25. 25

25

Ant Decker

I find my pants folded neatly and placed on the end of the bed. The curtains have been opened a crack and light is streaming into the room. It’s bright enough that I know it must be well past eight or nine.

I dress quickly and head downstairs. I can’t help noticing that McGuire’s been busy around the house since I was last here. The hardwood floors have been sanded and stained dark. The balustrade, ceilings, and skirting boards have been painted a bright powdery white. It looks much better than it did before.

I’m not sure how I managed to miss all the changes when I got here last night, but if pushed for an answer, I’d have to say it had something to do with the hottest, most incorrigible mouth I’ve ever put my dick in.

Either that, or it was his ass.

He’s left the yellow-and-blue floral wallpaper up, which is a surprise to me, and I’m not sure something Alessia would endorse, but he’s hung a lot of art since the last time I was here, and it’s changed the space completely. There’s a gallery of moody photographs on either side of the hallway. Large, oversized images of men and women underwater. All naked, or half-naked at least, swathed in reams of flesh-toned silk that swirls around them and gives each piece a completely unique feeling.

If it turns out McGuire has an eye for design on top of everything else, it’s really, really going to piss me off.

“Morning,” he says brightly.

Of course he’s a morning person.

And, of course, he looks eye-wateringly pretty in a pair of cream sweats and a loose, long-sleeved T-shirt that’s been cropped to show the tiniest sliver of skin on his belly.

“What do you think?” he asks, gesturing to the hallway. “I was on the fence about keeping the wallpaper, but the longer I lived with it, the more it grew on me.”

“It looks fine.”

“I was thinking of getting a lamp for the hallway table. You know, one of those intricate, art deco style ones with a green glass shade.” I try not to look overly interested, but it’s hard because I know exactly what kind of lamp he’s talking about, and I happen to think it’s exactly what the space needs. “I’m not sure about it now though. After the workout that table got yesterday”— he gives me a sexually loaded smirk—“I’m not sure a lamp is the way to go. Too fragile, I think. Might get in the way.”

He approaches me slowly as if cornering an animal liable to bite. Before he can back me against the wall and do God knows what to me, I spin him around and steer him over to the hallway table.

“Get the lamp,” I say, pushing him forward so he’s forced to brace himself on the table with both hands. “You can put it over there.” I motion to the left side of the table as I kick his legs open. “See? There’s plenty of space for it there. I can bend you over like this here and give you shots from behind. As long as you stand still and take it like a good girl, the lamp will be just fine.” A gentle, sexy chuckle floods the hallway, rising from the floor all the way to the ceiling. “In fact, d’you know what I think you should do?” He shakes his head innocently. “I think you should get a mirror to hang over the table. A nice big arched one. Wanna know why?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So the next time I fuck you in this hallway, you’ll be forced to watch yourself take what I give you.”

He squirms out of my grip, laughing and pulling me in for a kiss. “Deal.”

Fuck. I wish McGuire didn’t have to be so much fun.

It’s been a weird day. A long, weird day. I had a long list of things I needed to get done, and I’ve done exactly none of them. My entire day got derailed by McGuire. And not by the feral head we gave each other on the kitchen floor but by the glass in the driver’s side window of my car, of all things.

By the time McGuire finally released me from his grasp this morning and let me take my leave, it was raining again. The windshield and windows frosted up as soon as I started the ignition and the heat came on. That in itself isn’t a problem. It’s completely normal for this time of year and this type of weather.

The problem was that as I pulled out of his driveway, I looked left and right to check for traffic, and when I did, I caught sight of a clear outline of a hand-drawn heart. A rudimentary outline, drawn with his finger, invisible except for when the car fogs up.

It’s invisible now. My car’s in the garage, and the weather has improved, so it’s hidden from view. But I know it’s there, and I know McGuire’s the one who drew it. He must have done it when he moved my car into his garage last night. No one else has had access to my car.

He knew I’d see it. He meant for me to see it. He wanted me to see it.

I’ve spent the entire day trying not to think about it.

When I failed there, I spent a good long time trying my best to fight the idiotic, rampant urge to smile about it.

