I stepped out of the shower, shaved, and was ready to head out when I spotted a new bottle of cologne on the counter. Before I could stop myself, it was in my hands and the lid was off. What the hell was I doing? The stuff smelled good on him, but did I really need to be standing in the man's bathroom sniffing his personal hygiene products?
But one whiff and that thought vanished.
Not what Richard had worn the night before. The shit smelled like my goddamn father.
I wrenched the lid back on and shoved the bottle to the far end of the counter. I opened the bathroom door, a towel wrapped around my waist. Richard sat alone on the edge of the bed.
“Sorry to keep you waiting for your own bathroom.”
“Not a problem. You live here now too. At least for now.” He winked. “Matthew's using the shower down the hall. I'm in no hurry to get going. I just need to get to the office for a few hours to prep for a meeting.”
He stood and approached me. His naked body came in close, but no part of his skin touched mine. “I thought about stepping in to join you, but I'm trying to keep my desire for all things intimate in check. I know this is new for you. It wasn't easy for you to wake up with us.”
“You seem to think you know a lot.”
“I can sense a lot. I'm hoping someday you'll feel relaxed here.” He moved past me.
The slide of his arm along mine had my skin tingling. Need settled in my balls; my nostrils flared. Why did the simplest of his touches drive me crazy? I smelled the remnants of the past twelve hours all over him. Semen and sweat and the cologne from the previous night. “Can I ask you a favor?”
He turned to me. “Sure.”
I pointed to the bottle on the counter. “Is that new?”
“It is.”
“Don't wear it around me.”
“Bad memories?”
“No. Just... you want to think of your dad when you're having sex?”
“Got it.” He grabbed the full bottle and threw it in the trash.
“Thanks.”
He gave a nod and stepped into the shower.
I dressed and headed to the kitchen, relieved to find a fresh pot of coffee already brewed. I opened cabinets in search of a cup and sat on a stool at the counter.
Matthew strolled in wearing jeans and a tight-as-hell black T-shirt with Linkin Park scrawled across his chest in gray lettering, his hair wet and somewhat straight. He spotted my coffee and headed to the pot. I pointed to the cabinet.
He fetched a cup and sat next to me. “You hungry?”
“I'll grab something on the way to the office. My Saturday morning ritual.”
“You work far from here?”
“Yeah. I used to walk from my apartment. It was closer, and I don't have a car. I guess I'll hit the subway.”
“I can drop you at the subway,” Richard said, “or at your office.” A clean, woodsy smell floated in with him. Simple, intoxicating. The same as the night before. And nothing like the bottle I'd found. He was dressed in slacks and a dress shirt, reminiscent of the first night at the club.
“Thanks,” I said. “I like to walk for the exercise, but today, I'll take the ride to the subway. Not sure how long it'll take me to get there on foot.”
“I'll find out,” Matthew said. “I have to go to work for a couple of hours this afternoon. I'll let you know tonight.”
“Thanks, kid.”
Richard filled a travel mug with coffee. “Before we get going, I've got something for you.” He fished an envelope out of his pocket and removed two keys. He handed one to each of us. “These are for the house. They work on the front and back doors.”
Matthew ran a finger over the silver key and was quiet as he set it on the counter in front of him.
“You don't have to do this,” I said.
“What? The keys?”
“Yeah. We don't know how long we're staying.”
“If the three of us work out, I'm not going to kick you out of my house. You can stay as long as you need.”
“Okay.” Arguing with him seemed pointless. I dug in my pocket for my own keys and added the new one to the ring.
“I'll be ready to go in ten minutes,” he said, and left the room with a grin plastered on his face.
I stood. “Have a good day, kid.”
Matthew shifted in his seat. “You too.” Then he smiled, his dark eyes focused on me.
Fuck if I couldn't get used to that look every morning.
The bang of pots and pans greeted me as I stepped into Richard's. I followed the sounds and paused in the kitchen doorway. Matthew had his arms buried in soapy water, the suds climbing up past his elbows. Soap bubbles floated in the air over his head. How much detergent had he used?
He seemed lost in his own world, unaware of my presence. I leaned against the doorway and watched him fish out a bowl and rinse it.
I had stayed at work a few hours later than I expected. The recent distraction of lust had me further behind schedule at work. The added precautions on the way home didn't help.
It also didn't help that I spent two hours scanning Google results for one reporter named Mark Summers. Mostly his bylines with The Washington Times. The man's reporting habits didn't surprise me. He had found me when few people knew I existed.
Summers had a knack for locating dirt on anyone of import. Actors, politicians, sports personalities, Fortune 500 CEOs, basically the top 1 percent of the income bracket. It seemed like a sleazy way to
