“We didn’t say action. We have to say it so I know you aren't you, and you’re being Elliot.”

“Fine. Action?”

“You seem unsure.”

Rolling my eyes, I threw my hands out to the side and made a flourished gesture. “Annnnd action!” Then I blinked all seductive like. “Ender, why so many clothes?”

“I hate my life.”

Asher closed his eyes and looked like he was mouthing a prayer to the heavens, which was odd since we were the furthest thing from religious. Then he dropped his pants and kicked them over with mine. Next went his shirt. Once again, we were in our underwear, standing in front of each other. This time, there was no audience.

We were Ender and Elliot, not Asher and Atticus, and I had to force my brain to remember to stay in character and not make faces. Lewis would not win this. We had to get it right. I needed that money.

We stood there.

And stood there.

And stood there some more.

And once we’d stood there for a good five minutes, we kept right on standing.

The tension and anticipation were killing me. One of us needed to make a move.

I blew out a breath and shook my hands free of all the crazy nerves, then I found my Zen and met my brother’s eyes again.

“Oh my, lookie at me all nervous and virginal. I sures do wish Ender would grow some balls and start this already.” And why was I doing a weird southern accent thing? Where did that come from?

“You’re an asshole.” His cheeks pinked, and he found something interesting to stare at on the floor.

“Do not fail me, Ender. I do not want to drop out of school.”

“Oh my God, kill the accent. I can’t take you seriously.”

“Sorry.” I cleared my throat. “Ender, why so nervous?” I said in my normal voice.

It took another minute for Asher’s feet to move. He approached, shuffling, and stopped a good foot away. Then he reached out a shaky hand and placed it on my hip just above the waistband of my underwear. He was stiff, and his fingers were clammy.

I struggled with the same, can’t-look-him-in-the-eye problem and focused instead on one of the ridges of his muscled abdomen, which was a mistake. Damn him for being all kinds of fit.

Because he’d made the first move, and I was still standing there like a broken robot, I reached out and traced that ridge from his side to where it ended near his bellybutton.

My touch was feather-light, and Asher sucked in a breath at the contact. I wasn’t sure he let it out again. After, neither of us moved. It was pathetic how rigid we both were, how locked up and unsure. Immobile. His hand on my hip, mine stalled on his belly.