Page 39 of The Legend Next Door
“Shirt off,” he says brightly.
24
Jeremiah Blake
JesusFuckingChrist,ifever there was a man who could really, really use a book calledCommon Sense, Honey Bunny, Is That Youright about now, it’s me.
I’ve made an error in judgment. Actually, I don’t think an error in judgment covers it. I’m going to go ahead and bump this bad boy up to a fuck up. A level-five fuck up.
Even that’s probably not strong enough.
I’ve invited Ben, that’s Ben Stirling, in case you haven’t been paying attention—my famous ex-hockey player, living legend, single dad neighbor, and confirmed hot heterosexual man—into my home with the express intention of rubbing my hands all over his naked body.
Ben Stirling, whom I happen to have a colossal crush on.
Beautiful Ben with eyes like a full moon on a cool night with no wind.
Beautiful, sad Ben, who is so sexy that I haven’t slept through the night once since I met him.
Beautiful, kind Ben, who might be the loveliest man I’ve ever met.
Yep, him.
Well, he’s in my living room, taking his white polo shirt off as I watch.
He reaches behind his head and takes hold of his collar in a careless, offhand way that makes it clear this is no big deal for him. His heart isn’t pounding. He’s not feeling lightheaded.
His entire volume of blood isn’t rushing to his cock.
He disappears briefly under his shirt, and then his abs are revealed in several distinct stages. There’s the hint of aVdipping in near his groin, a sliver of exposed skin that grows as his shirt rides up. A trail of dark hair, thick and neat, disappears into the waistband of his jeans. And a series of deep dents carve a distinct grid pattern into his torso.
Oh, this is very bad.
There’s hair on his chest too. A dark mat that grows in organized chaos around his nipples. He has a chain around his neck. A silver chain with a plain yellow gold band hanging from it. A ring. A wedding ring. When his face comes back into view, his hair is disheveled. Not a lot. Just a little.
Just enough to make me want to run my hands through it and smooth it down for him.
“I’m gay,” I squawk in a loud, squeaky voice that’s unpleasing to the ear. “I don’t think I’ve expressly mentioned it before. In fact, I haven’t. I-I know I haven’t. It’s kind of crazy that it hasn’t come up when you think about it because we’ve talked so much about everything else. It’s not that I’m hiding it. It just hasn’t come up in conversation, and sometimes, it’s hard to know when to mention things like this. B-but I am. Gay, I mean. Yeah, I’m definitely gay.”
The fact that I’m gay isn’t news to me. Of course not. I’ve known since I was five or six. The fact that I subconsciously intended to blurt it out in a dreadful word vomit the second Ben relieved himself of his shirt certainly is though.
“Anyway,” I continue, “just thought you should know. Don’t want things to be weird later. Not that they’ll be weird for me. Obviously, I’m fine. I just don’t want to, like, touch you, and for you to find out later, and for it to be weird for you. Not that I’m saying you’re like that. I don’t think you’re like that at all. I think you’re lovely, and your eyes ar—”
He cuts me off, and what a relief that is.
“I know,” he says simply.
His words land but take a while to register because his hair is in the process of settling back into its usual position, and his shirt is dangling from one hand.
And to think I thought he was beautiful before.
I knew nothing of beauty.
Nothing.
Because Ben Stirling shirtless is a whole different level. A whole different level of attractiveness. His skin is tan and a little darker than I had expected. I think it’s the hair. All the hair on his chest and belly might be playing tricks on my eyes and making his skin look darker. He looks more rugged and manly shirtless than I had expected. And believe me, my expectations were already sky-high.
“How do you want me?” he asks innocently.
