Page 88 of I Think They Love You

So what if said ex-now-fake-boyfriend also came simply from pleasuring Denz.

It’s okay.They’reokay. Maybe.

He didn’t stick around long enough to check. As soon as Braylon unpeeled himself from Denz’s thighs, Denz hopped off the counter, asked where he could clean up, then penguin-waddled through the bedroom to the bathroom. He didn’t pull up his jeans and boxers until the door was locked.

All signs of being perfectly fine.

His eyes scan over the items neatly arranged on the sink: shaving kit, electric toothbrush, a fancy citrus deodorant next to a small bottle of hair-and-body oil that, based on a brief sniff, has warm, spicy notes.

Explains the orange and cardamom,he thinks, and immediately shakes his head.

Jesus, what the fuck is he doing? Denz came here for asandwich. To discuss his work issues, figure his shit out. Not to creep on body products. Definitely not to get a blow job from the man who’s faking a relationship to help Denz land a promotion.

He splashes more water on his face.

He’s done things like this before. Quick, messy hookups. He’s ducked into enough dark rooms or sketchy bathrooms. Done the occasional walk of shame. He can march right back into the kitchen and be the same chill Denz he was before coming here tonight.

No attachments, right?

He stares at his reflection one last time.

“Pleasedon’t panic.”

The curtains in Braylon’s bedroom are peeled open. A bluish glow from the late night’s sky washes over the silver-and-white bedspread, the two end tables, a dresser. His walk-in closet reveals a monochrome wardrobe. Even his sleepwear, neatly folded on the edge of the bed, is gray, black, and white. Another reminder that this isn’t the Braylon from UGA with lounge pants or boxers decorated in bright, ridiculous designs.

The room’s only pops of color come from a series of paintings forming a panoramic view of a beach. Ocean blue-greens and sunrise pinks.

Denz studies everything from the bathroom doorway. The cleanliness. No dirty socks or forgotten sex toys lying around. The one stray item is a sweatshirt peeking from beneath the bed. It’s gray with red lettering across the chest, a size too small for Braylon.

Denz’s sweatshirt.

Suddenly, a voice to his right says, “’Ello there.”

Braylon leans in the bedroom’s entryway.Shirtless. “Sorry,” he says when Denz startles. He holds up his crumpled T-shirt. “I was gonna toss this in the hamper. Kind of, uh. Got some of my, er. Your, um…”

In the dimly lit room, Braylon’s blush is neon pink.

“Come?” Denz suggests, arching an eyebrow. “Jizz? Spu—”

“Are you quite finished?” Braylon groans. “Yes. My shirt is ruined. Happy?”

Is Denz? He’samused. Still three seconds from having a gay panic attack. Maybe even a little turned on again? (Seriously, it’s been a long time since his toes curled like that.) But is happiness sitting on the edge of everything he’s feeling?

“I can have it dry-cleaned,” he offers. “Or buy you a new shirt.”

“Unnecessary.”

Braylon steps fully into the room. Beams from the bathroom’s lighting dance over his chest, every definition in his abdomen. He’s gorgeous.

Denz might die.

Braylon signals behind Denz. “Also, I sort of need to…” All his fidgeting pulls a smile from Denz’s lips. “Uh, mouthwash. For the… I got some of your—”

Until that.

In the unexpectedness of clothes coming undone and lingering kisses and, well,the toe-curling blow job,Denz hadn’t realized he came in Braylon’s mouth. Hadn’t given it another thought, too caught up in watching Braylon’s euphoric expression.

Braylon must notice his mortification. “Oh God, don’t make that face,” he says. “It wasn’t terrible.”

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