But what if our bathroom hookup wasn’t what I thought it was? Like what if he just got caught up in the moment because I barged in on him while he was getting off? And then because I was rudely waving my erection at him, he felt like he had to get me off too.

It’s possible he only agreed to my proposition in order to avoid an awkward conversation about how he doesn’t really want me like that. Maybe he never intended to go through with it.

Oh crap, that would be embarrassing.

Before I can apologize and crawl off him, his lips fly to mine, pressing insistently, and then the only thought left in my head is, Fuck, yes.

My position makes me taller than him, which I take advantage of to control the kiss. I slow it down, savoring his lips and the feel of his facial hair under my palms. One of his hands lands on my waist. And I’m aware he’s still got a beer in the other one, but I’m not willing to stop this long enough to do something about that.

But as soon as I sneak my tongue into his mouth, meeting his, he groans and wraps his arm tightly around my back. Then he holds me to him so that I don’t topple off his lap while he leans over and sets the bottle on the end table. And that was such a good idea, because now both of his hands are on me, rucking up the bottom of my shirt until I can feel his fingers grazing the skin of my lower back.

I kiss him harder and rock my hips experimentally. This earns me another groan and his grip tightening on me, so I do it again. And again. My hands come down to explore the contours of his chest over his T-shirt, and his hands move down to grab my ass, pulling me flush against him and keeping me there.

No complaints from me.

That is, until I try removing his shirt but can’t because there’s no room. I whine until he lets me move back enough to get it off him. Then before he can pull me in again, I yank my own shirt off my head with zero finesse, almost knocking my glasses off, and throw it on the floor.

Travis sucks in a sharp breath, and I experience a moment of self-consciousness. I know my body isn’t sculpted like his, but I didn’t think it was that bad, sheesh.

But then I realize he’s staring at my side with a look of awe on his face, not disgust. Ever so slowly, his fingers trail up my ribs, the touch so soft it tickles.

Oh.

“You have a tattoo,” he says, not taking his eyes off the large piece of art that covers my side.

“I do.”

“I didn’t know.”