Page 28 of Nothing to Fear
“Wh-what?” Asher’s eyes go wild with confusion, his breath still coming in pants. There’s a flash of something behind his eyes that looks a helluva lot like heated intrigue, but he masks it quickly.
“Get dressed, tutor. You owe me a session.”
“Screw that, Silas. I’ve got my own stuff to get done. Get. Out.”
“No.” I lean down and pick up a pair of grey sweatpants off the floor and throw them at his chest. “We’re studying.”
“It’s not even a tutoring day. Get out!”
“I’m not leaving, so we can either study with nothing but a pillow shielding your hard dick, or you can get dressed. Either way, this is happening.”
He eyes me for a moment, probably trying to gauge if I’m serious or not. The last thing I’d do is actually force him to tutor me naked.
Probably.
Maybe.
Despite my behavior toward him the last three years, and trust me, I’m well aware that my reasoning behind it isn’t valid, I’m not willing to let him walk away from this. From me. The thought of not spending time with Asher makes me feel physically ill.
Plus, now that I’ve seen him naked and how hard his cock gets when he’s turned on, I really don’t want to leave. Which is a whole lot of trouble.
“Jesus Christ. Fine. Turn around.”
When I don’t move right away, Asher arches a curious brow, daring me. I can’t explain why I hesitate. Stupidity. Excitement. Curiosity. The fact that my cock has been rock hard since I opened his door and found him spread wide like a fucking meal on his bedsheets.
Asher says something under his breath, and I can’t hear as he starts to stand. I see a quick flash of his hard cock again, thick and veiny, as I finally turn my back, giving him a moment of privacy to cover up. Now that I’ve seen him, it’s forever burned in my brain. An image I’ll replay. Over and over and over again.
Fucking Asher Ambrose.
“I’m good. How the hell did you get in here, anyway?”
“Parker let me in.”
“Liar. Parker would stab you before he let you in here.”
“He seemed flustered, said he was running late for a meeting.”
“Parker doesn’t have any meetings, so you’re a slacker, a perv, and a liar,” he replies, not believing me. I quickly decide not to argue, even though he’s very wrong.
Asher stays shirtless, adding to how flustered I already am. His arms are muscular, not overly so like mine from years of rugby and weightlifting, but it’s clear he works out somewhere. Asher rounds the twin bed and bends over to rummage through his backpack, the thin cotton fabric stretching over his ass making my cock throb with need. Is he doing this shit on purpose? Does he know how he affects me? My hands itch to touch his hips, to rub the length of my cock up his crease.
“Where’s your laptop?” he says once he stands and faces me. His hair is a disheveled mess, the black strands pushed haphazardly out of his face, and I wonder for a quick moment what he would look like after being freshly fucked. “Did you hear me, slacker?”
“I, ugh, I forgot it in my hurry to get over here.”
“Okay, then we’ll use mine.”
Asher leaves the room without saying a word, and I’m left, still fumbling like a teenager. I don’t know what my issue is. I’ve hooked up with plenty of men before—not that Asher and I are hooking up, far from it—but something about walking in on him in such a private moment has fucked with my head more than he typically does. I want to let go of the resentment I hold toward him. I’m trying to. I need to. He hasn’t done anything wrong, the complete opposite, actually.
It doesn’t matter that I thought I caught him checking me out, or the chemistry that sizzles between us, or how anytime he touches me, it feels like I’ve been brought to life. I’ve mademyself out to be the villain by treating him like shit when he hasn’t exactly done anything to me besides be himself.
I take a minute to look around his personal space, noting the minimal decor, the stacks of books on nearly every inch of free surface, and notebooks stacked high. Everything seems to be organized chaos. His room smells just like him, only more potent—rich leather and books—and I take a deep inhale, filling my lungs with it, as pathetic as that may be.
“Here,” Asher says as he fumbles into the bedroom with a chair, dropping it in front of my feet before walking around and pulling out his desk chair and taking a seat. I guess this is where we’re studying. Grabbing the spare chair, I set it down next to him at his desk, taking a seat next to him. It’s different from studying in the archives. The wind howls outside his bedroom, a rogue bare branch knocking against his window periodically. The sun has started to set, shining the last of its light in through the intricate stone tracery.
“Let’s get this over with,” Asher says, breaking my focus.
“Way to make me feel welcome, Ambrose, Jesus.”
