Didn’t That Hurt?

 

I’m stuck with Brent for the day. Don’t think because I’m phrasing it that way that I’m not secretly rejoicing.

Truthfully, though, I’m worried I may slip up and jump him or something.

No, no, no. Be strong.

That’s right. I can do this as long as I keep my emotions in check. And as long as we pretty much hang out only in public places. Of course, when we stop by my place we’ll be alone.

That stop will have to be a super quick one.

As we hop into a cab outside the hotel, I start to feel happier and happier to have Brent accompanying me. It’s been so long since we’ve simply hung out. And I kind of want to get back to sharing things with him, starting with where I live.

I give the cabbie the address of my townhouse in Wicker Park—a chic, urban area in Chicago—and then we’re on our way.

Brent and I don’t speak much on the drive there. He seems preoccupied with something, so I leave him be. Still, all the silence in the world can’t quell the magnetic pull between us. Even with the cab driver in the car with us, it’s like we’re all alone. My pulse quickens, and I can’t stop myself from stealing glances every few seconds his way. When I catch a smile playing at his lips, I know he’s onto me.

Oops, busted.

Speaking of busted and lips, his split one is healing nicely. It’s still a little swollen, but that just makes his highly kissable mouth all the more attractive.

As he lets his hand rest on the seat between us, I yearn to reach down and lock our fingers together. If I can’t kiss Brent, I’d at least like to touch him.

When he sees me staring down at his hand, he says, “Is everything okay, Aubrey?”

I jerk my eyes up to his. “Uh, yes, everything’s fine.”

We can’t break our locked gazes till the cabbie clears his throat. “We’re at your destination,” he says as he stares at us in the rearview mirror, clearly uncomfortable.

“Ooh, oh,” I blubber to the driver. “Sorry.” I grab my purse. “How much do I owe you?”

While the cabbie replies with the amount of the fare, I dig around for my wallet.

But Brent beats me to it.

“Here.” He fishes some bills from the back pocket of his dark-wash jeans. “I got this.”

Once the cab driver is paid, we exit the car.

Pointing over to a red brick building across the street from us, the house number clearly displayed out in the front, Brent says, “That one’s yours, right? I heard the number when you told the driver your address.”

“Yes,” I reply, “that one is mine.”

“Great.” He squares up his shoulders and sucks in a breath, like he’s preparing for a fight or something. “We should go in.”

Damn, he looks hot.

Stop it, Aubrey!

While I struggle to get my libido under control, Brent says again, “Let’s go, Aubrey. What are we waiting for?”

What is up with him? He sure seems determined to get in my house. Why? If his game is to get me inside so he can seduce me, with the way I’m feeling right now it just may work.

But we can’t have that, now can we?

We sure can, my lady bits chime in.

“No way,” I mutter, though it’s not with much conviction.

“No way, what?” Brent wants to know.

Like I’m going to share that with him?

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” I wave my hand around, hoping he’ll drop it.

Thankfully, he does. But I’m still not quite under control. So, injecting a massive dose of enthusiasm in my voice, I throw out, “Maybe we should take a walk around the neighborhood before going up to my house. It’s such a pretty autumn day.” I hasten to add, “And I’d love to show you around.”

It is a perfect day for an autumn walk, so that’s not a lie. Plus, the neighborhood I live in is pretty cool. It’s hip and trendy, making it fun to stroll around in. There are tree-lined streets and little boutiques and cafes around every corner. But, of course, my real reason for suggesting the detour is to keep me from losing control with Brent. The bed up in my bedroom is really big and comfy, and it hasn’t seen any action in, well, ages.

Brent seems to suspect something nefarious is afoot. Narrowing his eyes at me, he asks, “Is there some reason why you don’t want me in your house, Aubrey?”

Jeez, he acts like I have a secret guy I’m hiding up there.

But lest he catch on to the real reason—my inability to fight my own urges—I shake my head, rather violently and giving me a dizzying head rush. “Ow,” I mutter as I waver on my feet.

Good thing I have on ballet flats, not heels, or I’d be doing my best face-plant onto the sidewalk. How attractive would that be?

Brent, looking concerned, reaches out to steady me. “Are you all right?” he asks, one strong hand on my elbow.

I nod, just once this time so as not to induce another blood rush. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Hey.” His voice softens. “I didn’t mean to give you a hard time. I’m fine with a walk.”

“Okay.”

I’m tense as we start down the road. Brent seems on edge as well, though I’m not sure what reason he has to be so wound up. Thankfully, the longer we walk along the tree-lined streets, the more we relax.

Under the golden leaves of a particularly vibrant tree, Brent buys me an iced latte from a street vendor. I end up sharing it with him a few minutes later when we find an antiques store we both really want to go in. The Absolutely No Drinks Allowed sign on the door requires us to down the latte quickly.

