Page 30 of Twisted Little Game

I swallow, shaking my head.

And I start talking, then suddenly spill everything to him.

I tell him about what happened with my former friend, and everything that fucker said in the article about me.

Roman doesn’t say much.

He still lets me talk while he keeps his hands moving in a steady, calming pattern on my back like it’s something he’s been naturally doing for years. I know he’s only doing it for the goddamn regulation of my nervous system, but he’s still touching me, and it feels really fucking good, so I’m not going to stop him.

He’s wearing one of his fitted white T-shirts, and as usual, his biceps fill out the short sleeves like they’re straining the fabric.

The beads of his black bracelet move gently as he reaches up with his free hand to push a stray piece of my hair to one side.

“Thank you,” I finally say after I’ve said more about the situation than I ever wanted to.

Roman nods at me. “Not a problem.”

He drags the hand on my back lower, squeezing my hip before he backs away, releasing me. His hair is a little longer now on top, falling in a perfect swoop over his head.

“It’s nice when I can actually fucking see you,” I tell him. “Instead of you just being a shadow, or a text message.”

“You trying to be my friend now?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.

“I can be friends with anyone. Try me.”

A tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and I love that I got some reaction out of him. “Let me clean off that bag,” he says. “Not going to leave it bloody for the next poor fuck who comes to punch this thing.”

I exhale and finally turn my body around, leaning on the wall and looking out at the rest of the gym. It’s not a very busy time of day, and if the people on the treadmills across the room were watching us, they don’t seem to be doing it now.

Every time I’ve been worried about negative attention so far at Crimson, it hasn’t come.

After that guy at the party, everyone else has been shockingly normal.

Refreshing.

Roman grabs a handful of sanitizing wipes and alcohol spray, cleaning off the punching bag.

He beckons me to the restrooms afterward, where he hauls open the first aid kit on the wall and cleans up my wounds for the second time in weeks.

“Need to piss,” I tell him after he bandages me up.

“Go.”

He just stands there silently with his arms crossed.

I wait for him to leave or turn away, but he doesn’t, so I pull my cock out and use the urinal. I glance over, looking him up and down. It’s making me hard, which makes it difficult to control.

“Going to come hold my dick while I piss, too?”

“Quiet.”

“I’m just really, really scared that some attacker might come assault me while I’m in here,” I tell him. “Your hand on my cock would be such good security.”

His expression is like stone, even while I attempt to lighten the mood and joke around.

I will try to win as many smiles and laughs from you as I possibly can.

Even if you act like carved stone when I talk about my dick.