Page 176 of Scoring the Player
“I like your couch. The olive color is nice.”
He rocks forward a little as I sweep my gaze over the gaming system, milk crates, and coffee table.
The peek of a rug through a half-closed door steals my attention. “What’s over there?”
“My music room.”
“May I?”
“Yeah. Come on.”
We step inside, and he clicks on a floor lamp that casts a red light. There’s a grand piano in the middle of the room, a wall of guitars, and scattered papers strewn across the lid of the piano. I recognize the amps but not the black metal board with glass tubes protruding out of it that sits atop a console table.
“What’s this?” I lean down and peer inside the glass.
“An amp.”
“Huh.”
“It’s an updated version of an OG that’s been around for decades. It has a buffered output, so you can use a powered subwoofer with a low input impedance. Basically, less resistance allows more electricity or sound to flow.” He reaches for a half-burned joint in the ashtray on the piano. “Mind if I hit this?”
T-shirt hugging his biceps, he slides the joint between his lips and then hikes up his low-slung jeans.
The hunger hits quickly, and I rush him, wrenching the joint from his lips. I slam my mouth against his and push him against the wall.
He moans as I clasp the back of his neck and unleash the raw need that’s been caged since the cabin.
And if I’m hungry, he’s ravenous. His fingers dig into my back, pull on the loop of my jeans, grip my waist.
He shivers when his head arches back, and my teeth graze his Adam’s apple.
He caresses my erection and shudders as my teeth sink into his throat.
“Mmh.” I pull back, resting my forehead against his shoulder.
He cards his fingers through his curls and swallows roughly.
Opening my palm, I lift the joint back to his lips, reach back for the lighter, and ignite it. The tip disintegrates into the fire as he takes a pull.
“If you ever want to find yourself on my dick in under sixty seconds, talk amp and woofer shit,” I croak out.
His gaze darkens.
I press my lips to his and suck in the smoke. He tries to latch onto my tongue, but I pull back, soaking up his groan. His tongue glides across the seam of my lips before he rests the paper against them for a pull. We lick, suck, and inhale from each other as we shotgun the rest.
“You like Ethiopian food?” he asks.
“I like everything,” I reply as my head tips up. The edges of the room curve like a rotunda.
“Cool. Gotta piss. I’ll order us grub on the way.”
My socked toes press into the floor cushion.
There’s a name for it. I stare down at the floor. Looks vintage. Cranberry. No, burgundy but brighter.Muh-genn—tuhh, midnight blue, ivory. Ivory rectangle frame, ivory threads.Floor cushion.
Rug.
I snicker.Fuck. I feel good.
