Page 13 of Crease Collision

I’ve got a comeback for everything; it’s half my personality. Our gazes lock, and we hold the look too long. I lose the staring contest on purpose and focus on my eggs.

I can’t do this.

“You should probably go,” I tell the plate. “Before you get used to this.”

The second it’s out, I take another bite, pretending my words don’t matter. If I look at him, he’ll know I don’t mean them.

“Used to what?”

Don’t answer, don’t answer, don’t⁠—

“Free breakfast. The charming company. Don’t get attached.”

He makes a soft sound, almost a chuckle. When I look up, he’s watching me like he’s already decided something.

“Not worried,” he says.

“You should be.”

He closes the distance in two confident steps. No wasted motion, as if he knows where he’ll end up before he starts.

“Eat.” He uses his bedroom voice, the one that told me when I was allowed to come.

I huff, because the alternative is wanting him again. “You like telling me what to do.”

His gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “I am not the only one who likes it.”

I twirl the fork between my fingers. There’s at least one fidget ball in every room of this condo, but not one within reach, so the fork gets the job. I finish the eggs because it gives my hands and my mouth something to do that isn’t him. When I finish eating, I have nothing left to hide behind.

“Unbelievable,” I say.

He takes my plate and fork and sets them on the counter. Then he reaches for my hand.

I don’t even think about stopping him, which is the part that should scare me.

A minute later, we’re back in bed, and he takes me out of myself. Makes me moan and beg, work hard for the only thing that seems to matter—getting his cock inside me again. I don’t narrate it the way I do everything else. No tracking or scoring it either, and I don’t stay three moves ahead. He tells me what to do, and I do it. Fucks me and doesn’t let me come until he says so.

My head, like it did last night, goes blessedly quiet.

We sleep for a while, and when I wake up, he’s putting his clothes on. Yesterday’s shorts. His own shirt, which means he’s giving back mine. That hits me in the chest, sharp and unexpected.

He sits on the edge of the bed and looks at me. Of course, the rink in my mind picks this moment to start up again.

Don’t, I tell myself. Whatever you’re about to do, don’t.

“So,” I hear myself say. “You’re new here. To the city.” Real smooth. “Since we… I don’t… You…” My vision almost goes dark, and I rattle off the words before I can stop myself. “I don’t usually meet guys I want to see again, but you’re not bad. Would you… maybe… want to hang out sometime? If you don’t have anything better to do?”

The question is out, and I’d trade a year off my career to have it back. I keep my face blank, the way I do for cameras and refs. For men who get too close. Inside, I brace myself.

But he only smiles, and the noise in my head stops. God, I’m already in trouble.

“Yes,” he says. “I would enjoy spending time with my English tutor.”

An unfamiliar warmth spreads through me. “Yeah?” I ask, sounding way too young. “Cool. This week, maybe. If you’re around.”

He puts his big hand on my stomach, and—in the most American accent I’ve gotten out of him yet—says, “Okay, man. That’d be dope. I’m down when you are.”

I laugh so hard it hurts, and he’s still grinning as he climbs back on top of me.