Page 106 of I'm Your Guy
But if his cuddling has serious game, his sex drive has even more.
I indulge in a memory of the previous evening. He’d had the night off, and it had been snowing. I’d lit a fire in the fireplace, and we’d tucked up onto the sofa together, our stocking feet propped on the coffee table.
At first, we’d pretended to watch a hockey game on TV. It was Dallas versus…
Okay, I don’t remember who. But it’s not my fault, because Tommaso began sucking on my neck during the first period. And he put his hand down my sweatpants in the second period.
By the third period, we were on the rug in front of the fireplace, kissing like the world was ending, and stripping each other’s clothes off.
The evening ended with another round of fun in the shower before we tumbled into bed. I’m getting hard just thinking about it. But the sun is trying to blast its way through the new curtains, and his alarm will go off any minute, so I put our morning routine into action.
I slip out of bed and head downstairs to make coffee. The kitchen is warm and tidy, and I lean against the counter while our coffee brews.
For just a moment, I let myself imagine that this isn’t just a temporary arrangement. That the man upstairs is asleep in our bed. That we’re a real couple, the kind who plans date nights and vacations together.
I want that life. And it isn’t because Tommaso has a fancy kitchen and makes seven figures a year. If belonging to him meant living in a crappy little apartment with seven-foot ceilings, I would still feel this way.
Even if there was fluorescent lighting, and even if the walls were piss yellow.
Okay, I’d probably repaint and get better lightbulbs. I wouldn’t be able to help myself. But I’d still give up a lot for the love of the man upstairs. Because I want what Rigo and Buck have. Even if that means some sacrifices.
After the coffee finishes brewing, I carry our mugs upstairs. After I place them on the nightstand, I sit on Tommaso’s side of the bed and pass my fingertips through his shiny, dark hair.
This is the best part of my morning, because when he wakes, he gives me a completely unguarded smile. It’s the smile I get before he remembers that he’s a professional athlete trying to make it to the playoffs. Before he remembers that he’s the world’s most intense human. Before he gets up to make us a healthy breakfast and checks his phone for team messages and meetings and touches base with his family.
For a split second, there’s only me and that smile. And I cherish it.
* * *
Tommaso’s days are still chaotic, but mine are winding down. The house is finished. And after he leaves for the rink, it’s very quiet here.
I spend the afternoon sending out feelers, but there’s no new design work to be had until January. That’s just the way it is.
So after a couple hours of spinning my wheels, I start to think about dinner. That means a trip to the grocery store. I prompted Tommaso to pause his grocery delivery service, because it’s expensive. And with all my free time, I can cook for him. It makes me feel useful.
Not that it’s a hardship. Cooking in his kitchen is a pleasure, and Tommaso is always grateful to come home to a hot meal. A large hot meal. The man can put away the food. It’s very gratifying.
When he walks in the door after practice, I’m plating up tonight’s offering.
“Hot diggity,” he says, stripping off his coat and tossing it onto the club chair. “Dinner smells great. What did you make?”
“Roast salmon with couscous and carrots. Hungry?”
“You know it.”
Moments later, we’re sitting at the table together. I’ve served the meal with a glass of wine and candlelight. I’ve got a reggae Christmas playlist on in the background.
But I’m a little self-conscious. I’m trying to be a good house guest, not act like a contestant for Husband of the Year. Does it seem like I’m trying too hard?
If it does, it’s probably because I’m trying too hard.
“You know,” he says, scooping couscous onto his fork. “I like pulling into Red Rock and seeing the house lit up.”
“Yeah?” Well, this is a problem I can solve. “You know, they have timers for that. I could put your lights on a system that you control with your phone.”
He eyes me over his fork, and the candlelight flickers on his handsome face. “That’s not what I meant, Carter. I don’t need to turn the lights on with an app. I like seeing the house lit up, because I know that you’re inside it.”
“Oh.” I snap my mouth shut before I say anything else stupid.
