has me half-hard and overheating like a teenager.
Serves me right for poking the fucking bear.
I try to recover fast. The pizza between us has gone completely cold and neither of us has noticed.
“No—see—now we have to unpack it. We’ve known each other a long time and you pick today to start? That’s suspicious.”
“Didn’t make it a thing when you said I looked hot in those shorts the other day,” he mutters.
“That was different.”
It wasn’t fucking different. I could see the full length of his inner thighs and a very obvious dick print pressing against the thin fabric. He wasn’t even hard, and the size of that thing needs to be studied. I was actively trying not to stare at it while doing the dressing change. It was hot-hot, not the not-weird hot. But he doesn’t need to know that right now.
“George, they’re not even fitted. They’re standard-issue hospital scrubs, and there’s nothing remotely interesting about —”
“Lance.”
“What?”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He just gives me that heavy, direct look that means he’s done playing games. The room feels much warmer than it did five minutes ago, and I know the ceiling fan is still going because I can hear it, so that’s not it.
I need a second to process the complete absurdity of this. My best friend, former Navy mechanic, once fixed a naval ship engine with a cracked rib and said nothing about it for three days, is currently getting visibly undone by standard-issue hospital scrubs. My scrubs. On my body. The same body he’s seen plenty of times before, and this has never once been an issue until right now in this apartment, on this fucking couch.
I have no framework for this, and I built a career on having frameworks for things.
The episode keeps playing. Neither of us is watching it.
George’s arm is stretched along the back of the couch behind me, not touching my shoulders, just there and present. The couch is not a large couch. I’m very much aware of the heat radiatingfrom his arm across the back of my neck, a slow, insistent warmth that has nothing to do with the evening air. I haven’t moved away from it and he hasn’t pulled it back.
I should probably move. For some reason, I can’t.
I pick up my pizza. It gives my hands something to do that isn’t reaching for the solid line of his thigh inches from mine, or sliding my palm along the tense muscle of his forearm, or any of the dozen other things my body is suddenly loud about wanting.
The show runs on. Outside, a car moves down the street and the headlights sweep briefly across the ceiling and then it’s dark again.
At some point, I’ve shifted toward him without deciding to, body moving before the brain gets a vote. I’m near enough now that if either of us turned our heads, our mouths would be dangerously close. I’m close enough that I can feel the faint shift of his breathing, deeper and slower than it was an hour ago.
I eat my pizza. He’s looking at the screen, or pretending to. His jaw is tight, the muscle jumping under the skin, and I know that look too well. He’s holding himself completely still on purpose, every inch of that big body locked down like he’s afraid the smallest movement will snap whatever thin thread is still holding us in place.
The episode ends.
Neither of us reaches for the remote.
The next episode automatically rolls in. The ceiling fan turns lazily overhead. Warm evening air moves through the open window. Neither of us picks the conversation back up. George’s arm is closer than it was before. Or I am. I’m really not fucking sure anymore which one of us moved.
Every point on my skin nearest to him is running hot, and I’m absolutely not letting myself imagine how little space is left between us.
I don’t check how close we really are.
I don’t dare.
7
