Page 31 of Beau Pair
“Or I can take your shirt and trouser sizes and guesstimate. But then it wouldn’t really be a tailored suit,” he rushes to add when I don’t respond straight away.
“I can measure myself,” I tell him, and that’s how I find myself naked in my bedroom with Beau on the other side of the door, instructing me on which measurement he needs next.
I’ve already measured my chest and waist, but it’s the rest I’m having a problem with.
“Just put one end at the end of one shoulder and roll it all the way to the other shoulder.” I follow his commands, but it’s kinda hard to do. After a lot of unnecessary stretching, I manage it and tell him the number. “Now I need your sleeve length.”
He says I need to place the tape on the shoulder seam, as if I know what that is, and straighten my arm, running the tape all the way to my wrist.
“Easier said than done,” I tell him and drop the tape while holding onto the edge of it over my shoulder. The tape hangs over my arm but then wraps around it every time I think I get it to behave, so I can’t get the measurement. “This isn’t happening.”
“Can’t you hook the tape on something?” he asks from behind the door.
“Like what? I’m topless like you asked me to be,” I say, which makes my dick rouse slightly, causing me to shake my head.
What the hell is erotic about that?
I have to ask it inside my head because this is already weird enough without saying the worderoticout loud to Beau. Even if he’s on the other side.
“Try to hold it in place with your chin,” he suggests, and I get a fucking neck cramp.
“I can’t.”
“Maybe we can use some masking tape—”
“Can you just come in and take the measurements?” I ask in frustration, but it only registers after I say it exactly what I’m suggesting.
I’m suggesting he come in while I’m in nothing but my underwear and let him use his hands to measure me.
Yeah, sounds like a good plan, Gordon.
Idiot.
“Oh no. I don’t want to freak you out,” he says.
“Why would you freak me out?”
The most important question is why am I arguing with him? Do I really want him to come inside?
Yes, says something in the back of my head, and it even takesmeby surprise with its determination.
Let’s look at it this way. I’m clueless about design, and I’m struggling to do it myself, never mind that one needs more than two hands to measure oneself, and Beau wants to do this to apologize.
Can I be an adult for long enough to let him do his job?
I open the door wide as a response to myself and Beau, who’s leaning on the door frame and stumbles for a moment before straightening himself. His skin goes all rosy, and my dick—the traitor—likes the color on him. And the fact that my body is what causes it.
Beau likes me.
Hereallylikes me. I mean,Jesus,I wouldn’t have caught him red-handed with my underwear up his nose and his dick in his hand if he didn’t like me. Right?
Realizing that he does, in fact, like me only makes the dick-in-my-briefs situation that much harder. No pun intended.
“Can you… help?” I ask, and Beau walks into the room with very slow, measured steps.
I give him the tape measure and he takes it from me, his fingers lingering onto my touch a little longer than socially acceptable. But screw socially acceptable. I’m standing almost butt-naked in front of him.
My babysitter. My student. My by-so-many-years junior.
