Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“A friend…without sexy shenanigans?”
The corner of his lips curled slightly. “If that’s what you prefer. Okay.”
No, that wasn’t what I preferred. Not by a long shot.
And why did I feel like I was being schooled? Or tested. This had to be reverse psychology or something. Only an idiot would agree to a platonic allegiance with the guy he’d gone down on in a WeHo dressing room.
Say no, say no, say no.
“Yes. Okay.”
His smile widened. It hit me like a brick with all the raw whammy of handsomeness that was Thomas Hartwell. The sculpted jaw, chiseled cheekbones, full lips, sexy albeit smudged glasses, and that outlandish IQ.
“Great. I look forward to getting to know you. Now I sense that I might have come on stronger than usual, so I’ll leave the proverbial ball in your court. You can call or text me first. I won’t be offended if you change your mind.” He sidled by me and leaned in to kiss my cheek before walking away.
And me? I just stood there. It didn’t escape my notice that this was the second time I’d found myself standing in a parking lot, staring after Thomas.
Shit. I could be in serious trouble here.
Help! I have a crush on a client. It gets worse…Jase referred him.
Easton responded right away. Is he single?
Yes.
Then have fun.
You’re no help.
Eye-roll emoji. Give me a real problem and I’ll help. My kid boiled eggs and forgot about them. The eggs exploded, the smoke alarm went off, the pan is ruined, and my kitchen smells like farts. That’s a real problem.
I chuckled. You’re right. You win.
Easton sent a gold-star emoji and followed up with, It sounds like you just met the guy. Take it slow. Be friends and see what happens.
Good advice. Except I was leery of my ability to be “friends” with Thomas. I wasn’t going to confess my sins to Easton, though. He wasn’t a prude, but he was more like a protective older brother than the buddy I shared my naughty repasts with.
As for being friends…I had to think this over.
I spent the rest of that day catching up on my crafting, then I made dinner and watched Dr. Who. Hey, Thomas had mentioned that he loved the show, and I was curious. No big deal. I didn’t understand the plot at all, but I figured the professor wouldn’t mind filling in the blanks. If I called him.
I spent Monday doing more of the same…gym, practice, bills, daydreaming about the sexy geek who’d pulled my hair and fucked my mouth like a porn star in that dressing room. I hadn’t imagined that part, had I?
God, I wanted more of that. I wanted him naked and inside me and—nope.
Not going to happen.
The best I could offer was friendship. I was a good friend. Sort of. I mean, I wasn’t great about remembering birthdays, but I was your guy if you needed a shoulder to cry on at three a.m. But was I the kind of friend who could boost my crush’s confidence so he’d feel comfortable asking another man out? I wasn’t so sure about that.
I found myself sizing up my teammates at practice. I was closest to Jeff and Rick. They were both good-looking, single men in their early thirties with solid careers. But Jeff had a hard time focusing on conversations that didn’t revolve around sports. And Rick was a bit of a player. Tony was a flirt, Ryan was into older men…the list went on and on. They were a nice bunch, but no one was right for the professor.
I was still thinking about him in the shower that night. Yes, my daydreams were X-rated. But this time Thomas was on his knees—my hands in his hair, his lips around my cock. I pictured him with those glasses on, working me over, his tongue sweeping the length of my shaft, up one side, down the other…and that was all it took. I shot my load against the circa-1950s pink tile in my shower stall.
Breathing heavily and blinking water from my eyes, it occurred to me that all this thinking wasn’t good for me. Talking to him was better than jerking off to the memory of him. I hoped.
So I gave in and texted the professor.
How was your Monday? What did you wear today? Did you get all the compliments? Did the students and faculty faint at the sight of you?
My cell vibrated with an incoming call a moment later. “Hello, Noah. I’m still at work, wearing a plain white shirt with khakis. No one has said a word, and thankfully, no one has fainted.”
“They’re fainting on the inside,” I replied as I curled into a corner of my sofa.
“I hope not. How was your day?”
I savored the sweet familiarity of that simple question.
“A mixed bag. I just got home from practice, showered, and popped a pizza in the oven. Nothing exciting.” I bit my lip, hugging a throw pillow to my chest. “I’d rather hear about you. Why are you still at work?”