He pushes his shirt up his sleeve. "Do me."
"Right here?" I pretend to undo my jeans. "Sure. You have a condom?"
His smile lights up his dark eyes. "I'm already corrupting you."
"Maybe I'm already corrupted."
He shakes his head.
I nod.
"Show me the goods."
"Oh. Right." We're not flirting. We're pretending like Saturday night never happened. Maybe. I can never tell where I stand with him. "You're holding my backpack."
He hands it over.
I set it on the desk. Dig out my sketchbook. Find the page with my latest Han. It's a little different. He's wearing only his vest and pants, no shirt, and he's kneeling on his blaster as it shoots a laser bullet.
It's all incredibly phallic.
"Nice." He taps his skin. "Make it happen."
He's in the way of the printer, but I don't ask him to move. My front brushes his as I pass him.
My nipples perk. My sex clenches. My veins buzz with nervous energy.
I'm shaking.
I steady my hands enough to set the mock-up on the printer. Scan. Print.
He keeps his body behind mine as I snip the edges from the design.
Stays close as I clean him up, peel the plastic from the paper, press it to his skin, wet it.
I'm right there. Inches from him. Touching him.
But it's not enough.
I want more than his shoulder.
I want him naked in front of me.
I want to be naked in front of him.
My blush spreads over my cheeks and chest. It's bizarre. I haven't wanted to be naked in front of someone since before my diagnosis.
My body has been my enemy.
Then a stranger.
But now, God, I want to kiss and make nice.
To get to know every inch and cranny.
Of me. Of him. Of us together—
"That's plenty of time," he says.