It’s fucking stupid, but it’s better than letting myself think about what he said to me before he went to sleep last night, that’s for damn sure.

It’s dark now. Night has drawn in, and I’m in my living room, trying not to think about hearts drawn on glass and words whispered in the dark. It’s late, I’m tired, and it’s getting harder and harder by the minute not to think about things.

To distract myself I trawl through his profile on TikTok, doing my best to judge him as much as I possibly can, and when even that stops working, I open the vault app and look at the pictures he sent me again. His face. His ass. His slutty waist and his pretty cock.

Damn, he’s hot.

Tiny countdown clocks beside both of the photographs let me know their time is almost up. They’re going to expire and be deleted from the app in precisely eight minutes time.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

I flick through them again. Face. Ass. Face. Ass.

I warn myself strenuously not to do it. Don’t think I don’t. I know full well that if I do, the app will send him a notification. I know that. It’s plainly spelled out in their T&Cs. It’s just that I’m so fucking overwrought from lack of sleep and too much chocolate, too many morning kisses, and the fact it’s been more than ten hours since I’ve seen him.

Fifty-four seconds.

Face. Ass.

Thirty-one seconds.

Face. Ass. Face.

Seven seconds.

Three.

Two.

Holy fucking fuck. What the hell is wrong with me ?

I look down at my phone and stare at the screenshot I just took in shock and dismay. I drop my head in my hand, pressing my face down so my eyebrows are tugged up and my eyes are pulled open. I need to see this. I deserve it wholeheartedly. I deserve it and more.

McGuire doesn’t keep me waiting long. I knew he wouldn’t. That’s not how he’s made. My phone pings and a message from him pops up. Of course he’s forwarded me the alert the vault app sent him informing him that I’m a perve who takes screenshots of pictures meant to be temporary. Pictures meant to disappear into the ether.

Aw, baby. That’s so sweet.

I cringe as hard as I possibly can and steady myself on the arm of my sofa before reading the next message.

Thought for sure you’d save the one of my ass.

Oof

I’m deeply ashamed. So ashamed I feel it in waves. Hot waves first, then cold ones that make me feel shaky.

Send more pics

I message in an attempt to distract him. Or to distract me.

Face or ass?

Ass

I type quickly and hit send before I can change my mind. Or do something stupid like ask for what I really want: a picture of his pretty face, all sleepy and smooshed into his pillow.

I sleep badly. Not least because it occurred to me in the early hours that the reason I want a photo of McGuire’s sleepy, smooshed face is because that’s how he looks when he’s all happy and snuggled up beside me, nonconsensually cuddling the crap out of me right before we fall asleep in each other’s arms.

I’m in a blind panic, and I know there’s only one person who can deal with me when I’m like this. I place the call and watch her name light up on my screen. I let it ring forever. She picks up one, maybe two rings before the call times out.

“Hey, Shithead,” she says as if it’s been days, not years since we last spoke. I hear her voice in my jaw and throat, in places that remember our shared history and how much I’ve missed her. “Are you there?”

I make my lips and tongue move. “Yeah, I’m here. I’m here.”

There’s a pause, a lull that makes me think she might be hearing my voice the same way. “You sound like you’re crying.”

“I’m not crying . I just haven’t been called Shithead in a really long time.”

Laughter chimes out of her. Some would hear the sound and mistake it for a villainous cackle. I hear it and feel like I’ve been transported back in time. “Oh, honey,” she says, “now that I don’t believe.”

I start laughing too and we talk as if no time has passed. She doesn’t skip a beat, just launches herself into telling me about this prize-ass named Sebastian she works with. “You know when they say, ‘Does anyone have any questions?’ at the end of a meeting?”

“Uh-huh,” I say, shoving a throw pillow under my head and pulling up a throw blanket as I curl up on the sofa.

“It’s known that isn’t a question, right? It’s a social cue to signal the end of a meeting, right?”

“Yep, everyone knows that.”

“Want to know who doesn’t? ”

“Se-fucking-bastian?” I guess.

“Se-fucking-bastian is the right answer.”

