Unspoken(45)

“If I’d stayed, I’d’ve wanted to do something to you that you might not have been ready for.”

Bo’s response made me squirm on the bench. This was a dangerous game, and I knew I should stop, but the idea of Bo imagining the two of us in bed together doing something more than just sleeping was too much for me. A dozen images flitted through my mind. Bo above me, our sweat-slicked bodies moving in unison. His mouth licking my neck and down the valley of my breasts. I squeezed my thighs in response to the pressure that was building.

My previous fantasies had been so tame. I might have played out a few scenarios of Bo and me in my head during last semester’s class, but none of them ever included him asking me what times of the day was I best in bed. I’d envisioned Bo would wash a car with his shirt off. Or maybe he’d help me move a sofa and I’d stare at his ass or see a sliver of skin between his jeans and his T-shirt. He’d stand with his arm over my head as he leaned down to press his lips against mine. Realizing I wasn’t equipped to trade sexually-charged banter with Bo, I tried to steer the conversation back into safer territory. “What’s the art of the nickname?”

Bo gave a deep sigh and shifted restlessly beside me, but he gamely accepted my change in topic.

“Nicknames need to be descriptive enough to identify a unique trait of the person, but different enough that they’re meaningful to the individuals using them.”

“Like baby or honey?” I asked, fascinated by this obviously thought-out position on nicknames.

“Babe, sweetheart, darling aren’t nicknames. Those are throwaways. So my buddy Noah is Jep, short for Jeopardy. He liked to read trivia books while deployed and would likely kick our collective asses in Jeopardy. Another guy we were deployed with had a hard-on for Skittles. He’d take every bag he could get his hands on and make these disgusting sex noises when he ate them so we called him Skittle-tits.”

“That’s a terrible nickname,” I informed him.

“So is honey buns.”

“I was on the spot,” I protested. “What’s your roommates’ nickname for you?”

“You’ll have to get to know me better before I reveal that.” Bo looked slyly out of the corner of his eyes at me, as if he were was throwing out another lure. I wanted to pick it up, but I was afraid. Flirting with Bo would only make my nighttime dreams a little more feverish and my daytime fantasies intolerable. I couldn’t go around living with an unrelieved ache in my lower body. Assuaging that particular ache would likely lead to a more serious one in my heart. Again, I moved the topic away to something more benign.

“Tell me your story then, Thor,” I suggested.

“Thor, by the way, is a far better nickname than honey buns. Let’s go with that from now on.” His grin was knowing and wicked. “What do you want to know?”

Everything, because you fascinate me. And nothing, because I think you’d burn me up and leave me empty.

“How about your most embarrassing story?” I blurted out instead.

“I usually require at least one bottle of tequila before these types of confessionals.” He shook his head in mock sadness.

“Forget I asked.” I waved my hand. “Let’s just get our project done.”

“No, no.” Bo grabbed my hand and pulled it to rest between us. The stone bench felt cool, but his hand covering mine was warm and dry, like a shelter. I realized I could get addicted to holding hands with Bo Randolph. Somehow, just that simple touch made me feel better, as if his hand were an IV of personal strength. “I’m in, but you have to agree to share too.”

“I’ve already told you one.”

Bo opened his mouth and then closed it. He turned away to look into the display that portrayed long wavy grasses, a fake pond, and a few trees in the background. A stuffed fox peeked through foliage, almost hidden by the leaves and ground cover.

“Not so eager once you’re the guy being asked to spill secrets,” I mocked.

Bo shook his head and replied. “All my embarrassing stories are kind of raunchy, and I’m not sure you’d want to hear those.”

“Likely excuse.” I shrugged and pulled out my phone. His hesitation gave rise to my fear that he thought I was easy and my refusal to capitulate was confounding him. Perhaps he thought I’d just drop my jeans and ask him to take me here in the museum, a natural, just because he smiled and complimented me. This was good, I told myself. Placing him with all the rest made his attractiveness fade, his shine dulling with exposure to the air like old silver.

Standing up, I bent over the display and took a photo of the information sign that described the scene in front of me and took another of the display itself. I went around the room, snapping photos of what I could. Later I’d magnify these on my computer and take more notes. At the far end was a tiny dark room with a video screen playing something on a loop. I stepped in and was about to press the button to start the sound when the light from the room that had spilled into the entryway was blocked out completely.