Until the World Stops - L.A. Witt Page 0,33

what now?

I mean, physically there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with Tristan. We’d tolerated each other at best from the start, but he was hot, and I’d been noticing that more and more lately. It was possible that I was just desperate because I had no idea when it would be safe to go out and get laid, but I was having a harder and harder time not noticing Tristan in very new ways.

Okay, it wasn’t entirely new. I was a red-blooded gay man with a dick that didn’t discriminate—I’d been attracted to and even slept with plenty of guys I didn’t particularly like. Which meant that even when I’d wanted to throttle Tristan, I’d been well aware of other things I’d be willing to do with him if he was game and if he stopped talking. Including putting my dick in his mouth so he had to stop talking.

Recently, though, I’d caught myself looking at him a lot.

Of course I was. Sex with strangers was off the table for the foreseeable future. It was me and my hand until the scientists said it was safe to get back on Tinder. Or, well, until they said it was safe to be around people again, since I doubted Dr. Fauci was going to stand up at a podium and say, “The pandemic is over! Go get laid, you restless sluts!”

I had no interest in dating or fucking a coworker—both on principle and because none of my coworkers were attractive to me—so literally the only person on the planet who I could feasibly touch was the man currently making us both dinner downstairs. Clearly that was the only reason I’d started actively ogling him.

“What do you think, Till?” I tousled her fluff. “Should we go downstairs and see what Dad’s cooking?”

She swatted at me, but as I sat up, she gave me a plaintive look and started kneading on the comforter. Of course she wanted me to stay up here and cuddle with her, but if I did that, I’d fall asleep, and then my sleep schedule would be shot to hell.

“Come on.” I stood with a groan. She watched me, still kneading and purring as if she might be able to convince me to stay.

I headed out of the room, and as soon as I heard her thump onto the floor, I paused at the top of the steps to let her run past me. Lesson learned the hard way a few months ago, and I was pretty sure I’d almost broken my tailbone as a result. For such small, cute, fluffy creatures, cats were dangerous.

Downstairs, Tristan was standing at the stove, nudging some sliced Polish sausage around in the frying pan. His phone was in his back pocket, one earbud in his ear and the other dangling behind him. Probably listening to a podcast, knowing him, and it held his attention enough that I could pause for a long surreptitious look at him.

Because goddamned, hard up for sex or not, I couldn’t help checking him out right then. He had on a pair of jeans that sat just right to showcase his round ass and narrow hips. I could say a lot about him, but I couldn’t say he was unattractive.

And lately…

Lately I didn’t want to say he was unattractive.

For the past year, whenever Tristan had walked into the room, my teeth were instantly on edge. In a matter of less than a month, he’d had a very different effect on me. Two different effects, really.

One, there was that impulse to swipe right because apparently part of my brain was in perma-Tinder mode, and also because he was the nearest warm body in a time when there was no telling when I’d be able to have sex again, and also because…

Because what could I say? Tristan really was hot. He’d kept himself fit since he’d been booted. I had no idea if he could still pass a Physical Readiness Test, but he’d hardly let himself go. And while camouflage utilities and police belts weren’t the most flattering uniforms in the world, Tristan in jeans (or when it was warm enough, shorts) and a snug T-shirt kinda did it for me. Even before the pandemic, I’d been known to get a little tingly when I saw the Celtic knot tattoo on the back of his calf or the red and black stylized Koi fish peeking out from a T-shirt sleeve.

So yeah, he was having the “hey, what would you think about