We take turns talking, whooping like rabid hyenas when the other says something inappropriate or liable to get us committed if our conversation ever gets leaked.

“Sorry I haven’t called more,” I say when the conversation finally dies down.

“’S okay, Shithead. I didn’t call either.”

“I wanted to call. I missed you like crazy. It’s just that…”

“…the more time passed, the harder it got to pick up the phone?”

“Yeah, it was like that.”

She sighs and blasts a long breath down the line. “I think this is what happens to friendships when both people are assholes who hate talking on the phone.” I give that the chuckle it deserves, and she adds, “I missed you too. I thought about calling you a lot. A while back, I almost did. I saw a photo of you and—”

“Let me guess—you saw the picture of me and McGuire? The one where I looked good and he looked deranged?”

The laugh she unleashes this time can only be described as pure evil. Even by my standards. “You looked so good.”

“Thanks.”

“Honestly, you hardly even looked homicidal.”

“Thanks, Stace.”

“Seriously, if I didn’t know you from a bar of soap and ran into you in a deserted alleyway on a dark night, and you looked like that, I’d only be a tiny bit frightened.”

We’re both quiet for a while, content to listen to each other breathing. I know there’s a question coming my way, though, and I know what it is.

Why are you calling now?

I answer without waiting for her to ask it. “There’s a guy, Stace.”

“Oh, fucking fuck!” I hear her moving, probably swinging her legs out from under herself to get into a more upright position. “It better not be a guy threatening to out you again, Ant. I swear to God, if it is, I’ll rain hell—”

“It’s not that.” I suck in a deep breath and slowly release it. “It’s worse. Way worse.”

Stacey has known me since we were teens. She was the first person I came out to and knows better than anyone how much I can’t fucking stand people being overly interested in things like who I like to fuck. She’s silent for two or three beats as she wracks her brain, trying to think of something that could be worse than being outed .

When she comes up with nothing, I sit in silence with her, pressing the phone hard against my ear until I know there’ll be a light imprint of it on my cheek by the time I hang up.

And then I whisper, “I think I might like him.”

Her gasp is audible. I know if I was sitting next to her now, her dark eyes would be enormous and her mouth would be pulled in two different directions—shock and amusement. “But, but, does he know you’re not a relationship guy?”

“Yeah, I told him.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘We’ll see about that.’”

“ No! ”

“Yep, and when I said we should keep things casual, he said that if I didn’t cuddle him, I’d have to sleep in the wet spot, and, and, when I had to take him shopping ’cause I lost a be— You know what, the reason isn’t important. When I had to take him somewhere, I told him explicitly it wasn’t a date, and he said it was, and I think he might have been right.”

“Oh my God, Shithead.”

“Yup.” I sniff, fully sorry for myself and ready to wallow in my best friend’s potent brand of sympathy. A brand of sympathy that usually involves threatening to take out a hit on someone on my behalf.

Stacey whistles long and low. The sound warbles as she shakes her head from side to side. “He sounds completely impossible.”

“Oh,” I agree glumly, “he absolutely is.” Unfortunately for me, Stacey is one of those people who considers “impossible” to be the highest form of compliment, so I don’t feel particularly buoyed by her use of the word. “Want to know the worst thing?”

“You know I do.”

“He was in my car yesterday, and when I left his place this morning, I turned on the ignition, and it fogged up, and, and he’d drawn this little heart on my window.”

Stacey is dumbfounded. She’s well and truly aghast by what I’ve said. Either that, or she’s laughing so hard she can’t get any sound out.

“I don’t even know where to start with that,” she says when she can. “I mean, we’ve got the fact you slept over, the fact you let him in your car, and now you’re telling me you’re letting him draw hearts on your fucking windows…I feel like I don’t know you anymore.”

“It’s still not the worst thing,” I wail.

“There’s more? Ant! You should’ve warned me this would be a conversation that needed wine. ”

It’s quiet for a while as I amp myself up, bracing myself for the inexplicable stupidity of what I’m about to say. “It’s still there, Stace. The heart. It’s still on my window.” I whimper from shame. “I didn’t wipe it off.”