Bankers' Hours(19)

I giggled. "No."

He kissed my forehead. "Okay. Just checking. I promise I'm not a serial  killer, I'm not a drug dealer, and I'm not a sex-club Dom. I'm an auto  mechanic." He gazed into my eyes and continued to rub my cheek with his  thumb very softly. "We're only sleeping."

Sleeping. I could handle that. "Could I get a drink of water?" My throat was dry from nerves.

"Sure." He grinned. "And if you want to take a shower like I promised, feel free. I'll go get you a bottle of water."

I'd showered twice today, so I wasn't motivated to do it again now. His  carpet had been awfully dirty, but I'd also been fully clothed. My hair  might need washing, but I was fine until morning. I unbuttoned my shirt  and hung it over the back of a chair that had a stack of folded towels  on it. As I undid my belt and kicked off my shoes, Tristan came back in  the room.

"Here ya go." He held up the water bottle. He came around to my side of  the bed and set it on the nightstand. "I'm going to brush my teeth."

He went into the bathroom, and I undressed the rest of the way. I felt  so very unsexy in my boxers and T-shirt. I crossed my arm over my chest  and squeezed my opposite shoulder while I crossed my other arm over my  midsection. It was a posture I'd adopted when I was a gangly teen at a  swimming pool, trying to cover my body with my two scrawny arms. I might  not be as scrawny now, but the pose was a comfort thing, like embracing  myself would protect me from being laughed at.                       
       
           



       

I slunk over to the bathroom and asked for a toothbrush.

Tristan spit into the sink. "There's a bag under there." He pointed. "I'll be done in a second."

"Do you have any more pillows? I usually sleep with three."

He wiped his mouth. "Three?"

"Yes. Two under my head, and I cuddle one." Admitting it made me open to criticism, but I really did like my pillows.

"No, sorry. I only have two. But you can have mine if you want."

"It's okay. I'll be fine." I almost accepted the offer, but it seemed  selfish because he wouldn't have any. He left, and I brushed my teeth,  washed my hands, and splashed cold water over my face to try and calm my  nerves. I dried my face and hung the hand towel back on the towel  holder. After smelling my fingers, I glanced at the soap bottle. Orange  ginger. Sniffing my fingers again, I sighed. This scent was even more  pleasant than the grapefruit one at work.

When I returned to his room, he was rummaging through a drawer and  explained, "I'm looking for underwear. I normally don't wear any, and I  sleep naked, but since you're here I thought I'd throw on a pair. Except  I can't find any underwear in my drawer. Oh, wait," he said, pulling  out some tighty-whities. "These'll work."

I walked over to the bed and slipped under the covers as he sat on the  other side and removed his shoes and socks. When he stood and undid his  belt and zipper, I looked away. Tristan chuckled. A second later he  commented, "You can look now. Happy Harry is undercover."

I turned back, but one thin layer of white underwear wasn't enough to  hide what was underneath. I could tell he was stimulated by our  situation, as was I. His bulge seemed large, and my desire made itself  known in my extremities, burying my fear of sleeping with him. When he  removed his shirt and I got to see his tightly muscled chest, covered in  a sheen of light brown hairs, in all its fine detail, I gasped and my  jaw dropped open.

He smirked. "Like what you see?"

"As if any man in his right mind wouldn't? You're built like a god." All  that muscle, close enough to touch, gave me a full-on boner in seconds.  Oh, jeez, how am I supposed to get any sleep now?

Tristan climbed into his queen-size bed next to me. There was room for  two, but I could feel his heat under the covers. Before turning out the  light he asked, "You gonna be okay?"

I nervously nodded and surreptitiously squeezed my penis. I will not  jerk off next to him. I refuse to be this horny. I will go to sleep.  Silently talking to myself wasn't helping.

"Good night," Tristan said. He smiled and turned off the light. He rolled onto his side, facing away from me.

If I could sleep at all while lying next to such a gorgeous, virtually naked man, it would be a miracle.





