Page 36 of Roleplay at Randy's
After a minute, he stands, Cal quiet and cradled in his arms. “He was holding out for me to come home. I’m going to put him in bed.”
“When you come back,” I say before he can get far. “Can you show me how to work the washer? We made a mess of my shirt at dinner, and uh, I realize I’m out of clothes.”
He blinks, straight-faced, and then a warm, humored expression takes over. “I have settings locked because Cal likes to play with the knob. Yeah, I’ll show you. In the meantime, grab a shirt from my room if you’re cold. First set of drawers, second from the top.”
With that, he disappears into Cal’s room, and I let out a breath as heat fills my chest and expands out to my limbs.
It’s been too easy to settle into a domestic routine, onethat makes us all comfortable. Whereas going into Elias’ room used to feel like pushing the bounds of his privacy, it now feels like an extension of my own.
Elias’ t-shirts are form fitting on him, which means they’re a little baggy on me. Long, too, hanging just below my ass. The one I grab is a plain, dark gray, and made of a super soft cotton that has me pulling the collar up over my nose. It smells a lot like Elias’ body spray with an extra citrus hint.
Shouldsmelling himturn me on? Should seeing the shirts that don’t quite fit me that I know hug him so well turn me on even more?
I’ve always been a sucker for a man that can effortlessly move me around, and remembering how he hoisted me into his arms that night while we danced in the living room … Yeah, that does it for me.
I shudder and glide my hand down my body, taking a brief moment to appreciate my own touch, and then put a lid on it before anything gets out of hand. No masturbating in my housemate’s clothes.
Feeble lines as they may be, they’re still lines.
When I go back to the couch and Elias hasn’t returned, I kick my pants off so it’s just Elias’ t-shirt and my boxers, and settle onto the couch with my legs tucked in and toss the throw blanket I’ve been using over my lap.
Just in case Cal keeps him up.
A soft voice calling out to me sharpens the fuzzy edges of my brain, sleep receding just as quickly as it came on. I look up and see Elias watching me with a reverent intentness.
“Sorry,” he whispers. “Cal wanted cuddles.”
I shake my head, banishing the last tendrils of sleep. “It’s no problem. Thanks for the shirt.”
His eyes leave my face to travel down my body, taking inhis tee and how it rides up my hips ever so slightly, the blanket having half fallen to the floor.
“Looks good on you,” he says, voice forming a rumble that makes me shiver. “You seem cozy. How about I start your clothes and show you how it works tomorrow?”
“Aren’t you a gentleman?”
His laugh is rich and warm. “Considering I’m about to keep you up with twenty questions, and the fact that my son dressed you up like one of his stuffies, I owe you one.”
Maybe I should argue, but I am perfectly comfortable and don’t have much of a drive to move. He disappears into the laundry room, comes back with an empty basket and collects my clothes from the corner I’ve kept them in, and disappears again. The low tumble of the washing machine starts up, and then he’s back, flopping onto the couch unceremoniously.
“Oh, work wiped you out, didn’t it?”
He grunts, arm thrown over his face and legs bent uncomfortably looking to accommodate my presence on the couch. His shoes and hoodie were ditched at the door, sweats dropped somewhere between here and Cal’s room so he’s just in his boxer briefs and long-sleeved undershirt.
“So much. My legs aresore.”
Without giving it too much thought, I reach over and straighten the leg he has bent toward the back of the couch and draw it into my lap. Then, I kick his other foot with my own and guide it to my lap too. As soon as I dig my thumbs into his calves, Elias moans out like something out of a porn movie.
“How does something feel so good and hurt so much at the same time?”
A chuckle passes my lips as I work through the muscles and tendons of his calves and feet.
“You forget I know a thing or two about dance soreness. Do you stretch before you go onstage?”
He’s still groaning softly, arching his feet into my touch. “A little? Not always.”
When I hum, I catch him peeking at me from beneath his arm. “A good stretch routine will dull the ache at the end of a long day.”
“Maybe you can help me come up with something.” He props himself up on his elbows with an earnest little pout.
