He shifts his weight, and I notice his pants then. Tented. He’s so fucking hard, I can see the rim of his head through two layers of fabric. My cock stiffens so fucking fast I have shut my eyes. I get a few slow, shallow breaths, and cover my eyes with my hand, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“I thought about leaving, but I’ve got a hunk of marble coming this way. Costs thousands to ship.”
I move my hand and meet his gaze.
“I’ll pay you for the mural anyway. And ship the sculpture back.” The words are quiet. His eyes are livid.
I’m a nice guy. It’s who I fucking am. Since I was little. All my teachers would send new kids my way. I’d get them hooked up and in the crew. I’m a goddamn nice guy, and it’s always worked for me. I work for it, too. I’m all about compassion, having gratitude, and all that other kumbaya shit.
So as he stands there staring at me with his miserable erection and his Luke McDowell good cologne smell and a slight shadow like he needs to shave his fucking face—as he stands there in his thousand dollar suit and thousand dollar shoes and locks his green cat eyes on me, and probably he’s fucking praying—I know I should say “okay.”
I’ll go, yeah. You live your life. I’m gonna make it easy on you, buddy.
But it turns out, he killed the nice guy. Mr. Sunday Morning Superstar destroyed my good guy core.
I shake my head. “Nah.”
He takes two slow steps toward me before I stand to greet him. I extend an arm, slide fingers between the white buttons of his shirt. Then I curl my hand into a fist and pull him down to his knees.