So we were ignoring my little slip. That was good. I wanted to thank him, but that would mean acknowledging it, which would bring the awkward right back, so I followed his tactic and engaged in the new conversation.
“You hit the gym twice a day?” I said as I dragged my gaze over his body. He was tiny but tight, all lean muscle and not an ounce of fat. I supposed the frequent workouts made sense. “I don’t think you told me where you work,” I added.
“That’s because you didn’t ask.”
Though the words were snippy, his tone wasn’t, so I didn’t get offended. Plus, he was right. I hadn’t asked him what he did for a living. Mostly because I didn’t care. But it didn’t look like he was getting naked anytime soon, so we needed to talk about something.
“Oh, uh, what do you do?” I asked.
He got a bottle of water out of the fridge along with some tomatoes, cucumbers, and lettuce. Then he dropped the produce into the sink and popped the top off the bottle, tilted it up, and took several long swallows.
The sight of him—ass leaning back against counter, shirt moving up just enough to expose a swath of golden skin and firm, flat stomach, and throat working to swallow down that water—was unexpectedly erotic. Jesus. I had to get him into bed. Had to.
“I’m a dancer.” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and chucked the empty bottle into the trash can. “So the workouts are job related, but I’d probably go anyway.” He shrugged and grinned. “Love the endorphins.”
My brain stalled at “dancer” and a slideshow of erotic images immediately started flicking through my mind. My hand went straight to my groin and I gave myself a squeeze as I adjusted my hard-on.
“Not that kind of dancer!” Chase said with a laugh. “Does your head come out of your pants ever? You have one setting, seriously.” He shook his head and smiled. “All horny, all day.”
It was funny—not true, but funny. I mean, I liked sex as much as the next guy, but my head was usually focused on my schoolwork or my upcoming internship or my class rank. I was two years into a five-year life plan and everything I did, including networking with my drunken classmates the night I met Chase, was designed to advance that plan. At the five-year mark, I’d fine-tune the next five-year plan and roll it out.
Bottom line was, I knew the only way to live the kind of life I wanted was to set goals and meet them. Which meant my focus was usually unflappable. Sex was awesome. A six-figure salary by the time I turned thirty in three years? Even better.
But even the reminder of my five-year plan wasn’t enough to eradicate the images of Chase wearing next to nothing and gyrating on a stage. “What kind of dancer?” I asked as I raised a shaky hand and brought my beer bottle back to my mouth.
“Ballet is my favorite, but I’m pretty versatile.” He started washing the vegetables. “I’m in rehearsals for a cabaret off-Broadway right now. It’s gonna be great.”
Aaaand, now I was stalled on “versatile.”
He looked back over his shoulder and said, “Are you going to be okay eating lettuce?” I could tell he was trying to look serious, but his grin broke through. It was the only reason I didn’t scowl.
“Ha ha.”
I tilted my hand back and forth, watching the remains of my beer splash against the bottle, and tried to think about how to approach the conversation I wanted to have without insulting him to the point where I’d have to work even harder to get him into bed. I was already past my normal limits.
He took out a cutting board, started dicing, and grinned up at me. “Tomatoes too. And cucumbers.”
“All right, all right. You’ve made your point.” I tossed my empty into the trash can, grabbed another beer out of the fridge, cracked it open, and took a swig. Then I had an idea. “I’m usually more of a beef or chicken guy, but salad is fine. I can be versatile.” I paused and tried to make my meaning clear through my inflection when I added, “But I’m not versatile in all things.”
He scrunched his nose, looking grossed out. “Good, because I’m not cooking dead animals for you.”
Great. He was completely oblivious to my point. And he was some sort of animal rights activist. I ignored that because it wouldn’t matter. I could go a weekend without eating meat, especially if he was eating mine.
With subtlety failing, I decided to just put it out there. “I’m a top.” There. That was clear.
He slowly turned his head, looked me up and down, and went back to chopping. The lack of response was disconcerting.