Melting - Sean Ashcroft Page 0,18

with sunlight and soft furnishings, in the same black, white, and gold sensibilities, but without the hard edges.

The bed itself looked like a fluffy cloud hovering inches off the floor.

“What?” I asked, too busy looking at the sheepskin rug by the bed to pay attention.

“The screw. It’s sloe gin, Southern Comfort, and orange juice. Like a screwdriver, but…”

“I get it. Sloe as in S-L-O-E.”

Now that I understood the name, it was clever.

“Andre invented it,” Seth said. “Well, he probably didn’t invent it, but he brought it here from Louisiana.”

“You like him,” I said, and as I said it I felt like the last person to know.

“Trying to convince him into a threesome with me and Mark. Mark’s up for it, Andre’s heart is still broken.” Seth shrugged. “Enough about them. Let’s talk about you,” he said, pushing me into a big black velvet armchair that made me feel like I was on a porn set from the seventies.

If I was a praying mantis, Seth was a hawk.

Or whatever ate mantises. I wasn’t clear on how that part of the food chain worked.

“Concealer,” Seth announced, confirming what Wes had said earlier. “And I’m prescribing you, like, a month of getting a full eight hours of sleep. Sleep deprivation is terrible for your skin.”

“I slept ten hours today,” I objected as Seth crossed to a dressing table and grabbed what I thought was probably a makeup box.

“That’s not how sleep debt works. Is your skin dry, or would you call it more normal?”

“I…”

“Don’t know, right,” Seth said. “Men are hopeless.”

“You’re a man,” I pointed out.

“Firstly, not always,” Seth said. “And secondly, I’m an exception.”

The bedroom door opening rescued me, Wes coming through with a tall glass in one hand, two fingers of whiskey in the other, and a bottle of water tucked under his arm.

“Andre just pulled up,” Wes said.

“He’ll find us,” Seth assured him, slathering… something that smelled of rosewater on my face.

Hmm. Pistachio, rosewater, and honey. Greek-style honey, swirled through in place of a sauce. Nice and light for the summer.

I hadn’t had an idea for an ice cream flavor in months. I’d have to text that one to Marissa, get her to start testing recipes.

Wes handed me the whiskey glass and put Seth’s drink by his elbow.

“Do not put him in a full face of makeup,” Wes said, moving to stand in front of me.

“I’m just covering up the dark circles,” Seth said, patting under my eyes with the tip of his finger. “I want him to look like he’s not gonna fall asleep right after he comes. Look up for me.”

I obeyed, like I suspected everyone did when Seth gave a direct order.

This was maybe the weirdest experience of my life, but I didn’t hate it.

“How long after you come are you meant to fall asleep?” Wes asked.

“You’re a bottom, you’re allowed to fall asleep right after,” Seth responded without missing a beat. “I wanna put eyeliner on him.”

I was too busy thinking about the falling asleep conversation to object to the eyeliner.

The bedroom door opened again, Andre coming inside in a pair of shiny leather pants that made me feel underdressed, holding his own measure of whiskey.

“Who’s the… oh wow, that’s Hayden,” he said. “Seth’s working his magic.”

“I’m giving the cute bottoms of Otter Bay a gift tonight. Look at him. I need to do something with that hair, gimme a sec.”

Seth backed off, and I finally had the chance to make eye contact with Wes, silently pleading for help.

“You need to smudge that eyeliner out,” Wes said, grinning at me.

“Agreed,” Seth said, coming over with another case full of things. “His eyes are his best feature. You absolutely owe me a thank you card when you’re drowning in ass.”

“I’ll make sure you get one,” Wes teased.

“You know,” I said. “Seth’s doing all the work, here.”

“I’m mentally writing your profile,” Wes defended, sipping his water. “And I’m taking your new photos. And Seth’s my friend, you couldn’t get his help without me.”

“I’d help him without you,” Seth said, running his fingers through my hair and making me shiver at the touch.

Was I that touch starved?

… maybe, considering the way I’d reacted to touching Wes last night. I still hadn’t stopped thinking about it, not really—the sound of him gasping under me came back whenever I wasn’t thinking about anything else, the hint of lime on his tongue, the—

I needed to stop thinking about that in these jeans.

How subtly could I shift my legs a little further apart?

“I’m