“Wait.”
Clayton saw my lips move. He lifts his eyebrows, breathing heavily.
“Wait,” I repeat, placing a hand on his warm, bare chest. “Wait, wait, wait.”
He obeys, his dark eyes locked on me and waiting, for whatever reason, he doesn’t yet know. The only sound in the room is our erratic breathing. I watch my hand rise and fall as his chest does with his every breath. His body is so perfect, I can’t even compare it to anything or anyone. The shape of his pecs, the definition of his abs, the subtle ripples of muscle that work down his sides, his artful tattoo … There’s just too much for my eyes to drink in all at once.
“Too fast?” he breathes.
I nod once, warily looking into his eyes.
What I see isn’t frustration. In fact, he seems to agree, like a thought or two has worked through his brain. He holds himself up with a hand pressed into the cushion on either side of my head, his face over mine as we each catch our breath.
His lips twist into a smirk. “Can’t handle me?”
I laugh, despite our circumstance. “You are a lot to handle.”
He pulls away, giving me room to sit up. I fetch my top from the floor and slip it back on. It doesn’t escape my attention that Clayton watches my every move. At some point, he had managed to undo the top button of my jeans, so I fix them up as well.
I give him a smirk of my own. “Quit staring.”
He shrugs. “I like what I see.”
After a moment of staring into his eyes, feeling oddly powerful, I grab his shirt and throw it at him. He catches the sleeve with his teeth, biting it like a dog and growling at me.
I can’t help but laugh.
Clayton holds up the shirt. “Put this back on?” I nod in response. “That’s a first,” he says teasingly.
I love the way his teeth, tongue, and lips form the word “first”, a hint of Texan accent in it and the “s” muffled slightly.
“Well, unless you want me to hold a conversation with your chest …” I tease him.
He throws an arm over the back of the couch, the shirt dropped to his lap and forgotten.
I sigh with pleasure, unsure if he heard me or not. My eyes are helplessly glued to his muscles. “Fine,” I say breathily. There are worse things I’ve been subjected to. “You going to tell me how you got that thing on your face?”
Clayton’s forehead screws up. I assume he didn’t catch what I said, so I indicate my own cheek, then point at his expectantly.
He sighs and looks away, biting his lip. I slap the couch, drawing his attention back. “I know you didn’t just … ‘fall’.”
He shakes his head no, confirming my suspicion.
“So?” I prompt him.
It seems to take a measure of effort for him to even think about it, which casts a lightning bolt of worry through me. Finally, he pulls his phone out, taps a bit on it, then shows me the screen:
Some punk assholes
from the corner store
followed me out n jumped me.
“Oh my god!” I blurt out as I read it. “Why??”
“Bad attitude,” he answers quietly. “Dumb.” He shrugs, all the muscles of his shoulders moving with him. His eyes linger on my lips.
I remind myself that he’s staring at my lips for the functional purpose of grasping what I’m saying and urge myself not to be so damned turned on by it.
“You don’t like to talk much,” I observe, though I meant it as a question.
His eyes detach from mine, caught in a thought. Then, with a short sigh I’m not sure he meant for me to hear, he types into his phone again. I watch his face work through a bunch of different word choices as he struggles with how to say whatever it is he’s typing. With a pinch of reluctance, he shows me the screen:
I’ve always been weird
about talking out loud
since I can’t hear myself.
Been this way
since I lost my hearing :/
I nod slowly, then take his phone from him, earning a snort of protest as I delete what he typed and write my own message. I reveal the screen:
I like what you sound like.
Not that you need any more boosts
to your insufferably large ego.
He grins, and half a laugh escapes his lips, all his pearly whites shining. He meets my eyes with his head still tilted down to the screen, his forehead scrunched up in an adorable way.
“I like what you sound like,” I repeat, shrugging.
His eyes harden. “I … wish I could hear what you sound like.”
“My voice is pretty boring,” I assure him. “You’re not missing much.”
“I doubt that.” His eyes brush over my face, a hint of curiosity in them. He reaches for the tequila and pours two more shots. When he offers me one, I shake my head and gently push it away. To that, he shrugs and downs them both, one at a time. His face visibly loosens, his eyes turning watery. “There’s a lot about you I’d like to learn, Dessie.”