I looked around and asked, “What’d Daddy do for a living?”
“Computer shit.”
“It pays the bills.”
“That it does.” He began to strip me out of my clothes. First my Timberland jacket, then my Pistol Pete shirt. He dropped both to the floor and eyed up my chest. “Nice block you sport.”
“I work at it. Nothing comes easy in life. If you want inflated pecs, abs, and thighs, you have to work at it.”
“Can I touch you?” he asked, mesmerized by my firm nipples, waving abs, and shallow-pitted navel.
“I hope you do more than just touch me.”
He didn’t touch me, though, not yet, surprising me. Instead, he told me to kick off my winter boots, which I did. And then he pulled me forward by one of the loops on my Diesel Jeans.
“Follow me.”
He pulled me through the apartment. Once we reached a brushed aluminum door, he opened it with his free hand and escorted me inside.