“We can’t let this go to waste,” I say as I hand the iced beverage to Brent for his turn. “It’s way too good.”

He nods in agreement as he takes a pull from the straw.

Once he hands it back to me, I take another sip and then announce, “I think the caffeine is really hitting my system. I feel so energetic suddenly.”

“Me too,” he agrees, laughing as he takes the cup from me.

But when he’s done, instead of passing the drink back to me to finish it off, he angles the cup my way. “Here,” he says softly, “let me hold it for you. Go ahead and drink the rest.”

I bend down and wrap my lips around the straw, peering up at him in what can only be described as a suggestive manner. I just can’t help myself.

“Aubrey, don’t.” His voice is raspy and his nostrils flare.

I like playing with fire. Brent’s fire, especially.

“What?” I ask all innocently as I let go of the straw.

Pressing his lips together in a tight line, he mumbles, “Let’s just go in the store.”

Following a wrought-with-sexual-tension stroll through the antiques store, we start back to my place. To de-charge the atmosphere I purposely choose a longer route. We both need more time to cool down before we find ourselves alone in my place.

“Are we walking around in circles?” Brent asks as he stops cold. Nodding to a small grocer storefront, he says, “This is the third time we walked by that little market.”

“Uh, I may have lengthened our route,” I sheepishly admit.

“Why?” he asks. And then, “Aubrey, what’s going on here?”

Uh-oh, he’s back to eyeing me suspiciously.

Sighing, I give up on delaying the inevitable. We have to go to my place eventually, right?

“Come on.” I motion to a side alley. “This way is a shortcut.”

We turn down the narrow passageway and it feels like the clock is ticking on our time bomb of lust. We have about five minutes before we reach my place, and I really need to get a hold of myself by then. Fortunately, I’m given a few extra minutes’ reprieve when a tattoo shop along the way catches Brent’s attention.

Stopping in front of the store, he suddenly asks, “Do you have any?”

Peering in at the colorful display of artwork available to be inked anywhere a person desires, I clarify, “Do I have any what? Tattoos?”

“Yes, Aubrey. Do you have any tattoos?”

Shaking my head, I admit, “No. But it’s only because I’m a really big sissy when it comes to needles.”

Brent smiles over at me. “You shouldn’t let that stop you. It’s really not all that painful.”

“Says the hockey player who’s immune to pain.”

He laughs.

This is a very interesting development, however. Not the pain part. As noted, Brent has a high tolerance for discomfort. I’m sure needles don’t faze him. It’s the ink thing that has my curiosity piqued.

I’ve never noticed any tattoos anywhere on his body. Not like with Benny, who has loads of them. With the way Brent runs around the house, though—semi clothed half the time—you’d think I’d have seen a tattoo somewhere, right?

Yet, I haven’t seen any ink on him. And that begs the question, “Do you have any tattoos?”

“Yeah,” he replies with a smug smile, “actually I do.”

“Do you have many?” I’m insanely curious as to where all this ink could be hidden.

But then I understand better when he says, “Nah, I only have one. It’s not very big, either. I’d like to get more eventually. Something more detailed, for sure.”

Cocking my head and staring at him curiously, I ask, “So where is this secret tattoo? I’ve never seen it.”

He looks at me pointedly. “You’ve not seen all of me, now have you?”

“Just about,” I blurt out before I realize how that sounds.

While Brent chuckles amusedly, my cheeks warm. He’s right, though. I’ve not seen all of him. He always has on shorts… or a towel… or a comforter covering the goods. Like that morning when he was hard as steel.

Clearing my throat—and my head of deliciously obscene images—I ask, “What is it of? Your tattoo, that is.”

His gaze never leaves me as he says, “My number.”

Say, what? “You have a tattoo of your number?”

He smiles at me, like he knows just where my thoughts are headed. “Uh-huh. I have the number fifty-one tattooed on me. You know, Aubrey, kind of like the number that’s inked on your green”—he coughs—“friend.”

It’s all I can do to keep my eyes from popping out of my head. And then all my filters fail and I blurt out, “You really have your number tattooed on your dick?”

“I prefer to call it a cock,” he coolly replies.

Holy crap! Real Brent is just like Brent 51. Only his, er, appendage is attached to a real man, with real skin, not some cheap imitation with a green plastic cover.

But still, a tattoo on his penis? I have to ask, “Wow, Brent. Didn’t that hurt like hell?”

He laughs. “I didn’t say my tattoo was there.”

“You didn’t say it wasn’t, either,” I counter.

“True.”

“So which is it?”

Brent Oliver then has the nerve to say to me, “Guess someday you’ll just have to find out for yourself, Aubrey.”