Page 148 of Seasons of Love
But we kissed. What if he wants more? Will the jeans be in the way?
I throw the jeans on the bed and go to the chest of drawers to grab a pair of joggers.
“Fuck. These are only mildly better than the pajama pants.”
But they provide easier access.
Why the fuck am I having such a freak-out over what to wear? I’m not fifteen, for the love of everything sacred.
I’m an adult, and as such, I should behave like one.
Before I change my mind, I put on the jeans and a clean T-shirt.
Ignoring the desire to go outside and pull Milo in here with me, I start making the omelet. I’m almost done when he comes through the door into the kitchen.
“The base—” His gaze runs up my body until it meets my eyes. “You got dressed.”
“Would you rather I hadn’t?”
He comes forward, and I step aside so I don’t accidentally burn myself on the stove.
Milo’s usually soft gaze burns through my skin. “Yes, actually,” he says, coming even closer. “Your other clothes provided better access.”
He runs his nose over my neck, and I feel him suck a patch of skin.
I close my eyes and moan as my dick reacts. “I knew I should have picked the joggers.”
“Can I take a shower?”
All I can do is nod.
He grabs his bag and disappears into the guest bathroom.
I take the time he’s in the shower to get a modicum of self-control and finish the brunch.
Since I discovered that Milo likes the French brioches, I always have some whenever he comes over. I set the oven to a low temperature and add a couple in. They’ll be warm and slightly toasty by the time we finish the omelet.
The coffee maker splutters out the last few drops, so I turn it off and bring the pot to the table.
I’m plating the omelets when Milo joins me. His hair is messy and wet. He must have rushed drying off because there are a couple of damp patches where his T-shirt clings to his body.
The scent of my soap follows him. It wasn’t a conscious decision to get the same brand I use for the spare bathroom. More like a desire to not have to think too much about it. But from the day Milo started showering here, I’ve thanked my past self.
The thought that Milo goes home smelling like my soap makes me strangely possessive of him. Like he belongs to me and no one else.
“Food smells nice,” he says, taking his usual seat across from me.
“Thanks. Coffee?”
“Please.”
We eat in silence, but if we were in a busy nightclub, it couldn’t be noisier than it is right now because of this thing between us.
This thing that has been bubbling inside me for months? It’s loud.
We keep stealing glances and smiling at eat other.
He looks so relaxed. Why is he so relaxed? Was he prepared for this to happen?