Chapter 6: Arguments, Rash Decisions, And Jumping Into The Deep End Without My Swimmies





LIGHT WAS streaming through the bedroom window when I opened my eyes. I  felt very warm and safe. Tristan's body was pressed up against me. Wait!  Tristan's body was pressed up against me! Oh, shit. Yes, my dick knew  it. Apparently his did as well, because as I mentally took note of where  our bodies touched, I felt a very stiff object jammed against my ass. I  doubted very seriously that it was a fire extinguisher.

I shivered with desire. Feeling him pressed there made me want it so much more.

His left arm was under my neck, and his right firmly held me across my  chest. I could feel his head close to mine, so I dared not move and  clock him in the nose. Instead, I rubbed his arm and squeezed his hand  where it held me. Waking up in someone's arms was a wonderful  experience. My body was humming with desire but also quiet contentment. I  really, really liked being in his arms.

Tristan sighed and tightened his hold on me. He rocked his hips into my  ass and groaned. He nuzzled my hair with his nose and then kissed me  behind my ear. "Morning," he whispered.

"Good morning," I whispered back.

I felt him nuzzling again. "You smell really good. Mmm," he sighed,  moving down far enough to kiss the back of my neck. He released his hold  on me and continued kissing until his lips had inventoried my neck, my  throat, my chin, and over to my opposite ear as he rolled me onto my  back. Tristan slid his arms under my back and inserted one knee between  my thighs. His erection rubbed against mine, and I thought he meant to  dry hump me.

"Um, Tristan?" I panted. "What about waiting? Didn't you …  oh …  yes …  oh … ."  Talking was impossible while he sucked on my collarbone. I had woken up  wanting this, but somewhere in my guilt-riddled brain, I knew sex  wasn't what Tristan wanted. Not yet. "Tristan?" I pleaded again. "I'm  gonna come if you don't stop rubbing against me. Please, stop." I  whimpered, and he froze.                       
       
           



       

"Grant?" he asked, lifting his head and shifting his weight so he slid to the side and off my unbearably hard cock.

I didn't like his tone, especially when I had been thinking of him when I asked him to stop. "Who'd you think I was?" I snapped.

"You!" he answered. "But I thought it was a dream you, not the real you."

I pulled the covers up protectively, as if covering my T-shirted chest  was safer than exposing my undergarments. "How could you not know?"  Because that pissed me off.

"I didn't …  exactly. I've dreamed about you for weeks, Grant. Sometimes I  wake up to find I'm humping a pillow and I only dreamed it was your  ass. I'm sorry."

He did appear sorry, and dream-humping my pillowy ass seemed sort of …   sweet. "You dream about me?" I asked, giving him an approving smile.

Tristan reached over and cupped my cheek. "Yes, I dream about you. I was  groggy when I woke up, and I guess my brain hadn't kicked in yet. But  you're right, I do intend on taking things slower. I nearly shot my  load."

I pulled him in and kissed him. "Then I forgive you."

He smiled. "Thanks. Can I offer you pancakes as a peace offering?"

I pursed my lips. "Hmm, frozen or box mix?" I asked.

"Neither. For you, I'll make them from scratch. I use my mother's  recipe." He lifted his eyebrows twice. I was about to gush over it, but  he jumped up. "I'll get breakfast going, and if you want to take a  shower, the pile of towels is on that chair. Somehow they never make it  into the linen closet." Tristan grabbed a pair of shorts off the floor  and slipped them on before leaving the room.

I sat up and glanced around his bedroom. Drab paint, which had probably  been white at some point in its history, covered the parts of the wall I  could see, but it had seen too many years to be white now, or even  cream. It was awful. The pictures were worse, as they could have  belonged to my grandmother-strike that-my great-grandmother. Prints of  ships, six different ones, hung cockeyed around the room. I normally  liked ships, but these were so old and faded they'd lost their appeal.

The only recent picture was a photograph. I got out of bed to inspect  it. As I moved past one print on the wall, I straightened it before I  looked at the picture of Tristan and his daughter. It was obviously at a  concert, and Claire looked just about the same as when I'd met her.  Tristan hadn't changed either.