Oh, holy Hannah.
He was still in his old shorts when we came down, and I guess I thought he was going to swim in those. Instead, he pulls them down and neatly folds them on his chair before he grabs his T-shirt and tugs it off over his head and—
Oh my God.
“Is that . . .” I have to swallow and try again. “Is that bathing suit new?”
On Gordo’s other side, Elias makes a small squeaking noise that means he’s not asleep after all, and he’s seeing what I’m seeing and—
Gordo is a mountain of a man in the smallest, best-fitting swim trunks I’ve ever seen.
“These?” he asks, brushing his hands over the blue and navy material. “No, I’ve had these for ages.”
He is . . . He is the bear-rug equivalent of a male pin-up. The mid-century so-called “athletic models” who every little gay boy pretended to get into fitness for, when in fact they wanted to see pictures of arms and pecs and abs and thighs . . .
Holy shit his thighs.
Gordo. My ultra-casual, thrift-store-shopping, bearded-dragon-saving roommate is . . .
He’s a beefcake.
Like he knows what I’m thinking, he turns to say something to Elias, which only succeeds in giving me a glimpse of the way his barely-there trunks are framing his perfect ass. Jesus, you could crack a walnut and—
I’m in the pool so fast I don’t even have time to think about how deep it is . . . or isn’t. My feet hit the bottom faster than I expect, and I more or less collapse in on myself while pain radiates over my knees. I swallow a mouthful of chlorinated pool water and come up spluttering in time to see Gordo casually stroll down the stairs that aren’t more than fifteen feet from where I went in. Horrified heat rolls up my skin as the water laps at his legs, then wicks up his tiny trunks, making them cling to him and—
Oh my God.
I’m hot for Gordo.
7
I have a problem. And while the solution to many problems is more cowbells—or is that the solution to more fevers?—it will not solve mine. Certainly, though, the image of Gordo wandering around the pool deck and chatting with Emu Elias while he shows off his body to the world like a male Bond Girl—Bond Boy? Bond Man? Is he just James Bond at that point?—is going to clang inside my head with the musicality of a rusty old bell for days.
And it gets worse.
We ride the elevator back up to our room. Gordo stands silently beside me. He’s got his T-shirt over his shoulder and his shorts folded over one arm. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he’s doing his best to torment me. His chest is a matt of red hair and I want to thread my fingers through it. I want to see if he’s sensitive at the spot where his beard meets his ear. I want to do so many things to him and beg him to do so many things to me, and it’s all so very wrong.
I can’t be crushing on Gordo. That wasn’t part of the deal. And what would we do when we go home? Not like I can moon about the condo quietly pining and drawing Bailey + Gordo = LUV in steam on the bathroom mirror. Gordo’s pretty unphased by the world around him, but even he’d be bound to notice one of these days.
I need to get laid. That’s the solution. It’s been a while, and last night was inexcusable. Clearly the hormones have gone to my brain and are short-circuiting my usual decision-making processes.
After the pool, I take an extra-long time in the shower, trying to sweat the feelings out through my pores. When I get back to Toronto, I’m going to find a guy online, enjoy a good hard dicking—ew, does anyone actually say that?—and everything else will return to normal. I can focus on surviving life with Jake the Jerk, and Gordo will never have to know.
But then I walk out into our suite, and all my excellent intentions come crashing down.
“Is that—” I choke on the words. I have to grip my towel so hard my knuckles turn white, but my fingers have gone numb and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to hold the damn thing up otherwise. “So you do have a suit?”
Gordo turns fully toward me, smoothing a hand down his front, over the perfectly fitted suit jacket he’s wearing, along with pants to match, a black shirt with the finest white polka dots, and a single line of white where a pocket square peeks out from his breast pocket.
“Does it look okay?” His question is so earnest, I can’t stop myself when I giggle, but then his eyes go wide and I have to hold my hand out to let him know I have more to say.
“It looks great.” Jesus, it’s more than great. He’s done something to his hair too, and the shag has turned into a sophisticated curl, almost like a modern pompadour.
He grins. “Does it? The woman said it fit well.”
I blink. “What woman?”
He unbuttons the jacket but holds onto the fronts. “I went to one of the stores across from the hotel. The woman who helped me was so nice. But are you sure?” He turns and glances over his shoulder. Unfortunately for me, his grip on the material means it’s pulled taut across the back, giving me a perfectly double-vented view of his ass in pants that are . . .
“It’s fine.” My smile hurts.
He turns back, so at least I can breathe again. He looks appeased. “She said normally they would tailor the clothes for someone my size, but since I needed them tonight, they wouldn’t have time, and anyway, she said it was pretty close, so—”
“Wait. Wait.” I take a step back. “Are you telling me you bought this today?”
He shrugs. “I told you I went shopping.”
“But you bought—” I gesture at his clothes, then gulp as I catch a glimpse of the label inside the jacket as he does the buttons up again. Jesus. I’ve never been able to afford that, no matter how much BGS&M pays me in bonuses and incentives. “That must have cost a fortune.”
“I wanted to look good, and they didn’t have a lot in my size. You were right about my clothes. I couldn’t go to dinner dressed the way I was.”
And now I feel like shit. I shouldn’t have given him a hard time this morning. I was pissed at myself for the whole top-secret midnight masturbation thing, but that’s not Gordo’s fault. None of this is. He’s bending over backwards to be here for me, and I’ve treated him like a jerk.
I take a deep breath. “Thank you.”
His smile is soft. “For what?”
“For coming with me. For playing along. For the clothes. You didn’t have to do that.”
He gives me an up and down look that would normally get my blood stirring again, but I’ve resolved to be good. He says, “Is that what you’re wearing?”
My cheeks heat for an entirely different reason as I tighten the towel around my hips. “No.”
He nods like that’s what he was expecting. “You get dressed. I’m going to go watch the fountains again.”
Unfortunately, even Gordo watching the fountains is distracting, to say the least. He’s backlit, and as I hop on one foot, trying to pull a sock on, I can’t take my eyes off his silhouette against the dancing lights of the Strip.
I’m so screwed. How is it possible that a guy I have been living with for close to two years is suddenly the object of every fantasy in my head? I have sales targets to hit, a jackass boss to avoid, and all I want to do is mess up Gordo’s hair and strip his designer suit from his skin inch by inch.