The Gentleman (Carver Brothers Book 1)

by Dianna Roman

Swiping her sleeve under her nose is a horror show to my eyes. Snot. I detest snot. Focus, Pete. It’s just a quick elevator ride. Her hygiene is not your problem.

I need a gentleman, not someone who’s trolling a hookup app or a bar for one night of fun.

How sad is it that I’ve never felt a sense of belonging as strong as standing ten feet away from that pot, bravely existing in a sea of machismo? I admire its audacity to thrive here—as well as its owner.

Checking my watch, I have seven minutes until the top of the hour. I like working from the top of the hour. It feels…right. It’s not an unusual habit. It’s not. It’s just… a preference. I have an ugly pot, for Christ’s sake. I’m as normal and disorderly as everyone else here.

I feel like I’m in an alternate universe. One, apparently, where I’m a ‘very attractive, experienced, old gay man’. Nothing

Only the damn Fairways could force a man who hates snot to become a slime fighter.

I’m haunted by the look of eagerness on his face and his dreamy expression of relief. Cameron Fairway was in love with my cock for seven minutes and forty-three seconds, and that fact still feels like the magnum opus of my life.

Shifting in my chair, I adjust myself. The restriction in my pants wasn’t supposed to clock in with me this morning, but it’s as if my dick knew that Cameron would be in the building and has been primed for a meeting since I got here.

Apparently, worship is my weakness.

He’s not on his knees now, but his slighter frame stirs something primal in me. It whispers that our differences in build would fit perfectly against each other like long-lost puzzle pieces.

His smile over my simple greeting feels akin to some great reward for a gladiator victory. I created that smile. Me. With one word.

“Was I… Was it alright?” Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. He wants a report? Here? Now? There’s not enough air in this elevator to even breathe the filthy words popping into my head.

From now on, though, anytime Cameron speaks to me, I don’t think I’ll be able to not picture him on his knees, mouth stuffed full of my cock. And that… makes me want to be the director of an R-rated performance review meeting.

‘Uncle Pete.’ If he’s helping a niece or nephew through fractions over the phone, that might be the cutest thing ever. Domesticated superhero and a gentleman. I won the lottery.

Shut up, Cam. Just shut up. He doesn’t need to know I can stand on my own two feet or that I have no life, but I want him to know. Not the no life part. My word, I’m even awkward in my head.

“I have obsessive-compulsive disorder,” he blurts out like he was holding his breath and stares at me like he’s awaiting a bad reaction.

Collecting my plate and the empty bag, I follow him, trying not to get lost in the domestic feel of the moment. I just had dinner with another man, in his house, in our socks. If he asks me to curl up on the couch and watch a movie next, I’ll have to seriously consider scrapping my disaster plan for a make-Pete-Carver-mine plan.

I did plan to talk. Not about his family or mine. Not about his love of muffins or surprising zeal for apple orchards and the country. I planned to talk about how we shouldn’t rendezvous in elevators or bathrooms anymore because I’m not gay and only four days into possibly being bisexual.

He draws me in like a flame on a winter day. I never thought it possible that another man could do that, but everything about him is so honest. He’s quickly becoming the most attractive person I’ve ever met.

He’s touch-starved, so heartbreakingly touch-starved that I don’t know how I didn’t notice it sooner. When his arms close tighter around me, I can’t help but wonder if I am, too.

I can feel his breath on my neck. Feel his lips against my jugular as his head turns. When he inhales me again, my fingers dig into him tighter, and I do the same. I want to put him in a candle jar on my nightstand and light the wick. Snuggle.

Kissing has always been a particular thing for me. I want to thank him for ordering the same meal that I did as I stare at his mouth, considering it. He’ll taste the same way that I taste. There won’t be a jarring flavor intruding on the act. And we’ll be connected. Even more connected.

I want to thank him for ordering the same meal that I did as I stare at his mouth, considering it. He’ll taste the same way that I taste. There won’t be a jarring flavor intruding on the act. And we’ll be connected. Even more connected.

It was barely a kiss, but it redefined anything I thought I knew about kisses.

I want to know every thought inside his head. I want them all to be about me, and I’m not baffled enough about where those wants came from to stop.

The way his arms encircle me as we kiss feels like he’s practiced it a thousand times before. It’s effortless and natural, like it should have happened a thousand times before. Us. This.

I honestly can’t remember what I sent him now, but I know whatever I’d settled on was smaller than that weapon-of-ass-destruction that he texted me a picture of.

So compliant. So trusting. So eager. He checks every box I didn’t know I had.

I recovered from Lauren and my other exes, but I’d never recover from Cameron Fairway.

He looks presentable. He looks like any other guy in this office building in dress slacks, a tie, and a shirt… except now he looks like mine. This level of possessiveness can’t be healthy.

This entire evening is my love letter, but I’ve never written one. I can’t be Unleashed Pete tonight. I need to be Perfect Pete. Given that I’m the polar opposite of perfect, terrifies the shit out of me. Oh, fuck. He’s here.

I’m a freaking catch alright. Fake gay. Liar. Filthy talker. Toy inserter. I’m basically a goddamn psychopath. Fantastic. Not the motivational speech I need right now.

“What…what is all of this?” “It’s…your prom. The one you should have had.”

Any effort I put into being Unleashed Pete a moment ago is no longer needed. That persona hops off the bench, swaggers up to the plate, and slaps me on the back, officially tagging himself in with a vengeance.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” I cut him off. “And when I’m done, you’re never going to want anyone but me to fuck you.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold back any longer.” “You never should.” Pressing a kiss to my shoulder, his hand makes a languid pass up and down my waning shaft. “Now, do it again, sweetheart.”

I can breathe. Like really breathe. My lungs moved in and out for the last twenty-five years, but it feels like I just released the first exhale of my entire life.

“You’re everything I didn’t know I needed.”

“You’ll be there, right?” he asks, smiling up at me. “Of course. I won’t leave you to fend for yourself somewhere you don’t know.” “Then it’s the only place I want to be.” I kiss him. And then I kiss him again and again until he has no air left to say things that make my cup run over.

I know, officially, the agreement was that I have a ‘he’ll-never-fuck-anyone-else-but-me’ person, but the word boyfriend sounds much more fitting, even if it hasn’t been said.

I’m not a gentleman, but I’m yours, if you want me. I’d be honored to be yours. Lucky. So damn lucky.

“I don’t care if we do everything wrong. I just want to do it with the person standing in front of me.”

This spot is no longer just some insignificant point halfway between Bellevue and Wenatchee. It’s the place where my misery died, and the rest of my life began.

His evident remorse is laughable, really. For a guy who was never into guys before, he’s definitely into me. His behavior alone made forgiveness an easy decision.

He’s just a guy who was figuring things out and couldn’t resist what was building between us. How can I be mad at the mirror image of my own dilemma?

I can’t resist gawking at Pete this time with a stupid smile on my face. Straight men don’t bring their boyfriends home to meet their family. I am in like flint.

“Nooo,” Jesse scolds. “He’s twenty-five. Didn’t you hear what the man said?”

“Thank you,” he mumbles, his words distorted against my belly. “For what?” “For finding me,” he murmurs, his arms giving me a squeeze. “For choosing me.”

Any apprehension I had falls away. He can have whatever he wants. I’m helpless to it. So far gone, no map could lead me back to life before him.

His fingers rake through my sweaty hair, making me realize he’s violating, like, three of his fluid-slash-germaphobia rules right now.