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"Let's start with the basics," I say. "You already know my name, so what's yours?" "Brad Miller," he answers, hiccuping as he takes another swig of beer. My God, he is so enchanting.
He slams the empty glass down on the table and says, "I'll drink you under the table anytime, anywhere, you fleabitten mofo." All I can do is gaze at him, a strange warmth stirring in my chest. "You are a charming creature, Brad."
Raul just sighs and opens an armoire. At least, I think that's what that thing is. Pretty sure it's the same thing as the busty French furniture chick from Beauty and the Beast. Real fancy shit.
When he turns away like I'm some Victorian lady in need of modesty, I'm pissed as hell, but I can't exactly call a guy out for not ogling my Johnson.
"You're awake," Raul says, sounding at once wary and relieved. I don't like the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m the last chicken parm on the sandwich tray and the Superbowl party isn't even half over.
Fucking hell, maybe I am a little bit gay. Like... one percent. Maybe one and a half.
Suddenly, all the doubts and questions I had about my sexuality dissipate. I don't care if I'm one percent or one hundred percent gay, because right now, this feels too good to care.
"Great," I mutter. "Just what I've always wanted. A magical, lube-dispensing asshole to turn alphas on."
