I hand him the goods. His knuckles brush mine, sending fizzy electricity through my hand. He pauses—did he notice that too?—and licks his lips. I don’t think he’s thinking about hot dogs.
Or well, not the kind you eat.
Oh. God. Fuck. Why does my brain have to be so fucking dirty?
I drop the damn soda, and it explodes on the worn rubber flooring. We don’t replace the flooring in here as often, and it’s hard enough to crack the can. Grape fizz sprays from the small can like rocket fire.
“I’m sorry! Fuck, I ruin everything.” I turn to run.
“Oh no you don’t. Not this time.” He grips my wrist, and it’s not just his strength holding me here—though there is that—but my lack of desire to leave. My skin burns under those fingers, but I want to burn with him. My heart beats so fast I might die. Still holding the hot dog in one hand, he spins me toward him, making me face him. “Please don’t leave. I don’t care about spilled soda.”
I’m in his arms again. I like being right here. Taking a shallow breath, I nod. I’m in this now, with everything to lose.
Bubbly fizz leaks from the busted can as the whine of carbonation hisses in the air. Ari laughs, but I’m gonna need topick that up. Sticky soda’s gonna be everywhere. It’s a dilemma—I don’t wanna go anywhere, but my damn fingers itch.
“You wanna pick that up, don’t you?”
“How did you know that?”
“You’re as stiff as a two-by-four. Here, I’ll grab it.”
I’m forced to let him go as he bends for the soda. It’s spraying like a compressed garden hose. “Here, you need to…” I help him crack the can open to release the pressure, grape soda soaks my hand.
His palm cups mine and assists with a toss into the garbage that I never would have landed without him. I don’t have that kind of hand-eye coordination.
It hits the bottom with a thud, and he stares at the space over the trash can.
“Me and that soda are simply not meant to be. C’mere.”
He sits and pulls me into his lap. The long pieces of his caramel hair fall into his cornflower blues, and it’s instinct for me to push them out of the way. But shit, my fingers are sticky with soda. He’s still beaming, and I’m biting my lip.
“Sorry. I don’t think I got any in your hair.”
“But just in case,” he says and proceeds to lick my hand, sucking the stickiest finger into his mouth. I die inside. My palm burns from the base to the tips of each finger. He sets the hot dog down so he can use one of the towels meant for wiping off ice slush from used skates to dry my hand.
“This one’s clean,” he assures me.
But my hand’s not. It’s dirty. So, so, so dirty. The good kind of dirty.
“I’m, uh, it’s fine,” I murmur.
He brings the knuckles to his chapped lips, pressing a chaste kiss there that’s a sharp contrast to the way he inhaled my finger. A sight that’s on repeat, but my imagination’s got himswallowing a very different digit. My cock strains behind the zipper of my jeans.
This is how I die.
“Now, I’m gonna eat this here hot dog, and you’re gonna tell me about you. Or you can just watch me, if you prefer. Fair warning, you’re going to have dirty thoughts.”
Too late. I’ve already had several dirty thoughts.
He’s so ridiculous, though. I almost laugh. I take option two—watch him—but it’s not long before the nerves and the little critical voice return, reminding me of all the things I could be doing to make him stop liking me.
You don’t want to look too interested—that gives desperate. But you need to appear interested enough, or you’re just a cardboard cutout in his lap. Oh, God. You’re too rigid. Do something. You’re bad at this.
I just want to be a quarter as cool as he is.What will you do when you’re his boyfriend and he wants to have sex with you? You’re gonna be so awkward and foolish.
Boyfriend? Whoa. Way ahead of yourself, Cody. We haven’t been on a date yet. This doesn’t mean anything.
But also.
