Page 20 of Snowed In

Of course, I’ve never noticed before!

Gabe glances over his shoulder and thankfully, I’m not staring at his ass. Not going to lie, I’ve always been an ass man. Just… never thought to look at a man’s. Shame really because if Gabe’s is anything to judge them on, I’ve been missing out on some fine ass.

Wait… I didn’t mean it like that.

“Hey,” he says. “Did I wake you?”

I shake my head. My mouth is too dry to speak.

“Sorry. It’s really hot in here.”

“So I shouldn’t have stoked the fires?” I ask.

He makes a face and then laughs, giving me his back again. “Glad I added on that perk when I paid for the room. I’d likely be frozen to death by now.”

I snort. “You’re lucky I’m generously letting you stay in the room I paid for, since I know how to keep a fire burning.”

Gabe doesn’t turn around, but I can practically see his smile. He’s standing next to the sink, so I move around the small island that takes up more space than I actually need and wash my hands. Our elbows brush, though they shouldn’t since there’s plenty of room, but he doesn’t move away.

“Want some help?” I ask. Not that I’m entirely sure what he’s making with the array of items spread out.

“Want to chop some fruit?” he asks, nodding his head toward the other side of the counter.

Not if it takes me that far away where I might not get to touch him accidentally, I don’t. For obvious reasons, I don’t say that. Giving Gabe a nod, I move behind him, casually brushing against his perky ass and placing a hand on his back as if to prevent him from backing up while I move through a space that’s entirely unnecessary for me to try to fit. This island truly has no business in the kitchen.

His hand pauses in whisking while I move by. It’s a hardship forcing myself to remove my hand from his warm skin. He’s soft, hard muscle under smooth skin.

I scoop up the fruit and bring them closer to him, but place myself strategically where he won’t be able to easily get by to reach the stove unless he wants to go around the island. If he chooses to do that, I’ll take that as my hint and leave him alone.

Maybe I should do that, anyway. It’s not like he’s given me any indication that he’s interested.

Fucking Christ, why amIinterested? He’s a dude! Is it because he’s here and I’m lonely? It’s no secret that I hate waking up alone. I hate being alone. I want a family. But for fuck’s sake, I’m literally brushing up on a gay man I haven’t even known for twenty-four hours!

Pathetic. That’s what I am.

My thoughts still when he moves behind me, our asses brushing as he slides down the counter to the stove. Well, it’s not rubbing his hips against my ass like I did him, but… am I supposed to read into this or not?

Actually, if I were wise, I’d concentrate on chopping the fruit so I don’t cut off a finger. So I do. All the while finding different lame excuses to accidentally brush against him.

I have a mango, a pomegranate, two kiwis, a pineapple, and some berries. When I break into the pineapple, I cut a little piece off totaste it. There are some that just aren’t that great. But this one looks juicy. Yep, it’s good.

With another piece that’s not uniform in size to the other cubes, I turn around and crowd into Gabe’s space. His hand stills again as he glances at me. His eyes meet mine before dropping to the piece of fruit in my hand as I bring it close to his mouth. Offering it.

A smile quirks the corners of his lips as he leans in and takes it from my fingers. I swear, I feel the brush of his soft lips against the head of my dick. I’m not sure why he looks slightly amused when I back away, but I don’t hate that look on him.

In fact, I have to force myself not to think about that look while I continue my task of cubing fruit. Focus on the knife, fucker!

It doesn’t take me long to get through the fruit, even as I try to draw out the task for as long as I can. Then it’s done and I just stand there. Aware of how close he is. My fingers itching to touch him.

Setting the knife down, I pick up a slice of banana to offer him this time. He’s flipping what is clearly French toast now, so I wait until he’s done. He accepts this piece of fruit. I watch his mouth as he chews and then his throat as he swallows.

“Finished chopping,” I say. Damn, why is my voice so scratchy?

He nods to the cabinet beside us. “There are bowls in there.”

I lean into him, pressing my chest to his back to lean over where I really don’t need to, and open the cupboard to grab a couple bowls. Then I back away, slowly, because I don’t want to.

I’m starved for affection, aren’t I? Is that my problem here?

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