His hands go still at his sides.
His eyes move fast—bed, the stuff on it, me, then straight to the cabinet in the corner.
The cabinet door is left slightly open, just enough to notice it wasn’t properly shut.
“I can see quite a selection there.”
“That’s nothing,” he blurts out almost unintelligibly. “Just stuff I ordered. What are you doing here?”
“Left your backpack in the truck.”
His eyes flick toward the hallway, then back. “Right.”
He shifts his weight. The towel shifts with him. Small, completely pointless movement. He already knows exactly how much I can see.
“You could’ve left it,” he stalls.
“I was already turning around.”
He nods once and runs a hand through his damp hair, but he’s clearly not listening to me anymore. His attention keeps driftingaway, snapping back to that damn cabinet like it’s physically pulling him in. It flicks back to me, then to the cabinet again.
Suddenly, I’m dying to know what the hell is in there. At the exact same moment, he realizes I want to.
We move at the same time.
Lance lunges toward it. I shove off the doorframe right after him. We collide hard.
Lance’s back slams against the front of the cabinet. I end up pinning him in place, one hand splayed against the wood next to his head. Our bodies flush from chest to thighs. His towel slipped dangerously low from the impact.
We’re both breathing hard. His blue-gray eyes are wide, pupils blown. I can feel the rapid thud of his heart against my chest, the way his breath catches every time he stirs. My own cock is rock hard in my jeans, pressed against his hip. And I know he can feel it. I know he can feel all of me.
Neither of us moves out of the way.
23
Lance
I beat him to the cabinet by half a step.
My back hits the doors hard enough that I feel it in my teeth, both palms slapping flat against the wood like that’s going to stop George Torres-Macklin when he’s already decided to move. Which is hilarious, really, because nothing about him says “easily redirected.”
This is a five-alarm, front-yard-burning fucknuggetry.
His eyes flick past my shoulder to the cabinet. He pauses for a while, but George doesn’t waste time on drama.
“What’s in there, Lance?”
“Nothing.”
He makes a noise low in his throat, the meaning unmistakable: Try again. “Personal items,” I interject, hoping to recover, to sound believable enough.
His eyebrow lifts slightly. I’ve known him long enough to know I’ve already lost this argument.
“How personal?” he asks.
Like ass-deep personal. “Extremelypersonal,” I say just a little louder in spirit.
“You left your front door unlocked,” he rasps. “You can’t wait to do what you’re set out to do here.”
