We Have Till Dawn - Cara Dee Page 0,36
took the dog to some overpriced dog stylist.
“We have a dog walker in my building who takes him out a couple times every day, but I try to make it home for mornings and evenings,” he murmured, swiping to another picture. “His favorite pastimes are making a complete mess of himself in the park, cuddling up on my lap when I read, and listening to my daily work ramblings. Or so I hope. Otherwise, I’m a horrible owner.”
I shifted my gaze to Gideon’s face instead. It was the first time I could see him with a kid. He truly loved that dog, and I supposed it made sense. I’d read in one of the books I’d borrowed that autistic people sometimes connected easier with children and pets than other adults.
“I’ve been thinking about adopting a brother for him,” Gideon admitted. He was lost in his own photo album, going from one picture to another. It seemed the whole album was filled with images of Chester. “It would have to be one who got along with Chester, though. He’s very active when we’re outside, but the minute we come home, he wants to sleep or take it easy on my lap.” He grinned fondly. “Sometimes he’ll nip at the bottom of my pants and run toward the living room or the library. It’s his way of telling me I’ve been on my feet for too long.”
Cazzo, I was gonna fall for this fucker before our arrangement was over.
I finished my beer, torn between jumping his bones and running away to hide, because I knew I wasn’t gonna win this round. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from handing over my heart on a goddamn platter.
Hell, I wasn’t strong enough to run away either.
Screw it all. I leaned in again and kissed his jaw. “Come home with me, papi. I need your big fat cock.”
Funny how quickly he lost interest in his phone. “Okay. Let me pay for the drinks first.”
“Already took care of it.”
“Oh.” He frowned for a beat before his eyes heated up with some indecent idea. “Then let me treat you to something else before we go back to your place.”
The dirtier, the better.
Half an hour later, Gideon’s driver pulled up in front of an adult store back in Manhattan, and I was beginning to wonder if this was the reason only the driver—aside from Claire—knew of Gideon’s sexuality. Because Gideon had simply said “West Village,” and the driver had known exactly what that meant.
So Gideon had been here before.
Long gone were the seedy places with boarded-shut windows and back alleys. In the heart of an LGBTQ neighborhood, this store was brightly lit and showcasing its services right in the window alongside boxed sex toys, stacks of movies, and kinky outfits. They had six private booths, two double suites, whatever that meant, a glory hole, and a theater that seated eighteen guests.
“We won’t be long. Perhaps thirty minutes,” Gideon told his driver.
Once we were on the curb and Gideon had closed the door, he turned to me and unzipped my jacket. There was a new air to him; he was assertive and in charge of the situation.
“Are you up for some role-playing?” he asked.
“Sh-yeah.” I blinked up at him, instantly intrigued and turned on. “You’ve been here before.”
He inclined his head. “It’s been my once-a-year indulgence the past ten years.”
Hot damn. “What do you do when you come here?”
He raked his teeth across his bottom lip and smirked a little. “Not much. I rent a booth and masturbate with the door ajar. People enjoy watching.”
“And you like being watched.” I stepped closer and slid a hand up his chest. “You’re an exhibitionist.”
It was funny to me that he could hesitate to go into a grocery store without a shopping list, but he had no issues being in control as soon as it was about sex. That part of him wasn’t merely confident; it was utterly fucking shameless.
“Neurotypical humans take sex too seriously,” he said. “I’m not an exhibitionist so much as I enjoy making people nervous. It turns me on to see them out of their element. To see them hesitate and wonder what’s protocol.”
My eyebrows went up, and…well, so did my cock.
This was his alternate universe. A place where he was the assertive norm and everyone else was scrambling, like he felt he did in society, in his everyday life.
He cupped my jaw and brushed a thumb over my barely there scruff. I’d shaved yesterday. “You can