Page 48 of Don't Point at the Moon

Seeing Mitchell struggle to pull money from his jeans pocket, Tommy paid the driver and helped Mitchell out of the taxi. When Mitchell finally punched in the door entry code andindicated the top-floor apartment, Tommy inwardly groaned but helped support Mitchell slowly up the narrow stone staircase. With both of them catching their breath outside, Tommy took the key from Mitchell and opened the door. After kicking their shoes off, Tommy used a hand to guide Mitchell inside. The space felt airy and cool, and for a moment Tommy wondered if Mitchell had left his air-conditioning running all day, but then he noticed the windows to the apartment stood in the shade of another block.

Mitchell had moved to the middle of his living room, looking dazed. Tommy drew level with him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Where’s your shower?”

Mitchell pointed to a door leading off the living room.

“And what about your washing machine?”

He indicated the same door.

“Excellent. First, pick out something clean to wear, then go to your shower room, dump those clothes into the machine, then have a long, cold shower.”

On his way to a different door, Mitchell emptied his pockets of wallet, lanyard, phone, a red postcard and a handful of coins onto the sofa before disappearing inside. Tommy took the opportunity to appraise the apartment. Somebody—the owner perhaps—had modernised the place beautifully. Even the air-conditioning in the living room was a modern split-level unit and barely made a sound. Decoratively, nothing stood out—neutral furnishings in either navy or grey. Even the rug beneath the gunmetal grey coffee table was a dusty oatmeal. Tommy realised the apartment was decorated the same way Mitchell dressed, purposefully understated.

Moments later Mitchell appeared from the bedroom, carrying a pair of track bottoms, a grey T-shirt and a white towel. Very slowly and gingerly, he paced towards what Tommy assumed tobe the bathroom. After a few seconds Tommy heard the shower begin to run, water splashing into a basin, followed by gargling, perhaps Mitchell using mouthwash. Less than a minute later, still dressed, Michell returned to the main room. Tommy could see him struggling as he tried to unbutton his shirt, but his fingers refused to obey.

“Come over here, you big dork,” said Tommy, stepping into Mitchell’s space to assist. With his gaze lowered, concentrating on plucking at the buttons, he raised his eyes at one point into Mitchell’s beautiful brown eyes, the emotion behind them unfathomable.

“If you say sorry one more time—” began Tommy, which had Mitchell grinning.

“I was going to say thank you.”

Tommy finished unfastening the final button and nudged the shirt off Mitchell’s shoulders. Beneath he wore a white undershirt and, although swaying slightly, he managed to pluck that awkwardly off over his head, leaving him bare-chested and his hair in an untidy heap. Only the belt to his jeans appeared to be giving his fingers trouble, and after watching Mitchell try three times, Tommy huffed out a sigh and stepped back into his space, unfastening the belt for him.

“I could almost believe you’ve done this kind of thing before,” whispered Mitchell, his warm breath of mint tinged with whisky caressing Tommy’s ear. The remark caught Tommy off guard. The soft words were sensual and arousing, not something he would have expected from Mitchell.

Emboldened by the challenge, Tommy held Mitchell’s gaze while yanking the leather belt out from the jeans’ loops, which jolted the bigger man slightly to one side. Still maintaining eye contact, Tommy dropped the belt onto the floor and reached to unclasp the top metal stud of Mitchell’s jeans before unfastening the zipper. Colour had returned to Mitchell’s cheeks. His darkeyes were fully dilated with an attractive mix of desire and fear before he peered down at the space between them.

As Tommy went to grab the waistband of Mitchell’s jeans, Mitchell looked up, inadvertently brushing their lips. Instinct took over, and Tommy brought their mouths together, feeling Mitchell freeze for a split second before reciprocating hesitantly. Tommy could hear a distant voice in his head advising caution, a warning he chose to ignore. Instead, Tommy brushed his tongue against Mitchell’s teeth, tasting a sour minty flavour, but that single contact seemed to ignite something inside Mitchell, who took a shuddering breath before roughly pulling their bodies together, opening his mouth and deepening the kiss. In an instant, control passed from Tommy to Mitchell, a transition Tommy found surprising but a total turn-on. Apart from the strong arms holding him in place and the tongue exploring his mouth, he could feel a hardness poking into his upper thigh.

A little roughly, Tommy yanked Mitchell’s jeans down his thighs, then leant away and drank in Mitchell’s body. Mitchell’s build was what Devon labelled solid-framed, not overweight in any way, but big boned. His friend preferred his men not gym-toned but mature and naturally muscular. On this occasion, Tommy could see his point. Did Mitchell purposely dress down to hide his attractiveness? Because, beyond any doubt, Mitchell had a nicely proportioned body. Broad shoulders and thick forearms covered in the same dark pelt that covered his defined chest and coated his pectorals, the trail tapering down towards the noticeable bulge.

But in that moment, cold common sense kicked in. What the hell was he thinking? If they took things any further, wouldn’t they risk ruining everything? And an ambient sound he had barely acknowledged finally demanded his attention—the shower water was still running. He looked up into Mitchell’s eyes, seeing arousal clouded by a mix of fear and hesitation.

“Boxers,” said Tommy, glancing down and trying to make light of the situation. “Tartan fucking boxers?”

Mitchell smiled, clearly relieved, and followed Tommy’s gaze.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Who dresses you? Your mother?”

“They’re comfortable.”

“They’d have to be. Why else would you wear them?”

“Now who’s being rude? They’re good in this humidity. And some people like boxers.”

“The Kennel Club?”

Mitchell looked puzzled for a second before catching on to Tommy’s canine reference and laughing. The joke succeeded in breaking the tension between them.

“I’m sorry,” said Tommy. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s—it’s okay. I didn’t exactly put up any resistance.”

“But I think it’s best if we don’t—”

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