Page 32 of Mr. Picture Perfect
He returns his hands to the back of his head, cradling it as he keeps it rocked back, talking to the ceiling. “Wow, you must have the magic touch, Noah, I swear …”
I am literally staring at his crotch. Is my face growing closer to it? How is that happening? Are his balls a pair of magnets? Is his dick a tractor beam? “Thank you,” I mutter absently.
“Really, no one’s been able to ease a charley horse of mine like that so quickly. Especially not one in my thigh.”
I have no control as my face grows closer. “I’m glad to be of … of service.”
Even his bulge in these khaki shorts is beautiful. Like art. Not egregiously huge. Shapely and inviting. Well-rounded.Perfect.
And my face is like a ship being helplessly drawn to shore.
Slamming into the docks is inevitable. All my crew members are panicking, running around the deck, trying to stop it.
Captain, this ship is about to crash.
There’s a shrill yelp from outside the tall window.
Suddenly I’m sober again. The CPU has rebooted. Firmware is updated and running smoothly. I retract my hands from his shorts at once and stand up, alarmed, as I turn to the tall window.
Cole’s dog, who apparently was banished to the beautiful prison of their large backyard as a punishment for the vase, has made a timely appearance, standing proudly in the flowerbed just outside, panting and happy and staring at us with interest.
I barely notice when Cole rises from the chair and stands next to me. I swallow, then say, “It seems like she wants attention.”
Cole gazes at me, bringing his face close to mine once again. “You can tell Porridge is a she?”
“You mentioned her gender when I first came in.”
“Oh.” He lets out a soft, breathy chuckle that raises tingles of delight up and down the back of my neck. I can’t hope to explain that reaction. “You’re very observant, Mr. Reed.”
Every word he utters sends tingles up my neck, actually. “It should also be noted that she clearly lacks a …” I stare into Cole’s eyes. “… penis.”
“Oh.” His voice softens even more. “Valid point.”
It is also a valid point that I’ve now indirectly touched Cole Harding’s penis.
And we both know it.
As we stare into each other’s eyes.
Is this part going into the interview, too?
Cole tilts his head suddenly. “By the way, do you mind that we’re standing so close?”
I open my mouth to speak.
Then stop.
Is this a test? Is he testing me somehow? Why does this feel like some sort of test?
There’s a look in his eye, a challenging look.
My heart may be racing and I don’t know what to do with my face, but I don’t want to be the weird one here, so I answer, “No,” perhaps a notch louder than intended.
Of course I can easily step back from him, or edge a bit to the side, or sit back down in that squishy trap of an armchair. I am by no means coerced into this situation of absurdly close proximity to Cole and his body and his inhumanly beautiful face.
But for some reason, just like before the charley horse that had my hands up his shorts, my legs refuse to move right now. I stay precisely where I am, rooted to the spot like a stubborn oak tree. Each time Cole takes the subtlest of breaths, I hear it, and up and down the back of my neck, I feel it too, like electricity.
I feel it like the potent pull of the tractor beam he apparently installed in the general vicinity of his crotch, which was nearly successful in drawing my innocent face right up against it.
