“Please. I do differential calculus when I run.” He slides back into bed.
My brow knits as I pluck at the waistband of his shorts. “What the fuck is this? Get naked. Now.”
“Are we fucking again?” He sounds eager. It’s a good sound.
“Not yet. Emphasis on yet. I just want . . .” But I’m unsure if I should fully articulate what I truly crave right now. A little more time with him. “Just want you naked in bed with me.”
“Twist my arm.” He shucks off his shorts and underwear, and that’s what I like to see. All this skin. All these muscles. All of his body that I want again and again.
But I should be a good sex tutor, make sure my straight-A student is holding up. “Are you sore?”
He shrugs. “A little. But I’m good with it.”
That’s pretty much his mantra in bed, I’m learning. He’s good with everything. He wants everything. He’s open to all of the above. Funny, how I thought I was the only one among us with no hang-ups. Seems we’re both that way. I run a hand down his hip. “Good. Glad you’re . . . good.”
“And you?” he asks cautiously.
I get it now. Why he’s all tentative and this side of shy. Grabbing his ass, I haul him against me. “I’m excellent. Last night was incredible.”
He fights off a smile. “Good. That’s good.”
Mark’s not into swoony words, though, so the better way to let him know how I feel might be like this. “So, the pool shed. Is that on your list? Do I need to bend you over the pool pump and fuck you there tonight?”
His eyes glint. “No. That’s what I’ll do to you.”
“Bet I’ll love it. You banging me among the pool chemicals and casserole dish stash has got to be top of my wish list,” I say, and we both burst into laughter.
That feels good too.
I stretch out on the sheets, parking my hands behind my head. “By the way, it’s nice that you did that for Hannah. It’s cute the way you look out for her. How you want everything to be good for her.”
“She’s been my best friend pretty much my whole life, so I try to look out for her, take care of her however I can.”
“I like Hannah too, but . . .” I say, drawing out the last word.
Mark shoots me a don’t-you-dare-say-shit-about-my-sister look, which is all kinds of endearing. “But what, Asher?” The question comes out as a challenge. One that says don’t cross me about my family.
I raise a finger to make a point. “But I have one bone to pick with her.”
“Yes?” he asks, still cool.
“Why didn’t Hannah tell me you were bi six months ago when I met you?”
Mark laughs, letting go of his steely veneer. “Because it’s personal. We keep secrets.”
“But it’s not really a secret. You did let me pretty much feel you up all over Miami yesterday.”
“You weren’t complaining,” he tosses back.
“As if I would. I fucking loved it. But my point is, why keep it from me?”
He meets my gaze. “Because it’s personal, and you know what I mean by that. It wasn’t for her to share.”
“But it would have been useful to me,” I say, a little tease in my voice.
Mark props his head in his hand, stares at me like he doesn’t quite believe me. This guy is a physical manifestation of the word skeptical. “How would it have been useful?”
I shrug lazily as I yawn. “I could have chased you in New York. So I could get you under me sooner. Or me under you.”
“Somehow I doubt you’d have done that.”
I might have then. I won’t now. He laid down the law yesterday about New York benefits, and there’ll be no extension of them. Which is fine with me for so many reasons.
Still, he’s wrong about my interest in him. It’s been brewing for some time.
“You think it took a dance club and one mere day of sexual tension for me to develop an interest in you?” I counter.
He says nothing.
Oh, ye of little faith.
Scoffing, I reach for my phone on the nightstand. Clicking open my text app, I show him where I saved the stupid lips text thread he mistakenly sent me.
He groans in misery. “And that proves what? That you just wanted to lord it over me?”
I look at the drunken confessional. Read the series of texts again. Let the buzz whip through me one more time. “They delight me now like they did then,” I confess.
“You sentimental fucker,” he says, elbowing me.
“Yeah, yeah. Hang on. Look.” I make good on my promise to show him the pics of my mullet days.
“Wow.” He cracks up, and I like that sound.
But now I have another question. “I bet you’ve got something saved on your phone about me. Like one of my underwear modeling shots. Come on. Admit it,” I say, riling him up.