Page 5 of Beau Pair
“Can I start bringing my stuff in? You can go get changed if you like. I don’t want to distract you.”
A little too late for that, dear Beau. A little too late for that.
“Sure. Just keep an eye on the door. The neighbors’ cat tends to stray,” I tell him, and he nods with a chuckle.
“You got it.” He retreats to a black hatchback and opens the trunk.
As he bends down to grab one of the boxes, my eyes are glued on his ass and the little promise of a crack under those jeans. I decide I’ve had enough of being a creep and run up the stairs to put some clothes on before we have an accident on day one.
When I come out of my room, he’s on the second floor, carrying a big box across the hall, rolls of fabric protruding from it.
“Are you planning to kill me and roll me in these?” I ask him before I think twice about my words.
Beau jumps and turns, his eyes giving me the once-over now that I’m dressed, before he opens his mouth.
“Only if you don’t behave,” he says with a grin, and my cock twitches in my pants.
This fucking cock.
I hope Beau can’t see my bulge growing. How unprofessional would it be if he knew he made me hard as wood?
“Need a hand with those?” I ask before my mind can go wild with more fantasies.
“Could you get the door actually?” He smiles, and I run over to his side and open the guest room. “Thanks,” he adds when he crosses the threshold inside.
“Have you got a lot of stuff?”
“Just a few more boxes of fabrics, my sewing machine, and two suitcases with my clothes,” he says, and puts the box on the floor with care.
“Fabrics, huh? Why so many?” I ask.
“I’m a designer,” he answers. “That’s what I’m studying.”
“Oh, that explains it,” I tell him as he comes out of the room again and we start going down the stairs.
He stops at the second step and turns around with a questioning grin.
“What does that mean?”
“The good fashion sense.”
He thanks me with an even wider grin and continues to make his way downstairs.
“Are you hungry? I can order takeout,” I tell him once he’s all moved in and we collapse on the couch in the living room.
A few boxes, my ass.
His entire trunk was full of more fabric bolts and rolls and sketchbooks. There was even a mannequin stuffed in it. And the suitcases weighed as much as I do.
“Sure. What do you like?” Beau asks, sitting at the edge of the couch with his feet planted firmly on the floor.
“I’m always up for Italian. Pasta, pizza. I could have them on repeat every day for the rest of my life and I’d never be bored,” I answer him.
“I can do Italian,” he says.
And is it wrong of me to imagine him on all fours on the rug, naked and hard, with my cock rubbing between his cheeks, a position one of my exes calledItalian style?
Beau places an order on his phone, and we stay quiet for a few moments while my imagination is having a wild go at him, and there’s nothing in me, no willpower or strength, to stop it.
