that boy had a beautiful back. I hadn’t realized that until now either. The way his muscles all came together to form that deep ridge in the center. The way it got smaller right at the top of his pants line.
Oh hell, what am I doing?
And why had everybody spent so much time drooling over those beautiful abs when this was the flip side?
Damn!
“Hello, you’re the loser. You’re supposed to be rubbing my back.”
Sorry, I was a bit distracted here by your godlike flawless body, but oh please, let me rub it.
“You’re drunk,” I said.
“So are you. Now rub.” He looked at me and grinned. I stood next to him and rubbed a little bit, trying to focus on anything but him. He rolled over. “Are you serious? That sucks.” He got up. “Lie down.”
“Me? No!”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you to take off your shirt.” Then he said, quieter, “Not now, anyway.” He laughed.
“What was that?”
“Oh, nothing.”
I did as he said, not really sure what to expect, but he then got on top of me, straddling my behind. “Am I too heavy?” he asked.
“No.” What had I gotten myself into now?
He proceeded to show me the proper way to massage someone’s back, and I had to admit it felt really good. He might have done it a little longer than he needed to, because I fell asleep.
*****
I woke up the next morning with a headache. Sitting up, I thought,
I probably shouldn’t have done shots after three glasses of wine.
I vaguely remembered Slayde giving me a back rub on the couch, but I woke up in his bed. His pillow and blanket were neatly folded at the end of the couch, and he was gone.
I had a hell of a hangover, and since I had nothing that I had to do, I went back to sleep. When Slayde got home that evening, looking perfectly fine, I said, “I hate you.”
He looked confused. “Why?”
“Because I feel like shit, and you obviously feel fine.”
He laughed and handed me some ibuprofen. “Here! Do you not get drunk often?”
“Not on a regular basis, no, and this is why.” I grabbed my head.
“Well, the best thing for a hangover is more alcohol.”
I looked at him, obviously too quickly, because it felt like my brain was trying to catch up with my head and slammed against the inside of my skull. “You have got to be kidding me. I am not drinking any more alcohol.”
“Suit yourself. Don’t listen to the one without the hangover.” He shot me that sexy little grin as he started making me a drink.
I guessed he had a point. “Fine.”
I took his damn ibuprofen and drank a nasty Bloody Mary and tried not to vomit. Slayde made me eat a little something — and within the hour, I did feel a good bit better.
After I showered and became somewhat human again, we went out to get something to eat.
“Shall I order you some wine?” Slayde asked with an evil little smile.
“No thanks. I won’t be drinking with you again.”
“Me? I didn’t make you drink.”
“It was your idea.”
“Fine, blame me. That’s OK. I’ll be the bad guy.” He shrugged and looked at me, all innocent and adorable. I couldn’t help but smile at him.
As we were eating our salads, I realized we had spent every evening together — and I wasn’t sure I was ready for Kenedy to come back.
When Slayde returned home the next day from his “top secret” photo shoot, I had cleaned the whole apartment. It hadn’t been really messy, but it had needed a little light dusting here and there.
“What have you been doing all day?” he asked, looking shocked. “You aren’t the maid.” I wasn’t sure if he was serious.
“Well, I went to the market and got a few things, but it started to rain. So, I came back and thought I’d get started on some of my research junk I’ll be working on when I go home. After a few hours, I couldn’t look at any more pictures of the human brain. So I decided to make better use of my time. You have been nice enough to let me stay here. The least I can do is tidy up a
Oh hell, what am I doing?
And why had everybody spent so much time drooling over those beautiful abs when this was the flip side?
Damn!
“Hello, you’re the loser. You’re supposed to be rubbing my back.”
Sorry, I was a bit distracted here by your godlike flawless body, but oh please, let me rub it.
“You’re drunk,” I said.
“So are you. Now rub.” He looked at me and grinned. I stood next to him and rubbed a little bit, trying to focus on anything but him. He rolled over. “Are you serious? That sucks.” He got up. “Lie down.”
“Me? No!”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you to take off your shirt.” Then he said, quieter, “Not now, anyway.” He laughed.
“What was that?”
“Oh, nothing.”
I did as he said, not really sure what to expect, but he then got on top of me, straddling my behind. “Am I too heavy?” he asked.
“No.” What had I gotten myself into now?
He proceeded to show me the proper way to massage someone’s back, and I had to admit it felt really good. He might have done it a little longer than he needed to, because I fell asleep.
*****
I woke up the next morning with a headache. Sitting up, I thought,
I probably shouldn’t have done shots after three glasses of wine.
I vaguely remembered Slayde giving me a back rub on the couch, but I woke up in his bed. His pillow and blanket were neatly folded at the end of the couch, and he was gone.
I had a hell of a hangover, and since I had nothing that I had to do, I went back to sleep. When Slayde got home that evening, looking perfectly fine, I said, “I hate you.”
He looked confused. “Why?”
“Because I feel like shit, and you obviously feel fine.”
He laughed and handed me some ibuprofen. “Here! Do you not get drunk often?”
“Not on a regular basis, no, and this is why.” I grabbed my head.
“Well, the best thing for a hangover is more alcohol.”
I looked at him, obviously too quickly, because it felt like my brain was trying to catch up with my head and slammed against the inside of my skull. “You have got to be kidding me. I am not drinking any more alcohol.”
“Suit yourself. Don’t listen to the one without the hangover.” He shot me that sexy little grin as he started making me a drink.
I guessed he had a point. “Fine.”
I took his damn ibuprofen and drank a nasty Bloody Mary and tried not to vomit. Slayde made me eat a little something — and within the hour, I did feel a good bit better.
After I showered and became somewhat human again, we went out to get something to eat.
“Shall I order you some wine?” Slayde asked with an evil little smile.
“No thanks. I won’t be drinking with you again.”
“Me? I didn’t make you drink.”
“It was your idea.”
“Fine, blame me. That’s OK. I’ll be the bad guy.” He shrugged and looked at me, all innocent and adorable. I couldn’t help but smile at him.
As we were eating our salads, I realized we had spent every evening together — and I wasn’t sure I was ready for Kenedy to come back.
When Slayde returned home the next day from his “top secret” photo shoot, I had cleaned the whole apartment. It hadn’t been really messy, but it had needed a little light dusting here and there.
“What have you been doing all day?” he asked, looking shocked. “You aren’t the maid.” I wasn’t sure if he was serious.
“Well, I went to the market and got a few things, but it started to rain. So, I came back and thought I’d get started on some of my research junk I’ll be working on when I go home. After a few hours, I couldn’t look at any more pictures of the human brain. So I decided to make better use of my time. You have been nice enough to let me stay here. The least I can do is tidy up a
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